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 PREFACE. 
 
 IN our country house here there is an old mahogany 
 bookcase which dates from my father's time, filled with 
 books for the most part belonging to my mother, bear- 
 ing dates of publication earlier than her birth, and the 
 favorites of her youth. I inherit her taste for these an- 
 tiquated volumes, and have myself added to the col- 
 lection from time to time, so that at present it makes a 
 brave show of shabby gilt backs, worn-out calf bindings, 
 and foolish titles, in themselves, in many cases, an ad- 
 vertisement of dulness. On these shelves stand "The 
 Infidel Father," "Father and Daughter," " March- 
 mont," "The Exiles," "Julia," in full view, while 
 others are relegated to a position behind the rest ; by 
 contrast the long row of Mrs. Barbauld's novelists, fifty 
 uniform little volumes, charm the eye, my mother's own 
 copy of " Sir Charles Grandison," in nineteen volumes, 
 book-marks of green ribbon hanging from the volumes 
 for such marks were needed by the diligent readers of 
 Richardson's prolixity all of Miss Burney's novels, 
 on the lower shelf an early edition of Miss Edgeworth 
 and all of Jane Austen, in one solid volume closely 
 printed. The Spectator is there ; so are Pope, Cowper, 
 and Goldsmith ; " Rasselas " and " Robinson Crusoe," 
 likewise, with "Select British Poets" collected by Wil- 
 liam Hazlitt, called also ' ' New Elegant Extracts from 
 Chaucer to the Present Time," and published in 1824. 
 
 It is from such a mine of excellence that I have drawn 
 the material of the present book. The busy world of
 
 iv Preface. 
 
 to-day thinks it has no time to examine for itself a 
 collection like this, to choose the real gold and reject 
 the dross, yet my wish is, in the extracts I am giving of 
 my favorite authors, to induce readers to search further 
 for themselves. 
 
 The ruling passion of mankind has been said to be 
 curiosity. The most respectable form of it, it seems to 
 me, is curiosity about mankind as it is, an interest in 
 human nature, such as Fielding avowed, and almost 
 every one recognizes in himself. In some it takes the 
 form of excavation and search for relics of remote an- 
 tiquity. When I was in Tunis, and visiting the site of 
 ancient Carthage, of which absolutely nothing remains, 
 and where nothing more was to be seen than a green 
 field with goats browsing in it and a glorious view of 
 the Mediterranean, it was announced to us that a tomb 
 had that moment been opened, containing the skeleton 
 of a Carthaginian man. A Punic man, actually lying 
 there with no other signs to tell his story. Instantly 
 the curiosity to know that story became intense. The 
 passion for digging in ancient ruins is easily understood. 
 
 After the admirable invention of Cadmus, it becomes 
 easier to learn about our progenitors. Hieroglyphics 
 help, and although libraries are burnt, like Alexandria 
 and Cordova, parchments are preserved and others 
 come to light. With printing the matter grows simpler, 
 for now the events of the world can be recorded and 
 preserved, if people will but take the trouble to write 
 them down. Research has brought to light the man- 
 ners and customs of the early centuries, and now litera- 
 ture begins to record them, though at first sparingly. 
 
 People began to write good prose and beautiful 
 poetry in the English language twelve centuries ago, 
 and we may tmcl satisfaction for our curiosity by
 
 Preface. v 
 
 studying their works all along these years. But it is 
 only with the end of the seventeenth and opening of the 
 eighteenth century that the intellectual stir of the times 
 begins to assume a personal character ; lives, biogra- 
 phies, essays, from that time abound, and letter-writing 
 took its valuable place in the literature of England. It 
 seems as if everybody had discovered the fun of rushing 
 into print. Political pamphlets preceded the news- 
 paper editorial to which we are now accustomed. Fine 
 ladies wrote ballads which were printed and scattered 
 about the streets. Squibs, reviews, satirical poems, 
 and letters filled the air. The personal rancors or 
 political differences which inspired these flights have 
 long ago vanished, but we may search such papers with 
 interest to find traces of the manners of the world which 
 wrote and read them. This literature naturally cen- 
 tered in London, reflecting upon human character and 
 human life as seen in the great city. It discussed all 
 the varieties of social life, and painted London society 
 more vividly than has been done before or since. 
 
 It is of London, therefore, that we learn more than 
 of the country life of England in our study of this litera- 
 ture, but Addison has given us a glimpse of the country 
 in his description of Sir Roger, and Fielding and Gold- 
 smith allow us a whiff of country air. Yet even with 
 these, the indifference to landscape and the enjoyment 
 of nature are remarkable. It has been said that the 
 subject of nature and man's relation to it, that is of the 
 visible landscape, sea, and sky, were as yet untouched 
 up to the age of Pope, and the subject of man alone 
 treated. This is so well and thoroughly handled that 
 we cannot fail to acquire a pretty good notion of what 
 man was like in the century before our own. 
 
 It is this view that has occupied me in making the
 
 vi Preface. 
 
 selections for the present book. In reading these often 
 silly novels I am always looking out for points of differ- 
 ence in language, manners, observances, from our own ; 
 things which the writers set down all unconsciously as 
 matters of course, which now seem to us strange, old- 
 fashioned, perhaps absurd, but interesting, in my 
 opinion. We especially want to know what our great- 
 grandmothers were like, and there is abundant evidence 
 to their characteristics, either in their own real letters or 
 the fictitious ones written for them, which were ac- 
 cepted as good representatives of their thoughts and 
 actions by their own approval. 
 
 I do not undertake to deal with the study of the 
 literary style of the period, a work which is always 
 forward, and in abler hands than my own. Even such 
 lives as those of the writers I have quoted are to serve 
 only to illustrate the conditions of their time. Their 
 biographies have been all charmingly written and their 
 works analyzed by our own best writers in other books. 
 
 My real object in preparing the book is to awake, if 
 necessary, an interest in my subject, and to stimulate 
 my readers to go further in the study of character 
 afforded by the literature of the eighteenth century. If 
 he once enters the path, the charm of style, the ele- 
 gance of execution, the fertility of subject of great 
 writers, cannot fail to lead him farther and farther upon 
 such a delightful road. 
 
 SUSAN HALE. 
 
 April jo, jS$8.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Book Pag? 
 
 I. POPE AND LADY MARY 9 
 
 II. CHARLOTTE LENNOX 44 
 
 III. ADDISON AND GAY 75 
 
 IV. RICHARDSON AND HARRIET BYRON . . 109 
 V. FIELDING 147 
 
 VI. GOLDSMITH 180 
 
 VII. HORACE WALPOLE AND GRAY .... 203 
 
 VIII. EVELINA AND DR. JOHNSON 233 
 
 IX. BEAU NASH AND BATH 271 
 
 X. MRS. RADCLIFFE AND HER FOLLO\VERS 292
 
 C. L. S. C. MOTTOES. 
 
 WE STUDY THE WORD AND THE WORKS 
 OF GOD. 
 
 LET us KEEP OUR HEAVENLY FATHER IN 
 
 THE MIDST. 
 
 NEVER BE DISCOURAGED. 
 LOOK UP AND LIFT UP.
 
 MEN AND MANNERS OF THE EIGHT- 
 EENTH CENTURY. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 POPE AND LADY MARY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU was born in 1690 
 and died in 1762. She was Lady Mary Pierrepont, the Birth and 
 daughter of the Duke of Kingston, thus by birth belong- parentage. 
 ing to the best society of her time. She married Mr. 
 Edward Wortley Montagu, a diplomatist and, amongst 
 other things, a personal friend of Addison, and thus was 
 brought in contact with the literary people. She was 
 herself a brilliant letter-writer, and her letters have been 
 published. These things fit her especially for my pur- 
 pose, as, during a long life she saw and was a part of 
 that society which we desire to become acquainted with, . 
 
 ' Social position. 
 
 the circle of wits and fashionable people, of brilliant 
 writers and dull peers, of men of genius who conde- 
 scended to frivolity and women of the world who aspired 
 to wisdom. Her letters were edited in 1837 by her 
 great-grandson, Lord Wharncliffe, whose book is already 
 old-fashioned, and for this reason has a flavor more 
 suited to the present purpose than later less flattering 
 though perhaps better considered estimates of Lady 
 Mary. There can be no doubt that she was celebrated, 
 even from her childhood, for a vivacious intellect, pre- 
 cocious mental acquirements, and for the beauty and 
 grace of her person.
 
 io Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 A trifling incident, which Lady Mary loved to recall, will 
 Incident of the prove how much she was the object of her father's pride and 
 Kit-cat Club. fondness in her childhood. As a leader of the fashionable 
 world, and a strenuous Whig in party, he of course belonged 
 to the Kit-cat Club. One day, at a meeting to choose toasts for 
 the year, a whim seized him to nominate her, then not eight 
 years old, a candidate, alleging that she was far prettier than 
 any lady on their list. The other members demurred, because 
 the rules of the club forbade them to elect a beauty whom they 
 had never seen. "Then you shall see her," cried he ; and in 
 the gaiety of the moment sent orders home to have her finely 
 dressed and brought to him at the tavern ; where she was 
 received with acclamations, her claim unanimously allowed, her 
 health drunk by every one present, and her name engraved in 
 due form upon a drinking glass. The company consisting of 
 some of the most eminent men in England, she went from the 
 lap of one poet,. or patriot, or statesman, to the arms of another, 
 was feasted with sweetmeats, overwhelmed with caresses, and, 
 what perhaps already pleased her better than either, heard her 
 wit and beauty loudly extolled on every side. Never again, she 
 has said later, did she pass so happy a day. 
 
 However, it is probable that her father, whose amuse- 
 ment in her ceased when she grew past the age of sitting 
 on his knee and playing with a doll, consigned all his 
 daughters alike to the care of a good homespun governess 
 such as her letters describe, and, having thus done his 
 supposed duty toward them, held himself at liberty to 
 pursue his own pleasures, which lay elsewhere than at 
 home. Her mother died when Lady Mary was four 
 years old. 
 
 But, admitting that Lady Mary's talents were only self-culti- 
 Literary vated, her literary progress might not be the less considerable. 
 
 When industry, inspirited by genius, toils from free choice, and 
 there exists, unchecked, that large devouring appetite for read- 
 ing seldom felt but in the first freshness of intelligent youth, it 
 will take in more nourishment, and faster, than the most 
 assiduous tuition can cram down. It is true the habit of idly 
 turning over an uncounted variety of books, forgotten as soon
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. i r 
 
 as read, may be prejudicial to the mind ; but a bee wanders to 
 better purpose than a butterfly, although the one will some- 
 times seem just to touch the flower-bed and flit away as lightly 
 as the other. Lady Mary read everything, but it was without 
 forgetting anything ; and the mass of matter, whencesoever 
 collected, gradually found its own arrangement in her head. 
 She probably had some assistance from Mr. William Fielding, 
 her mother's brother, a man of parts, who perceived her 
 capacity, corresponded with her, and encouraged her pursuit 
 of information. And she herself acknowledges her obligations 
 to Bishop Burnet for "condescending to direct the studies of a 
 girl." 
 
 Nevertheless, though laboring to acquire what maybe termed 
 masculine knowledge [this was written in 1836] and translating 
 under the bishop's eye the Latin version of Epictetus, she was 
 by no means disposed to neglect works of fancy and fiction, but 
 got by heart all the poetry that came in her way, and indulged 
 herself in the luxury of reading every romance as yet invented. 
 For she possessed, and left after her, the whole library cele- Old romances. 
 brated in Mrs. Lennox's "Female Quixote," viz.: "Cleopatra," 
 "Cassandra," "Clelia," "Cyrus," "Pharamond," "Ibrahim," 
 etc., etc., all, like the Lady Arabella's collection, "Englished 
 mostly by persons of honor." The chief favorite appears to 
 have been a translation of Monsieur Honore" d'Urf^'s "Astrea," 
 once the delight of Henri Quatre [died 1715] and his court, and 
 still admired and quoted by the savants who flourished under 
 Louis XIV. In a blank page of this massive volume (which 
 might have counterbalanced a pig of lead of the same size) 
 Lady Mary had written, in her fairest youthful hand, the names 
 and characteristics of the chief personages, thus : the beautiful 
 Diana, the volatile Climene, the melancholy Doris, Celadon 
 the faithful, Adamas the wise, and so on, forming two long 
 columns. 
 
 These ponderous books, once hers, black in outward hue, 
 and marked by the wear and tear of almost a century, might 
 have been disrespectfully treated by her junior grandchildren 
 and their nursery maids put to any use except reading them 
 but for the protection of an excellent person, who when young 
 had been Lady Bute's own attendant before her marriage [the 
 only daughter of Lady Mary became Lady Bute], and ever after 
 made part of her family. Her spectacles were always to be
 
 12 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 found in "Clelia " or "Cassandra," which she studied unceas- 
 
 " Clelia" and ingly, prizing them next to the Bible and Tillotson's sermons ; 
 
 'Cassandra." because, to give her own words, "they were all about good and 
 
 virtuous people, not like the wicked trash she now saw young 
 
 folks get from circulating libraries." To her latest hour she 
 
 used to repent having lost sight of another romance, beautiful 
 
 beyond them all the "History of Hiempsal, King of Nu- 
 
 midia." This, she said, she he'd read only once, and by no 
 
 pains or search could ever meet with or hear of again. 
 
 The modern world will smile, but should, however, beware 
 of too hastily despising, works that charmed Lady Mary Wort- 
 ley in her youth, and were courageously defended by Madame 
 de SeVigne", even when hers was past, and they began to be slid- 
 ing out of fashion. She, it seems, thought, with the old woman 
 just now mentioned, that they had a tendency to elevate the 
 mind, and to instill honorable and generous sentiments. At 
 any rate they must have fostered application and perseverance 
 by accustoming their readers to what the French term ouvrages 
 de longue haleine. 
 
 These ancient heavy tomes are almost inaccessible 
 now, and -only to be found in the darkest places of a few 
 long-suffering libraries. When found they are soon 
 relegated to their shelves, for modern application and 
 perseverance are quite incapable of wading through their 
 long, involuted sentences. 
 
 Some particulars, in themselves too insignificant to be worth 
 
 Customs of the ,. 11, 
 
 table. recording, are valuable as recording the manners of our ances- 
 
 tors. Lady Mary's father, who became Lord Dorchester, by 
 the time she had strength for the office, imposed upon his 
 eldest daughter the task of doing the honors of his table at 
 Thoresby, which in those days required no small share. For 
 the mistress of a country mansion was not only to invite that 
 is urge and tease her company to eat more than human 
 throats could conveniently swallow, but to carve every dish, 
 when chosen, with her o\vn hands. The greater the lady, the 
 more indispensable the duty. Each joint was carried up in its 
 turn to be operated on by her, and her alone, since the peers 
 and knights on either hand were so far from being bound to 
 offer their assistance that the very master of the house, posted
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. \ 3 
 
 opposite to her, might not act as her croupier ; his department 
 was to push the bottle after dinner. As for the crowd of guests, 
 the most inconsiderable among these, the curate, or subaltern, 
 or squire's younger brother, if suffered through her neglect 
 to help himself to a slice of the mutton placed before him, 
 would have chewed it in bitterness, and gone home an 
 affronted man, half inclined to give a wrong vote at the next 
 election. There were then professed carving-masters, who 
 taught young ladies the art scientifically ; from one of whom 
 Lady Mary took lessons three times a week, that she might 
 be perfect on her father's public days ; when, in order to 
 perform her functions without interruption, she was forced to 
 eat her own dinner alone an hour or two beforehand. 
 
 The young friends of Lady Mary were such as the Ear!y f r i en d s . 
 beautiful Dolly Walpole, sister of Sir Robert, Lady 
 Anne Vaughan, the last of a family noted for giving 
 Jeremy Taylor an asylum at Golden Grove ; amongst 
 them was Mistress Anne Wortley. 
 
 Mrs. Anne has a most mature sound to our modern ears, but 
 in the phraseology of those days, Miss, which had hardly yet 
 ceased to be a term of reproach, still denoted childishness, 
 flippancy, or some other contemptible quality, and was rarely 
 applied to young ladies of a respectable class. Nay, Lady Bute 
 herself could remember having been styled Mistress Wortley, 
 when a child, by two or three elderly visitors, as tenacious of 
 their ancient modes of speech as of other old fashions. 
 
 Mistress Anne was the favorite sister of Edward Wort- 
 ley, whom Lady Mary married. Their father was Mr. 
 Sidney Montagu. This old gentleman and the scene 
 surrounding him were distinctly recollected by his 
 granddaughter, Lady Mary's daughter, who married 
 the Earl of Bute. 
 
 She described him as a large, rough-looking man, with a huge 
 flapped hat, seated magisterially in his elbow-chair, talking si " t "y pt " 
 very loud, and swearing boisterously at his servants ; while Montagu, 
 beside him sate a venerable figure, meek and benign in aspect, 
 with silver locks, overshadowed by a black velvet cap. This
 
 14 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 was his brother, the pious Dean Montagu, who every now and 
 then fetched a deep sigh and cast his eyes upward, as if 
 silently beseeching heaven to pardon the profane language 
 which he condemned but durst not reprove. Unlike as they 
 were in their habits and their morals, the two brothers com- 
 monly lived together. 
 
 Mr. Edward Wortley Montagu has been frequently 
 described as a grave, saturnine diplomatist, with whose 
 character the sprightly and airy woman of fashion and 
 literature could have had nothing in common ; and as 
 Lady Mary passed the latter half of their married life 
 away from him, there is room for this impression. Still 
 their great-grandson, Lord Wharncliffe, rather resents 
 this: 
 
 It is hard to divine why, or on what authority, Mr. Edward 
 Character of Wortley has been represented by late writers as a dull, phleg- 
 Edward matic country gentleman "of a tame genius and moderate 
 
 capacity," or "of parts more solid than brilliant" which in 
 common parlance is a civil way of saying the same thing. He 
 had, on the contrary, one of those strong characters that are 
 little influenced by the world's opinion, and for that reason 
 little understood by the unthinking part of it. All who really 
 knew him while living held him a man distinguished for sound- 
 ness of judgment and clearness of understanding, qualities 
 nowise akin to dulness ; they allowed him also to be a first-rate 
 scholar ; and as he had traveled more than most young men of 
 his time, it is probable that he surpassed them in the knowl- 
 edge of modern languages. Polite literature was his passion ; 
 and though to have a taste for wit and talents may not certainly 
 imply a gift for these, yet it would be strange if the alder- 
 man-like mortal depicted above had sought out such compan- 
 ions as Steele, Garth, Congreve, etc., or chosen Addison for 
 his bosom friend. The only picture of Mr. Wortley in existence 
 belonged to Addison. The face seems very young, and, in 
 spite of wig, cravat, and other deforming appendages, very 
 handsome. 
 
 Among the various offers of marriage which I expect 
 in the course of this book to present as signs of the man-
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 15 
 
 ners of our period, Mr. Wortley's will come in as an 
 average specimen taken from real life. 
 
 His society was principally male, the wits and politicians of 
 that day forming a class quite distinct from the " white-gloved 
 beau" attendant upon ladies. Indeed, as the education of 
 women had then reached its very lowest ebb, and if not 
 coquettes, or gossips, or diligent card-players, their best praise 
 was to be notable housewives, Mr. Wortley had no particular 
 motive to seek acquaintance with such females. His surprise 
 and delight were the greater when one afternoon, having by 
 chance loitered in his sister's apartment till visitors arrived, he 
 saw Lady Mary Pierrepont for the first time, and on entering 
 into conversation with her found, in addition to beauty that 
 charmed him, not' only brilliant wit, but a thinking and culti- 
 vated mind. He was especially struck with the discovery that o ^ er O f 
 she knew Latin, and could relish his beloved classics. Some- marriage, 
 thing that passed led to the mention of Quintus Curtius, which 
 she said she had never read. This was a fair handle for a 
 piece of gallantry ; in a few days she received a superb edition 
 of the author, with these lines facing the title-page : 
 
 Beauty like this had vanquished Persia shown, 
 The Macedon had laid his empire down, 
 And polished Greece obeyed a barb'rous throne. 
 Had wit so bright adorned a Grecian dame, 
 The am'rous youth had lost his thirst for fame, 
 Nor distant India sought through Syria's plain ; 
 But to the Muses' stream with her had run, 
 And thought her loved more than Ammon's son. 
 
 How soon this declaration of love in verse was followed by 
 one in prose does not appear.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Lady Mary's 
 letters. 
 
 Letter to Mrs. 
 Wortley. 
 
 THE delightful letters of Lady Mary have given her a 
 place in English literature like that of Madame de 
 SeVign6 in French, although nothing could be more 
 different in style and spirit. She had the true gift of 
 letter-writing, now so rapidly dying out that it will soon 
 be termed obsolete. Wherever she went or was she 
 wrote long, but not too long, letters to her friends and 
 relatives. Her intimacy with the best society of her 
 time, either intellectual or fashionable, gives the value of 
 an eye witness to them. They become a key or clue to 
 the manners and habits of the leading people of her 
 generation. I select extracts from such letters as bear 
 upon the manners of the time that differ from our own, 
 without dwelling upon the morals, a task of a different 
 and more difficult scope. The very form of the letters is 
 in itself an indication of the greater stiffness of our 
 grandmothers, as well as of the leisure which permitted 
 them to indulge it. The following is written before her 
 marriage, to the dear friend before referred to Mistress 
 
 Wortley : 
 
 August <?, /7<?p. 
 
 I shall run mad : with what heart can people write when 
 they believe their letters will never be received ? I have already 
 writ you a very long scrawl, but it seems it never came to your 
 hands ; I cannot bear to be accused of coldness by one whom I 
 shall love all my life. This will perhaps miscarry as the last 
 did ; how unfortunate I am if it does ! You will think I forget 
 you who are never out of my thoughts. You will fancy me 
 stupid enough to neglect your letters when they are the only 
 pleasures of my solitude ; in short, you will call me ungrateful
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 17 
 
 and insensible when I esteem you as I ought in esteeming you 
 above all the world. If I am not quite so unhappy as I imagine, 
 and you do receive this, let me know it as soon as you can ; for 
 till then I shall be in terrible uneasiness ; and let me beg you 
 for the future if you do not receive letters very constantly from 
 me, imagine the post-boy killed, imagine the mail burnt, or 
 some other strange accident ; you can imagine nothing so 
 impossible as that I forget you, my dear Mrs. VVortley. I know 
 no pretense I have to your good opinion but my hearty desir- 
 ing it ; I wish I had that imagination you talk of to render me a 
 fitter correspondent for you, who can write so well on every- 
 thing. I am now so much alone I have leisure to pass whole 
 days in reading, but am not at all proper for so delicate an 
 employment as choosing your books. Your own fancy will 
 better direct you. My study at present is nothing but diction- 
 aries and grammars. I am trying whether it be possible to Study of 
 
 ' & dictionaries 
 
 learn without a master ; I am not certain, and dare hardly hope and grammars. 
 
 I shall make any great progress ; but I find the study so divert- 
 ing, I am not only easy, but pleased with the solitude that 
 indulges it. I forget there is such a place as London, and wish 
 for no company but yours. You see, my dear, in making my 
 pleasures consist of these unfashionable diversions, I am not of 
 the number who cannot be easy out of the mode. I believe 
 more follies are committed out of complaisance to the world 
 than in following our own inclinations ; nature is seldom in the 
 wrong, custom always ; it is with some regret I follow it in all 
 the impertinencies of dress ; the compliance is so trivial it com- 
 forts me ; but I am amazed to see it consulted even in the most 
 important occasions of our lives ; and that people of good sense 
 in other things can make their happiness consist in the opinions opfnYdns. 
 of others, and sacrifice everything to the desire of appearing in 
 fashion. I call all people who fall in love with furniture, 
 clothes, and equipage, of this number, and I look upon them as 
 no less in the wrong than when they were five years old, and 
 doated on shells, pebbles, and hobby-horses. I believe you 
 will expect this letter to be dated from the other world, for sure 
 I am you never heard an inhabitant of this talk so before. I 
 suppose you expect, too, I should conclude with begging par- 
 don for this extreme tedious, and very nonsensical letter ; 
 quite contrary, I think you will be obliged to me for it. I could 
 not better show my great concern for your reproaching me with
 
 1 8 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 neglect I knew myself innocent of, than proving myself mad in 
 these pages. My sister says a great deal about Mrs. K. ; but 
 besides my having forgot it, the paper is at an end. 
 
 Tedious indeed, and the writer but nineteen ! 
 
 Although the alliance with Mr. Wortley Montagu was 
 
 ^adivMar - a gd one, and was received cordially by the father of 
 
 an elopement, ^e bride at first, difficulties arose about settlements, 
 
 with the result that the young pair ran away to be 
 
 married. The following on the eve of the event ; being 
 
 more genuine we may suppose than that just given, it is 
 
 more brief : 
 
 Friday night. 
 
 I tremble for what we are doing. Are you sure you shall love 
 me forever ? Shall we never repent ? I fear and I hope. I 
 foresee all that will happen on this occasion. I shall incense 
 my family in the highest degree. The generality of the world 
 will blame my conduct, and relations and friends will invent a 
 thousand stories of me. Yet, 'tis possible, you may recom- 
 pense everything to me. In this letter, which I am fond of, you 
 promise me all that I wish. Since I writ so far I received your 
 Friday letter. I will be only yours and I will do what you 
 please. 
 
 And the next day : 
 
 Saturday morning. 
 
 . . . Reflect now for the last time in what manner you 
 must take me. I told a lady of my friends what I intend to do. 
 You will think her a very good friend when I tell you she 
 proffered to lend us her house. I did not accept of this till I 
 had let you know it. If you think it more convenient to carry 
 
 me to your lodgings, make no scruple of it. . . . I again 
 The arrange- , . , , . , , ,, , 
 
 ments. beg you to have a coach to be at the door early Monday morn- 
 
 ing, to carry us some part of our way, wherever you resolve our 
 journey shall be. If you determine to go to the lady's house 
 you had best come with a coach and six at seven o'clock to- 
 morrow. She and I will be in the balcony which looks on the 
 road ; you have nothing to do but to stop under it, and we will 
 come down to you. Do in this what you like ; but after all 
 think very seriously. Your letter, which will be waited for, is 
 to determine evervthinsr.
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 19 
 
 In 1716 Lady Mary accompanied her husband on his 
 embassy to the court of Constantinople, and she has, in Beginning of 
 
 her travels 
 
 her letters, described her travels over Europe and the over Europe. 
 East. They left England in a yacht, and having set out 
 in a calm were two days before reaching Rotterdam. 
 She says : 
 
 August 3, 1716. 
 
 The wind blew so hard that none of the sailors could keep 
 their feet, and we were all Sunday night tossed very hand- 
 somely. I never saw a man more frighted than the captain. 
 For my part, I have been so lucky, neither to suffer from fear 
 nor sea-sickness ; though I confess I was so impatient to see 
 myself once more upon dry land that I would not stay till the 
 yacht could get to Rotterdam, but went in the long boat to 
 Helvoetsluys, where we had voitures to carry us to the Brill. 
 
 Cologn, August 16 (O. S.), 1716. 
 
 If my Lady Rich could have any notion of the fatigues that 
 I have suffered these last two days, I am sure she would own it 
 a great proof of regard that I now sit down to write to her. We 
 hired horses from Nimeguen hither, not having the conveniency 
 of the post, and found but very indifferent accommodations at 
 Reinberg, our first stop ; but that was nothing to what I suffered 
 yesterday. We were in hopes to reach Cologn ; our horses 
 tired at Stamel, three hours from it, where I was forced to pass 
 the night in my clothes, in a room not at all better than a 
 hovel ; for though I have my own bed with me I had no mind 
 to undress where the wind came from a thousand places. 
 
 Arrived at Vienna, six weeks from Rotterdam, she 
 sends her sister a long letter, describing her first going Vienna" 
 to court. I print a short part of it as showing London 
 fashions by contrast. 
 
 In order to that ceremony, I was squeezed up into a gown 
 and adorned with a gorget and the other implements thereunto 
 belonging ; a dress very inconvenient, but which certainly 
 shows the neck and shape to great advantage. I cannot for- 
 bear giving you some description of the fashions here, which 
 are more monstrous and contrary to all common sense and
 
 2O Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 reason than 'tis possible for you to imagine. They build cer- 
 Description of tain fabrics of gauze on their heads, about a yard high, consist- 
 feshions 6 * n & ^ tnree or f ur stories, fortified with numberless yards of 
 
 heavy ribbon. The foundation of this structure is a thing they 
 call a Bourle, which is exactly of the same shape and kind, but 
 about four times as big, as those rolls our prudent milkmaids 
 make use of to fix their pails upon. This machine they cover 
 with their own hair, which they mix with a great deal of false, 
 it being a particular beauty to have their heads too large to go 
 into a moderate tub. Their hair is prodigiously powdered, to 
 conceal the mixture, and set out with three or four rows of 
 bodkins, wonderfully large, that stick out two or three inches 
 from their hair, made of diamonds, pearls, red, green, and 
 yellow stones, that it certainly requires as much art and expe- 
 rience to carry the load upright as to dance upon May Day with 
 the garland. Their whalebone petticoats outdo ours by several 
 yards' circumference, and cover some acres of ground. You 
 may easily suppose how this extraordinary dress sets off and 
 improves the natural ugliness with which God Almighty has 
 been pleased to endow them generally speaking. 
 
 Prague, November 77, 1716. 
 
 . . . This town was once the royal seat of the Bohemian 
 Prague.' kings, and is still the capital of the kingdom. There are yet 
 
 some remains of its former splendor, being one of the largest 
 towns in Germany, but, for the most part, old built and thinly 
 inhabited, which makes the houses very cheap. Those people 
 of quality who cannot easily bear the expense of Vienna 
 choose to reside here, where they have assemblies, music, and 
 all other diversions (those of a court excepted) at very moder- 
 ate rates, all things being here in great abundance, especially 
 the best wild-fowl I ever tasted. I have already been visited 
 by some of the most considerable ladies, whose relations I 
 knew at Vienna. They are dressed after the fashions there, 
 after the manner that the people at Exeter imitate those of 
 London ; that is, their imitation is more excessive than the 
 original. 'Tis not easy to describe what extraordinary figures 
 they make. The person is so much lost between head-dress 
 and petticoat that they have as much occasion to write upon 
 their backs, "This is a woman," for the information of trav- 
 elers, as ever sign-post painter had to write, "This is a bear."
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 21 
 
 In the next letter the absence of any feeling for 
 scenery is to be noticed. 
 
 Leipzig, Nov. 21, 1716. 
 
 I believe, dear sister, you will easily forgive my not writing 
 to you from Dresden, as I promised, when I tell you that I Dangerous 
 never went out of my chaise from Prague to this place. You journey to 
 may imagine how heartily I was tried with twenty-four hours' 
 post-traveling without sleep or refreshment (for I can never 
 sleep in a coach, however fatigued). We passed by moon- 
 shine the frightful precipices that divide Bohemia from Saxony, 
 at the bottom of which runs the river Elbe ; but I cannot say 
 that I had reason to fear drowning in it, being perfectly con- 
 vinced that, in case of a tumble, it was utterly impossible to 
 come alive to the bottom. In many places the road is so 
 narrow that I could not discern an inch of space between the 
 wheels and the precipice. Yet I was so good a wife as not to 
 wake Mr. Wortley, who was fast asleep by my side, to make 
 him share in my fears, since the danger was unavoidable, till I 
 perceived by the bright light of the moon our postillions 
 nodding on horseback, while the horses were on a full gallop. 
 Then indeed I thought it very convenient to call out to desire 
 them to look where they were going. My calling waked Mr. 
 Wortley and he was much more surprised than myself at the 
 situation we were in, and assured me that he passed the Alps 
 five times in different places without ever having gone a road 
 so dangerous. I have been told since that it is common to 
 find the bodies of travelers in the Elbe ; but, thank God, that 
 was not our destiny ; and we came safe to Dresden, so much 
 tired with fear and fatigue it was not possible for me to com- 
 pose myself to write. After passing those dreadful rocks, Dresden. 
 Dresden appeared to me a wonderfully agreeable situation, in 
 a fine large plain on the banks of the Elbe. I was very glad to 
 stay there a day to rest myself. The town is the neatest I 
 have seen in Germany ; most of the houses are new built ; the 
 elector's palace is very handsome, and his repository full of 
 curiosities of different kinds, with a collection of medals very 
 much esteemed. 
 
 Frightful precipices, dreadful rocks ; they looked in 
 the Elbe for bodies of travelers, but apparently sa\v no 
 beauty there.
 
 22 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Hanover, Nor. 25, 1716. 
 
 To THE COUNTESS OF BRISTOL : I received your ladyship's 
 letter but the day before I left Vienna (November isth), 
 though by the date I ought to have had it much sooner ; but 
 nothing was ever worse regulated than the post in most parts 
 of Germany. I would not longer delay my thanks for yours, 
 The court at though the number of my acquaintances here and my duty of 
 attending at court leave me hardly any time to dispose of. I 
 am extremely pleased that I can tell you without flattery or 
 partiality that our young prince [afterward George II.] has all 
 the accomplishments that it is possible to have at his age, with 
 an air of sprightliness and understanding, and something so 
 very engaging and easy in his behavior that he needs not the 
 advantage of his rank to appear charming. I had the honor of 
 a long conversation with him last night before the king came 
 in. His governor retired on purpose, as he told me afterward, 
 that I might make some judgment of his genius by hearing 
 him speak without constraint ; and I was surprised at the 
 quickness and politeness that appeared in everything he said ; 
 joined to a person perfectly agreeable and the fine fair hair of 
 the princess. This town is neither large nor handsome ; but 
 the palace is capable of holding a much greater court than that 
 of St. James's. The king has had the goodness to appoint us 
 a lodging in one part of it, without which we should have 
 been very ill accommodated ; for the vast number of English 
 crowds the town so much it is very good luck to get one sorry 
 room in a miserable tavern. I dined to-day with the Portu- 
 guese ambassador, who thinks himself very happy to have 
 two wretched parlors in an inn. 
 
 This king was George I. of Brunswick, who had suc- 
 r.eorgei.of ceeded to the throne of Queen Anne in 1714. Much of 
 
 Brunswick. , , r T^ 1 i TT i 
 
 his time was passed out or hngland at Hanover, where 
 the court was kept up with as much state as that of St. 
 James. The young prince was to succeed his father, as 
 George II., some thirty years later. 
 She goes on, in the same letter : 
 
 I have now made the tour of Germany, and cannot help 
 observing a considerable difference between traveling here and 
 in England. One sees none of those fine seats of noblemen so
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 23 
 
 common amongst us, nor anything like a country gentleman's 
 house, though they have many situations perfectly fine. But 
 the whole people are divided into absolute sovereignties, where 
 all the riches and magnificence are at court, or into communi- 
 ties of merchants, such as Nuremburg and Frankfort, where 
 they live always in town for the convenience of trade. The 
 king's company of French comedians play here every night. 
 They are very well dressed, and some of them not ill-actors. 
 His majesty dines and sups constantly in public. The court 
 is very numerous, and his affability and goodness make it one 
 of the most agreeable places in the world. 
 
 . I was sorry that the ill weather did not permit me to 
 see Herrenhausen in all its beauty ; but, in spite of the snow, I 
 thought the gardens very fine. I was particularly surprised at Gardens of 
 the vast number of orange-trees, much larger than any I have Herrenhausen. 
 ever seen in England, though this climate is certainly colder. 
 But I had more reason to wonder that night, at the king's table, 
 to see a present from a gentleman of this country, of two large 
 baskets of ripe oranges and lemons of different sorts, many of 
 which were quite new to me ; and what I thought worth all the 
 rest, two ripe ananas, which, to my taste, are a fruit perfectly 
 delicious. You know they are naturally the growth of Brazil, Rlpe ananas - 
 and I could not imagine how they came here but by enchant- 
 ment. Upon inquiry, I learnt that they have brought their 
 stoves to such perfection, they lengthen their summers as long 
 as they please, giving to every plant the degree of heat it would 
 receive from the sun in its native soil. The effect is very nearly 
 the same. I am surprised we do not practice in England so 
 useful an invention. This reflection leads me to consider our 
 obstinacy in shaking with the cold five months in the year, 
 rather than make use of stoves, which are certainly one of the 
 greatest conveniences of life. Besides they are so far from 
 spoiling the form of a room, that they add very much to the 
 magnificence of it, when they are painted and gilt, as they are 
 at Vienna, or at Dresden, where they are often in the shapes of 
 china jars, statues, or fine cabinets, so naturally represented 
 that they are not to be distinguished. If I ever return, in 
 defiance to the fashion you shall certainly see one in the 
 chamber of, dear sister, your, etc. 
 
 Lady Mary arrived in Adrianople, April i (O. S.),
 
 24 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 1717, "having finished a journey," as she says in a 
 letter to her R. H. the Princess of Wales (afterward 
 Queen Caroline), "that has not been undertaken by 
 any Christian since the time of the Greek emperors." 
 
 I pass over the letters from the East, because in spite 
 Treatment for o f their amusing accounts of her observations of eastern 
 
 small-pox. 
 
 scenes and manners, they contain little reference to the 
 subject we have now in hand. For the same reason I 
 omit the account of her course in regard to inoculation 
 for small-pox, which interested her greatly during her 
 stay in the East. The success of this treatment is 
 mainly to be attributed to her intelligence and perse- 
 verance in spite of much opposition against so great an 
 innovation. 
 
 Returning to England, they arrived at Dover in 
 England. October (O. S.), 1718, after an absence of a little over 
 
 two years. She says : 
 
 I cannot help looking with partial eyes on my native land. 
 That partiality was given us by nature, to prevent rambling, 
 the effect of an ambitious thirst after knowledge which we are 
 not formed to enjoy. All we get by it is a fruitless desire of 
 mixing the different pleasures and conveniences which are 
 given to the different parts of the world, and cannot meet in 
 any one of them. After having read all that is to be found in 
 the languages I am mistress of, and having decayed my sight 
 by midnight studies, I envy the easy peace of mind of a ruddy 
 milkmaid, who, undisturbed by doubt, hears the sermon with 
 humility every Sunday, not having confounded the sentiments 
 of natural duty in her head by the vain inquiries of the schools, 
 who may be more learned, yet, after all, must remain as 
 ignorant. And, after having seen part of Asia and Africa, and 
 almost made the tour of Europe, I think the honest English 
 squire more happy, who verily believes the Greek wines less 
 delicious than March beer ; that the African fruits have not so 
 fine a flavor as golden pippins ; that the Becafiguas of Italy 
 Content with are no t so W ell tasted as a rump of beef; and that, in short, 
 
 home. 
 
 there is no perfect enjoyment of this life out of Old England.
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 25 
 
 I pray God I may think so for the rest of my life ; and since I 
 must be contented with our scanty allowance of daylight, that 
 I may forget the enlivening sun of Constantinople. 
 
 Yet she passed the latter half of her life abroad ! 
 
 Before she left England Lady Mary had made the 
 acquaintance of Pope ; during her absence they corre- 
 sponded, and on her return the intimacy was con- 
 tinued. It was no doubt owing to Pope's suggestions 
 that she took a house at Twickenham, where she often House at 
 
 . , . t , . e T 1 f Twickenham. 
 
 withdrew from the excitements or London society, for 
 which, however, at this period she had no doubt a keen 
 enjoyment. Her house in town was in Cavendish 
 Square.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE name of Alexander Pope stands first in the 
 Alexander brilliant period of Queen Anne's time. He early 
 showed great precocity of intellect, although of almost 
 dwarfish stature, deformed, and during his life under- 
 going much physical suffering. His father's fortune 
 was sufficient to allow him to indulge his taste for 
 study. At sixteen he began his literary career, and 
 from that early period his activity was unremitting, 
 and a succession of his works, varied in subject, and 
 especially remarkable for polish of style, placed him at 
 the head of the poets of his age. In addition to 
 giving to the world his own compositions, Pope trans- 
 lated into English verse the Iliad and Odyssey of 
 Homer, a work published by subscription, and a most 
 successful pecuniary venture, by which he laid the foun- 
 dation of a competence which he enjoyed with good 
 sense and moderation. 
 
 During the early part of his life he lived with his 
 parents at Chiswick, but on the death of his father he 
 removed to a villa he had bought at Twickenham, 
 where he passed the remainder of his life, in easy cir- 
 cumstances and in familiar intercourse with most of the 
 leading statesmen, orators, and men of letters of the 
 day. 
 
 "Rape of the It was in 1712 that Pope produced the " Rape of the 
 Lock," not only his most charming production, but, 
 in general esteem, the most charming production of the 
 century in which he lived. 
 
 The subject came to him from a "society event," as
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 27 
 
 it would be now called in our newspapers. Lord Petre 
 had offended Miss Fermor by stealing a lock of her pog^ ctofthe 
 hair. She thought he showed more gallantry than 
 courtesy, and some unpleasant feeling resulted between 
 the families. A friend suggested to Pope that a light, 
 brilliant trifle from his hand turning the matter into 
 kindly ridicule might allay irritation. Pope accord- 
 ingly produced his dainty little mock heroic, in which 
 he describes the fatal scene at Hampton, in which 
 the too daring peer appropriated the lock. The poem 
 received the praise which it well deserved ; no more 
 brilliant, sparkling, vicacious trifle is to be found in our 
 literature. Pope obtained permission ^ to publish it 
 (1712), and a wider circle admired it; in 1714 it 
 appeared again in a new form, with sylphs and gnomes, 
 and an ingenious account of a game at cards. The 
 quotations here given are selected to show some prac- 
 tices of the toilet, etc., common to the period. 
 
 THE TOILET. 
 
 And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd, 
 
 Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
 
 First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, 
 
 With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 18 f 
 
 A heavenly image in the glass appears, 
 
 To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears ; 
 
 Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, 
 
 Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. 
 
 Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
 
 The various off 'rings of the world appear ; 
 
 From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 
 
 And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
 
 This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
 
 And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
 
 The tortoise here and elephant unite, 
 
 Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white. 
 
 Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
 
 28 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-doux. 
 
 Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
 
 The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
 
 Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
 
 And calls forth all the wonders of her face : 
 
 Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
 
 And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
 
 The busy sylphs surround their darling care ; 
 
 These set the head, and those divide the hair ; 
 
 Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown ; 
 
 And Betty's prais'd for labors not her own. 
 
 THE GAME OF CARDS. 
 
 Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, 
 Description of Burns to encounter two adventurous knights, 
 cards. At ombre singly to decide their doom ; 
 
 And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. 
 Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, 
 Each band the number of the sacred Nine. 
 Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard 
 Descend, and sit on each important card : 
 First Ariel perched upon a Matadore, 
 Then each according to the rank they bore : 
 For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, 
 Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 
 
 Behold, four Kings in majesty revered, 
 With hoary whiskers and a forky beard ; 
 And four fair Queens, whose hands sustain a flower, 
 Th' expressive emblem of their softer power ; 
 Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, 
 Caps on their heads, and halberds in their hands ; 
 And parti-colored troops, a shining train, 
 Drawn forth to combat on the velvet plain. 
 
 The skilful nymph reviews her force with care ; 
 " Let .Spades be trumps ! " she said, and trumps they were. 
 
 Now move to war her sable Matadores, 
 
 In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
 Method of .... r , . . . 
 
 warfare. bpaunlo first, unconquerable lord, 
 
 Led off t\vo captive trumps, and sxvept the board.
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 29 
 
 As many more Manillio forc'd to yield, 
 
 And march'd a victor from the verdant field. 
 
 Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard, 
 
 Gain'd but one trump and one plebeian card. 
 
 With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, 
 
 The hoary majesty of Spades appears, 
 
 Puts forth one manly leg, to sight re veal' d, 
 
 The rest, his many-colored robe conceal'd. 
 
 The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage, 
 
 Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 
 
 Ev'n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o'erthrew, 
 
 And mow'd down armies in the fights of loo, 
 
 Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid, 
 
 Falls undistinguish'd by the victor Spade ! 
 
 Thus far both armies to Belinda yield ; 
 Now to the baron fate inclines the field, 
 
 His warlike Amazon her host invades, BdLd*?""" f 
 
 Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades. 
 The Club's black tyrant first her victim died. 
 Spite of his haughty mien and barb'rous pride ; 
 What boots the regal circle on his head, 
 His giant limbs in state unwieldy spread ; 
 That long behind he trails his pompous robe, 
 And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe ? 
 
 The baron now his Diamonds pours apace ; 
 Th' embroidered King who shows but half a face, 
 And his refulgent Queen with pow'rs combin'd, 
 Of broken troops an easy conquest find. 
 Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen, 
 With throngs promiscuous strow the level green. 
 Thus when dispers'd a routed army runs 
 Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, 
 With like confusion different nations fly, 
 Of various habit, and of various dye. 
 
 The pierc'd battalions disunited fall, haro^ ph f the 
 
 In heaps on heaps ; one fate o'erwhelms them all. 
 
 The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts, 
 And wins (oh, shameful chance !) the Queen of Hearts. 
 At this, the blood the virgin's face forsook, 
 A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; 
 She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill,
 
 30 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centiiry, 
 
 Just in the jaws of ruin and codille. 
 
 And now (as oft in some distemper'd state) 
 
 On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate : 
 
 An Ace of Hearts steps forth : the King unseen 
 
 Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen ; 
 
 He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, 
 
 And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. 
 
 The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky ; 
 
 The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 
 
 THE COFFEE. 
 
 For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd, 
 
 Serving coffee The berries crackle and the mill turns round ; 
 described. . . , . , 
 
 On shining altars of Japan they raise 
 
 The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze ; 
 From silver spouts the graceful liquors glide, 
 While China's earth receives the smoking tide ; 
 At once they gratify their sense and taste, 
 And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
 Straight hover round the fair her airy band, 
 Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd ; 
 Some, o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed, 
 Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. 
 Coffee (which makes the politician wise, 
 And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) 
 Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain 
 New stratagems the radiant lock to gain. 
 Ah, cease, rash youth ! desist ere 'tis too late, 
 Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate ! 
 Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air, 
 She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair ! 
 
 THE CLIPPING. 
 
 Just then Clarissa drew, with tempting grace, 
 fteaifn S th ^ two-edg'd weapon from her shining case ; 
 
 lock. So ladies in romance assist their knight, 
 
 Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. 
 
 He takes the gift with reverence, and extends
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 31 
 
 The little engine on his finger ends ; 
 
 This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, 
 
 As o'er the fragrant stream she bends her head. 
 
 Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, 
 
 A thousand wings by turns blow back the hair ! 
 
 And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear ; 
 
 Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. 
 
 Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 
 
 The close recesses of the virgin's thought ; 
 
 As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd, 
 
 He watch'd the ideas rising in her mind, 
 
 Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, 
 
 An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 
 
 Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his power expir'd, 
 
 Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd. 
 
 The peer now spread the glittering forfex wide 
 
 T'inclose the lock ; now joins it, to divide. The scissors - 
 
 Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd, 
 A wretched sylph too fondly interpos'd ; 
 Fate urged the shears and cut the sylph in twain ; 
 (But airy substance soon unites again ;) 
 The meeting points the sacred hair dissever, 
 From the fair head, forever and forever. 
 
 Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, 
 And screams of horror rend th' affright'd skies. 
 Not louder shreaks to pitying heaven are cast 
 When husbands or when lap-dogs breathe their last ! 
 
 Or when rich china vessels, fall'n from high, The consum- 
 
 In glittering dust and painted fragments lie. 
 
 THE REVENGE. 
 
 See fierce Belinda on the baron flies 
 With more than usual lightnings in her eyes : 
 Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try, 
 Who sought no more than on his foe to die. 
 But this bold lord, with manly strength endued, 
 She with one finger and a thumb subdued ; 
 Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew 
 A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw ;
 
 32 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 The gnomes direct, to every atom just, 
 The pungent grains of titillating dust. 
 Sudden, with startling tears each eye o'erflows, 
 And the high dome reechoes to his nose. 
 
 Belinda's " Now meet thy fate !" incens'd Belinda cry'd, 
 
 wea P n - And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 
 
 (The same, his ancient personage to deck, 
 Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 
 In three seal rings ; which after, melted down, 
 Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown ; 
 Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, 
 The bell she jingled and the whistle blew ; 
 Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs, 
 Which long she wore and now Belinda wears.) 
 
 " Boast not my fall," he cry'd, " insulting foe ! 
 Thou by some other shalt be laid as low ; 
 Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind : 
 All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 
 Rather than so, ah ! let me still survive, 
 And burn in Cupid's flames but burn alive." 
 
 " Restore the lock ! " she cries ; and all around, 
 " Restore the lock ! " the vaulted roofs rebound. 
 Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
 Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain. 
 But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, 
 And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! 
 The lock, obtain'd with guilt and kept with pain, 
 In every place is sought, but sought in vain : 
 With such a prize no mortal must be blest 
 So heaven decrees ! With heaven who can contest ? 
 
 Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, 
 Since all things lust on earth are treasured there ; 
 Disappearance There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous Vases, 
 And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer cases ; 
 There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, 
 And lovers' hearts with ends of ribband bound ; 
 Cages for gnats and chains to yoke a flea, 
 Dry'd butterflies and tomes of casuistry. 
 
 But trust the .Muse she sa\v it upward rise, 
 Though marked by none but quick poetic eyes ; 
 (So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew,
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 33 
 
 To Proculus alone confess'd in view :) 
 
 A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, Transposed to 
 
 And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
 
 Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, 
 
 The heaven bespangling with dishevell'd light. 
 
 The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, 
 
 And pleased, pursue its progress through the skies. 
 
 This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey, 
 
 And hail with music its propitious ray. 
 
 This the blest lover shall for Venus take, 
 
 And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. 
 
 This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies 
 
 When next he looks through Galilaeo's eyes ; 
 
 And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom 
 
 The fate of Louis and the fall of Rome. 
 
 Then cease, bright nymph ! to mourn thy ravish'd hair, 
 Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! 
 Not all the tresses that fair head can boast 
 Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. 
 For, after all the murders of your eye, 
 When, after millions slain, yourself shall die ; 
 When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, 
 And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, 
 This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame, 
 And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 
 
 I put in this account of ombre to preserve the de- 
 scription of one of the very most favorite pursuits of 
 the fine ladies of the eighteenth century cards. They 
 played incessantly, and evidently for money.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 POPE had now reached independence, and became 
 the acknowledged head of the literary world ; there 
 D dsltkm U o S f hed were indeed few eminent persons of the time, either in 
 p P e - political or literary circles, with whom this sensitive and 
 
 restless little invalid did not come into contact, hostile 
 or friendly, at some part of his career. His friendships 
 were keen and his hostilities more than proportionately 
 bitter. We see his fragile figure glancing rapidly from 
 one hospitable circle to another, but always standing 
 a little apart ; now paying court to some conspicuous 
 wit, or philosopher, or statesman, or beauty ; now 
 taking deadly offense for some inexplicable reason ; 
 writhing with agony under clumsy blows which a 
 robuster nature would have met with contemptuous 
 laughter ; racking his wits to contrive exquisite compli- 
 ments, and suddenly exploding with sheer Billingsgate, 
 always preoccupied with his last literary project ; and 
 yet finding time for innumerable intrigues, for carrying 
 out schemes of vengeance for wounded vanity, and 
 for introducing himself into every quarrel that was 
 going on around him. 
 
 When Pope finished his translation of the Iliad, his 
 Mistranslation friend Gay congratulated him in a pleasant copy of 
 
 of the Iliad, y i r 
 
 verses. Gay represents himself welcoming his friend 
 on the return from a long voyage, meaning the occupa- 
 tion of his mind in Greece, although Pope had not 
 stirred from England.
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 35 
 
 Did I not see thee when thou first set'st sail 
 
 To seek adventures fair in Homer's land ? Gay's verses on 
 
 Did I not see thy sinking spirits fail, o^the Tra'nsla" 
 
 And wish thy bark had never left the strand ? tion. 
 
 Ev'n in mid ocean often didst thou quail, 
 
 And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand. 
 Praying the virgin dear and saintly choir 
 Back to the port to bring thy bark entire. 
 
 Cheer up, my friend ! thy dangers now are o'er ; 
 
 Methinks nay, sure the rising coasts appear. 
 Hark ! how the guns salute from either shore, 
 
 As thy trim vessel cuts the Thames so fair ; 
 Shouts answering shouts from Kent and Essex roar, 
 
 And bells break loud through every gust of air : 
 Bonfires do blaze and bones and cleavers ring 
 As at the coming of some mighty king. 
 
 Oh, what a concourse swarms on yonder quay ! 
 
 , . ... . , , - . The crowd 
 
 The sky reechoes with new shouts of joy ; awaits the 
 
 By all this show, I ween, 'tis Lord Mayor's day ; 
 
 I hear the sound of trumpet and haut-boy 
 No, now I see them near Oh, these are they 
 
 Who come in crowds to welcome thee from Troy. 
 Hail to the bard, whom long lost we mourned ; 
 From siege, from battle, and from storm returned ! 
 
 Of goodly dames and courteous knights I view 
 
 The silken petticoat and broider'd vest ; 
 Yea, peers and mighty dukes, with ribbands blue 
 
 (True blue, fair emblem of unstained breast). 
 Others I see, as noble and more true, 
 
 By no court-badge distinguished from the rest : 
 First see I Methuen, of sincerest mind, 
 As Arthur grave, as soft as womankind. 
 
 What lady's that to whom he gently bends ? 
 
 Who knows not her? Ah ! those are WORTLEY'S eyes. Ladies fair. 
 How art thou honor'd number'd with her friends ! 
 
 For she distinguishes the good and wise. 
 The sweet-tongued Murray near her side attends ;
 
 36 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Now to my heart the glance of Howard flies ; 
 Now Hervey, fair of face, I mark full well, 
 With thee, youth's youngest daughter, sweet Lepell ! 
 
 How lov'd, how honor'd thou ! yet be not vain ; 
 
 And sure thou art not, for I hear thee say, 
 All this, my friends, I owe to Homer's strain, 
 
 On whose strong pinions I exalt my lay. 
 What from contending cities did he gain ? 
 
 And what rewards his grateful country pay ? 
 None, none were paid why then all this for me ? 
 These honors, Homer, had been just to thee. 
 
 Lady Mary writes her sister, the Countess of Mar, 
 Letters of Lady } n Paris from Twickenham, 1720 : 
 
 Mary con- 
 
 I have no answer, dear sister, to a long letter that I wrote 
 you a month ago ; however, I shall continue letting you know 
 de tevips en temps what passes in this corner of the world till 
 you tell me 'tis disagreeable. ... I pass my time in a 
 small snug set of dear intimates and go very little into the 
 grand inf>nde, which has already my hearty contempt. I see 
 sometimes Mr. Congreve and very seldom Mr. Pope, who 
 continues to embellish his house at Twickenham. He has 
 made a subterranean grotto, which he has furnished with look- 
 ing glasses, and they tell me it has a very good effect. I here 
 send you some verses addressed to Mr. Gay, who wrote him a 
 congratulatory letter on the finishing of his house. I stifled 
 them here, and I beg they may die the same death in Paris, 
 and never go further than your closet. 
 
 Ah friend, 'tis true this truth you lovers know, 
 In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow, 
 In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes 
 Of hanging mountains and of sloping greens : 
 Joy lives not here ; to happier seats it flies 
 And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes. 
 
 The intercourse between Pope and Lady Mary was 
 intercourse marked by sentiment, or sentimentality, on his side, 
 
 between Lady . , . , . 
 
 Mary and common sense on hers, as the following' incident illus- 
 
 trates. The most characteristic of Pope's letters is
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 37 
 
 one in which he relates something that he had seen one 
 day a thunder-storm in a field. The lightning struck 
 two rustic lovers, and they were found lying dead in 
 each other's arms. Pope was staying with Gay at the 
 time, and he wrote down the incident in true pastoral 
 style in a letter to Lady Mary. She replied by a cruel 
 dose of common sense, with the addition of a doggerel 
 epitaph turning his fine phrases into ridicule. 
 
 After her removal to Twickenham the intimacy was 
 continued. He got Kneller to paint her portrait, and Close 
 
 . . .... intimacy. 
 
 continued to write adoring letters. But the spirit of a cor- 
 respondence which did very well between Twickenham 
 and Constantinople languished when the parties were in 
 the same parish, and in time the tenderness, if it ever 
 really existed, changed into antipathy. It was said at the 
 time that the poor poet once forgot himself for a moment 
 so far as to make her a passionate declaration of love, 
 which she received with an ' ' immoderate fit of laugh- 
 ter, ' ' after which he was forever her implacable enemy. Coolness. 
 
 Pope brooded on this resentment, and years after 
 revenged himself in one of his poems by a couplet aimed 
 chiefly against Lady Mary. She retaliated in a copy of 
 verses, chieflv, if not exclusively, her own, in which 
 
 1-11- i i r Quarrel. 
 
 Pope is brutally taunted with his personal deformity. 
 To the end of their lives the two people once so 
 devoted to each other could use nothing but bitter 
 epithets in speaking each of the other. 
 
 After Pope's " Dunciad " appeared, Lady Mary 
 amused herself by the following bit of parody, concern- 
 ing the grotto previously referred to. 
 
 THE COURT OF DULXKSS. A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Her palace plac'd beneath a muddy road, 
 And such the influence of her dull abode,
 
 38 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 The carrier's horse above can scarcely drag his load. 
 Here chose the goddess her belov'd retreat, 
 Which Phoebus tries in vain to penetrate ; 
 Adorned within with shells of small expense, 
 (Emblems of tinsel rhyme and trifling sense), 
 Perpetual fogs enclose the sacred cave, 
 
 Satire on the The neighboring sinks their fragrant odors gave ; 
 
 Jrotto. enham In contemplation here she passed her hours, 
 
 Closely attended by subservient powers ; 
 Bold profanation with a brazen brow, 
 Much to this great ally doth dulness owe ; 
 But still more near the goddess you attend, 
 Naked obscenity ! her darling friend. 
 To thee for shelter all the dull still fly, 
 Pert double meanings e'en at school we try, 
 What numerous writers owe their praise to thee, 
 No sex no age is from thy influence free. 
 By thee, how bright appears the senseless song, 
 By thee the book is sold, the lines are strong, 
 The heaviest poet, by thy powerful aid, 
 Warms the brisk youth, and charms the sprightly maid ; 
 Where breathes the mortal who's not proved thy force 
 In well-bred pun, or waiting-room discourse ? 
 
 Lady Mary continued, from Twickenham or Cavendish 
 Square, to write amusing letters to her sister in Paris. 
 
 I was very glad to hear from you, though there was some- 
 thing in your letters very monstrous and shocking ; I wonder 
 with what conscience you can talk to me of your being an old 
 woman ; I beg I may hear no more on't. For my part I pre- 
 tend to be as young as ever, and really am as young as needs 
 to be, to all intents and purposes. My cure for lowness of 
 Cure for low spirits is galloping all day, and a moderate glass of champagne 
 at night in good company ; and I believe this regimen, closely 
 followed, is one of the most wholesome that can be prescribed, 
 and may save one a world of doctors' fees at the year's end. 
 I rode to Twickenham last night, and after so long a stay in 
 town am not sorry to find myself in my garden ; our neighbor- 
 hood is something improved by the removal of some old maids 
 and the arrival of some fine gentlemen. Doctor Swift and
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 39 
 
 Johnny Gay are at Pope's, and their conjunction has produced 
 a ballad. . . . 
 
 Since you find it so difficult to send me the lutestring that 
 I asked for, I beg you would lay out my money in a nightgown 
 ready made ; there can be no difficulty in sending that by the 
 first person that comes over. I shall like it the better for your 
 having worn it one day, and then it may be answered for that it 
 is not new. . . . Apropos of ballads, a most delightful one is 
 .said or sung in most houses which has been laid first to Pope 
 and then to me, when God knows we have neither of us wit 
 enough to make it. 
 
 After a list of matches, love-affairs, and matrimonial society gossip 
 difficulties in society she adds : 
 
 This, I think, is the whole state of love ; as to that of wit, 
 it splits itself into ten thousand branches ; poets increase and 
 multiply to that stupendous degree you see them at every turn, 
 even in embroidered coats and pink-colored top-knots ; making 
 verses is become almost as common as taking snuff ; no one can 
 tell what miserable stuff people carry about in their pockets > 
 and offer to all their acquaintances, and you know one cannot 
 refuse reading and taking a pinch. This is a very great griev- 
 ance, and so particularly shocking to me, that I think our wise 
 law-givers should take it into consideration, and appoint a fast 
 day to beseech Heaven to put a stop to this epidemical disease, 
 as they did last year with great success. 
 
 Adieu, dear sister, pray do not forget the nightgown, and let 
 it be what you please. 
 
 Twickenham, October 20, 1723. 
 
 I am very sorry, dear sister, that you are in so melancholy a 
 way, but I hope a return to Paris will revive your spirits. I 
 had much rather have said London, but I do not presume 
 upon so much happiness. 
 
 As for news, the last wedding is that of Peg Pelham, and 
 I have never seen so comfortable a prospect of happiness ; 
 according to all appearances she cannot fail of being a widow 
 in six weeks at farthest, and accordingly she has been so good 
 a housewife as to line her wedding clothes in black. Assem- 
 blies rage in this part of the world ; there is not a street in rage. 
 town free from them and some spirited ladies go to seven in a
 
 40 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 night. You need not question but love and play flourish under 
 these encouragements ; I now and then peep upon these 
 things with the same coolness I would do on a moving picture. 
 I laugh at some of the motions, wonder at others, and then 
 retire to the elected few who have ears to hear, but mouths 
 have they and speak not. 
 
 Lady Mary was born in 1690, and this was written 
 therefore when she was thirty-three. She goes on : 
 
 My life passes in a kind of indolence which is now and then 
 Description of awakened by agreeable moments ; but pleasures are transitory 
 
 her daily life. ' c 
 
 and the groundwork of everything m England stupidity, 
 which is certainly owing to the coldness of this vile climate. 
 Death and sickness have never been more frequent than now. 
 You may imagine that poor gallantry droops ; and except in 
 the Elysian shades of Richmond there is no such thing as love 
 or pleasure. I have very little share in the diversions there, 
 which, except seasoned with wit, or at least vivacity, will not 
 go down with me, who have not altogether so voracious an 
 appetite as I once had ; I intend however to shine and be fine 
 on the birth-night and review the figures there. 
 
 October j/, //^j. 
 
 I write to you at this time piping hot from the birth-night ; 
 my brain warmed with all the agreeable ideas that fine clothes, 
 
 Account of a fine gentlemen, brisk tunes, and lively dances can raise there, 
 birth-night. . 
 
 It is to be hoped that my letter will entertain you ; at least you 
 will certainly have the freshest account of all passages on that 
 glorious day. First you must know that I led up the ball, 
 which you'll stare at ; but, what is more, I believe in my con- 
 science I made one of the best figures there ; to say truth, 
 people are grown so extravagantly ugly that we old beauties 
 are forced to come out on show-days, to keep the court in 
 countenance. . . . This is the general state of affairs ; as to 
 particulars, if you have any curiosity for things of that kind, 
 you have nothing to do but to ask me questions, and they 
 shall be answered to the best of my understanding ; my time 
 never being passed more agreeably than when I am doing 
 something obliging to you ; this is truth, in spite of all the 
 beans, wits, and witlings in Great Britain.
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 41 
 
 Cavendish Square, 1724. 
 
 DEAR SISTER : This town improves in gaiety every day, the *, , 
 
 & J J " Entertani- 
 
 young people are younger than they used to be, and all the old mems by land 
 
 are grown young. Nothing is talked of but entertainments of 
 gallantry by land and water, and we insensibly begin to taste all 
 the joys of arbitrary power. Politics are no more, nobody 
 pretends to winch or kick under their burthens, but we go on 
 cheerfully with our bells at our ears, ornamented with ribbands 
 and highly contented with our present conditions ; so much for 
 the general state of the nation. The last pleasure that fell in 
 my way was Madame SeVigne^s letters. Very pretty they are, 
 but I assert, without the least vanity, that mine will be full as 
 entertaining forty years hence. I advise you therefore to put 
 none of them to the use of waste paper. 
 
 Cavendish Square, 
 . . . I cannot deny but that I was very well diverted on 
 the coronation day [of George II.]. I saw the procession Gewge'n." f 
 much at my ease in a house which I filled with my own 
 company, and then got into Westminster Hall without trouble, 
 where it was very entertaining to observe the variety of airs 
 that all meant the same thing. The business of every walker 
 there was to conceal vanity and gain admiration. For these 
 purposes some languished and others strutted ; but a visible 
 satisfaction was diffused on every countenance, as soon as the 
 coronet was clapped on the head. But she that drew the 
 greatest number of eyes was indisputably Lady Orkney. She 
 exposed behind a mixture of fat and wrinkles, and before, a 
 very considerable protuberance which preceded her. Add to 
 this the inimitable roll of her eyes and her gray hairs, which 
 by good fortune stood directly upright, and 'tis impossible to 
 imagine a more delightful spectacle. She had embellished all 
 this with considerable magnificence, which made her look as 
 big again as usual ; and I should have thought her one of the 
 largest things of God's making if my Lady St. John had not 
 displayed all her charms in honor of the day. The poor 
 duchess of Montrose crept along with a dozen of black snakes 
 playing round her face, and my Lady Portland (who has fallen 
 away since her dismission from court) represented very finely 
 an Egyptian mummy embroidered over with hieroglyphics. 
 In general, I could not perceive but that the old were as well
 
 42 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 pleased as the young ; and I, who dread growing wise more 
 than anything in the world, was overjoyed to find that one can 
 never outlive one's vanity. 
 
 These letters are chosen from the many written by 
 
 Lady Mary during her life in the world of fashion and 
 
 literature. In 1739 her health declined and she took the 
 
 resolution of passing the remainder of her days on the 
 
 Life in Continent, with the full assent of Mr. Wortley, with 
 
 Southern 
 
 Europe. whom, moreover, she kept up a continuous correspon- 
 
 dence until his death in 1761. During all this time she 
 remained in the southern part of Europe, writing always 
 most amusing and entertaining letters about everything 
 she saw. Her accounts of the manner of living in 
 Venice, at Louvere, or at Geneva, show as great a 
 difference from that of the present day as her English 
 ones do, but it is not so much within our subject to dwell 
 on these points, however amusing. On the Lake of Isco 
 she took possession of a deserted palace ; she planned 
 her garden, applied herself to the business of a country 
 life, and was happy in the superintendence of her vine- 
 yards and silk-worms. English books, sent her by her 
 daughter, Lady Bute, supplied the deficiency of society, 
 and she appears to have enjoyed most sincerely her 
 repose from the occupations of the gay world. To Mr. 
 Wortley she writes in 1748 : 
 
 I am very much pleased that you accustom yourself to tea, 
 being persuaded that the moderate use of it is generally whole- 
 some. I have planted a great deal in my garden, which is a 
 fashion lately introduced in this country, and has succeeded 
 very well. I cannot say it is as strong as the Indian, but it has 
 the advantage of being fresher, and is at least unmixed. 
 
 Lad\- Marv's After an absence of twenty-two years, Lady Mary 
 
 ^'"T" l ? returned to England, arriving in October, but her health 
 
 ELngianu. 
 
 had suffered much and a gradual decline terminated in
 
 Pope and Lady Mary. 43 
 
 death on the 2ist of August, 1762, and in the seventy- Her death, 
 third year of her age. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Works of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Moy Thomas. 
 (Bohn, 1861.) 
 
 Alexander Pope. Leslie Stephen. (Morley's Men of Letters 
 Series. ) 
 
 Pope's Complete Works. 
 
 Smith's Smaller History of English Literature. James 
 Rowley, M.A. (London.) 
 
 Walks in London. A. J. C. Hare. (Latest revised edition, 
 1894, London. ) 
 
 Compendium of English History. A. B. Edwards.
 
 BOOK II. 
 CHARLOTTE LENNOX. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AMONG the literary names preserved by Boswell and 
 Horace Walpole, says Chambers' s Encyclopaedia, is that 
 of Mrs. Charlotte Lennox (1720-1804). The first 
 novel of this lady was celebrated with a sumptuous sup- 
 per at the Devil's Tavern, where Dr. Johnson invested 
 crowne^by^r. the authoress with a crown of laurel. Until 1788 
 existed the famous Devil's Tavern in Fleet Street, with 
 the sign of St. Dunstan and the Devil, where the Royal 
 Society held its dinners, and where the Apollo Club 
 held its meetings, guided by poetical rules of Ben Jon- 
 son which began : 
 
 Let none but guests or clubbers hither come ; 
 Let dunces, fools, and sordid men keep home ; 
 Let learned, civil, merry men b' invited 
 And modest too ; nor be choice liquor slighted. 
 Let nothing in the treat offend the guest ; 
 More for delight than cost prepare the feast. 
 
 She wrote several novels, and some comedies, com- 
 piled and translated other works, probably for the sake 
 Her works. of the money she could earn by them. Her name would 
 hardly survive to this day but that Mrs. Barbauld allowed 
 her a place in her excellent edition of the "British 
 Novelists of the Eighteenth Century," published in 1800, 
 a collection without which I should be lost in the pur- 
 suit of my favorite old books. Mrs. Barbauld says that 
 Mrs. Lennox, "a very respectable writer, born at New
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 45 
 
 York, was a diligent and successful author. Her exer- 
 tions did not place her in easy circumstances, for she 
 died poor in 1804." 
 
 Lady Mary Wortley, a voracious reader of "all the 
 novels that had been invented ' ' in her time, speaks of 
 one and another of her books as they appear with 
 friendly comment, but under the impression that they 
 were written by her cousin, Sally Fielding, the sister of 
 the brilliant author of ' ' Tom Tones. ' ' Lady Mary says : Lad v Mary's 
 
 comment. 
 
 " The Art of Tormenting " and " The Female Quixote " are 
 sale work. I suppose they proceed from her pen, and I 
 heartily pity her, constrained by her circumstances to seek her 
 bread by a method I do not doubt she despises. She has 
 mended her style in the last volume of " David Simple," which 
 conveys a useful moral, though she does not seem to have 
 intended it. 
 
 "David Simple" is such a "dreadful" stupid book 
 that I myself have never succeeded in reaching the 
 third volume. 
 
 There is a slight reference to Charlotte Lennox in 
 
 Miss Burney's 
 
 ranny Burney s diary of August 26, 1778 : reference. 
 
 Dr. Johnson gave us an account of Mrs. Lennox. Her 
 "Female Quixote" is very justly admired here. But Mrs. 
 Thrale says that though her books are generally approved, 
 nobody likes her. I find she, among others, waited on Dr. 
 Johnson upon her commencing writing, and he told us that at 
 her request he carried her to Richardson. "Poor Charlotte 
 Lennox!" continued he. "When we came to the house she 
 desired me to leave her; 'for,' says she, 'I am under great 
 restraint in your presence ; but if you leave me alone with 
 Richardson, I'll give you a very good account of him.' How- 
 ever, I fear she was disappointed, for she gave me no account 
 at all." 
 
 Poor Charlotte's "Sophia," "Henrietta," etc., are 
 absolute rubbish, but the "Female Quixote," published Qufiotef* 1 * 
 in 1752, and perpetuated by Mrs. Barbauld, is precious
 
 46 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 for preserving to the world the best impression we have 
 of what the old, old romances of the Calprenede and 
 Scudery school really were ; sparing us an effort which 
 even I am incapable of that is, wading through the 
 black volumes like those beloved of the old nurse in the 
 Wortley family, and even of Lady Mary herself and her 
 contemporaries. 
 
 It is an agreeable and ingenious satire upon the old 
 
 romances, and I really think it is written in a modern 
 
 Account of the spirit, and that Arabella, the heroine, has more good 
 
 heroine. . . 
 
 stuff in her than other imaginary ladies of the time 
 who have been more praised. She is supposed to 
 have been brought up in the country and secluded 
 from all society, but allowed to amuse herself in an old 
 library furnished with the works of these voluminous 
 authors. Of course she imbibes their views of life, 
 and when she comes out into the world, possessed of 
 beauty and fortune, it is with a pronounced ignorance 
 of every circumstance of real life and manners. She 
 fancies every man who speaks to her to be secretly in 
 love with her, and is in constant apprehension of being 
 forcibly carried off. 
 
 The extracts I shall give are those which throw 
 light upon the style of the older books, and, condensed 
 as these extracts are, I am sure they will sufficiently 
 impress the reader with a sense of their dulness, a 
 dulness from which Mrs. Lennox in a measure rescued 
 her readers by the vivacity of her heroine, who seems 
 modern by contrast. The disadvantage of her book, 
 as Mrs. Barbauld already observes, is that the satire 
 has now no object. She says : 
 
 Most young ladies of the present day, instead of requiring to 
 be cured of reading those bulky romances, would acquire the 
 first information of their manner (and we may now say of
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 47 
 
 their existence) from the work designed to ridicule them. 
 Mrs. Barbauld adds : 
 
 The style of Mrs. Lennox is easy, but it does not rise to the 
 elegance attained by many, more modern, female writers. 
 
 "Henrietta" begins with the incident of two young , 
 
 J . c "Henrietta. 
 
 ladies, who are perfect strangers to each other, meeting 
 in a stage coach, when after a few minutes' conversation 
 one of them exclaims, ' ' Let us swear an eternal friend- 
 ship" the words taken from the "Anti-Jacobin," a 
 satire, well known in its time, upon the sentimental 
 German plays of Kotzebue and others. "Henrietta" is 
 agreeably absurd, but not worth preserving.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE Marquis of , for a long series of years, was the 
 
 first and most distinguished favorite at court ; he held the most 
 Beginning of honorable employments under the crown, disposed of all places 
 "T* 16 Fe ale of profit as he pleased, presided at the council, and, in a man- 
 ner, governed the whole kingdom. This extensive authority 
 could not fail of making him many enemies ; he fell at last a 
 sacrifice to the plots they were continually forming against him ; 
 and was not only removed from all his employments, but ban- 
 ished the court forever. The pain his undeserved disgrace gave 
 him he was enabled to conceal by the natural haughtiness of 
 his temper ; and, behaving rather like a man who had resigned 
 than been dismissed from his post, he imagined he triumphed 
 sufficiently over the malice of his enemies, while he seemed to 
 be wholly insensible of the effects it produced. His secret dis- 
 content, however, was so much augmented by the opportunity 
 he now had of observing the baseness and ingratitude of man- 
 kind, which in some degree he experienced every day, that he 
 resolved to quit all society whatever, and devote the rest of his 
 life to solitude and privacy. For the place of his retreat he 
 pitched upon a castle he had in a very remote province of the 
 kingdom, in the neighborhood of a small village, and several 
 miles distant from any town. The vast extent of ground 
 which surrounded this noble building he had caused to be laid 
 out in a manner peculiar to his taste ; the most laborious 
 endeavors of art had been used to make it appear like the 
 beautiful product of wild uncultivated nature. But if this 
 epitome of Arcadia could boast of only artless and simple 
 beauties, the inside of the castle was adorned with a magnifi- 
 cence suitable to the dignity and immense riches of the owner. 
 
 Arabella's Here was Arabella born, and, after the early death of 
 
 birth. 
 
 her mother, grew up in solitude except for the com- 
 panionship of the marquis. 
 
 Nature had, indeed, given her a most charming face, a shape 
 
 4 8
 
 Charlotte Lennox, 49 
 
 easy and delicate, a sweet and insinuating voice, and an air so 
 full of dignity and grace as drew the admiration of all that saw 
 her. These native charms were improved with all the height- 
 enings of art ; her dress was perfectly magnificent, the best 
 masters of music and dancing were sent for from London to 
 attend her. She soon became a perfect mistress of the French 
 and Italian languages, under the care of her father ; and it is 
 not to be doubted but she would have made a great proficiency 
 in all useful knowledge had not her whole time been taken up 
 by another study. 
 
 From her earliest youth she had discovered a fondness for 
 reading, which extremely delighted the marquis ; he permitted 
 her, therefore, the use of his library, in which, unfortunately for 
 her, were great store of romances and, what was still more 
 unfortunate, not in the original French, but very bad transla- 
 tions. 
 
 The deceased marchioness had purchased these books to 
 
 soften a solitude which she found very disagreeable ; and after French 
 
 ... romances, 
 her death the marquis removed them from her closet into his 
 
 library, where Arabella found them. The surprising adven- 
 tures with which they were filled proved a most pleasing enter- 
 tainment to a young lady who was wholly secluded from the 
 world, who had no other diversion but ranging like a nymph 
 through gardens, or, to say better, the woods and lawns in 
 which she was enclosed ; and who had no other conversation 
 but that of a grave and melancholy father, or her own atten- 
 dants. 
 
 Her ideas, from the manner of her life and the objects 
 around her, had taken a romantic turn ; and, supposing f l f^ 1 timental 
 romances were real pictures of life, from them she drew all her 
 notions and expectations. By them she was taught to believe 
 that love was the ruling principle of the world ; that every other 
 passion was subordinate to this ; and that it caused all the 
 happiness and miseries of life. Her glass, which she often 
 consulted, always showed her a form so extremely lovely that, 
 not finding herself engaged in such adventures as were common 
 to the heroines in the romances she read, she often complained 
 of the insensibility of mankind, upon whom her charms seemed 
 to have so little influence. 
 
 The perfect retirement she lived in afforded, indeed, no 
 opportunities of making the conquests she desired, but she
 
 50 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 could not comprehend how any solitude could be obscure 
 enough to conceal a beauty like hers from notice ; and thought 
 the reputation of her charms sufficient to bring a crowd of 
 adorers to demand her of her father. Her mind being wholly 
 filled with the most extravagant expectations, she was alarmed 
 by every trifling incident ; and kept in a continual anxiety by a 
 vicissitude of hopes and fears. 
 
 This chapter contains a description of a tody's dress in fashion 
 not much above two thousand years ago. The beginning of 
 an adventure which seems to promise a great deal. 
 
 Arabella had now entered into her seventeenth year, with 
 
 the regret of seeing herself the object of admiration to a few 
 Arabella at ^-iuu A * u c A 
 
 church. rustics only, who happened to see her ; when, one Sunday, 
 
 making use of the permission the marquis sometimes allowed 
 her to attend divine service at the church belonging to the 
 village near which they lived, her vanity was flattered with an 
 adorer not altogether unworthy of her notice. 
 
 This gentleman was young, gay, handsome, and very ele- 
 gantly dressed : he was just come from London with the inten- 
 tion to pass some weeks with a friend in that part of the 
 The London country ; and at the time Arabella entered the church, his 
 eyes, which had wandered from one rural fair to another, were 
 in an instant fixed upon her face. She blushed with a very 
 becoming modesty ; and, pleased with the unusual appearance 
 of so fine a gentleman, and the particular notice he took of her, 
 passed on to her seat through a double row of country people, 
 who, with a profusion of awkward bows and curtsies, expressed 
 their respect. Mr. Hervey, for that was the stranger's name, 
 was no less surprised at her beauty than the singularity of her 
 dress, and the odd whim of being followed into the church by 
 three women attendants, who, as soon as she was seated, took 
 their places behind her. Her dress, though singular, was far 
 from being unbecoming. All the beauties of her neck and 
 shape were set off to the greatest advantage by the fashion of 
 her gown, which, in the manner of a robe, was made to sit 
 tight to her body and fastened on the breast by a knot of dia- 
 monds. Her fine black hair hung upon her neck in curls, which 
 had so much the appearance of being artless that all but her 
 maid, whose employment it was to give them that form, imag-
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 51 
 
 ined they were so. Her head-dress was only a few knots, 
 advantageously disposed, over which she wore a white sarsenet 
 hood, somewhat in the form of a veil, with which she some- 
 times wholly covered her fair face when she saw herself beheld 
 with too much attention. 
 
 This veil had never appeared to her so necessary before. 
 Mr. Hervey's eager glances threw her into so much confusion, Singular 
 
 ,.,... i / i 1 i_i 1 demeanor of 
 
 that pulling it over her face as much as she was able, she Arabella. 
 remained invisible to him all the time that they afterward 
 stayed in the church. This action, by which she would have 
 had him understand that she was displeased at his gazing on 
 her with so little respect, only increased his curiosity to know 
 who she was. When the congregation was dismissed, he 
 hastened to the door, with an intention to offer her his hand to 
 help her to her coach ; but seeing the magnificent equipage 
 that waited for her, and the number of servants that attended 
 it, he conceived a much higher idea of her quality than he had 
 at first ; and, changing his design, contented himself with only 
 bowing to her as she passed ; and as soon as her coach drove 
 away, inquired of some person nearest him who she was. 
 
 Mr. Hervey, although amazed, was quite inclined to surprise of Mr. 
 fall seriously in love with the lady. 
 
 Arabella in the meantime was wholly taken up with the 
 adventure, as she called it, at church ; the person and dress of 
 the gentleman who had so particularly gazed on her there 
 was so different from what she had been accustomed to see 
 that she immediately concluded he was of some distinguished 
 rank. It was past a doubt, she thought, that he was ex- 
 cessively in love with her ; and, as she soon expected to have 
 some very extraordinary proofs of his passion, her thoughts 
 were wholly employed on the manner in which she should 
 receive them. 
 
 As soon as she came home and had paid her duty to the 
 marquis she hurried to her chamber to be at liberty to indulge 
 her agreeable reflections ; and, after the example of our 
 heroines, when anything extraordinary happened to them, 
 called her favorite woman, or, to use her own language, her in 
 whom she confided her most secret thoughts. 
 
 "Well. Lucv." said she, "did you observe that stranger who Conversation 
 
 >j i "jr 11 <. i i . i in with Lucy. 
 
 ev a us so needfully at church to-day ?
 
 52 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 This girl, notwithstanding her country simplicity, knew a 
 compliment was expected from her on this occasion, and there- 
 fore replied that she did not wonder at the gentleman's staring 
 at her ; for she was sure he had never seen anybody so hand- 
 some as her ladyship before. 
 
 "I have not all the beauty which you attribute to me," said 
 Arabella, smiling a little ; "and with a very moderate share of 
 it I might well fix the attention of a person who seemed not to 
 be over much pleased with the objects about him. However," 
 pursued she, assuming a more serious air, "if this stranger be 
 weak enough to entertain any sentiments more than indifferent 
 for me, I charge you upon pain of my displeasure, do not be 
 accessory to the conveying his presumptuous thoughts to me, 
 either by letters or messages, nor suffer him to corrupt your 
 fidelity with the presents he will very probably offer you." 
 
 Mr. Hervey Mr. Hervey, after a few attempts at correspondence, 
 
 gave up all idea of a conquest, and an accident which 
 brought her in his way again concluded the adventure. 
 
 The marquis sometimes permitting his daughter to ride out, 
 and this being the only diversion she was allowed or ever ex- 
 perienced, she did not fail to take it as often as she could. She 
 was returning from one of these airings one day, attended by 
 two servants, when Mr. Hervey, who happened to be at some 
 distance, observing a lady on horseback who made a very 
 graceful figure, he rode up to her in order to have a nearer 
 view ; and knowing Lady Bella again, resolved to speak to 
 her : but while he was considering how he should accost her, 
 Arabella suddenly seeing him and observing he was making 
 up to her, her imagination immediately suggested to her that 
 this insolent lover had a design to seize her person ; and this 
 thought terrifying her extremely, she gave a loud shriek, which 
 Mr. Hervey hearing, rode eagerly up to her to inquire the 
 reason of it, at the same time that her two attendants, as much 
 amazed as himself, came galloping up also. 
 
 Arabella, upon his coming close up to her, redoubled her 
 The adventure. cr j es jf you ] lave any va ] OI - ; " sa j c l s i le to h cr servants, 
 
 "defend your unfortunate mistress and rescue her from this 
 unworthy man." 
 The servants, believing him to be a highwayman by this
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 53 
 
 exclamation, and dreading lest he should present a pistol at 
 their heads if they offered to make any resistance, recoiled a 
 few paces back, expecting he would demand their purses when 
 he had robbed their lady, but the extreme surprise he was in 
 keeping him motionless, the fellows not seeing any pistols in 
 his hand, and animated by Arabella's cries, who, calling them 
 cowards and traitors, urged them to deliver her, they both in a 
 moment laid hold of Mr. Hervey and forced him to alight, 
 which they did also themselves, still keeping fast hold of him, 
 whom surprise, shame, and rage had hitherto kept silent. 
 
 " Rascals," cried he, when he was able to speak, " what do 
 you mean by using me in this manner ? Do you suppose I had 
 any intention to hurt the lady ? What do you take me for ? " 
 
 "For a ravisher," interrupted Arabella; "an impious rav- 
 isher ! who, contrary to all laws, both human and divine, en- 
 deavor to possess yourself by force of a person whom you are 
 not worthy to serve, and whose charity and compassion you 
 have returned with the utmost ingratitude." 
 
 Mr. Hervey was very naturally furious at being so surrenderor 
 treated, but beginning to reflect that carrying off an thehan s er - 
 heiress was no joke, he controlled himself and delivered 
 his ' ' hanger ' ' to the servant, while he assured her that 
 he had no evil designs. Said Arabella, sternly : 
 
 "Add not falsehood to a crime already black enough ; for 
 though by an effort of my generosity I have resolved not to 
 deliver you up to the resentment of my father, yet nothing 
 shall ever be able to make me pardon this outrage. Go, then," 
 pursued she ; " go, base man, unworthy of the care I took for 
 thy safety ; go to some distant country where I may never hear 
 of thee more, and suffer me if possible to lose the remem- 
 brance of thy crimes." 
 
 Saying this, she ordered her servants, who had yet the 
 hanger in their possession, to set him at liberty and mount 
 their horses, which they did immediately, and followed their 
 lady, who rode with all imaginable speed to the castle. 
 
 Mr. Hervey took himself away from the neighbor- Mr Hervey 
 hood and back to London as fast as possible. He was Lo?idon. f01 
 now out of the scrape and is soon out of the book.
 
 54 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Other incidents of a like nature occurred, but Arabella had 
 scarce done thinking of these adventures when the marquis 
 communicated a piece of intelligence to her which opened a 
 prospect of an infinite number of new ones. 
 
 His nephew, having just returned from his travels, was 
 admirer preparing to come and pay him a visit in his retreat ; and, as 
 
 he always designed to marry Arabella to this youth, of whom 
 he was extremely fond, he told his daughter of the intended 
 visit of her cousin, whom she had not seen since she was eight 
 years old ; and for the first time insinuated his design of 
 giving him to her for an husband. 
 
 Arabella, whose delicacy was extremely shocked by this 
 abrupt declaration of her father, could hardly hide her cha- 
 grin, for though she always intended to marry some time or 
 other, as all the heroines had done, yet she thought such an 
 event ought to be brought about with an infinite deal of 
 trouble ; and that it was necessary she should pass to this state 
 through a great number of cares, disappointments, and dis- 
 tresses of various kinds like them ; that her lover should 
 purchase her with his sword from a crowd of rivals, and arrive 
 to the possession of her heart by many years of service and 
 fidelity. 
 
 The impropriety of receiving a lover of her father's recom- 
 
 The admirer mending appeared in its strongest light. What lady in ro- 
 proves a lover. . & J 
 
 mance ever married the man who was chosen lor her? In 
 
 those cases the remonstrances of a parent are called persecu- 
 tions ; obstinate resistance, constancy and courage ; and an 
 aptitude to dislike the person proposed to them, a noble free- 
 dom of mind which disdains to love or hate by the caprice of 
 others. 
 
 Arabella, strengthening her own resolutions by those ex- 
 amples of heroic disobedience, told her father, with great 
 solemnity of accent, that she would always obey him in all just 
 and reasonable things ; and being persuaded that he would 
 never attempt to lay any force upon her inclinations, she 
 would endeavor to make them conformable to his, and receive 
 her cousin with that civility and friendship due to so near a 
 Approbation of relation and a person whom he honored with his esteem. 
 
 the marquis. _, .,..,- 
 
 The marquis, having had frequent occasions ol admiring his 
 daughter's eloquence, did not draw any unpleasing conclusion 
 from the nice distinctions she made, and being perfectly
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 55 
 
 assured of her consent whenever he demanded it, expected 
 the arrival of his nephew with great impatience. 
 
 Arabella, whose thoughts had been fully employed since this 
 conversation with her father, was indulging her meditations in 
 one of the most retired walks of the garden when she was 
 informed by Lucy that her cousin was come and that the mar- 
 quis had brought him into the garden to look for her. That 
 instant they both entered the walk, when Arabella, prepos- 
 sessed as she was against any favorable thoughts of the young 
 Glanville, could not help betraying some surprise at the grace- 
 fulness of his figure. " It must be confessed," said she to her 
 attendant with a smile, " that this lover my father has brought 
 us is no contemptible person ; nevertheless I feel an invin- 
 cible repugnance in myself against receiving him in that char- 
 acter." 
 
 As she finished these words the marquis came up and pre- 
 sented Mr. Glanville to her, who, saluting her with the freedom addresses, 
 of a relation, gave her a disgust which showed itself immedi- 
 ately in her fair face, which was overspread with such a gloom 
 that the marquis was quite astonished at it. Indeed, Arabella, 
 who expected he would hardly have presumed to kiss her 
 hand, was so surprised at his freedom in attempting her lips 
 that she not only expressed her indignation by frowns, but 
 gave him to understand he had mortally offended her. Mr. 
 Glanville, however, was neither surprised nor angry at her 
 resentment ; but, imputing it to her country education, en- 
 deavored to rally her out of her ill humor ; and the marquis, 
 being glad to find a behavior which he thought proceeded from 
 a dislike of her cousin was only an effect of an over-scrupulous 
 modesty, told her that Mr. Glanville had committed no offense 
 by saluting her, since that was a civility which was granted to 
 all strangers at a first, interview, and therefore could not be 
 refused to a relation. 
 
 " Since the world is so degenerated in its customs to what it 
 was formerly," said Arabella with a smile full of contempt ^"j^" 3 ' 3 
 upon her cousin, "I am extremely happy to have lived in a 
 solitude which has not yet exposed me to the mortification of 
 being a witness to manners which I cannot approve ; for if 
 every person I shall meet with for the future be so deficient in 
 their respect to ladies as my cousin is, I shall not care how 
 much I am excluded from society."
 
 56 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century, 
 
 "But, dear Lady Bella," interrupted Mr. Glanville gaily, 
 "tell me, I beseech you, how I must behave to please you, for 
 I should be extremely glad to be honored with your good 
 opinion." 
 
 "The person," resumed she, "whom I must teach how to 
 acquire my good opinion will, I am afraid, hardly recompense 
 me by his docility in learning for the pains I should be at in 
 instructing him." 
 
 "But," resumed Glanville, "that I may avoid any more 
 occasions of offending you, only let me know how you would 
 be approached for the future." 
 
 "Since," answered she, "there is no necessity to renew the 
 ceremony of introducing you again to me, I have not a second 
 affront of that kind to apprehend ; but I pray tell me if all 
 cavaliers are as presuming as yourself; and if a relation of 
 your sex does not think a modest embrace from a lady a wel- 
 come sufficiently tender ? " 
 
 Custom of The heroines, though they think a kiss of the hand a 
 
 the heroines. great condescension to a man, and never grant it with- 
 out blushes and confusion, yet make no scruple to em- 
 brace him upon every short absence. 
 
 "Nay, cousin," cried Glanville eagerly, "I am now per- 
 suaded that you are in the right. An embrace is certainly to 
 be preferred to a cold salute. What would I give that the 
 marquis would introduce me a second time, that I might be 
 received with so delightful a welcome ! " 
 
 The vivacity with which he spoke this was so extremely 
 disagreeable to Arabella that she turned from him abruptly, 
 and, striking into another walk, ordered Lucy to tell him she 
 commanded him not to follow her. 
 
 Mr. Glanville, however, who had no notion of the exact 
 obedience which was expected from him, would have gone 
 after her, notwithstanding this prohibition, which Lucy de- 
 livered in a most peremptory manner, after her lady's ex- 
 ample, but the marquis, who had left the young people to 
 discourse, and had walked on, that he might not interrupt 
 them, turning about and seeing Glanville alone, called him to 
 have some private discourse \vith him.
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 
 
 57 
 
 In this chapter a lover is severely punished for faults which the 
 reader never would have discovered if he had not been told. 
 
 The marquis, having studied his nephew's looks several 
 days, thought he saw inclination enough in them for Arabella 
 to make him receive the knowledge of his intention with joy ; 
 he therefore called him into his closet, and told him, in a few 
 words, that, if his heart was not preengaged and his daughter 
 capable of making him happy, he resolved to bestow her upon 
 him, together with all his estates. 
 
 Mr. Glanville received this agreeable news with the strongest 
 expressions of gratitude ; assuring his uncle that Lady Bella, 
 of all the women he had ever seen, was most agreeable to his 
 taste ; and that he felt for her all the tenderness and affection 
 his soul was capable of. 
 
 "I am glad of it, my dear nephew," said the marquis, em- 
 bracing him; "I will allow you," added he, smiling, "but a 
 few weeks to court her ; gain her heart as soon as you can, 
 and when you bring me her consent the marriage shall be 
 solemnized immediately." 
 
 Mr. Glanville needed not a repetition of so agreeable a com- 
 mand ; he left his uncle's closet with his heart filled with the 
 expectation of his approaching happiness, and, understanding 
 Arabella was in the garden, he went to her with the resolution 
 to acquaint her with the permission her father had given him 
 to make his addresses to her. 
 
 He found his fair cousin, as usual,* accompanied with her 
 women ; and, seeing that notwithstanding his approach they 
 still continued to walk with her, and impatient of the restraint 
 they laid him under, 
 
 " I beseech you, cousin," said he, " let me have the pleasure 
 of walking with you alone : what necessity is there for always 
 having so many witnesses of our conversation ? You may 
 retire," said he, speaking to Lucy and the other woman ; "I 
 have something to say to your lady in private." 
 
 "Stay, I command you," said Arabella, blushing at an inso- 
 lence so uncommon, "and take orders from no one but my- 
 self. I pray you, sir," pursued she frowning, "what inter- 
 course of secrets is there between you and me, that you expect 
 I should favor you with a private conversation ; an advantage 
 which none of your sex ever boasted to have gained from me, 
 
 Mr. Glanville in 
 love. 
 
 Interview in the 
 garden.
 
 58 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Difference of 
 opinion. 
 
 Extraordinary 
 action of 
 Arabella. 
 
 and which, haply, you should be the last upon whom I should 
 bestow it?" 
 
 "You have the strangest notions," answered Glanville, 
 smiling at the pretty anger she discovered; "certainly you 
 may hold a private conversation with any gentleman without 
 giving offense to decorum : and I may plead a right to this 
 happiness above any other, since I have the honor to be your 
 relation." 
 
 "It is not at all surprising," resumed Arabella gravely, 
 "that you and I should differ in opinion upon this occasion : I 
 don't remember that we ever agreed in anything, and I am 
 apt to believe we never shall." 
 
 "Ah ! don't say so, Lady Bella," interrupted he. "What a 
 prospect of misery you lay before me ! for, if we are always to 
 be opposite to each other, it is necessary that you must hate 
 me as much as I admire and love you." 
 
 These words, which he accompanied with a gentle pressure 
 of her hand, threw the astonished Arabella into such an excess 
 of anger and shame that for a few moments she was unable to 
 utter a word. 
 
 What a horrid violation this of all the laws of gallantry and 
 respect, which decree a lover to suffer whole years in silence 
 before he declares his flame to the divine object that causes it, 
 and then with awful tremblings and submissive prostrations at 
 the feet of the offended fair ! 
 
 Arabella could hardly believe her senses when she heard a 
 declaration not only made without the usual forms, but also, 
 that the presumptuous criminal waited for an answer without 
 seeming to have any apprehension of the punishment to which 
 he was to be doomed ; and that, instead of deprecating her 
 wrath, he looked with a smiling wonder upon her eyes, as if he 
 did not fear their lightning would strike him dead. 
 
 Indeed, it was scarcely possible for him to help smiling and 
 wondering, too, at the extraordinary action of Arabella ; for as 
 soon as he had pronounced those fatal words she started back 
 two or three steps, cast a look at him full of the highest indig- 
 nation ; and, lifting up her fine eyes to heaven, seemed, in the 
 language of romance, to accuse the gods for subjecting her to 
 so cruel an indignity. 
 
 The tumult of her thoughts being a little settled, she turned 
 again toward Glanville, whose countenance expressed nothing
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 59 
 
 of that confusion and anxiety common to an adorer in so critical 
 a circumstance, her rage returned with greater violence than 
 ever. 
 
 "If I do not express all the resentment your welcome has 
 filled me with," said she to him, affecting more scorn than 
 anger, " 'tis because I hold you too mean for my resentment ; 
 but never hope for my pardon for your presumptuous con- 
 fession of a passion I could almost despise myself for inspiring. 
 If it be true that you love me,, go and find your punishment 
 in that absence to which I doom you ; and never hope I will 
 suffer a person in my presence who has affronted me in the 
 manner you have done." 
 
 Saying this she walked away, making a sign to him not to 
 follow her.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MR. GLANVILLE, after a time, grew angry at the con- 
 duct of Arabella, and departed one morning early, 
 de r 'arture ViUe ' S r ^ m 8" as ^ ast as possible to the next stage, where he 
 wrote the following letter to his uncle : 
 
 MY LORD : As my leaving your house so abruptly will cer- 
 tainly make me appear guilty of a most unpardonable rudeness, 
 I cannot dispense with myself from acquainting your lordship 
 with the cause ; though, to spare the reproaches Lady Bella 
 will probably cast on me for doing so, I could wish you knew it 
 by any other means. 
 
 His letter to But, my lord, I value your esteem too much to hazard the 
 
 the marquis. j oss Q f ; t by su ff er i n g y OU to imagine that I am capable of doing 
 anything to displease you. Lady Bella was pleased to order 
 me to stay no longer in the house, and menaced me with some 
 very terrible usage if I disobeyed her ; she used so many other 
 contemptuous expressions to me that, I am persuaded, I shall 
 never be so happy as to possess the honor you designed for, 
 my lord, your most obedient, etc., 
 
 CHARLES GLANVILLE. 
 
 When the marquis had read this letter, he went to his daugh- 
 
 Displeasure of ter's apartment with an intention to chide her severely for the 
 
 usage of his nephew ; but seeing her come to meet him with 
 
 her eyes bathed in tears, he insensibly lost some part of his 
 
 resentment. 
 
 " Alas ! my lord," said she, " I know you come prepared to 
 load me with reproaches upon my cousin's account ; but I 
 beseech your lordship, do not aggravate my sorrows ; though 
 I banished Mr. Glanville, I do not desire his death ; and, ques- 
 tionless, if he knew how I resent it, his ghost would be satis- 
 fied with the sacrifice I make him." 
 
 The marquis, not being able to help smiling at this conceit, 
 which he saw had so strongly impressed her imagination that 
 she had no sort of doubt but that her cousin was dead, asked
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 61 
 
 her if she really believed Mr. Glanville loved her well enough 
 to die with grief at her ill usage of him. 
 
 "If," said she, "he loves me not well enough to die for me, 
 he certainly loves me but little, and I am the less obliged to 
 him." 
 
 " But I desire to know," interrupted the marquis, " for what 
 crime it was you took the liberty to banish him from my 
 house." 
 
 " I banished him, my lord," resumed she, " for his presump- 
 tion in telling me he loved me." 
 
 "That presumption, as you call it, though I know not for T 
 
 , r J His commands 
 
 what reason," said the marquis, " was authorized by me ; there- upon Arabella. 
 
 fore, know, Bella, that I not only permit him to love you, but I 
 
 also expect you should endeavor to return his affection, and 
 
 look upon him as the man whom I design for your husband ; 
 
 there's his letter," pursued he, putting it into her hand. " I 
 
 blush for the rudeness you have been guilty of, but endeavor to 
 
 repair it by a more obliging behavior for the future ; I am going 
 
 to send after him immediately to prevail upon him to return ; 
 
 therefore write him an apology, I charge you, and have it done 
 
 by the time my messenger is ready to set out." 
 
 Saying this, he went out of the room ; Arabella eagerly 
 opened the letter, and finding it in a style so different from 
 what she had expected, her dislike of him returned with more 
 violence than ever. 
 
 "Ah, the traitor!" said she aloud, "is it thus that he en- 
 deavors to move my compassion ? How greatly did I overrate Her agitation, 
 his affection when I imagined his despair was capable of killing 
 him! Disloyal man!" pursued she, walking about, "is it by 
 complaints to my father that thou expectest to succeed ? And 
 dost thou imagine the heart of Arabella is to be won by 
 violence and injustice?" In this manner she wasted the time 
 allotted for her to write, and when the marquis sent for her 
 letter, having no intention to comply, she went to his chamber, 
 conjuring him not to oblige her to a condescension so un- 
 worthy of her. 
 
 The marquis, being now excessively angry with her, rose up 
 in a fury, and, leading her to his writing desk, ordered her 
 instantly to write to her cousin. 
 
 "If I must write, my lord," said she sobbing, "pray be 
 so good as to dictate what I must say."
 
 62 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 "Apologize for your rude behavior," said the marquis, "and 
 desire him, in the most obliging manner you can, to return." 
 
 Arabella, seeing there was a necessity for obeying, took up 
 the pen and wrote the following billet : 
 
 ' ' The unfortunate Arabella to the most ungenerous Glanville. 
 
 "It is not by the power I have over you that I command you 
 
 Her letter to J 
 
 Glanville. to return, for I disclaim any empire over so unworthy a sub- 
 
 ject; but since it is my father's pleasure I should invite you 
 back, I must let you know that I repeal your banishment, and 
 expect you will immediately return with the messenger who 
 brings this. However, to spare your acknowledgments, know, 
 that it is in obedience to my father's absolute commands that 
 you receive this mandate from 
 
 "ARABELLA." 
 
 Having finished this billet she gave it to the marquis to 
 read ; who, finding a great deal of his own haughtiness of 
 temper in it, could not resolve to check her for a disposition so 
 like his own ; yet he told her her style was very uncommon. 
 "And pray," added he smiling, "who taught you to super- 
 scribe your letters thus, 'The unfortunate Arabella to the 
 most ungenerous Glanville ' ? Why, Bella, this superscription 
 is wholly calculated for the bearer's information, but come, 
 alter it immediately ; for I do not choose my messenger should 
 know that you are unfortunate, or that my nephew is un- 
 generous." 
 
 "Pray, my lord," replied Arabella, "content yourself with 
 what I have already done in obedience to your commands, and 
 suffer my letter to remain as it is ; methinks it is but reason- 
 able I should express some little resentment at the complaint 
 my cousin has been pleased to make to you against me, nor 
 can I possibly make any letter more obliging without being 
 guilty of an unpardonable meanness." 
 
 " You are a strange girl," replied the marquis, taking the 
 letter and enclosing it in one from himself, in which he 
 earnestly entreated his nephew to return, threatening him with 
 his displeasure if he disobeyed, and assuring him that his 
 daughter would receive him as well as he could possibly 
 desire. The messenger being despatched, with orders to ride 
 post and overtake the young gentleman, he obeyed his orders 
 so well that he came up with him before night.
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 63 
 
 The marquis was extremely uneasy at the obstinacy of his 
 daughter. He desired nothing more ardently than to marry 
 her to his nephew, but he could not resolve to force her con- 
 sent; and, however determined he appeared to her, yet, in 
 reality, he intended to use persuasions only to effect what he 
 desired, and, from the natural sweetness of her temper, he was 
 sometimes not without hopes that she might at last be pre- 
 vailed upon to comply. 
 
 His nephew's return restored him to part of his usual tran- Return of G]an . 
 quillity. After he had gently chid him for suffering himself to ville. 
 be so far transported with resentment at the little humors of a 
 lady as to leave his house without acquainting him, he bade 
 him go to Arabella and endeavor to make his peace with her. 
 
 Mr. Glanville accordingly went to her apartment, resolving 
 to oblige her to come to some explanation with him concerning 
 the offense she complained of; but that fair, incensed lady, who 
 had taken shelter in her closet, ordered Lucy to tell him she 
 was indisposed and could not see him. 
 
 Glanville, however, comforted himself for this disappoint- 
 ment by the hopes of seeing her at supper, and accordingly she 
 came when the supper bell rung, and, making a very cool com- 
 pliment to her cousin, placed herself at table. The soft 
 languor that appeared in her eyes gave such an additional 
 charm to one of the loveliest faces in the world, that Glanville, 
 who sat opposite to her, could not help gazing on her with 
 a very particular attention ; he often spoke to her, and asked 
 her trifling questions for the sake of hearing the sound of her 
 voice, which sorrow had made enchantingly sweet. 
 
 When supper was over she would have retired, but the mar- 
 quis desired her to stay and entertain her cousin while he went 
 to look over some despatches he had received from London. 
 
 Arabella blushed with anger at this command ; but not 
 daring to disobey, she kept her eyes fixed on the ground, as if pleased, 
 she dreaded to hear something that would displease her. 
 
 "Well, cousin," said Glanville, "though you desire to have 
 no empire over so unworthy a subject as myself, yet I hope 
 you are not displeased at my returning, in obedience to your 
 commands." 
 
 "Since I am not allowed any will of my own," said she 
 sighing, "it matters not whether I am pleased or displeased ; 
 nor is it of any consequence to you to know."
 
 64 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 "Indeed but it is, Lady Bella," interrupted he, "for if I 
 knew how to please you I would never, if I could help it, 
 offend ; therefore, I beg you, tell me how I have disobliged 
 you ; for certainly you have treated me as harshly as if I had 
 been guilty of some very terrible offense." 
 
 "You had the boldness," said she, "to talk to me of love, 
 
 Argument and you well know that persons of my sex and quality are not 
 
 loverand ^ permitted to listen to such discourses ; and if for that offense I 
 
 Arabella. banished you my presence, I did no more than decency 
 
 required of me, and which I would yet do were I mistress 
 
 of my own actions." 
 
 "But is it possible, cousin," said Glanville, "that you can be 
 angry with any one for loving you ? Is that a crime of as high 
 a nature as to merit an eternal banishment from your 
 presence? " 
 
 "Without telling you," said Arabella blushing, "whether I 
 am angry at being loved, it is sufficient, you know, that I will 
 not pardon the man who has the presumption to tell me he 
 loves me." 
 
 "But, madam," interrupted Glanville, "if the person who 
 tells you he loves you be of a rank not beneath you, I conceive 
 you are not at all injured by the favorable sentiments he feels 
 for you, and though you are not disposed to make any return 
 to his passion, yet you are certainly obliged to him for his good 
 opinion." 
 
 " Since love is not voluntary," replied Arabella, "I am not 
 obliged to any person for loving me, for, questionless, if he 
 could help it he would." 
 
 The code of "If it is not a voluntary favor," interrupted Glanville, " it is 
 
 heroines. ^ not a voluntary offense ; and if you do not think yourself 
 
 obliged by one, neither are you at liberty to be offended with 
 the other." 
 
 "The question," said Arabella, "is not whether I ought to 
 be offended at being loved, but whether it is not an offense to 
 be told I am so." 
 
 "If there is nothing criminal in the passion itself, madam," 
 resumed Glanville, "certainly there can be no crime in declar- 
 ing it." 
 
 "However specious your arguments may appear," inter- 
 rupted Arabella, " I am persuaded it is an unpardonable crime 
 to tell a lady you love her ; and though I had nothing else to
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 
 
 Heroines of 
 antiquity. 
 
 plead, yet the authority of custom is sufficient to prove it." Authority of 
 
 " Custom, Lady Bella," said Glanville smiling, " is wholly on custom, 
 my side ; for the ladies are so far from being displeased at the 
 addresses of their lovers, that their chiefest care is to gain 
 them, and their greatest triumph to hear them talk of their 
 passion ; so, madam, I hope you will allow that argument has 
 no force." 
 
 " I do not know," said Arabella, "what sort of ladies they 
 are who allow such unbecoming liberties ; but I am certain 
 that Statira, Parisatis, Clelia, and Mandane, and all the illus- 
 trious heroines of antiquity, whom it is a glory to resemble, 
 never would admit of such discourses." 
 
 "Ah! for heaven's sake, cousin," interrupted Glanville, 
 stifling a laugh, "do not suffer yourself to be guided by such 
 antiquated maxims ! The world is quite different to what it 
 was in those days, and the ladies in this age would as soon 
 follow the fashions of the Greek and Roman ladies as mimic 
 their manners ; and, I believe, they would become one as well 
 as the other." 
 
 "I am sure," replied Arabella, "the world is not more vir- 
 tuous now than it was in those days ; and there is good reason 
 to believe it not much wiser ; and I do not see why the manners 
 of this age are to be preferred to former ones unless they are 
 wiser and better ; however, I cannot be persuaded that things 
 are as you say ; but that, when I am a little better acquainted 
 with the world, I shall find as many people who resemble 
 Oroondates, Artaxerxes, and the illustrious lover of Clelia, as 
 those who are like Teribases, Artaxes, and the presuming and 
 insolent Glanville." 
 
 " By the epithets you give me, madam," said Glanville, "I 
 find you have placed me in very bad company ; but pray, 
 madam, if the illustrious lover of Clelia had never discovered Clelia. 
 his passion, how would the world have come to the knowledge 
 of it?" 
 
 "He did not discover his passion, sir," resumed Arabella, 
 "until by the services he did the noble Clelius, and his incom- 
 parable daughter, he could plead some title to their esteem. 
 He several times preserved the life of that renowned Roman ; 
 delivered the beautiful Clelia when she was a captive ; and, in 
 fine, conferred so many obligations upon them, and all their 
 friends, that he might well expect to be pardoned by the divine
 
 66 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Clelia for daring to love her. Nevertheless she used him very 
 harshly when he first declared his passion, and banished him 
 also from her presence, and it was a long time before she 
 could prevail upon herself to compassionate his sufferings." 
 
 The marquis, coming in, interrupted Arabella, upon which 
 she took occasion to retire, leaving Glanville more captivated 
 with her than ever. 
 
 He found her usage of him was grounded upon examples 
 she thought it her duty to follow ; and, strange as her notions 
 of life appeared, yet they were supported by so much wit and 
 delicacy that he could not help admiring her, while he fore- 
 saw the oddity of her humor would throw innumerable difficul- 
 ties in his way before he should be able to obtain her. How- 
 Glanville ever, as he was really passionately in love with her, he resolved 
 
 passionately t o accommodate himself as much as possible to her taste, and 
 
 in love. 
 
 endeavor to gain her heart by a behavior most agreeable to 
 her ; he therefore assumed an air of great distance and respect, 
 never mentioned his affections nor the intentions of her father 
 in his favor ; and the marquis, observing his daughter con- 
 versed with him with less reluctance than usual, leaving to 
 time and the merit of his nephew to dispose her to comply 
 with his desires, resolved not to interpose his authority in an 
 affair upon which her own happiness so much depended. 
 
 The next chapter, which will try the patience of the 
 reader still more than Glanville was tried by the whims 
 of his Arabella, is, however, the one which is my excuse 
 for introducing the book. The extract from " Cas- 
 sandra ' ' is probably the only scrap of that work which 
 exists in modern literature, and Arabella is surely the 
 only lady accessible to us who can expound the intri- 
 cacies of it. 
 
 In this chapter the reader will find a specimen of the true 
 pathetic, in the passion of Oroondates. 
 
 Arabella saw the change in her cousin's behavior with a 
 great deal of satisfaction, for she did not doubt but his passion 
 was as strong as ever, but that he forebore, through respect, 
 from entertaining her with any expressions of it ; therefore she
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 67 
 
 now conversed with him with the greatest sweetness and com- 
 plaisance ; she would walk with him for several hours in the 
 garden, leaning upon his arm, and charmed him to the last Arabella's wit 
 degree of admiration by the agreeable sallies of her wit, and reasoning, 
 her fine reasoning upon every subject he proposed. 
 
 It was with the greatest difficulty he restrained himself from 
 telling her a thousand times a day that he loved her to excess, 
 and conjuring her to give her consent to her father's designs in 
 his favor ; but, though he could get over his fears of offending 
 her, yet it was impossible to express any sentiments of this 
 nature to her without having women witnesses of his discourse; 
 for when he walked with her in the garden, Lucy and another 
 attendant always followed her ; if he sat with her in her own 
 chamber her women were always at one end of it ; and when 
 they were both in the marquis's apartments, where her women 
 did not follow her, poor Glanville found himself embarrassed 
 by his presence ; for, conceiving his nephew had opportunities 
 enough of talking to his daughter in private, he always partook 
 of their conversation. 
 
 He passed some weeks in this manner, extremely chagrined 
 at the little progress he made, and was beginning to be 
 heartily weary of the constraint he laid upon himself, when 
 Arabella one day furnished him, without designing it, with an 
 opportunity of talking to her on the subject he wished for. 
 
 "When I reflect," said she laughing, " upon the difference 
 there was between us some days ago and the familiarity in 
 which we live at present, I cannot imagine by what means you 
 have arrived to a good fortune you had so little reason to 
 expect ; for, in fine, you have given me no signs of repentance 
 for the fault you committed, which moved me to banish you ; 
 and I am not certain whether, in conversing with you in the 
 manner I do, I give you not as much reason to find fault with 
 my too great easiness, as you did me to be displeased with 
 your presumption." 
 
 "Since," returned Glanville," I have not persisted in the 
 commission of those faults which displeased you, what greater 
 signs of repentance can you desire than this reformation in my 
 behavior?" 
 
 "But repentance ought to precede reformation," replied 
 Arabella, " otherwise there is great room to suspect it is only 
 feigned ; and a sincere repentance shows itself in such visible
 
 68 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 A long speech 
 by Arabella. 
 
 Glanville 
 humors her 
 bent. 
 
 Oroondates 
 and Statira. 
 
 marks that one can hardly be deceived in that which is genuine. 
 I have read of many indiscreet lovers who, not succeeding in 
 their addresses, have pretended to repent and acted as you do ; 
 that is, without giving any signs of contrition for the fault they 
 had committed, have eat and slept well, never lost their color, 
 or grew one bit thinner by their sorrow, but contented them- 
 selves with saying that they repented ; and, without changing 
 their disposition to renew their fault, only concealed their 
 intention for fear of losing any favorable opportunity of com- 
 mitting it again ; but true repentance, as I was saying, not only 
 produces reformation, but the person who is possessed of it 
 voluntarily punishes himself for the faults he has been guilty of. 
 Thus Mazares, deeply repenting of the crime his passion for 
 Mandane had forced him to commit, as a punishment, obliged 
 himself to follow the fortune of his glorious rival, obey all his 
 commands, and, fighting under his banners, assist him to gain 
 the possession of his adored mistress. Such a glorious in- 
 stance of his self-denial was, indeed, a sufficient proof of his 
 repentance, and infinitely more convincing than the silence he 
 imposed upon himself with respect to his passion. Oroon- 
 dates, to punish himself for his presumption, in daring to tell 
 the admirable Statira that he loved her, resolved to die to 
 expiate his crime, and doubtless would have done so if his fair 
 mistress, at the entreaty of her brother, had not commanded 
 him to live." 
 
 "But pray, Lady Bella," interrupted Glanville, "were not 
 these gentlemen happy at last in the possession of their 
 mistresses?" 
 
 "Doubtless they were, sir," resumed she; "but it was not 
 till after numberless misfortunes, infinite services, and many 
 dangerous adventures, in which their fidelity was put to the 
 strongest trials imaginable." 
 
 "I am glad, however," said Glanville, "that the ladies were 
 not insensible ; for, since you do not disapprove of their com- 
 passion for their lovers, it is to be hoped you will not be always 
 as inexorable as you are now." 
 
 "When I shall be so fortunate," interrupted she, "as to 
 meet with a lover who shall have as pure and perfect a passion 
 for me as Oroondates had for Statira, and give me as many 
 glorious proofs of his constancy and affection, doubtless I shall 
 not be ungrateful ; but, since I have not the merits of Statira, I
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 69 
 
 ought not to pretend to her good fortune, and shall be very 
 well contented if I escape the persecutions which persons of my 
 sex who are not frightfully ugly are always exposed to, without 
 hoping to inspire such a passion as that of Oroondates." 
 
 " I should be glad to be better acquainted with the actions of 
 this happy lover, madam," said Glanville, "that, forming 
 myself upon his example, I may hope to please a lady as 
 worthy of my regards as Statira was of his." 
 
 "For heaven's sake, cousin," replied Arabella laughing, 
 "how have you spent your time, and to what studies have you 
 devoted your hours, that you could find none to spare for the pe- 
 rusal of books from which all useful knowledge may be drawn ; 
 which give us the most shining examples of generosity, courage, 
 virtue, and love ; which regulate our actions, form our manners, 
 and inspire us with a noble desire of emulating those great, 
 heroic, and virtuous actions which made those persons so 
 glorious in their age and so worthy imitation in ours ? How- 
 ever, as it is never too late to improve, suffer me to recom- 
 mend to you the reading of these books, which will soon make 
 you discover the improprieties you have been guilty of, and 
 will, probably, induce you to avoid them for the future." 
 
 " I shall certainly read them, if you desire it," said Glan- 
 ville; "and I have so great an inclination to be agreeable to ^"^['.fto 
 you that I shall embrace every opportunity of becoming so ; read extracts, 
 and will therefore take my instructions from these books, if 
 you think proper, or from yourself ; which, indeed, will be the 
 quickest way of teaching me." 
 
 Arabella, having ordered one of her women to bring " Cleo- 
 patra," "Cassandra," "Clelia," and "The Grand Cyrus" from 
 her library, Glanville no sooner saw the girl return, sinking 
 under the weight of those voluminous romances, than he began 
 to tremble at the apprehension of his cousin laying her com- 
 mands upon him to read them ; and repented of his complai- 
 sance, which exposed him to the cruel necessity of performing 
 what to him appeared an Herculean labor, or else incurring 
 her anger by his refusal. 
 
 Arabella, making her women place the books upon a table 
 before her, opened them, one after another, with eyes spark- rom ance. 
 ling with delight, while Glanville sat wrapt with admiration 
 at the sight of so many huge folios written, as he conceived, 
 upon the most trifling subjects imaginable.
 
 70 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 " I have chosen out these few," said Arabella (not observing- 
 his consternation), " from a great many others which compose 
 the most valuable part of my library; and by the time you have 
 gone through these I imagine you will be considerably im- 
 proved." 
 
 "Certainly, madam," replied Glanville, turning the leaves in 
 great confusion, "one may, as you say, be greatly improved ; 
 for these books contain a great deal," and looking over a page 
 of " Cassandra " without any design, he read these words, 
 which were part of Oroondates's soliloquy when he received 
 a cruel sentence from Statira : 
 
 "Ah, cruel ! (says this miserable lover), and what have I 
 Soliloquy of done to merit it ? Examine the nature of my offense, and you 
 
 Oroondates. ' J 
 
 will see I am not so guilty but that my death may free me from 
 part of that severity. Shall your hatred last longer than my 
 life ? and can you detest a soul that forsakes its body only to 
 obey you ? No, no, you are not so hard-hearted ; that satisfac- 
 tion will doubtless content you, and when I shall cease to be, 
 doubtless I shall cease to be odious to you." 
 
 "Upon my soul, " said Glanville, stifling a laugh with great 
 difficulty, " I cannot help blaming the lady this sorrowful lover 
 complains of, for her great cruelty ; for here he gives one 
 reason to suspect that she will not even be content with his 
 dying in obedience to her commands, but will hate him after 
 death, an impiety quite inexcusable in a Christian ! " 
 
 "You condemn this illustrious princess with very little 
 reason," replied Arabella, smiling at his mistake ; " for besides, 
 that she was not a Christian, and ignorant of those divine max- 
 ims of charity and forgiveness which Christians, by their pro- 
 fession, are obliged to practice, she was very far from desiring 
 the death of Oroondates ; for, if you will take the pains to read 
 the succeeding passages, you will find that she expresses her- 
 statira's self in the most obliging manner in the world ; for when Oroon- 
 
 generosity. dates tells her he would live if she would consent he should, 
 the princess most sweetly replies : ' I not only consent, but 
 also entreat it ! and, if I have any power, command it.' How- 
 ever, lest you should fall into the other extreme, and blame this 
 great princess for her easiness (as you before condemned her 
 for her cruelty) it is necessary that you should know how she 
 was induced to this favorable behavior to her lover ; therefore, 
 read the whole transaction. Stay! here it begins, " continued
 
 Charlotte Lennox, 71 
 
 she, turning over a good many pages and marking where he 
 should begin to read. 
 
 Glanville, having no great stomach to the task, endeavored 
 to evade it, by entreating his cousin to relate the passages she 
 desired he should be acquainted with ; but she declining it, 
 he was obliged to obey, and began to read where she directed 
 him, and, to leave him at liberty to read with greater attention, 
 she left him, and went to a window at the other end of the 
 chamber. 
 
 Mr. Glanville, who was not willing to displease her, ex- 
 amined the task she had set him, resolving, if it was not a Glanville's 
 very hard one, to comply ; but, counting the pages, he was p y ' 
 quite terrified at their number, and therefore, glancing over 
 them, he pretended to be deeply engaged in reading, when, in 
 reality, he was contemplating the surprising effect these books 
 had produced in the mind of his cousin, who, had she been 
 untainted by the ridiculous whims they created in her imagina- 
 tion, was, in his opinion, one of the most accomplished ladies 
 in the world. 
 
 When he had sat long enough to make her believe he had 
 read all that she desired, he rose up, and, joining her at the 
 window, began to talk of the pleasantness of the evening 
 instead of the rigor of Statira. 
 
 Arabella colored with vexation at his extreme indifference in 
 a matter which was of such prodigious consequence in her 
 opinion. Glanville, by her silence and frowns, was made 
 sensible of his fault ; and, to repair it, began to talk of the 
 inexorable Statira, though, indeed, he did not well know what 
 to say. Arabella, clearing up a little, did not disdain to answer 
 him upon her favorite topic : 
 
 "I knew," said she, "you would be ready to blame this 
 princess equally for her rigor and her kindness : but it must be 
 remembered that what she did in favor of Oroondates was 
 wholly owing to the generosity of Artaxerxes." 
 
 Here she stopped, expecting Glanville to give his opinion, His subter- 
 who, strangely puzzled, replied at random, "To be sure, fu s es - 
 madam, he was a very generous rival." 
 
 " Rival ! " cried Arabella ; " Artaxerxes the rival of Oroon- 
 dates ! Why, certainly you have lost your wits ; he was 
 Statira's brother ; and it was to his mediation that Oroon- 
 dates, or Orontes, owed his happiness."
 
 72 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 "Certainly, madam," replied Glanville, "it was very gen- 
 erous in Artaxerxes, as he was brother to Statira, to interpose 
 in behalf of an unfortunate lover ; and both Oroondates and 
 Orontes were extremely obliged to him." 
 
 "Orontes," replied Arabella, "was more obliged to him 
 than Oroondates ; since the quality of Orontes was infinitely 
 below that of Oroondates." 
 
 His deception "But, madam," interrupted Glanville (extremely pleased at 
 discovered. his having so well got over the difficulty he had been in), 
 "which of these two lovers did Statira make happy?" This 
 unlucky question immediately informed Arabella that she had 
 been all this time the dupe of her cousin, who, if he had read 
 a single page, would have known that Orontes and Oroondates 
 were the same person ; the name of Orontes being assumed by 
 Oroondates to conceal his real name and quality. 
 
 The shame and rage she conceived at so glaring a proof of 
 his disrespect and the ridicule to which she had exposed her- 
 self were so great that she could not find words severe enough 
 to express her resentment, but ordered him instantly to 
 quit her chamber, and assured him, if he ever attempted to 
 approach her again, she would submit to the most terrible 
 effects of her father's resentment rather than be obliged to see 
 a person who had, by his unworthy behavior, made himself her 
 scorn and aversion. 
 
 Glanville attempted, with great submission, to move her to 
 
 Arabella recall her cruel sentence ; but Arabella, bursting into tears, 
 
 inexorable. complained so pathetically of the cruelty of her destiny in 
 
 exposing her to the importunities of a man she despised, that 
 
 Glanville, thinking it best to let her rage evaporate a little 
 
 before he attempted to pacify her, quitted her chamber, cursing 
 
 Statira and Orontes a thousand times, and loading the authors 
 
 of those books with all the imprecations his rage could suggest. 
 
 Glanville went into the garden to cool off, and here 
 meeting the marquis, he told him the whole thing ; in 
 the course of his recital he could not help laughing, and 
 the marquis was so diverted that he ' ' would needs hear 
 
 Amusement of ... ,, TT . , , t i 
 
 the marquis. it all over again. He shared the annoyance of his 
 nephew, but reproved him for not reading what was set 
 before him, for, says he, "besides losing an opportunity
 
 Charlotte Lennox. 73 
 
 of obliging her, you drew yourself into a terrible di- 
 lemma." Glanville admitted his error, but begged his 
 uncle to restore him to the favor of his cousin. Re- 
 pairing to his daughter, the marquis tried to reason 
 amiably with her, but her jargon about ' ' Candace, the 
 beautiful daughter of Cleopatra" so enraged him that 
 he ordered one of her women to carry all her beloved 
 books into his apartment, vowing he would commit 
 them to the flames. 
 
 This is a parallel to the burning of the books in 
 
 ,,i->> /-\ i) i f -1 r A Burning of the 
 
 Don (Quixote, and in fact is the only part of Ara- books. 
 bella's history which runs at all close to the work of 
 Cervantes, which supplies its name. There were various 
 imitations of the great original, of which this is per- 
 haps the best. 
 
 We must now leave our heroine to her career. Mr. 
 Glanville won the heart of his fair one by interceding 
 for her favorite books. The marquis relented, and the 
 young man, seizing them for fear his uncle should change 
 his mind, hastened to carry them to his cousin, who, 
 with eyes sparkling at the sight of her favorites, gen- 
 erously pardoned her lover. 
 
 Of course she married him, at the end of two not 
 
 . Marriage. 
 
 very long volumes, wholly cured, after a series of mar- 
 velous adventures, of all her follies ; although on her first 
 appearance in the great world, ill prepared for the real 
 dangers of society by her false notions of propriety 
 acquired in her early studies, she made continual mis- 
 takes. There is really a sweetness and ingenuousness 
 about Arabella, which, besides protecting her from the 
 pitfalls awaiting her, wins, in my opinion, the affection 
 of her readers, or, at the least, prevents them from lay- Happyconclu- 
 ing down her story with the condemnation of absolute 
 dulness.
 
 74 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 You may meet the Lady Arabella again at Bath. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 British Novelists (Lecture I.). David Masson, M.A. 
 British Novelists, Vols. 32-33 : Female Quixote (Mrs. Bar- 
 bauld's edition).
 
 BOOK III. 
 ADDISON AND GAY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 WE commonly regard the age of the Revolution 
 as an age of military exploits and political changes, 
 an age whose warlike glories loom dimly through the 
 smoke of Blenheim or of Ramillies, and the greatness of 
 whose political issues still impresses us, though we track 
 them with difficulty through a chaos of treasons and 
 cabals. But to the men who lived in it the age was Changes of the 
 
 f 1 1 T< i 1 T-> 1 Revolution. 
 
 far more than this. I o them the Revolution was more 
 than a merely political revolution; it was the recognition 
 not only of a change in the relations of the nation to its 
 rulers, but of changes almost as great in English society 
 and in English intelligence. If it was the age of the Bill 
 of Rights, it was the age also of the Spectator. If Marl- 
 borough and Somers had their share in shaping the new 
 England that came of 1688, so also had Addison and 
 Steele. And to the bulk of people it may be doubted 
 whether the change that passed over literature was not 
 more startling and more interesting than the change 
 that passed over politics. Few changes, indeed, have 
 ever been so radical and complete. Literature suddenly 
 doffed its stately garb of folio or octavo, and stepped 
 abroad in the light and easy dress of pamphlet and 
 essay. We hear sometimes that the last century is 
 "repulsive"; but what is it that repels us in it? Is it 
 the age itself, or the picture of itself which the age so 
 
 75
 
 76 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centtiry. 
 
 fearlessly presents? There is no historic ground for 
 thinking the eighteenth century a coarser or a more 
 brutal age than the centuries that had gone before ; 
 rather there is ground for thinking it a less coarse and a 
 less brutal age. The features which repel us in it are no 
 features of its own production. What makes the 
 improvement Georgian age seem repulsive is simply that it is the 
 
 rn^he Georgian first ag wh j ch felt these ^.^ ^ ^ ^.^ wh}ch dmgged 
 
 them, in its effort to amend them, into the light of day. 
 It is, in fact, the moral effort of the time which makes 
 it seem so immoral. 
 
 Steele has the merit of having been the first to feel 
 the new intellectual cravings of his day and to furnish 
 what proved to be the means of meeting them. His 
 ^Tatie t e Tatler was a periodical of pamphlet form, in which news 
 was to be varied by short essays of criticism and gossip. 
 But his grasp of the new literature was a feeble grasp. 
 His sense of the fitting form for it, of its fitting tone, of 
 the range and choice of its subjects, were alike in- 
 adequate. He seized indeed by a happy instinct on 
 letter-writing and conversation as the two molds to 
 which the essay must adapt itself ; he seized with the 
 same happy instinct on humor as the pervading temper 
 of his work and on "manners" as its destined sphere. 
 But his notion of "manners" was limited not only to 
 the external aspects of life and society, but to those 
 aspects as they present themselves in towns ; while his 
 humor remained pert and superficial. The Tatler, how- 
 ever, had hardly been started when it was taken in hand 
 by a greater than Steele. "It was raised, ' ' as he frankly 
 confessed, "to a greater thing than I intended," by the 
 cooperation of Joseph Addison. 
 
 The life of the Tatler lasted through the years 1709 
 and 1710 ; the two next years saw it surpassed by the
 
 Addison and Gay. 77 
 
 essays of the Spectator, and this was followed in 1713 by 
 
 the Guardian, in 1714 by a fresh series of Spectators, in spectator, 
 
 > Guardian, 
 
 1715 by the Freeholder. In all these successive periodi- Freeholder. 
 cals what was really vital and important was the work of 
 Addison. Addison grasped the idea of popularizing 
 knowledge as frankly as Steele. He addressed as 
 directly the new world of the home. 
 
 It was said of Socrates [he tells us] that he brought phi- 
 losophy down from heaven to inhabit among men ; and I shall 
 be ambitious to have it said of me that I have brought philos- 
 ophy out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell 
 in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-houses. I 
 would therefore [he ends with a smile] recommend these my 
 speculations to all well-regulated assemblies that set apart one 
 hour in every morning for tea and bread and butter, and would 
 heartily advise them for their good to order this paper to be 
 punctually served up, and to be looked upon as part of the 
 tea-equipage. 
 
 But in Addison' s hands this popular writing became a 
 part of literature. While it preserved the free move- spectator \rt 
 
 Aduison's 
 
 ment of the letter-writer, the gaiety and briskness of hand - 
 chat, it obeyed the laws of literary art, and was shaped 
 and guided by a sense of literary beauty. Its humor, 
 too, became a subtler and more exquisite thing. Instead 
 of the mere wit of the coffee-house, men found them- 
 selves smiling with a humorist who came nearer than 
 any man before or since to the humor of Shakespeare. 
 Joseph Addison was born in 1672, the son of Lancelot 
 Addison, rector of Lichfield, educated at Charterhouse 
 and Magdalen Colleq-e, Oxford ; he was dissuaded from the life of 
 
 . & . Addison. 
 
 his design of entering the church by Charles Montagu, 
 afterward Earl of Halifax, who procured him a pension 
 from King \Yilliam and sent him to travel in France and 
 Italy. Returning to England (at the age of thirty-two) 
 he gained some reputation by a poem commemorating
 
 78 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 the victory of Blenheim, and was made in 1705 secre- 
 tary of state, holding afterward various political offices, 
 from which he drew a large income, while they left him 
 leisure for writing. He died in 1719, leaving one 
 daughter by the Countess Dowager of Warwick, whom 
 he had married three years before, and who added little 
 to his comfort while he was alive. This daughter, by the 
 way, inherited the picture of Mr. Wortley before men- 
 tioned, and through her half-sister it returned to the 
 family of Lady Mary Wortley. 
 
 Addison was a fair man, of indolent habits and a 
 Personal traits, languid vitality. He had naturally a fine memory for 
 words, and was in his quiet way an accurate observer of 
 what passed before him. His chief intellectual exercise 
 was the study of "putting things" whether things that 
 he had seen and heard, reflections that he had made 
 upon them, or thoughts that he had met with in the 
 course of his reading; "a fine gentleman living upon 
 town, not professing any deep scholastic knowledge of 
 literature," and employing his leisure in writing elegant 
 periodical articles. 
 
 Although engaged in politics, he had no natural gifts 
 for active life. He could not have made his own 
 position ; the accident of the times rendered literary 
 service valuable, and he was virtually the literary 
 retainer of the leaders of the Whig party. 
 
 Of the course of Addison' s familiar day, before his 
 marriage, Johnson says : 
 
 He had in the house with him Budgell, and perhaps Phillips. 
 With one or other of his chief companions he always break- 
 Daily habits. f as t e d. He studied all morning ; then dined at a tavern ; and 
 went afterward to Button's, where he would remain five or six 
 hours. Button had been a servant in the Countess of War- 
 wick's family, who, under the patronage of Addison, kept a 
 coffee-house on the south side of Russell Street, about two
 
 Addison and Gay, 79 
 
 doors from Covent Garden. Here it was that the wits of the 
 time used to assemble. It is said when Addison had suffered 
 any vexation from the countess he withdrew the company 
 from Button's house. From the coffee-house he went again to 
 a tavern, where he often sate late and drank too much wine. 
 
 Party politics had no place in his Spectator, Addi- 
 son' s professed object was to banish vice and ignorance 
 out of the territories of Great Britain. 
 
 The minor immoralities that he attacked were such as 
 affectation, presumption, foppery, fashionable extrava- human*"* 
 gance, upstart vulgarity. As vices of the same class he b>mpathy - 
 continued to satirize the rustic manners of the Tory 
 squires "who had never seen anything greater than 
 themselves for twenty years." 
 
 " The greatest wits I have conversed with," he says 
 himself, "were men eminent for their humanity," and it 
 is in his interest and sympathy for man's infinite capaci- 
 ties that the charm lies of his essays. It is this which 
 gives them the detail of manners w r e require for our 
 subject. 
 
 In his general account of the Spectator Club, Addison 
 gives us a vignette of Sir Roger, which may serve as 
 preface to his papers. 
 
 The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of 
 ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. sir Roger 
 His great-grandfather was inventor of that famous country- s Coverley. 
 dance which is called after him. All who know that shire are 
 very well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. 
 He is a gentleman that is very singular in his behavior, but his 
 singularities proceed from his good sense, and are contradic- 
 tions to the manners of the world only as he thinks the world 
 is in the wrong. However, this humor creates him no enemies, 
 for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy ; and his being 
 unconfined to modes and forms makes him but the readier and 
 more capable to please and oblige all who know him. When 
 he is in town he lives in Soho Square. It is said he keeps
 
 8o Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 himself a bachelor, by reason he was crossed in love by a per- 
 verse beautiful widow of the next county to him. Before this 
 disappointment Sir Roger was what you call a fine gentleman, 
 had often supped with my Lord Rochester and Sir George 
 Etherege, fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and 
 kicked Bully Dawson in a public coffee-house, for calling him 
 youngster. But, being ill used by the above-mentioned widow, 
 he was very serious for a year and a half; and though, his tem- 
 per being naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew 
 His character- careless of himself and never dressed afterward. He continues 
 to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in 
 fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humors, 
 he tells us, has been in and gut twelve times since he first wore 
 it. He is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty ; 
 keeps a good house both in town and country ; a great lover of 
 mankind ; but there is such a mirthful cast in his behavior that 
 he is rather beloved than esteemed. His tenants grow rich, 
 his servants look satisfied, all the young women profess to love 
 him, and the young men are glad of his company ; when he 
 comes into a house, he calls the servants by their names, and 
 talks all the way up-stairs to a visit. I must not omit that Sir 
 Roger is a justice of the quorum; that he fills the chair at a 
 quarter session with great abilities, and three months ago 
 gained universal applause by explaining a passage in the 
 game-act. 
 
 Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir 
 A month in the Roger de Coverley to pass away a month with him in the 
 Sir Roger. country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am settled 
 
 with him for some time at his country-house, where I intend to 
 form several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is 
 very well acquainted with my humor, lets me rise and go to 
 bed when I please ; dine at his own table or in my chamber, as 
 I think fit ; sit still and saying nothing, without bidding me be 
 merry. When the gentlemen of the country come to see him, 
 he only shows me at a distance. As I have been walking in 
 his fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of me over an 
 hedge, and have heard the knight desiring them not to let 
 me see them, for that I hated to be stared at. 
 
 I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's familv because it con-
 
 Addison and Gay. 81 
 
 sists of sober and staid persons ; for as the knight is the best 
 master in the world, he seldom changes his servants ; and as 
 he is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leav- 
 ing him : by this means his domestics are all in years, and 
 grown old with their master. You would take his valet de 
 chambre for his brother ; his butler is gray-headed ; his groom 
 is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen ; and his coach- 
 man has the looks of a privy-councillor. You see the goodness 
 of the master even in the house-dog, and in a gray pad that is 
 kept in the stable with great care though he has been useless 
 for years. 
 
 My chief companion at Sir Roger's is a venerable man who Hj . . . 
 has lived in his house in the nature of a chaplain about thirty 
 years. He heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very 
 much in the old knight's esteem ; so that he lives in the family 
 rather as a relation than a dependent. 
 
 I have observed in several of my papers that my friend Sir 
 Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an humor- 
 ist ; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it 
 were, tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them 
 particularly his, and distinguishes them from those of other 
 men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in 
 itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more 
 delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would 
 appear in their common and ordinary colors. As I was walk- 
 ing with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man 
 whom I have just now mentioned ; and, without staying for 
 my answer, told me that he was afraid of being insulted with 
 Latin and Greek at his own table ; for which reason he desired 
 a particular friend of his at the university to find him out a 
 clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good A man of plain 
 aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man 
 that understood a little of backgammon. "My friend (says 
 Sir Roger) found me out this gentleman, who, besides the 
 endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, 
 though he does not show it. I have given him the parsonage 
 of the parish ; and because I know his value, have settled upon 
 him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find 
 that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks 
 he is.'' 
 
 I cannot forbear relating a very odd accident, because it
 
 82 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 shows how desirous all who know Sir Roger are of giving him 
 incident of the marks of their esteem. When we were arrived upon the verge 
 Saracen's Head. Q f ^jg esta te, we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves and 
 our horses. The man of the house had, it seems, been 
 formerly a servant in the knight's family ; and to do honor to 
 his old master, had some time since, unknown to Sir Roger, 
 put him up in a sign-post before the door; so that The Knight's 
 Head had hung out upon the road about a week before he 
 himself knew anything of the matter. As soon as Sir Roger 
 was acquainted with it, finding that his servant's indiscretion 
 proceeded wholly from affection and good-will, he only told 
 him that he had made him too high a compliment ; and when 
 the fellow seemed to think that could hardly be, added, with a 
 more decisive look, that it was too great an honor for any man 
 under a duke ; but told him, at the same time, that it might be 
 altered with a very few touches, and that he himself would be 
 at the charge of it. Accordingly they got a painter by the 
 knight's directions to add a pair of whiskers to the face, and by 
 a little aggravation of the features to change it into the Sara- 
 cen's Head. I should not have known this story had not the 
 inn-keeper, upon Sir Roger's alighting, told him in my hearing 
 that his honor's head was brought back last night, with the 
 alterations that he had ordered to be made in it. Upon this 
 my friend, with his usual cheerfulness, related the particulars 
 above mentioned, and ordered the head to be brought into the 
 room. I could not forbear discovering greater expressions of 
 mirth than ordinary upon the appearance of this monstrous 
 face, under which, notwithstanding it was made to frown and 
 stare in the most extraordinary manner, I could still discover a 
 distant resemblance of my old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing 
 me laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I thought it possible 
 to know him in that disguise. I at first kept my usual silence ; 
 but upon the knight's conjuring me to tell him whether it was 
 not still more like himself than a Saracen, I composed my 
 countenance in the best manner I could and replied, "that 
 much might be said on both sides." 
 
 I was this morning surprised with a great knocking at the 
 
 Sir Roger in door, when my landlady's daughter came up to me and told me 
 
 there was a man below desired to speak with me. Upon
 
 Addison and Gay. 83 
 
 my asking her who it was, she told me it was a very grave 
 elderly person, but that she did not know his name. I im- 
 mediately went down to him, and found him to be the coach- 
 man of my worthy friend Sir Roger de Coverley. He told me 
 that his master came to town last night, and would be glad to 
 take a turn with me in Grays-Inn walks. As I was wondering 
 in myself what had brought Sir Roger to town, not having 
 lately received any letter from him, he told me that his master 
 was come up to get a sight of Prince Eugene, and that he 
 desired I would immediately meet him. 
 
 I was not a little pleased with the curiosity of the old knight, 
 though I did not much wonder at it, having heard him say 
 more than once in private discourse that he looked upon 
 Prince Eugenio (for so the knight always calls him) to be 
 a greater man than Scanderbeg. 
 
 I was no sooner come into Grays-Inn walks but I heard my 
 friend upon the terrace hemming twice or thrice to himself 
 with great vigor, for he loves to clear his pipes in good air (to 
 make use of his own phrase), and is not a little pleased with 
 any one who takes notice of the strength which he still exerts 
 in his morning hems. 
 
 I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the good old 
 man, who before he saw me was engaged in conversation with 
 a beggar-man that had asked an alms of him. I could hear my 
 friend chide him for not finding out some work ; but at the 
 same time saw him put his hand in his pocket and give him 
 sixpence. 
 
 Our salutations were very hearty on both sides, consisting of 
 many kind shakes of the hand and several affectionate looks 
 which we cast upon one another. . . . Among other pieces 
 of news which the knight brought from his county seat, he 
 
 informed me that he had killed eight fat hogs for this Christ- 
 
 . . , . ,., His Christmas 
 
 mas season, that he had dealt about his chines very liberally generosity. 
 
 amongst his neighbors, and .that in particular he had sent a string 
 of hog's puddings with a pack of cards to every poor family in 
 the parish. "I have often thought," says Sir Roger, "it 
 happens very well that Christmas should fall out in the middle 
 of the winter. It is the most dead, uncomfortable time of the 
 year, when the poor people would suffer very much from their 
 poverty and cold if they had not good cheer, warm fires, and 
 Christmas gambols to support them. I love to rejoice their
 
 84 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 poor hearts at this season, and to see the whole village merry 
 in my great hall. I allow a double quantity of malt to my 
 small beer, and set it a running for twelve days to every one 
 that calls for it. I have always a piece of cold beef and a 
 mince-pie upon the table, and am wonderfully pleased to see 
 my tenants pass away a whole evening in playing their in- 
 nocent tricks." 
 
 The knight then asked me if I had seen Prince Eugene ; and 
 Prince Eugene. , . , . . . 
 
 made me promise to get him a stand in some convenient place 
 
 where he might have a full sight of that extraordinary man, 
 whose presence does so much honor to the British nation. He 
 dwelt very long on the praises of this great general, and I 
 found that since I was with him in the country he had drawn 
 many observations together out of his reading in Baker's 
 Chronicle, and other authors, who always lie in his hall 
 window, which very much redound to the honor of this prince. 
 
 He asked me if I would smoke a pipe with him over a dish 
 of coffee at Squire's. As I love the old man, I take a delight 
 in complying with even-thing that is agreeable to him, and 
 accordingly waited on him to the coffee-house, where his 
 venerable figure drew upon us the eyes of the whole room. 
 He had no sooner seated himself at the upper end of the 
 high table but he called for a clean pipe, a paper of tobacco, 
 a dish of coffee, a wax candle, and the Supplement, with such 
 room 6 coffee " an a i r f cheerfulness and good humor that all the boys in 
 the coffee-room (who seemed to take pleasure in serving 
 him) were at once employed on his several errands, insomuch 
 that nobody else could come at a dish of tea till the knight had 
 got all his conveniences about him. 
 
 As I was sitting in my chamber, and thinking on a subject 
 for my next Spectator, I heard two or three irregular bounces 
 at my landlady's door, and upon the opening of it, a loud 
 cheerful voice inquiring whether the philosopher was at home. 
 The child who went to the door answered very innocently that 
 he did not lodge there. I immediately recollected that it was 
 my good friend Sir Roger's voice ; and that I had promised to 
 Spring Garden, go with him on the water to Spring Garden, in case it proved a
 
 Addison and Gay. 85 
 
 good evening. The knight put me in mind of my promise 
 from the staircase, but told me that if I was speculating, he 
 would stay below till I had done. Upon my coming down, 
 I found all the children of the family got about my old friend, 
 and my landlady herself, who is a notable prating gossip, 
 engaged in a conference with him ; being mightily pleased with 
 his stroking her little boy upon the head and bidding him be a 
 good child, and mind his book. 
 
 We were no sooner come to the Temple-stairs but we were 
 surrounded with a crowd of watermen, offering their respective 
 services. Sir Roger, after having looked about him very The waterman 
 attentively, spied one with a wooden leg, and immediately \\-oodenleg. 
 gave him orders to get his boat ready. As we were walking 
 toward it, "You must know (says Sir Roger), I never make 
 use of anybody to row me that has not either lost a leg or 
 an arm. I would rather bate him a few strokes of his oar than 
 not employ an honest man that has been wounded in the 
 queen's service." 
 
 Vauxhall Gardens were long a place of popular resort. 
 They were laid out in 1661, and were at first known as 
 the New Spring Gardens at Fox Hall, to distinguish 
 them from the Old Spring Gardens at Whitehall. The 
 gardens having sunk in character were finally closed in 
 1859 and the site is now built over. 
 
 We were now arrived at Spring Garden, which is exquisitely 
 pleasant at this time of year. When I considered the fragrancy 
 of the walks and bowers, with the choirs of birds that sung 
 upon the trees, and the loose tribe of people that walked under 
 their shades, I could not but look upon the place as a kind 
 of Mahometan paradise. Sir Roger told me it put him in mind 
 of a little coppice by his house in the country, which his chap- 
 lain used to call an aviary of nightingales. 
 
 We concluded our walk with a glass of Burton ale and a 
 slice of hung-beef. When we had done eating ourselves, the 
 knight called a waiter to him, and bid him carry the remainder 
 to a waterman that had but one leg. I perceived the fellow 
 stared upon him at the oddness of the message, and was going
 
 86 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 to be saucy ; upon which I ratified the knight's commands with 
 a peremptory look, and we left the garden. 
 
 When Addison and the others were tired of writing 
 RogS fSir about him, the public received the ill news that Sir 
 Roger de Coverley was dead. The Spectator says : 
 
 I have a letter from the butler who took so much care of me 
 last summer when I was at the knight's house. I shall give my 
 reader a copy of his letter, without any alteration or diminu- 
 tion. 
 
 "HONORED SIR : Knowing that you was my old master's 
 good friend, I could not forbear sending you the melancholy 
 news of his death, which has afflicted the whole country, as 
 well as his poor servants, who loved him, I may say, better than 
 bmle^upon it. 6 we did our lives. I am afraid he caught his death the last 
 country sessions, where he would go to see justice done to a 
 poor widow woman and her fatherless children, that had been 
 wronged by a neighboring gentleman ; for you know, my good 
 master was always the poor man's friend. Upon his coming 
 home, the first complaint he made was that he had lost his 
 roast-beef stomach, not being able to touch a sirloin, which 
 was served up according to custom ; and you know he used to 
 take great delight in it. From that time forward he grew 
 worse and worse, but still kept a good heart to the last. In- 
 deed we were once in great hopes of his recover}', upon a kind 
 message that was sent him from the widow lady whom he had 
 made love to the forty last years of his life ; but this only 
 proved a lightning before his death. He has bequeathed to 
 this lady, as a token of his love, a great pearl necklace and a 
 couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, which belonged to my 
 good old lady his mother ; he has bequeathed the fine white 
 gelding, that he used to ride a hunting upon, to his chaplain, 
 because he thought he would be kind to him, and has left you 
 all his books. He has, moreover, bequeathed to the chaplain 
 a very pretty tenement with good lands about it. It being a 
 very cold day when he made his will, he left for mourning, to 
 every man in the parish a great frieze coat, and to every 
 woman a black riding-hood. It was a most moving sight to see 
 him take leave of his poor servants, commending us all for our 
 fidelity, whilst we were not able to speak a word for weeping.
 
 Addison and Gay. 87 
 
 He was buried, according to his own directions, among the 
 
 family of the Coverlies, on the left hand of his father, Sir His burial. 
 
 Arthur. The coffin was carried by six of his tenants, and the 
 
 pall held up by six of the qtioruin ; the whole parish followed 
 
 the corpse with heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits ; the 
 
 men in frieze and the women in riding-hoods. It was the 
 
 melancholies! day for the poor people that ever happened 
 
 in Worcestershire. This being all from, 
 
 " Honored sir, your most sorrowful servant, 
 
 "EDWARD BISCUIT." 
 
 This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's manner of 
 writing it, gave us such an idea of our good old friend that 
 upon the reading of it there was not a dry eye in the club. 
 
 Here end my selections from Sir Roger. What fol- other 
 lows are other papers from the Spectator, ascribed to papers."^ 
 Addison. 
 
 PARTY PATCHES. 
 
 About the middle of last winter I went to see an opera at the 
 theater in the Haymarket, where I could not but take notice of 
 two parties of very fine women, that had placed themselves in 
 the opposite side boxes, and seemed drawn up in a kind of 
 battle-array one against another. After a short survey of them, 
 I found that they were patched differently ; the faces on one 
 hand being spotted on the right side of the forehead, and those 
 upon the other on the left : I quickly perceived that they cast 
 hostile glances upon one another ; and that their patches were 
 placed in those different situations as party signals to distin- 
 guish friends from foes. In the middle boxes, between those 
 two opposite bodies, were several ladies who patched indiffer- 
 ently on both sides of their faces, and seemed to sit there with 
 no other intention but to see the opera. Upon inquiry I found 
 that the body of Amazons on my right hand were Whigs and 
 those on my left Tories ; and that those who had placed them- 
 selves in the middle boxes were a neutral party, whose faces 
 had not yet declared themselves. These last, however, as I after- 
 ward found, diminished daily, and took their party with one side 
 or the other ; insomuch that I observed in several of them, the 
 patches, which were before dispersed equally, are now all gone 
 over to the Whig or the Torv side of the face.
 
 88 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 When I was in the theater the time above mentioned I had 
 Tory and Whig, the curiosity to count the patches on both sides, and found the 
 Tory patches to be about twenty stronger than the Whig ; but 
 to make amends for this small inequality, I the next morning 
 found the whole puppet-show filled with faces spotted after the 
 Whiggish manner. Whether or no the ladies had retreated 
 hither in order to rally their forces, I cannot tell ; but the next 
 night they came in so great a body to the opera, that they out- 
 numbered the enemy. 
 
 This account of party patches will, I am afraid, appear 
 improbable to those who live at a distance from the fashionable 
 world ; but as it is a distinction of a very singular nature, and 
 what perhaps may never meet with a parallel, I think I should 
 not have discharged the office of a faithful Spectator had I not 
 recorded it. 
 
 When the Romans were pressed with a foreign enemy the 
 
 Roman ladies voluntarily contributed all their rings and jewels to assist 
 
 3ns> the government under the public exigence, which appeared 
 
 so laudable an action in the eyes of their country-men, that from 
 
 thenceforth it was permitted by a law to pronounce public 
 
 orations at the funeral of a woman in praise of the deceased 
 
 person, which till that time was peculiar to men. 
 
 Would our English ladies, instead of sticking on a patch 
 against those of their own country, show themselves so truly 
 public-spirited as to sacrifice every one her necklace against 
 the common enemy, what decrees ought not to be made in 
 favor of them ! 
 
 Since I am recollecting upon this subject such passages 
 as occur to memory out of ancient authors, I cannot omit 
 a sentence in the celebrated funeral oration of Pericles, 
 which he made in honor of those brave Athenians that were 
 slain in a fight with the Lacedaemonians. After having ad- 
 dressed himself to the several ranks and orders of his 
 countrymen, and shown them how they should behave them- 
 selves in the public cause, he turns to the female part of 
 his audience; "And as for you (says he), I shall advise you 
 in a very few words : aspire only to those virtues that are 
 peculiar to your sex ; follow your natural modesty, and think 
 it your greatest commendation not to be talked of one way or 
 other."
 
 Addison and Gay. 89 
 
 THE CAT-CALL. 
 
 I have lately received the following letter from a country 
 gentleman : 
 
 " MR. SPECTATOR : The night before I left London I went 
 to see a play, called 'The Humorous Lieutenant.' Upon the 
 rising of the curtain I was very much surprised with the great 
 consort of cat-calls which was exhibited that evening, and 
 began to think with myself that I had made a mistake, and 
 gone to a music-meeting instead of the play-house. It ap- 
 peared, indeed, a little odd to me to see so many persons of 
 quality of both sexes assembled together at a kind of cater- 
 wauling ; for I cannot look upon that performance to have been 
 anything better, whatever the musicians themselves might 
 think of it. As I had no acquaintance in the house to ask ques- 
 tions of, and was forced to go out of town early the next morn- 
 ing, I could not learn the secret of this matter. What I would 
 therefore desire of you, is, to give some account of this strange 
 instrument, which I found the company called a cat-call ; and 
 particularly to let me know whether it be a piece of music 
 lately come from Italy. For my own part, to be free with you, 
 I would rather hear an English fiddle ; though I durst not show 
 my dislike whilst I was in the play-house, it being my chance to 
 sit the very next man to one of the performers. 
 
 "I am, sir, 
 " Your most affectionate friend and servant, 
 
 "JOHN SHALLOW, Esq." 
 
 In compliance with Squire Shallow's request, I design this 
 paper as a dissertation upon the cat-call. In order to make 
 myself a master of the subject, I purchased one the beginning 
 of last week, though not without great difficulty, being in- 
 formed at two or three toy-shops that the players had lately 
 bought them all up. I have since consulted many learned 
 antiquaries in relation to its original, and find them very much 
 divided among themselves upon that particular. A Fellow of 
 the Royal Society, who is my good friend and a great profi- 
 cient in the mathematical part of music, concludes from the 
 simplicity of its make and the uniformity of its sound that the 
 cat-call is older than any of the inventions of Jubal. He juhal. 
 observes very well that musical instruments took their first rise
 
 90 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 from the notes of birds and other melodious animals ; and 
 what, says he, was more natural than for the first ages of man- 
 kind to imitate the voice of a cat that lived under the same 
 roof with them ? he added, that the cat had contributed more 
 to harmony than any other animal, as we are not only be- 
 holden to her for this wind-instrument, but for our string music 
 in general. 
 
 Another virtuoso of my acquaintance will not allow the 
 cat-call to be older than Thespis, and is apt to think it ap- 
 peared in the world soon after the ancient comedy ; for which 
 reason it has still a place in our dramatic entertainments ; nor 
 must I here omit what a curious gentleman, who is lately 
 returned from his travels, has more than once assured me, 
 namely, that there was lately dug up at Rome the statue of 
 a Momus, who holds an instrument in his right hand very 
 much resembling our modern cat-call. 
 
 There are others who ascribe this invention to Orpheus, and 
 look upon the cat-call to be one of those instruments which 
 that famous musician made use of to draw the beasts about 
 him. It is certain that the roasting of a cat does not call 
 together a greater audience of that species than this instrument 
 if dexterously played upon in proper time and place. 
 
 But notwithstanding these various and learned conjectures, I 
 cannot forbear thinking that the cat-call is originally a piece of 
 English music. Its resemblance to the voice of some of our 
 British songsters, as well as to the use of it, which is peculiar 
 to our nation, confirms me in this opinion. It has at least 
 received great improvements among us, whether we consider 
 the instrument itself or those several quavers and graces 
 which are thrown into the playing of it. Every one might 
 be sensible of this who heard that remarkable, over-grown cat- 
 call which was placed in the center of the pit, and presided over 
 all the rest, at the celebrated performance lately exhibited in 
 Drury Lane. 
 
 LONDON CRIES. 
 
 There is nothing which more astonishes a foreigner and 
 frights a country squire than the cries of London. My good 
 friend Sir Roger often declares that he cannot get them out of 
 his head or go to sleep for them, the first week that he is 
 in town. On the contrary, Will Honeycomb calls them the
 
 Addison and Gay. 91 
 
 Ramage de la Ville, and prefers them to the sounds of larks 
 and nightingales, with all the music of the fields and woods. I 
 have lately received a letter from some very odd fellow upon 
 this subject, which I shall leave with my reader, without saying 
 anything further of it. 
 
 "SiR: I am a man out of all business, and would willingly 
 turn my head to anything for an honest livelihood. I have 
 invented several projects for raising many millions of money 
 without burthening the subject, but I cannot get the parlia- 
 ment to listen to me, who look upon me, forsooth, as a crack 
 and a projector; so that despairing to enrich either myself or 
 my country by this public spiritedness, I would make some 
 proposals to you relating to a design which I have very much 
 at heart, and which may procure me an handsome subsistence, 
 if you will be pleased to recommend it to the cities of London 
 and Westminster. 
 
 "The post I would aim at is to be Comptroller-general of the 
 London Cries, which are at present under no manner of rules Comptroller- 
 or discipline. I think I am pretty well qualified for this place, 8 
 as being a man of very strong lungs, of great insight into all the 
 branches of our British trades and manufactures, and of a com- 
 petent skill in music. 
 
 "The cries of London may be divided into vocal and instru- 
 mental. As for the latter, they are at present under a very 
 great disorder. A freeman of London has the privilege of dis- 
 turbing a whole street, for an hour together, with the twankling 
 of a brass kettle or of a frying pan. The watchman's thump at 
 midnight startles us in our beds as much as the breaking in of 
 a thief. I would therefore propose that no instrument of this 
 nature should be made use of which I have not tuned and 
 licensed, after having carefully examined in what manner it 
 may affect the ears of her majesty's liege subjects. 
 
 "It is a great imperfection in our London cries that there 
 is no just time nor measure observed in them. Our news Time and 
 should, indeed, be published in a very quick time, because it is 
 a commodity that will not keep cold. It should not, however, 
 be cried with the same precipitation as ' fire ' ; yet this is gener- 
 ally the case. A bloody battle alarms the town from one end 
 to another in an instant. Every motion of the French is 
 published in so great a hurry that one would think the enemy 
 were at our gates. This likewise I would take upon me to
 
 92 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 regulate in such a manner that there should be some distinc- 
 tion made between the spreading of a victory, a march, or an 
 encampment, a Dutch, a Portugal, or a Spanish mail. Nor 
 must I omit under this head those excessive alarms with which 
 several boisterous rustics infest our streets in turnip season ; 
 and which are more inexcusable, because these are wares 
 which are in no danger of cooling upon their hands." 
 
 THE NEWSPAPER. 
 
 This extract goes to show that human nature, after 
 all, is not so much changed as we might infer from other 
 traits of our ancestors. 
 
 " MR. SPECTATOR : You must have observed that men who 
 
 The newspaper, frequent coffee-houses and delight in news are pleased with 
 everything that is matter of fact, so it be what they have not heard 
 before. A victory or a defeat are equally agreeable to them. 
 The shutting of a cardinal's mouth pleases them one post, and 
 the opening of it another. They are glad to hear the French 
 court is removed to Marli, and are afterward as much delighted 
 with its return to Versailles. They read the advertisements 
 with the same curiosity as the articles of public news ; and are 
 as pleased to hear of a piebald horse that is strayed out of a 
 field near Islington as of a whole troop that has been engaged 
 in any foreign adventure. In short, they have a relish for 
 everything that is news, let the matter of it be what it will ; or 
 to speak more properly, they are men of a voracious appetite, 
 but no taste. Now, sir, since the great fountain of news, I 
 mean the war, is very near being dried up ; and since these 
 gentlemen have contracted such an inextinguishable thirst after 
 it ; I have taken their case and my own into consideration, and 
 have thought of a project which may turn to the advantage of 
 us both. I have thoughts of publishing a daily paper, which 
 shall comprehend in it all the most remarkable occurrences in 
 
 P?ence" tel ~ every little town, village, and hamlet, that lie within ten miles 
 of London, or, in other words, within the verge of the penny- 
 post. I have pitched upon this scene of intelligence for two 
 reasons : first, because the carriage of letters will be very cheap ; 
 and secondly, because I may receive them every day. By this 
 means my readers will have their news fresh and fresh, and 
 many worthy citizens who cannot sleep with any satisfaction at
 
 Addison and Gay. 93 
 
 present, for want of being informed how the world goes, may 
 go to bed contentedly, it being my design to put out my paper 
 every night at nine-a-clock precisely. I have already estab- 
 lished correspondences in these several places, and received 
 very good intelligence." 
 
 TRIAL OF PUNCTILIOS. I. 
 
 The proceedings of the Court of Honor, held in Sheer Lane, on 
 Monday, the 2oth of November, 1710, before Isaac Bicker- 
 staff e, Esq., Censor of Great Britain. 
 
 Peter Plumb, of London, merchant, was indicted by the 
 Honorable Mr. Thomas Gules, of Gule Hall, in the county of 
 
 Salop, for that the said Peter Plumb did in Lombard Street, 
 
 Trial of 
 London, between the hours of two and three in the afternoon, punctilios. 
 
 meet the said Mr. Thomas Gules, and after a short salutation, 
 put on his hat, value fivepence, while the Honorable Mr. 
 Gules stood bare-headed for the space of two seconds. It 
 w^s further urged against the criminal that, during his dis- 
 course with the prosecutor, he feloniously stole the wall of 
 him, having clapped his back against it in such a manner that 
 it was impossible for Mr. Gules to recover it again at his 
 taking leave of him. The prosecutor alleged that he was the 
 cadet of a very ancient family, and that, according to the 
 principles of all the younger brothers of the said family, he 
 had never sullied himself with business, but had chosen 
 rather to starve like a man of honor than do anything 
 beneath his quality. He produced several witnesses that he 
 had never employed himself beyond the twisting of a whip, or 
 the making of a pair of nutcrackers, in which he only worked 
 for his diversion, in order to make a present now and then to 
 his friends. The prisoner being asked what he could say for 
 himself, cast several reflections upon the Honorable Mr. Reflections on 
 Gules : as, that he was not worth a groat ; that nobody in the ' 
 city would trust him for a halfpenny ; that he owed him money 
 which he had promised to pay him several times, but never 
 kept his word : and in short, that he was an idle, beggarly 
 fellow, and of no use to the public. This sort of language 
 was very severely reprimanded by the Censor, who told the 
 criminal that he spoke in contempt of the court, and that he 
 should be proceeded against for contumacy if he did not
 
 94 M en an d Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 change his style. The prisoner, therefore, desired to be heard 
 by his counsel, who urged in his defense, "That he put on his 
 hat through ignorance, and took the wall by accident." They 
 likewise produced several witnesses that he made several 
 motions with his hat in his hand, which are generally under- 
 stood as an invitation to the person we talk with to be 
 covered ; and that the gentleman not taking the hint, he was 
 forced to put on his hat, as being troubled with a cold. There 
 was likewise an Irishman who deposed that he had heard him 
 cough three and twenty times that morning. And as for the 
 wall, it was alleged that he had taken it inadvertently, to save 
 himself from a shower of rain which was then falling. The 
 Verdict of the Censor having consulted the men of honor who sat at his 
 right hand on the bench, found they were of opinion that the 
 defense made by the prisoner's counsel did rather aggravate 
 than extenuate his crime ; that the motions and intimations of 
 the hat were a token of superiority in conversation, and there- 
 fore not to be used by the criminal to a man of the prosecutor's 
 quality, who was likewise vested with a double title to the 
 wall at the time of their conversation, both as it was the upper 
 hand, and as it was a shelter from the weather. . . . The 
 Censor, Mr. Bickerstaffe, finally pronounced sentence against 
 the criminal in the following manner : That his hat, which was 
 the instrument of offense, should be forfeited to the court ; 
 that the criminal should go to the warehouse from whence he 
 came, and thence, as occasion should require, proceed to the 
 Exchange, or Garraway's Coffee-house, in what manner he 
 pleased ; but that neither he, nor any other family of the 
 Plumbs, should hereafter appear in the streets of London, out 
 of the coaches, that so the footway might be left open and 
 undisturbed for their betters. 
 
 TRIAL OF PUNCTILIOS. II. 
 
 The Lady Townly brought an action of debt against Mrs. 
 
 I ndv Townly's Flambeau, for that Mrs. Flambeau had not been to see the said 
 
 action. Lady Townly, and wish her joy, since her marriage with Sir 
 
 Ralph, notwithstanding she, the said Lady Townly, had paid 
 
 Mrs. Flambeau a visit upon her first coming to town. It was 
 
 urged in the behalf of the defendant that the plaintiff had never 
 
 given her any regular notice of her being in town ; that the
 
 Addison and Gay. 95 
 
 visit she alleged had been made on a Monday, which she knew 
 
 was a day on which Mrs. Flambeau was always abroad, having 
 
 set aside that only day in the week to mind the affairs of 
 
 her family ; that the servant who inquired whether she was at 
 
 home did not give the visiting knock ; that it was not between 
 
 the hours of five and eight in the evening ; that there were no 
 
 candles lighted up ; that it was not on Mrs. Flambeau's day ; Essential points 
 
 and, in short, that there was not one of the essential points 
 
 observed that constitute a visit. She further proved by her 
 
 porter's book, which was produced in court, that she had paid 
 
 the Lady Townly a visit on the twenty-fourth day of March, 
 
 just before her leaving the town, in the year 1709-10, for which 
 
 she was still creditor to the said Lady Townly. To this the 
 
 plaintiff only replied that she was now only under covert, and 
 
 not liable to any debts contracted when she was a single 
 
 woman. Mr. Bickerstaffe finding the cause to be very intricate, 
 
 and that several points of honor were likely to arise in it, 
 
 he deferred giving judgment upon it till the next session day, 
 
 at which time he ordered the ladies on his left hand to present 
 
 to the court a table of all the laws relating to visits. 
 
 TRIAL OF PUNCTILIOS. III. 
 
 Oliver Bluff and Benjamin Browbeat were indicted for going Q ,. r B] ff 
 to fight a duel since the erection of the Court of Honor. It and Benjamin 
 appeared that they were both taken up in the street as they 
 passed by the court, in their way to the fields behind Montague 
 House. The criminals would answer nothing for themselves 
 but that they were going to execute a challenge which had 
 been made above a week before the Court of Honor was 
 erected. The Censor finding some reasons to suspect (by the 
 sturdiness of their behavior) that they were not so very brave 
 as they would have the court believe them, ordered them both 
 to be searched by the grand jury, who found a breast-plate 
 upon the one and two quires of paper upon the other. The 
 breast-plate was immediately ordered to be hung upon a peg 
 over Mr. Bickerstaffe 's tribunal, and the paper to be laid upon 
 the table for the use of his clerk. He then ordered the crimi- 
 nals to button up their bosoms, and, if they pleased, proceed to 
 their duel. Upon which they both went very quietly out of the 
 court and retired to their respective lodgings.
 
 96 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 This extract shows, like other signs of the times, that 
 Practice of the practice of dueling was already become a subject of 
 ridicule, and on the decline. The topic was under dis- 
 cussion at this period, as might be seen in a long disser- 
 tation about it by Richardson, through the mouth of his 
 favorite hero, Sir Charles Grandison, which is, however, 
 too long (and too dull) to quote. 
 
 COUNTRY MANNERS. 
 
 The first and most obvious reflections which arise in a man 
 Country man- wno changes the city for the country, are upon the different 
 ners - manners of the people whom he meets with in those two dif- 
 
 ferent scenes of life. By manners I do not mean morals, but 
 behavior and good breeding, as they show themselves in the 
 town and in the country. 
 
 And here, in the first place, I must observe a very great revo- 
 lution that has happened in this article of good breeding. 
 Several obliging deferences, condescensions, and submissions, 
 with many outward forms and ceremonies that accompany 
 them, were first of all brought up among the politer part of 
 mankind, who lived in courts and cities, and distinguished 
 themselves from the rustic part of the species (who on all 
 occasions acted bluntly and naturally) by such a mutual com- 
 plaisance and intercourse of civilities. These forms of conver- 
 sation by degrees multiplied and grew troublesome ; the 
 modish world found too great a constraint in them, and have 
 therefore thrown most of them aside. Conversation, like the 
 Romish religion, was so encumbered with show and ceremony 
 A reformation *' 1a * ^ s td in need of a reformation to retrench its superflu- 
 ities and restore its natural good sense and beauty. At present, 
 therefore, an unconstrained carriage and a certain openness of 
 behavior are the height of good breeding. The fashionable 
 world is grown free and easy ; our manners sit more loose 
 upon us ; nothing is so modisli as an agreeable negligence. In 
 a word, good breeding shows itself most where to an ordinary 
 eye it appears the least. 
 
 There has happened another revolution in the point of good 
 breeding, which relates to the conversation among men of 
 mode, and which 1 cannot but look upon as very extraordinary.
 
 Addison and Gay. 97 
 
 It was certainly one of the first distinctions of a well-bred man 
 to express everything that had the most remote appearance of 
 being obscene in modest terms and distant phrases ; whilst the 
 clown, who had no such delicacy of conception and expression, 
 clothed his ideas in those plain homely terms that are the most 
 obvious and natural. This kind of good manners was perhaps 
 carried to an <excess, so as to make conversation too stiff, 
 formal, and precise ; for which reason (as hypocrisy in one age 
 is generally succeeded by atheism in another) conversation is in 
 a great measure relapsed into the first extreme ; so that at 
 present several of our men of the town, and particularly those 
 who have been polished in France, make use of the most 
 coarse, uncivilized words in our language, and utter themselves 
 often in such a manner as a clown would blush to hear. 
 This infamous piece of good breeding, which reigns among 
 
 the coxcombs of the town, has not yet made its way into the P od bree dmg 
 ...... -in town and 
 
 country ; and as it is impossible for such an irrational way of country. 
 
 conversation to last long among a people that makes any pro- 
 fession of religion, or show of modesty, if the country gentle- 
 men get into it, they will certainly be left in the lurch. Their 
 good breeding will come too late to them, and they will be 
 thought a parcel of lewd clowns, while they fancy themselves 
 talking together like men of wit and pleasure. 
 
 THE HOOD. 
 
 One of the fathers, if I am rightly informed, has defined a 
 woman to be, "An animal that delights in finery." I have Thehood - 
 already treated of the sex in two or three papers, conformably 
 to this definition, and have in particular observed that in all 
 ages they have been more careful than the men to adorn that 
 part of the head which we generally call the outside. 
 
 This observation is so very notorious that when in ordinary 
 discourse we say a man has a fine head, a long head, or a good 
 head, we express ourselves metaphorically, and speak in 
 relation to his understanding ; whereas, when we say of a 
 woman she has a fine, a long, or a good head, we speak only in 
 relation to her commode. 
 
 It is observed among birds that nature has lavished all her 
 
 Ornaments ot 
 
 ornaments upon the male, who very often appears in a most birds, 
 beautiful head dress ; whether it be a crest, a comb, a tuft of
 
 98 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Female heads. 
 
 Hoods at the 
 opera. 
 
 feathers, or a natural little plume, erected, like a kind of pin- 
 nacle on the very top of the head. As nature, on the contrary, 
 has poured out her charms in the greatest abundance upon the 
 female part of our species, so they are very assiduous in be- 
 stowing upon themselves the finest garnitures of art. The 
 peacock, in all his pride, does not display half the colors that 
 appear in the garments of a British lady when she is dressed 
 either for a ball or a birthday. 
 
 But to return to our female heads. The ladies have been for 
 some time in a kind of molting season with regard to that part 
 of their dress, having cast off great quantities of ribbon, lace, 
 and cambric, and in some measure reduced the human head to 
 the beautiful globular form which is natural to it. We have for 
 a great while expected what kind of ornament would be sub- 
 stituted in the place of those antiquated commodes. But our 
 female projectors were all the last summer so taken up with 
 the improvement of their petticoats that they had not time 
 to attend to anything else ; but having at length sufficiently 
 adorned their lower parts, they now begin to turn their 
 thoughts upon the other extremity, as well remembering 
 the kitchen proverb that if you light a fire at both ends the 
 middle will shift for itself. 
 
 I am engaged in this speculation by a sight which I lately met 
 with at the opera. As I was standing in the hinder part of the 
 box I took notice of a little cluster of women sitting together in 
 the prettiest colored hoods that I ever saw. One of them was 
 blue, another yellow, and another philemot, the fourth was of a 
 pink color, and the fifth of a pale green. I looked with as much 
 pleasure upon this little parti-colored assembly as upon a bed 
 of tulips, and did not know at first whether it might be an 
 embassy of Indian queens ; but upon my going about into the 
 pit, and taking them in front, I was immediately undeceived, 
 and saw so much beauty in every face that I found them all to 
 be English. Such eyes and lips, cheeks and foreheads, could 
 be the growth of no other country. The complexion of their 
 faces hindered me from observing any further the color of their 
 hoods, though I could easily perceive by that unspeakable satis- 
 faction which appeared in their looks that their own thoughts 
 were wholly taken up on those pretty ornaments they wore 
 upon their heads. 
 
 I am informed that this fashion spreads daily, insomuch that
 
 Addison and Gay. 99 
 
 the Whig and Tory ladies begin already to hang out different 
 
 colors, and to show their principles in their head-dress. Nay, whig and 
 
 if I may believe my friend Will Honeycomb, there is a certain Tory colors - 
 
 old coquette of his acquaintance who intends to appear very 
 
 suddenly in a rainbow hood, like the Iris in Dryden's Virgil, 
 
 not questioning but that among such a variety of colors she 
 
 shall have a charm for every heart. 
 
 My friend Will, who very much values himself upon his great 
 insights into gallantry, tells me that he can already guess at the 
 humor a lady is in by her hood, as the courtiers of Morocco 
 know the disposition of their present emperor by the color of 
 the dress which he puts on. When Melesinda wraps her head 
 in flame color, her heart is set upon execution. When she 
 covers it with purple, I would not, says he, advise her lover to 
 approach her ; but if she appears in white, it is peace, and he 
 may hand her out of her box with safety. 
 
 Will informs me likewise that these hoods may be used as 
 signals. Why else, says he, does Cornelia always put on a Hoods as sig- 
 black hood when her husband is gone into the country? 
 
 A LADY'S DIARY. 
 
 " DEAR MR. SPECTATOR : You having set your readers an 
 exercise in one of your last week's papers, I have performed 
 mine according to your orders, and herewith send it you A lady's 
 enclosed. You must know, Mr. Spectator, that I am a maiden 
 lady of a good fortune, who have had several matches offered 
 me for these ten years last past, and have at present warm 
 applications made to me by a very pretty fellow. As I am at 
 my own disposal, I come up to town every winter, and pass my 
 time in it after the manner you will find in the following journal, 
 which I began to write upon the very day after your Spectator 
 upon that subject. 
 
 "TUESDAY night. Could not go to sleep till one in the morn- 
 ing for thinking of my journal. 
 
 "WEDNESDAY. Front eight to ten. Drank two dishes of 
 chocolate in bed, and fell asleep after them. 
 
 ''From ten to eleven. Eat a slice of bread and butter, drank a 
 dish of bohea, read the Spectator. 
 
 "From eleven to one. At my toilette, tried a new head. Gave 
 orders for Veny to be combed and washed. Mem. : I look best 
 in blue.
 
 ioo Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 "From one till half an hour after two. Drove to the 'Change. 
 Shopping. Cheapened a couple of fans. 
 
 " Till four. At dinner. Mem.: Mr. Froth passed by in his 
 new liveries. 
 
 "From four to six. Dressed, paid a visit to old lady Blithe 
 and her sister, having before heard they were gone out of town 
 that day. 
 
 "From six to eleven. At basset. Mem.: Never set again 
 upon the ace of diamonds. 
 
 "THURSDAY. From eleven at night to eight in the morning. 
 Dreamed that I punted to Mr. Froth. 
 
 " From eight to ten. Chocolate. Read two acts in 'Auren- 
 zebe ' a-bed. 
 
 "From ten to eleven. Tea-table. Read the play bills. Received 
 R la ad bilfs the a l etter fr m Mn Froth. Mem. : Locked it up in my strong-box. 
 
 "Rest of the morning. Fontange, the tire-woman, her 
 account of Lady Blithe's wash. Broke a tooth in my little 
 tortoise-shell comb. Sent Frank to know how my lady Hectick 
 rested after her monkey's leaping out at the window. Looked 
 pale. Fontange tells me my glass is not true. Dressed by 
 three. 
 
 "From three to four. Dinner cold before I sat down. 
 
 " From four to eleven. Saw company. Mr. Froth's opinion 
 of Milton. His account of the Mohocks. His fancy for a pin- 
 cushion. Picture in the lid of his snuff-box. Old Lady Faddle 
 promises me her woman to cut my hair. Lost five guineas at 
 crimp. 
 
 " Twelve 6* clock at night. Went to bed. 
 
 "FRIDAY. Eight in the morning. A-bed. Read over all 
 Mr. Froth's letters. 
 
 " Ten o' clock. Stayed within all day, not at home. 
 
 "From ten to twelve. In conference with my mantua-maker. 
 Sorted a suit of ribband. Broke my blue china cup. 
 
 "From twelve to one. Shut myself up in my chamber, prac- 
 ticed Lady Betty Modely's skattle. 
 
 "One in the afternoon. Called for my flowered handkerchief. 
 vfotet. 6 * 1 a Worked half a violet leaf in it. Eyes ached, and head out of 
 
 order. Threw by my work and read over the remaining part 
 of ' Aurenzebe.' 
 
 " From three to four. Dined. 
 
 " From four to twelve. Changed my mind, dressed, went
 
 Addison and Gay. 
 
 101 
 
 abroad, and played at crimp till midnight. Found Mrs. Spitely 
 at home. Conversation : Mrs. Brilliant's necklace false stones. 
 Old Lady Loveday going to be married to a young fellow that 
 is not worth a groat. Miss Prue gone into the country. Tom 
 Townly has red hair. Mem.: Mrs. Spitely whispered in my 
 ear that she had something to tell me about Mr. Froth. I am 
 sure it is not true. 
 
 "Between twelve and one. Dreamed that Mr. Froth lay at 
 my feet and called me Indamora. 
 
 "SATURDAY. Rose at eight o'clock in the morning. Sat The toilette, 
 down at my toilette. 
 
 "From eight to nine. Shifted a patch for half an hour before 
 I could determine it. Fixed it above my left eyebrow. 
 
 " From nine to twelve. Drank my tea and dressed. 
 
 " From twelve to two. At chapel. A great deal of company. 
 Mem. : The third air in the new opera. Lady Blithe dressed 
 frightfully. 
 
 "From three to four. Dined. Mrs. Kitty called upon me 
 to go to the opera before I was risen from table. 
 
 " From dinner to six. Drank tea. Turned off a footman for 
 being rude to Veny. 
 
 " Six o* clock. Went to the opera. I did not see Mr. Froth 
 till the beginning of the second act. Mr. Froth talked to a The opera> 
 gentleman in a black wig. Bowed to a lady in the front box. 
 Mr. Froth and his friend clapped Nicolini in the third act. Mr. 
 Froth cried out Ancora. Mr. Froth led me to my chair. I 
 think he squeezed my hand. 
 
 "Eleven at night. Went to bed. Melancholy dreams. 
 Methought Nicolini said he was Mr. Froth. 
 
 "SUNDAY. Indisposed. 
 
 "MONDAY. Eight o' clock. Waked by Miss Kitty. 'Auren- 
 zebe ' lay upon the chair by me. Kitty repeated without book The conjurer, 
 the eight best lines in the play. Went in our mobs to the 
 dumb man, according to appointment. Told me that my 
 lover's name began with a G. Mem. : The conjurer was within 
 a letter of Mr. Froth's name, etc. 
 
 "Upon my looking back into this my journal, I find that I am 
 at a loss to know whether I pass my time well or ill ; and indeed 
 never thought of considering how I did it before I perused
 
 io2 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 your speculation upon that subject. I scarce find a single 
 action in these five days that I can thoroughly approve of, 
 except the working upon the violet leaf, which I am resolved to 
 finish the first day I am at leisure. As for Mr. Froth and Veny, 
 I did not think they took up so much of my time and thoughts 
 as I find they do upon my journal. The latter of whom I will 
 turn off if you insist upon it ; and if Mr. Froth does not bring 
 matters to a conclusion very suddenly, I will not let my life 
 run away in a dream. 
 
 "Your humble servant, 
 
 "CLARINDA." 
 THE FAN EXERCISE. 
 
 I do not know whether to call the following letter a satire 
 upon coquettes, or a representation of their several fantastical 
 accomplishments, or what other title to give it ; but as it is I 
 shall communicate it to the public. It will sufficiently explain 
 its own intentions, so that I shall give it my reader at length, 
 without either preface or postscript. 
 
 "MR. SPECTATOR : Women are armed with fans as men with 
 swords, and sometimes do more execution with them. To 
 the end, therefore, that ladies may be entire mistresses of the 
 weapon which they bear, I have erected an Academy for the 
 training up of young women in the Exercise of the Fan, 
 according to the most fashionable airs and motions that are 
 now practiced at court. The ladies who carry fans under me 
 are drawn up twice a day in my great hall, where they are 
 instructed in the use of their arms, and exercised by the 
 following words of command : 
 
 Handle your Fans, 
 
 Unfurl your Fans, 
 
 Discharge your Fans, 
 
 Ground yo2ir Fans, 
 
 Recover your Fans, 
 
 Flutter your Fans. 
 
 By the right observation of these few plain words of com- 
 mand, a woman of a tolerable genius who will apply herself 
 diligently to her exercise for the space of one half year, shall 
 be able to give her fan all the graces that can possibly enter into 
 that modish little machine. 
 
 " But to the end that mv readers may form to themselves a
 
 Addison and Gay, 103 
 
 right notion of this exercise, I beg leave to explain it to them 
 
 in all its parts. When my female regiment is drawn up in array, The female 
 
 with every one her weapon in her hand, upon my giving my re s iment - 
 
 word to Handle their Fans, each of them shakes her fan at me 
 
 with a smile, then gives her right-hand woman a tap upon the 
 
 shoulder, then presses her lips with the extremity of the fan, 
 
 then lets her arms fall in an easy motion, and stands in readiness 
 
 to receive the next word of command. All this is done with a 
 
 closed fan, and is generally learned in the first week. 
 
 "The next motion is that of Unfurling the Fan, in which are 
 comprehended several little flirts and vibrations, as also gradual 
 and deliberate openings, with many voluntary fallings asunder 
 in the fan itself, that are seldom learned under a month's prac- 
 tice. This part of the exercise pleases the spectators more than 
 any other, as it discovers in a sudden an infinite number of 
 cupid's garlands, altars, birds, beasts, rainbows, and the like 
 agreeable figures that display themselves to view, whilst every 
 one in the regiment holds a picture in her hand. 
 
 "Upon my giving the word to Discharge their Fans, they 
 give one general crack, that may be heard at a considerable Discharge 
 distance when the wind sets fair. This is one of the most diffi- Fans- 
 cult parts of the exercise ; but I have several ladies with me 
 who at their first entrance could not give a pop loud enough to 
 be heard at the further end of a room, who can now Discharge 
 a Fan in such a manner that it shall make a report like a pocket 
 pistol. I have likewise taken care (in order to hinder young 
 women from letting off their fans in wrong places or unsuitable 
 occasions) to show upon what subject the crack of a fan may 
 come in properly. I have likewise invented a fan with which a 
 girl of sixteen, by the help of a little wind which is enclosed 
 about one of the largest sticks, can make as loud a crack as a 
 woman of fifty with an ordinary fan. 
 
 "When the fans are thus discharged the word of command 
 in course is to Ground their Fans. This teaches a lady to quit 
 her fan gracefully when she throws it aside, in order to take up 
 a pack of cards, adjust a curl of hair, replace a fallen pin, or 
 apply herself to any other matter of importance. This part of 
 the exercise, as it only consists in tossing a fan with an air upon 
 a long table (which stands by for that purpose), may be learnt 
 in two days' time as well as in a twelvemonth. 
 
 " When my female regiment is thus disarmed, I generally let
 
 104 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 them walk about the room for some time ; when on a sudden 
 (like ladies that look upon their watches after a long visit) they 
 all of them hasten to their arms, catch them up in a hurry, and 
 place themselves in their proper stations upon my calling out 
 Recover your Fans. This part of the exercise is not difficult, 
 provided a woman applies her thoughts to it. 
 
 "The Fluttering of the Fan is the last, and, indeed, the 
 
 masterpiece of the whole exercise ; but if a lady does not mis- 
 Fluttering of , , , 11 ir ^ c *. ^1 
 
 the Fan. spend her time, she may make herself mistress ot it in three 
 
 months. I generally lay aside the dog-days and the hot time of 
 the summer for the teaching of this part of the exercise ; for as 
 soon as ever I pronounce Flutter your Fans, the place is filled 
 with so many zephyrs and gentle breezes as are very refreshing 
 in that season of the year, though they might be dangerous to 
 ladies of a tender constitution in any other. 
 
 "There is an infinite variety of motions to be made use of in 
 the Flutter of a Fan : there is the angry flutter, the modest 
 flutter, the timorous flutter, the confused flutter, the merry 
 flutter, and the amorous flutter. Not to be tedious, there is 
 scarce any emotion in the mind which does not produce a suit- 
 able agitation in the fan ; insomuch, that if I only see the fan 
 of a disciplined lady, I know very well whether she laughs, 
 frowns, or blushes. I have seen a fan so very angry that it 
 would have been dangerous for the absent lover who provoked 
 it to have come within the wind of it ; and at other times so 
 very languishing that I have been glad for the lady's sake the 
 lover was at a sufficient distance from it. I need not add that 
 a fan is either a prude or coquette, according to the nature 
 of the person who bears it. To conclude my letter, I must 
 acquaint you that I have from my own observations com- 
 piled a little treatise for the use of my scholars, entitled, The 
 Passions of the Passions of the Fan ; which I will communicate to you if you 
 Fan. think it may be of use to the public. I shall have a general 
 
 review on Thursday next ; to which you shall be very welcome 
 if you will honor it with your presence. 
 
 " I am, &c. 
 
 " P. S. I teach young gentlemen the whole art of gallanting 
 a fan. 
 
 " N. R. I have several little plain fans made for this use, to 
 avoid expense."
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 So much for the follies of the time, as touched by the 
 light pen of Addison in the papers of the Spectator. I 
 add a part of the ' ' Trivia ' ' of John Gay, for its curious John Gay . s 
 details of the street scenery, costume, and manners of 
 the time. Gay was a contemporary and friend of both 
 Pope and Addison and a petted member of the clubs to 
 which they belonged. He was one of those easy, ami- 
 able, good-natured men who are the darlings of their 
 friends, perhaps because their talents excite admiration 
 without jealousy, while their characters are the object 
 rather of fondness than respect. He entered life as a 
 linen-draper's shopman, but soon relinquished this 
 occupation to become dependent upon the great, with a 
 vague pining after public employment for which his in- 
 dolent, self-indulgent life rendered him singularly unfit. 
 His " Beggar's Opera" was a really successful venture. "Beggar's 
 The idea of it is said to have been suggested to him 
 when he was living with Pope at Twickenham ; it was to 
 transfer the song and style of Italian opera, then a novelty, 
 to the lowest class of English life a sort of parody on 
 grand opera, while it became the origin of the English 
 opera. Its immense vogue was something akin to that 
 of "Pinafore" in our day. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "TRIVIA; OR THE ART OF WALKING THE 
 STREETS OF LONDON." 
 
 Through winter streets to steer your course aright, 
 How to walk clean by day, and safe by night ; 
 How jostling crowds with prudence to decline, 
 
 105
 
 io6 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centiiry. 
 
 Winding alleys. 
 
 The shoe- 
 black. 
 
 The proper 
 coat. 
 
 When to assert the wall and when resign, 
 I sing ; thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song. 
 Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along ; 
 By thee transported, I securely stray 
 Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way, 
 The silent court and opening square explore, 
 And long perplexing lanes untrod before. 
 To pave thy realm and smooth the broken ways, 
 Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays. 
 For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground, 
 Whilst every stroke his laboring lungs resound ; 
 For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide 
 Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside. 
 My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame, 
 From the great theme to build a glorious name, 
 To tread in paths to ancient paths unknown, 
 And bind my temples with a civic crown ; 
 But more my country's love demands my lays ; 
 My country's be the profit, mine the praise ! 
 
 When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice, 
 And "clean your shoes" resounds from every voice ; 
 When late their miry sides stage coaches show, 
 And their stiff horses through the town move slow ; 
 When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies, 
 And damsels first renew their oyster cries ; 
 Then let the prudent walker shoes provide, 
 Not of the Spanish nor Morocco hide ; 
 The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound, 
 And with the scollop'd top his step be crown'd ; 
 Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet, 
 Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet. 
 Should the big last extend the shoe too wide, 
 Each stone will wrench th' unwary step aside : 
 The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein, 
 Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain ; 
 And, when too short the modest shoes are worn, 
 You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn. 
 
 Nor should it prove thy less important care 
 To choose a proper coat for winter's wear, 
 Now in thy trunk thy D'Oyly habit fold, 
 The silken drugget ill can fence the cold ;
 
 Addison and Gay. 107 
 
 The frieze's spongy nap is soak'd with rain, 
 
 And showers soon drench the camlet's cockl'd grain ; 
 
 True Witney broadcloth, with its shag unshorn, 
 
 Unpierc'd is in the lasting tempest worn. 
 
 Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear 
 
 Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear ? 
 
 Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent, 
 
 Hands that, stretch'd forth, invading harms prevent. 
 
 Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace 
 
 Or his deep cloke bespatter'd o'er with lace. 
 
 That garment best the winter's rage defends 
 
 Whose ample form without one plait depends, 
 
 By various names in various countries known, 
 
 Yet held in all the true surtout alone ; The surtout. 
 
 Be thine of Kersey firm, though small the cost, 
 
 Then brave unwet the rain, unchill'd the frost. 
 
 If the strong cane support thy walking hand 
 Chairmen no longer shall the wall command, 
 Ev'n sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey, 
 And rattling coaches stop to make thee way ; 
 This shall direct thy cautious tread aright, 
 Though not one glaring lamp enliven night. 
 Let beaux their canes with amber tipt produce 
 Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use. 
 In gilded chariots while they loll at ease, 
 And lazily ensure a life's disease ; 
 While softer chairs the tawdry load convey 
 To courts, to White's, assemblies, or the play ; 
 Rosy complexion' d health thy steps attends, 
 And exercise thy lasting youth defends. 
 Imprudent men Heaven's choicest gifts profane ; 
 Thus some beneath their arm support the cane ; 
 The dirty point oft checks the careless pace, 
 The miry spots the clean cravat disgrace. 
 Oh ! may I never such misfortune meet ! 
 May no such vicious walkers crowd the street ! 
 May Providence o'ershade me with her wings, 
 While the bold muse experienc'd danger sings ! 
 
 When sleet is first disturbed by morning cries, Weather sig- 
 
 From sure prognostics learn to know the skies,
 
 The umbrella. 
 
 Pattens. 
 
 108 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Lest you of rheums and coughs at night complain, 
 
 Surprised in dreary fogs or driving rain. 
 
 When suffocating mists obscure the morn 
 
 Let thy worst wig, long us'd to storms, be worn ; 
 
 This knows the powder'd footman, and with care 
 
 Beneath his flapping hat secures his hair. 
 
 Be thou for every season justly drest, 
 
 Nor brave the piercing frost with open breast ; 
 
 And, when the bursting clouds a deluge pour, 
 
 Let thy surtout defend the drenching shower. 
 
 Good housewives all the winter's rage despise, 
 Defended by the riding hood's disguise ; 
 Or, underneath th' umbrella's oily shed, 
 Safe through the wet, on clinking pattens tread. 
 Let Persian dames th' umbrella's ribs display, 
 To guard their beauties from the sunny ray ; 
 Or sweating slaves support the shady load, 
 When eastern monarchs show their state abroad ; 
 Britain in winter only knows its aid, 
 To guard from chilly showers the walking maid. 
 But oh ! forget not, Muse, the patten's praise, 
 That female implement shall grace thy lays ! 
 Say from what art divine th' invention came, 
 And from its origin deduce its name. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Essays of Joseph Addison. J. R. Green. 
 Richard Steele (Men of Letters Series). 
 Famous Plays. J. F. Molloy. (London, 1886. 
 Beggar's Opera. John Gay.
 
 BOOK IV. 
 RICHARDSON AND HARRIET BYRON. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Now we come, and gladly, to our excellent Richard- 
 son and his admiring circle of ladies. I have them 
 before me, sitting in "the grotto" Mr. Richardson The grotto, 
 himself on the left, in cap and dressing-gown, with white 
 legs and low slippers, holding the book, while at a small 
 table opposite are Miss Mulso and Miss Prescott and 
 Miss Highmore, in hats and paduasoys with Watteau 
 backs. Miss Highmore has a book in her hand. What 
 is she doing with that? Near Mr. Richardson, in an 
 engaging attitude of attention, sits Mr. Mulso, the 
 brother of Miss Mulso, and you must remember that 
 Miss Prescott afterward became Mrs. Mulso ; while Miss 
 Mulso became Mrs. Chapone, who wrote tedious though 
 praiseworthy letters upon the conduct of young ladies. 
 Next Mr. Mulso is Mr. Edward Mulso, his legs crossed, 
 for he is sitting on a rather uncomfortable high seat 
 against the wall of the grotto. The reverend Mr. Dun- T i, e admiring 
 combe is over with the ladies, and suspiciously near c 
 Miss Highmore, who afterward became Mrs. Buncombe. 
 The wide door of the grotto stands open, and a straight 
 walk and rather stiff trees are seen without, attained by 
 two steps within the doorway. 
 
 The picture is entitled "Mr. Richardson reading the Reading the 
 Manuscript of Sir Charles Grandison, in 1751, to his Charles 
 Friends in the Grotto of his House at North End, from a
 
 no Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Drawing made at the time by Miss Highmore." That 
 is it. Miss Highmore is making the picture now, and 
 that is a pencil, or some such instrument, in her hand. 
 The picture (it is colored) faces the title-page of the 
 second volume of ' ' The Correspondence of Samuel 
 Richardson," by Anna Letitia Barbauld, who has pref- 
 aced it with his " Life" and some remarks on his writ- 
 ings, from which I quote freely. 
 
 The author of " Clarissa " was always fond of female society. 
 
 The author of He lived in a kind of flower-garden of ladies ; they were his 
 inspirers, his critics, his applauders. Connections of business 
 apart, they were his chief correspondents. He had generally a 
 number of young ladies at his house whom he used to engage 
 in conversation on some subject of sentiment, and provoke by 
 artful opposition to display the treasures of intellect they 
 possessed. Miss Mulso, afterward Mrs. Chapone ; Miss High- 
 more, now Mrs. Duncombe ; Miss Talbot, niece to Lecker, an 
 author of some much esteemed devotional pieces ; Miss Pres- 
 cott, afterward Mrs. Mulso ; Miss Fieldings and Miss Colliers, 
 resided occasionally with him. He was accustomed to give the 
 young ladies he esteemed the endearing appellation of his 
 daughters. He used to write in a little summer house, or 
 "grotto," as it was called, within his garden, before the family 
 were up, and, when they met at breakfast, he communicated 
 the progress of his story, which, by that means, had every day 
 a fresh and lively interest. Then began the criticisms, the 
 pleadings for Harriet Byron or Clementina ; every turn and 
 
 Criticisms on every incident was eagerly canvassed, and the author enjoyed 
 the benefit of knowing beforehand how his situations would 
 strike. Their own little peculiarities and entanglements, too, 
 were developed, and became the subject of grave advice or 
 lively raillery. 
 
 Mrs. Duncombe (No. 7 in the picture) thus men- 
 tions the agreeable scene in a letter to Mrs. Mulso 
 (No. 5): 
 
 I shall often, in idea, enjoy again the hours that we have so 
 agreeably spent in the delightful retirement of North End :
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 1 1 1 
 
 For while this pleasing subject I pursue, 
 
 The grot, the garden, rush upon my view ; 
 
 There in blest union, round the friendly gate, 
 
 Instruction, peace, and cheerful freedom wait ; 
 
 And then a choir of listening nymphs appears 
 
 Oppressed with wonder or dissolved in tears ; 
 
 But on her tender fears when Harriet dwells, 
 
 And love's soft symptoms innocently tells, 
 
 They all, with conscious smiles, these symptoms view, 
 
 And by those conscious smiles confess them true. 
 
 Mr. Richardson was a friend to mental improvement in 
 woman, though under all those restrictions which modesty ^'g^ofwo 
 and decorum have imposed upon the sex. Indeed, his senti- 
 ments seem to have been more favorable to female literature 
 before than after his intercourse with the fashionable world ; for 
 Clarissa has been taught Latin, but Miss Byron has been made 
 to say that she does even know which are meant by the learned 
 languages, and to declare that a woman who knows them is as 
 an owl among birds. 
 
 Such was the atmosphere in which Samuel Richardson 
 wrote his works, in their time regarded as great. There 
 are three novels, "Pamela," published in 1740, "Clar- 
 issa Harlowe," in 1748, and " Sir Charles Grandison " in 
 Z 753- They are all three written upon one plan ; that 
 is, the story is entirely told in letters, which are sup- n r o v e e is. ree 
 posed to be written by the various persons in the action, 
 a plan which is full of difficulties, especially for the nar- 
 rative novel, where everything is told and nothing as- 
 sumed ; for instance, Richardson has to devise reasons 
 for keeping Sir Charles Grandison' s own sister away 
 from his very important wedding which occupies a 
 whole volume in narration in order that the relatives 
 and guests, even the bride herself, may slip away in 
 turn and "take the pen" that a consecutive account 
 of the affair may be given incidentally to Lady G. and, 
 as a matter of fact, to his public.
 
 H2 Men and Manners of tJie Eighteenth Century. 
 
 But no matter. Letter- writing was Richardson's 
 R?chYrdson's g ^ orte - He began it very early on his own account, and 
 forte - he created his characters by making them write letters. 
 
 He has the reputation of being the real founder of the 
 romance of private life ; for although the romances de 
 longzie haleine were gone or going out of fashion, a 
 closer imitation of nature was lacking until Defoe pro- 
 duced " Robinson Crusoe," from which it is said, but I 
 doubt, that Richardson in some measure caught his own 
 manner of accurate description of daily events. Mrs. 
 Barbauld says : 
 
 Richardson was the man who was to introduce a new kind of 
 moral painting ; he drew equally from nature and from his own 
 ideas. From the world about him he took the incidents, man- 
 ners, and general character of the times in which he lived, and 
 from his own beautiful ideas he copied that sublime of virtue 
 which charms us in his Clarissa, and that sublime of passion 
 which interests us in his Clementina. That kind of ficti- 
 tious writing of which he has set the example disclaims all 
 assistance from giants or genii. The moated castle is changed 
 to a modern parlor ; the princess and her pages to a lady and 
 her domestics, or even to a simple maiden, without birth or 
 fortune ; we are not called on to wonder at improbable events, 
 but to be moved by natural passions and impressed by salutary 
 maxims. The pathos of the story and the dignity of the senti- 
 ment interest and charm us ; simplicity is warned, vice re- 
 buked, and from the perusal of a novel we rise better prepared 
 to meet the ills of life with firmness, and to perform our respec- 
 tive parts on its great theater. 
 
 We, in the end of the nineteenth century, have got so 
 far beyond, or away from, expecting giants and genii 
 and moats in our novels, that we do not feel called upon 
 to praise the author that avoids them ; but in the days 
 of the ' ' Castle of Otranto ' ' it was otherwise. 
 
 narration.' ^ s a ^ o >'> Richardson had the gift of narration and 
 
 employed it. He says himself somewhere :
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 113 
 
 I recollect that I was early noted for having invention. I 
 was not fond of play, as other boys ; my school-fellows used to His youthful 
 call me "Serious" and "Gravity"; and five of them particu- stones - 
 larly delighted to single me out either for a walk, or at their 
 fathers' houses, or at mine, to tell them stories, as they phrased 
 it. Some I told them, from my reading, as true ; others from 
 my head, as mere invention ; of which they would be most fond, 
 and often were affected by them. One of them, particularly, I 
 remember, was for putting me to write a story. All my stories 
 carried with them, I am bold to say, a useful moral. 
 
 1 ' Pamela ' ' was written in three months, and pub- 
 lished in 1740. It was received with a burst of applause 
 from all ranks of people. The novelty of the plan, the 
 simplicity of the language, the sentiments of piety and 
 virtue it contained, also a novelty, took at once the 
 taste of the public. Every one was reading it. Even at 
 Ranelagh it was usual for ladies to hold up the volumes 
 of ' ' Pamela ' ' to one another, to show they had got the 
 book that every one was talking of. 
 
 Mrs. Barbauld says : 
 
 The fame of this once favorite work is now somewhat tar- 
 nished by time [she was writing about 1800], but the enthusiasm .. p^ela " 
 with which it was received shows incontrovertibly that a novel 
 written on the side of virtue was considered as a new experi- 
 ment. . . . But the production upon which the fame of 
 Richardson is principally founded, that which will transmit his 
 name to posterity as one of the first geniuses of the age in which 
 he lived, is undoubtedly "Clarissa." 
 
 The interest which ' ' Clarissa ' ' excited was increased 
 by suspense. The interval of several months which 
 passed between the publication of the first four volumes 
 and the remaining four (yes, eight in all, and long, each 
 
 O \ s O O ' 
 
 of them) wound up its readers to the highest pitch of 
 enthusiasm. Every reader, and that was everybody, had 
 an opinion about the proper ending of the book, and 
 they all wrote Richardson to express their views.
 
 H4 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 * Philaretes writes : " Since I have heard that you design 
 
 the end to be unhappy, I shall read no more." Miss 
 Highmore says : "We could none of us read aloud the 
 
 Effect on its affecting- scenes we met with, but each read to ourselves, 
 
 readers. 
 
 and in separate apartments wept."
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 MRS. BARBAULD says : 
 
 After Mr. Richardson had published two works, in each of 
 which the principal character is a female, he determined to give 
 the world an example of a perfect man. 
 
 Hence came "Sir Charles Grandison," from which I 
 
 . . "Sir Charles 
 
 shall give the extracts I intend as specimens not only of Grandison." 
 Richardson's work, but as pictures of the time. It is 
 true that Richardson was accused by his contemporaries- 
 of ignorance of the real manners and modes of thought 
 and feeling, prevalent in the fashionable world in which 
 he makes the characters in this third novel move. Our 
 friend Lady Mary is severe upon him on such points, 
 although she says (on just receiving the book, lately 
 published) : 
 
 I was such an old fool as to weep over " Clarissa Harlowe." 
 To say truth, the first volume softened me by a near resem- 
 blance of my maiden days ; but on the whole 'tis most miserable 
 stuff. . . . Yet the circumstances are so laid as to inspire 
 tenderness, notwithstanding the low style and absurd incidents. 
 
 And again : 
 
 I have now read over "Sir Charles Grandison" it sinks 
 horribly in the third volume (so does the story of "Clarissa"). Lady Mary's 
 When Richardson talks of Italy, it is plain he is no better 
 acquainted with it than he is with Kingdom of Mancomingo. 
 . . . It is certain there are as many marriages as ever. 
 Richardson is so eager for the multiplication of them. I 
 suppose he is some parish curate whose chief profit depends on 
 weddings and christenings. He never probably had money 
 enough to purchase a ticket for a masquerade, which gives him 
 such an aversion to them ; though this intended satire against
 
 1 1 6 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 them is very absurd on the account of his Harriet, since she 
 might have been carried off in the same manner if she had been 
 going from supper with her grandame. Her whole behavior, 
 which he designs to be exemplary, is equally blameable and 
 ridiculous. He has no idea of the manners of high life. His 
 old Lord M. talks in the style of a country justice, and his virtu- 
 ous young ladies romp like the wenches round a may-pole. 
 With all my contempt, I will take notice of one good thing, I 
 mean his project of an English monastery. It was a favorite 
 scheme of mine when I was fifteen. 
 
 Later on, in 1755, she again says : 
 
 This Richardson is a strange fellow. I heartily despise him, 
 and eagerly read him, nay, sob over his works, in a most 
 scandalous manner. The two first tomes of "Clarissa" 
 touched me, as being very resembling to my maiden days ; and 
 I find in the pictures of Sir Thomas Grandison and his lady, 
 what I have heard of my mother and seen of my father. 
 
 I am not troubled by Lady Mary's comments, for it 
 
 Reality of ... 
 
 Richardson's is evident that Richardson, in all his books, makes his 
 
 characters. 
 
 characters so real that they moved his contemporaries to 
 the depths. If his fine ladies lack the supreme touches 
 of fashion of Lady Mary's circle, they are nevertheless 
 very human beings, and give us a vivid picture of the 
 life in their time, yes, in her time. I prefer it of the 
 three because it is the most amusing. "Pamela" is dull 
 beyond words ; ' ' Clarissa ' ' is shocking to our ideas of 
 propriety, although the morality is of good intent. I 
 think I can persuade you that " Sir Charles " is at least 
 entertaining, if even he, the man, appears not so per- 
 fect as his author intended. 
 
 Great debates took place in the author's female 
 senate, as the chapters were read in the grotto, concern- 
 ing the winding up of " Sir Charles Grandison." Some 
 Killing ciem- voted for killing Clementina, and very few were satisfied 
 with the termination as it stands. I mvself think it is
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 117 
 
 very well as it is, and as for most readers of our gener- 
 ation, they are so glad to have the seven volumes reach 
 any termination at all, they do not find fault. But this is 
 to anticipate. 
 
 There were none in his own age to give such a ver- 
 dict. Richardson's "Correspondence" employs six Richardson's 
 volumes, of which it may be safely said that three quar- e'ie!" esp nd ~ 
 ters of the space is occupied in the raptures of his " lady 
 friends" over the successive events in the novels. He 
 was a vain little man, it is evident ; and perhaps he pre- 
 served the letters on account of the adulation they con- 
 tain, certainly not, for the most part, for any intrinsic 
 interest or literary merit. Here and there are to be 
 found indications of his great goodness of heart, and 
 patience under persistence, in the shape of aid extended 
 to suffering ladies of the pen, whose means of living 
 were as meager as their power of earning one. Many a 
 five-pound note slipped into his letters of reply to such 
 appeals. 
 
 Richardson lived to be seventy. He had accumulated 
 an easy fortune by his excellent diligence in writing, and 
 retired to a pleasant suburban house at Parson's Green, 
 near London, where he passed an honorable old age, 
 surrounded, as we have seen him, by his female 
 worshipers. 
 
 ''The History of Sir Charles Grandison, Bart.," occu- 
 pies seven volumes, each of over three hundred pages. Seven volumes - 
 It is all in letters between the principal persons, whose 
 names are printed in the beginning, as appears on a play 
 bill. This list includes Men, of whom there are twenty, 
 chiefly lovers, otherwise relatives of Miss Harriet Byron ; 
 Women, sixteen, at their head the name of the heroine ; 
 and in separate lists, Italians, both men and women (as 
 if they constituted another sex), fourteen in number. It
 
 1 1 8 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century, 
 
 may be imagined that all these characters, writing to each 
 other with immense prolixity, may fill seven volumes 
 without difficulty. The difficulty now is to persuade 
 people to read them. 
 
 The book begins with the departure of Harriet Byron 
 for a visit, her first visit to London, from her home in 
 the country, where she lives with a delightful collection 
 of relatives, her Uncle and Aunt Selby, the revered Mrs. 
 Shirley, who is her grandmother by her mother's side, 
 and so on. The key-note is struck in the first sentence, 
 written by Miss Lucy Selby on the departure of her 
 cousin for town : 
 
 Your resolution to accompany Mrs. Reeves to London has 
 greatly alarmed your three lovers. 
 
 She went to town to visit her cousin, Mrs. Reeves, 
 Harriet Byron w ho seems to have been in very good society, and here 
 
 in London. J ' J 
 
 she immediately began to create a sensation, for you 
 must know that Harriet was very beautiful, besides being 
 perfection in every other respect. You learn something 
 about this in the second letter, addressed by Mr. Greville 
 to Lady Frampton. Mr. Greville is one of the three 
 original lovers. Greville is a sad dog, but being a 
 country dog, not nearly so sad a clog as dogs we meet 
 later, but he is madly and seriously in love with Miss 
 Byron. Amongst a great many other things in his 
 description of her personal charms, he says : 
 
 Her cheek I never saw a cheek so beautifully turned ; 
 illustrated as it is by a charming carmine flush which denotes 
 sound health. A most bewitching dimple takes place' in each 
 when she smiles ; and she has so much reason to be pleased 
 with herself and with all about her (for she is the idol of her 
 relatives) that I believe from infancy she never frowned ; nor 
 can a frown, it is my opinion, sit upon her face fora minute. 
 Her mouth there never was so lovely a mouth. But no won- 
 der ; since such rosy lips and such ivory and even teeth must
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 119 
 
 give beauty to a mouth less charming than hers. Her nose 
 and so on, through a letter of eight pages, devoted to 
 this and nothing else. 
 
 Lady Betty Williams, being charmed with Harriet, The masquer- 
 persuaded her to go with her to a masquerade. She ade> 
 had misgivings as to the propriety of masquerades, 
 duly set forth in her letters home, which she diligently 
 wrote upon daily and nightly. For we are in the middle 
 of the first volume, and at the twenty-second letter, 
 before we come to the masquerade, about a month after 
 her arrival. I must give her description of her costume. 
 
 Our dresses are ready. Mr. Reeves is to be a hermit, Mrs. 
 Reeves a nun, Lady Betty a lady abbess, but I by no means 
 like mine, because of its gaudiness ; the very thing I was 
 afraid of. 
 
 They call it the dress of an Arcadian princess ; but it falls 
 not in with any of my notions of the pastoral dress of Arcadia. 
 
 A white Paris net sort of a cap, glittering with spangles and 
 encircled by a chaplet of artificial flowers, with a little white 
 feather peeking from the left ear, is to be my head-dress. 
 
 My masque is Venetian. 
 
 My hair is to be complimented with an appearance, because 
 of its natural ringlets, as they call my curls, and to shade my 
 neck. 
 
 Tucker and ruffles blond lace. 
 
 My shape is also said to be consulted in this dress. A kind 
 of waistcoat of blue satin trimmed with silver point d'Espagne, 
 the skirts edged with silver fringe, is made to sit close to my 
 waist by double clasps, a small silver tassel at the end of each 
 clasp ; all set off with bugles and spangles, which make a 
 mighty glitter. 
 
 But I am to be allowed a kind of scarf of white Persian Her costume, 
 silk, which, gathered at the top, is to be fastened to my 
 shoulders, and to fly loose behind me. 
 
 Bracelets on my arms. 
 
 They would have given me a crook ; but I would not submit 
 to that. It would give me, I said, an air of confidence to aim 
 to manage it with any tolerable freedom ; and I was appre-
 
 1 20 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Its extrava- 
 gance. 
 
 Her disappear- 
 ance. 
 
 hensive that I should not be thought to want that from the 
 dress itself. A large Indian fan was not improper from the 
 expected warmth of the place, and that contented me. 
 
 My petticoat is of blue satin, trimmed and fringed as my 
 waistcoat. I am not to have a hoop that is perceivable. They 
 wore not hoops in Arcadia. 
 
 What a sparkling figure shall I make ! Had the ball been 
 what they call a subscription ball, at which people dress with 
 more glare than at a common one, this dress would have been 
 more tolerable. 
 
 But they all say that I shall be kept in countenance by 
 masques as extravagant and even more ridiculous. 
 
 Be that as it may, I wish the night was over. I dare say it 
 will be the last diversion of this kind I ever shall be at ; for I 
 never had any notion of masquerades. 
 
 Expect particulars of all in my next. I reckon you will be 
 impatient for them ; but pray, my Lucy, be fanciful, as I some- 
 times am, and let me know how you think everything will be 
 beforehand ; and how many pretty fellows you imagine in this 
 dress will be slain by your HARRIET BYRON. 
 
 Her misgivings were all too prophetic, for lo ! the 
 very next letter begins thus : 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 MR. REEVES TO GEORGE SELBY, ESQ. 
 
 Friday, February ijth. 
 
 DEAR MR. SELBY: No one, at present, but yourself must see 
 the contents of what I am going to write. 
 
 You must not be too much surprised. 
 
 But how shall I tell you the news ; the dreadful news ? My 
 wife has been low since three this morning in violent hysterics. 
 
 You must not but how shall I say_j'<?# must not be too much 
 affected, when we are unable to support ourselves. 
 
 Oh, my cousin Selby ! We know not what is become of our 
 dearest Miss Byron ! 
 
 This was a blow ! And now for nineteen pages there 
 is anguish and skurrying around, examining chairmen 
 and valets and villains, letters between the anxious peo- 
 ple in the country and the frantic people in the town,
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 121 
 
 long letters, with such ejaculations as these (from Uncle 
 Selby): "Oh, Mr. Reeves ! Dear, sweet child ! Flower 
 of the world ! " until at last Mr. Reeves writes : 
 
 OH, MY DEAR MR. SELBY : We have tidings God be praised ! T ... 
 we have tidings not so happy, indeed, as were to be wished ; 
 yet the dear creature is living, and in honorable hands God 
 be praised ! 
 
 Read the enclosed letter directed to me. 
 
 "SiR : Miss Byron is safe and in honorable hands. The first 
 moment she could give any account of herself she besought me 
 to quiet your heart and your lady's with this information. 
 
 " She has been cruelly treated. 
 
 " Particulars at present she cannot give. 
 
 " She was many hours speechless. 
 
 " But don't fright yourselves ; her fits, though not less 
 frequent, are weaker and weaker. 
 
 "The bearer will acquaint you who my brother is, to whom 
 you owe the preservation and safety of the loveliest woman in 
 England, and he will direct you to a house where you will be 
 welcome with your lady (for Miss Byron cannot be removed) 
 to convince yourselves that all possible care is taken of her, 
 by, sir, "Your humble servant, 
 
 "Friday, February 17 th. CHARLOTTE GRANDISON." 
 
 Mr. Reeves continues : 
 
 In fits ! Has been cruelly treated ! Many hours speech- 
 less ! Cannot be removed ! Her solicitude, though hardly 
 herself, for our ease ! Dearest, dear creature ! But you will 
 rejoice with me, my cousins, that she is in such honorable 
 hands. She is at a nobleman's house, the Earl of L., near Found. 
 Colnebrook. 
 
 This letter was written by the sister of the great, the 
 glorious Sir Charles Grandison, for it was indeed he 
 who had the good fortune and the bravery to rescue the 
 loveliest woman in England from the hands of a wretch. 
 This wretch was not the sad clog Greville, upon whom 
 suspicion had immediately turned, but was the vile Sir 
 Harcrave Pollexfen, a nobleman who saw Harriet on her
 
 122 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 first arrival in town and had instantly fallen in love with 
 her. But she would have nought of him, in spite of his 
 title and splendor, and brilliant position, for his reputa- 
 tion was that of a rake. She had had time, thus early 
 in the book, to refuse his advances several times, where- 
 upon he devised the scheme to carry her off, which was 
 perfectly successful in the outset. It is long before the 
 reader becomes acquainted with the details of the ab- 
 duction, which we finally have from Harriet's own lips, 
 or rather from her diligent pen. The subject covers the 
 rest of the first volume. 
 
 Her preserver. Her preserver was Sir Charles Grandison, who, 
 driving to town one morning in his chariot and six, 
 outriders and all, encountered another chariot and six 
 which contained Sir Hargrave Pollexfen and the un- 
 willing Miss Byron. Her cries attracted Sir Charles to 
 the spot, who with great courage and presence of mind 
 stopped the other chariot. He is telling about this 
 himself to Mr. Reeves : 
 
 "Sirrah," said I to the coachman (for he lashed his horses 
 on), " proceed at your peril." 
 
 Sir Hargrave then with violent curses and threatenings 
 ordered him to drive over every one that opposed him. 
 
 "Coachman, proceed at your peril," said I. "Madam, will 
 you 
 
 "O sir, sir, sir, relieve, help me, for God's sake ! I am in a 
 
 His account villain's hands ! Tricked, vilely tricked into a villain's hands ! 
 of the rescue. He j p> help> for God>s sake , 
 
 "Do you," said I to Frederick, "cut the traces, if you 
 cannot otherwise stop this chariot. Bid Jerry cut the reins, 
 and then slice as many of those fellows as you can. Leave Sir 
 Hargrave to me." 
 
 The lady continued screaming and crying out for help. Sir 
 Hargrave drew his sword, which he had held between his 
 knees in the scabbard ; and then called upon his servants to 
 fire at all that opposed his progress.
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 123 
 
 " My servants, Sir Hargrave, have firearms as well as yours. 
 They will not dispute my orders. Don't provoke me to give 
 the word." 
 
 Then addressing the lady, " Will you, madam, put yourself 
 into my protection ? " 
 
 " O yes, yes, yes, with all my heart. Dear, good sir, protect 
 me!" 
 
 I opened the chariot door. Sir Hargrave made a pass at 'j-^e attack 
 me. "Take that, and be damned to you for your insolence, 
 scoundrel ! " said he. 
 
 I was aware of his thrust and put it by ; but his sword a little 
 raked my shoulder. 
 
 My sword was in my hand, but undrawn. 
 
 The chariot-door remaining open (I was not so ceremonious 
 as to let down the footsteps to take the gentleman out), I seized 
 him by the collar, before he could recover himself from the pass 
 he had made at me ; and, with a jerk and a kind of twist, laid 
 him under the hind wheel of his chariot. Sir Hargrave's face 
 and mouth were very bloody. I believe I might have hurt him 
 with the pommel of my sword. 
 
 One of his legs in his sprawling had got between the spokes 
 of his chariot-wheel. I thought that was a fortunate circumstance 
 for preventing further mischief, and charged his coachman not 
 to stir with the chariot for his master's sake. 
 
 After some more details, Sir Charles goes on : 
 
 The lady, though greatly terrified, had disengaged herself 
 from the man's cloak. I had not leisure to consider her dress, 
 but I was struck with her figure, and more of her terror. 
 
 And then he breaks off the narration to remark : 
 
 Have you not read, Mr. Reeves (Pliny I think gives the 
 relation), of a frighted bird that, pursued by a hawk, flew for bj 
 protection into the bosom of a man passing by ? In like man- 
 ner your lovely cousin, the moment I returned to the chariot- 
 door, instead of accepting of my offered hand, threw herself 
 into my arms. 
 
 He continues the narration at great length. 
 Harriet herself, afterward, was in great tribulation 
 about this deed of hers, throwing herself thus into the
 
 124 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Fleet marriage 
 intended. 
 
 Connections of 
 the Grandison 
 family. 
 
 arms of a stranger. Such lack of punctilio, and that 
 stranger the great, the noble Sir Charles Grandison ! 
 
 The affair was now at an end. Sir Hargrave limped to 
 his carriage, cursing and threatening vengeance, and Sir 
 Charles brought the lady to the house of one sister and 
 the arms of another. 
 
 It was the intention of Sir Hargrave to force a 
 marriage upon Miss Byron, the ceremony to be per- 
 formed by what was in those days called a ' ' Fleet ' ' 
 parson and his clerk. She was accordingly carried to a 
 house in Paddington for that purpose, but she made 
 such vigorous resistance, ' ' with screams, prayers, and 
 tears," that Sir Hargrave in terror dismissed the parson 
 and resolved to carry the lady in the chariot to his seat 
 at Windsor, in order to be married there. The scheme 
 was frustrated by the opportune meeting with Sir 
 Charles Grandison. 
 
 A close intimacy is now established between Miss 
 Byron and the estimable sisters of Sir Charles, and it is 
 soon to be seen that Harriet, hitherto obdurate toward 
 all her lovers, is surrendering her affections to this "first 
 of men." He, you must know, was living, not at his 
 sister's, but in town in St. James's Square. 
 
 Harriet is presented to all the connections of the 
 Grandison family, especially his married sister and her 
 husband, Lord L. They all of them receive Miss 
 Byron with warmth and admiration. Miss Grandison 
 is of a sprightly turn and does pretty much all the wit 
 of the book. She is a little like Lady Mary Wortley, 
 who, however, could not bear her. 
 
 Harriet made a long visit at Colnebrook with the 
 sisters, where Miss Grandison, ever obliging, indulged 
 her in her choice of having a room to herself, upon 
 which she writes : "I shall have the more leisure for
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 125 
 
 writing to you, my dear friend"; a leisure which she 
 stretches to the utmost, as everything that is said, done, 
 or thought by the three ladies is faithfully recorded for 
 the enjoyment of the excellent family at Selby House. 
 
 Even on the way from London to Colnebrook, ' ' the 
 conversation in the coach turned upon the Grandison 
 family, from which I gathered the following particu- 
 lars." As these particulars take up nearly the whole of 
 one volume, it would seem that the distance was long ; 
 but, to be fair, there are breaks in the narrative, and the 
 good ladies were more than a week in relating it and 
 Harriet in transcribing it to her family. All that we History of the 
 need know is that their father, Sir Thomas, one of the 
 handsomest men of his time, was a dissipated char- 
 acter who did his best to squander a large fortune 
 inherited from a frugal father. Their mother, Lady 
 Grandison, was the most excellent of women. She 
 died early, leaving the daughters to live with their 
 father, while Sir Charles was sent abroad for the ad- 
 vantages of the tour. His two sisters had but a hard 
 time of it in his absence, owing to the severity of 
 their father and the indecorum of his way of living. 
 This was brought to a close by the alarming illness and 
 death of Sir Thomas, which caused the return of Sir 
 Charles, who started at once for England on the notifi- 
 cation by his sister of his father's danger, but arrived 
 too late. 
 
 Judge, my dear Lucy [says Harriet at this point], from the 
 foregoing circumstances how awful must be to the sisters, after Return of Sir 
 eight or nine years' absence, the first appearance of a brother 
 on whom the whole of their fortunes depended. 
 
 In the same moment he alighted from his post-chaise the 
 door was opened ; he entered, and his two sisters met him in 
 the hall. 
 
 The graceful youth of seventeen, with fine curling auburn
 
 126 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 locks waving upon his shoulders ; delicate in complexion ; in- 
 telligence sparkling in his fine free eyes ; and good humor 
 sweetening his lively features, they remembered ; and, forget- 
 ting the womanly beauties into which their own features were 
 ripened in the same space of time, they seemed not to expect 
 that manly stature and air and that equal vivacity and intre- 
 pidity, which every one who sees this brother admires in his 
 noble aspect ; an aspect then appearing more solemn than 
 usual, an unburied and beloved father in his thoughts. 
 
 Sir Charles was now twenty-five ; he had been absent 
 eight years on his travels. 
 
 "O my brother!" said Caroline, with open arms (she was 
 e f the the oldest of th e family), but, shrinking from his embrace, 
 " May I say, my brother " and was just fainting. He clasped 
 her in his arms to support her. 
 
 Charlotte, surprised at her sister's emotion, and affected with 
 his presence, ran back into the room they had both quitted, 
 and threw herself upon a settee. 
 
 The reason the sisters were so alarmed was that Sir 
 Thomas had been representing them to his son as dis- 
 obedient, naughty girls. He had not approved of the 
 addresses of Lord L. , Caroline's lover, and Charlotte 
 had boldly encouraged her sister's affair. As Charles 
 was heir to his father, and therefore would now control 
 their destinies, his favor was of grave importance. 
 
 Her brother followed her into the room, his arm round Miss 
 His affection. . . . 
 
 Caroline s waist, soothing her; and with eyes of expectation, 
 
 "My Charlotte!" said he, his inviting hand held out, and 
 hastening toward the settee. She then found her feet, and 
 throwing her arms about his neck, he folded both sisters to his 
 bosom. " Receive, my dearest sisters, receive your brother, 
 your friend." 
 
 After a few words "he pressed the hand of each to 
 his lips, arose, went to the window, and drew out his 
 handkerchief," then, shortly, "cast his eye on his 
 father's and mother's pictures with some emotion ; then 
 on them ; and again saluted each."
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 127 
 
 They withdrew. He waited on them to the stairs' head. 
 "Sweet obligingness! Amiable sisters! In a quarter of an 
 hour I seek your presence." Tears of joy trickled down their 
 cheeks. In half an hour he joined them in another dress, and 
 re-saluted his sisters with an air of tenderness that banished 
 fear and left room for nothing but sisterly love. 
 
 Everything now went finely for the sisters. At the Caroline 
 end of eight months Sir Charles gave Caroline with his marrles - 
 own hand to Lord L. Charlotte subsequently married 
 Lord G. , but at this period she had not made up her 
 mind to do so. Sir Charles announced his intention, 
 which I have no doubt he carried out, 
 
 to dispose of his racers, hunters, and dogs as soon as he 
 could ; to take a survey of the timber upon his estate, and sell 
 that which would be the worse for standing ; and doubted not 
 but that a part of it in Hampshire would turn to good account ; 
 but that he would plant an oakling for every oak he cut down, 
 for the sake of posterity. 
 
 Now followed delightful days. Sir Charles was very 
 busy in settling the affairs of his estate, with the execu- d > ays S f htful 
 tors, and also in making all those persons comfortable 
 and happy whom his father had succeeded in making 
 miserable. Harriet became deeply interested in these 
 matters, and described them at great length in her 
 letters. Meanwhile his frequent visits to his sisters and 
 his evident admiration of Miss Byron not only increased 
 her inclination toward him, but set the sisters to desir- 
 ing a match between the prince of men and the angel of 
 her sex. 
 
 During this time Harriet's admirers increased in num- 
 ber, and offers of marriage came in from every side : Ha rr iet ' s 
 
 > J ' admirers. 
 
 she steadily refused them, and this gave rise to the ques- 
 tion whether her heart was still free. It was awkward, 
 in those days of delicacy and punctilio, even more than 
 it would be now, for her to admit to herself and others
 
 128 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 a predilection in favor of a gentleman who, in spite of 
 
 his evident admiration, made no sign of a deeper regard. 
 
 Why did he not ? This, after Harriet's natural coyness 
 
 A theme for was overcome, became a frequent theme for speculation 
 
 speculation. 
 
 with the three ladies. It was evident that something m 
 the course of his travels, during eight years' absence, 
 had occurred which stood in the way. As matter of 
 fact they were devoured with curiosity. 
 
 To satisfy this curiosity these ladies, if I may use the 
 expression, put Harriet up to compassing about the 
 excellent Dr. Ambrose Bartlett, the former tutor of Sir 
 Charles, and now his close counselor and friend. 
 
 Harriet one day writes to her Lucy that her host, Lord 
 L. , and her two hostesses, being now pretty much ab- 
 sorbed in reading all the mass of her letters about the 
 masquerade, which at their request she had sent for 
 to Selby House, 
 
 gives me an opportunity of pursuing my o\vn desires and 
 what, besides scribbling, do you think one of them is ? A kind 
 of persecution of Dr. Bartlett, by which, however, I suspect 
 that I am myself the greatest sufferer. He is an excellent man, 
 and I make no difficulty of going to him in his closet, en- 
 couraged by his assurances of welcome. 
 
 Let me stop to say, my Lucy, that when I approach this good 
 man in his retirement, surrounded by his books, his table 
 covered generally with those on pious subjects, I, in my heart, 
 congratulate the saint and inheritor of future glory ; and, in 
 that great view, am the more desirous to cultivate his friend- 
 ship. 
 
 She admits that although their conferences begin with 
 
 Conversations , , , .._,.... 
 
 with Dr. the great and glorious truths or Christianity, they drift 
 
 Bartlett. round to the subject of Sir Charles, which is but natural, 
 
 as the one subject, sublime as it is, brings on the other. 
 The good doctor took it kindly, and in time fur- 
 nished Harriet with the history of his first intimacy with
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 129 
 
 Sir Charles, which he had already written down, with 
 the permission to communicate to the ladies the revela- 
 tion of all that had happened on the Continent during 
 their absence. Her kind friends in the meantime were 
 working upon the doctor in Harriet' s absence to dis- 
 cover what he knew of the state of Sir Charles' s affec- 
 tions, in what we should now call a shameless manner. 
 Of course all this came to Miss Byron's ears, and she 
 repeated it in her letters. For instance : 
 
 Miss G. Pray, doctor, is there any one lady (we imagine 
 there is) that he has preferred to another in the different 
 nations he has traveled through ? Curiosity of 
 
 Lord L. Ay, doctor, we want to know this ; and if you 
 thought there were not, we should make no scruple to explain 
 ourselves, as well as Miss Byron, to our brother. 
 
 Don't you long to know [inserts Harriet] what answer the 
 doctor returned to this, Lucy ? I was out of breath with impa- 
 tience when Miss Grandison repeated it to me. 
 
 The doctor hesitated and at last said : "I wish with all my 
 heart Miss Byron could be Lady Grandison." 
 
 Miss G. Could be ? 
 
 " Coutdbe," said each. 
 
 And "could be" said the fool to Miss Grandison when she 
 repeated it, her heart' quite sunk. 
 
 This was all they could elicit for the moment, for 
 Harriet adds, ' ' The doctor, it seems, bowed but answered Interview with 
 not." However, after another half- volume devoted to 
 accounts of Sir Charles's generosity to dependents of all 
 sorts, a day came (Harriet was staying on at Colnebrook 
 all this time) when he requested a private interview 
 with her. Imagine the agitation of the little circle. 
 
 "Admirable Miss Byron," said Sir Charles as soon as he 
 came in to breakfast, and then made the request ; then later : 
 " May I hope, madam, by and by, for the honor of your hand 
 to my lord's library ? " 
 
 "Sir, I will I will attend you," hesitated the simpleton.
 
 130 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 The conversation began with some comments on the 
 behavior of his sister, Miss Grandison, concerning a 
 suitor of hers, Lord G., which Sir Charles could not 
 quite approve, and he said so. Harriet writes : ' ' My 
 spirits were not high ; I was forced to take out my hand- 
 kerchief." 
 
 When he was ready for the main subject, he thus 
 began : 
 
 " There seems," said he, "to be a mixture of generous con- 
 cern and kind curiosity in one of the loveliest and most intelli- 
 gent faces in the world. My sisters have in your presence 
 expressed a great deal of the latter. Had I not been myself in 
 a manner uncertain as to the event which must govern my 
 of"hi?future future destiny, I would have gratified it ; especially as my Lord 
 L. has of late joined in it. The crisis, I told them, however, as 
 perhaps you remember, was at hand." 
 
 "I do remember you said so, sir." And indeed, Lucy, it 
 was more than perhaps. I had not thought of any words half so 
 often since he spoke them. 
 
 "The crisis, madam, is at hand. If you will be so good as to 
 indulge me, I will briefly lay before you a few of the difficulties 
 of my situation and leave it to you to communicate them to my 
 two sisters and Lord L." 
 
 At great length, thirty-three pages without a break, 
 His sojourn on Sir Charles now entered upon and continued the narra- 
 
 the Continent. , . .... 
 
 tion of certain events during his sojourn on the Conti- 
 nent. Harriet listened breathless ; occasionally she was 
 moved to tears, and once " he stopt his handkerchief 
 was of use to him as mine was to me what a distress 
 was here." 
 He began : 
 
 At Bologna, and in the neighborhood of Urbino, are seated 
 two branches of a noble family, marquises and counts of 
 Porretta, which boasts its pedigree from Roman princes and has 
 given to the church two cardinals ; one in the latter age, one in 
 the beginning of this.
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 131 
 
 The Marchese della Porretta, who resides in Bologna, is a The p orret t a 
 nobleman of great merit ; his lady is illustrious by descent and family, 
 still more for her goodness of heart, sweetness of temper, and 
 prudence. They have three sons and a daughter. 
 
 "Ah, that daughter," thought Harriet. 
 
 After describing them thus, Sir Charles continued : 
 
 The sister is the favorite of them all. She is lovely in her 
 person, gentle in her manners, pious, charitable, beneficent. 
 Her father used to call her "the pride of his life," her mother, 
 " her other self, her own Clementina."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Clementina the 
 rival of 
 Harriet. 
 
 Milton 
 expounded. 
 
 IT is evident that Clementina is the rival of Harriet 
 Byron in the affections of Sir Charles Grandison. 
 
 The story briefly is this : Sir Charles rescued Jeronymo 
 della Porretta, already his friend, from an attack of 
 ruffians in a little thicket "in the Cremonese." The 
 young count was wounded severely, and Sir Charles 
 procured a surgeon, attended him to Cremona, and 
 watched over him there till he could be removed. His 
 whole family came to the bedside of their beloved son 
 and brother, and all joined to bless his preserver. 
 Never was there a more grateful family. They urged 
 him to visit them at their various seats. Meanwhile 
 Sir Charles initiated them into the knowledge of the 
 English tongue by reading and expounding Milton to 
 them. He told Harriet : 
 
 Our Milton has deservedly a name among them from the 
 friendship that subsisted between him and a learned nobleman 
 of that country. Our lectures were usually held in the chamber 
 of the wounded brother, in order to divert him. He also 
 became my scholar. Clementina was seldom absent. She also 
 called me her tutor, and she made a greater proficiency than 
 either of her brothers. 
 
 Clementina had a suitor, favored by all her family ; 
 she continually refused him, and upon being pressed and 
 closely examined it became evident that she was in love 
 with the English chevalier. Sir Charles, whose conduct 
 was perfectly honorable in the matter, resolved to with- 
 draw, and did so ; but after his departure she grew mel- 
 ancholy, and even out of her mind, expressing her desire
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 133 
 
 to go into a nunnery ; all was in vain, until a wise and 
 judicious friend went to the bottom of the malady and 
 advised the family thereupon. The tutor was sent for. 
 This is Sir Charles's delicate manner of explaining 
 what is coming : 
 
 "He arrived at Bologna. He was permitted to pay his 
 compliments to Lady Clementina. Jeronymo called the happy 
 man 'brother.' The marquis was ready to recognize the fourth 
 son in him. A great fortune additional to an estate bequeathed 
 her by her two grandfathers was proposed. My father was to 
 be invited over to grace the nuptials by his presence. 
 
 "But," continued Sir Charles, "let me cut short the rest. 
 
 The terms could not be complied with. For I was to make a Proposals of 
 r i i- c i- j A ^i T A i i the Porretta 
 
 formal renunciation of my religion, and to settle in Italy ; only family. 
 
 once in two or three years was allowed if I pleased for two or 
 three months to go to England." [It was here that his hand- 
 kerchief was of use to him.] 
 
 He went on : " Satisfied in my own faith, entirely satisfied ! 
 Having insuperable objections to that I was wished to embrace! 
 A lover of my country too. Were not my God and my 
 country to be the sacrifice if I complied ! but I labored, I 
 studied, for a compromise." 
 
 But no compromise was to be had. Sir Charles was 
 allowed, desired, to depart from Bologna ; and shortly 
 afterward, summoned by the death of his father, he re- 
 turned to England, regarding this action as final. En* land to 
 
 But what was the consequence. In agitation he con- 
 tinues : 
 
 "Unhappy Clementina! Now they wish me to make them 
 one more visit to Bologna ! Unhappy Clementina ! To what 
 purpose ! " 
 
 He arose from his seat, "Allow me, madam, to thank you for 
 the favor of your ear. Pardon me for the trouble I see I have 
 given to a heart that is capable of a sympathy so tender." 
 
 And bowing low, he withdrew with precipitation. 
 
 There was endless discussion, in Richardson's coterie, 
 whether Sir Charles was in love, or not, with Clementina
 
 134 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 at this point. I have omitted nothing in the account of 
 Sentiments of th e interview just given which would give a clue to his 
 
 Sir Charles. ' 
 
 feelings, and have read the whole episode through many 
 times with great care to find some acknowledgment or 
 denial of his ardor for the Italian lady. Some of his 
 admirers thought that he returned with a bleeding heart, 
 or a heart left behind ; others, on the contrary, that he 
 was untouched by the pathetic charms of Clementina, 
 and therefore heart-whole when he first beheld Miss 
 Byron. Others imagine that the dazzling image of Miss 
 Byron drove the fainter impression from its hold upon 
 his affections. Then some people regard Sir Charles as 
 a being so cold as to be incapable of an ardent attach- 
 ment. I for my part believe he cared nothing at all for 
 Clementina ; still, I am not sure that Richardson has 
 not somewhere said that he did care for her ; and he 
 should know. 
 
 There was dismay in the circle of Harriet's friends 
 Dismay of when it was revealed that Sir Charles Grandison was not 
 
 Harriet's 
 
 friends. altogether free to lay himself at her feet. Her mind 
 
 turns toward her home in the country, and she warns 
 everybody that she is about to go back. 
 
 Sir Charles was quietly winding up his affairs and pre- 
 paring to depart for Italy, with the intention of taking 
 with him an accomplished surgeon of his acquaintance, 
 to examine the wounds of Jeronymo, which were still 
 extremely troublesome. This is the nominal excuse for 
 his return to Bologna, but every one feels that another 
 wound requires his healing presence, in the heart of 
 Clementina. 
 
 Just before leaving, Sir Charles sought another inter- 
 view with Harriet. 
 
 He led me to my seat, and taking his by me, still holding my 
 passive hand: "Ever since I have had the honor of Miss
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 135 
 
 Byron's acquaintance I have considered her as one of the most 
 excellent of women. My heart desires alliance with hers, and Another inter- 
 hopes to be allowed its claim, though such are the delicacies of Vlew - 
 the situation that I scarcely dare to trust myself to speak upon 
 the subject. From the first, I called Miss Byron my sister ; but 
 she is more to me than the dearest sister ; and there is a more 
 tender friendship that I aspire to hold with her, whatever may 
 be the accidents on either side, to bar a further wish ; and this 
 I must hope that she will not deny me, so long as it shall be 
 consistent with her other attachments." 
 
 He paused. I made an effort to speak, but speech was 
 denied me. My face, as I felt, glowed like the fire before me. 
 
 " My heart," resumed he," is ever on my lips. It is tortured 
 when I cannot speak all that is in it. Professions I am not ac- 
 customed to make. As I am not conscious of being unworthy 
 of your friendship, I will suppose it, and further talk to you of 
 my affairs and engagements as that tender friendship may 
 warrant." 
 
 " Sir, you do me honor," was all I could say. 
 
 He then explained his intentions as to the course of 
 his journey and talked of arrangements at home, 
 amongst others the wedding of Charlotte Grandison and 
 Lord G. , which the brother was anxious to see consum- 
 mated before his departure. 
 
 And there was a great wedding, described at length ; 
 
 _. , , f .. . . . Charlotte 
 
 Charlotte behaving in a very roolish manner, under the Grandison's 
 
 . . 11111 wedding. 
 
 guise of coyness or wit ; even when she was led to the 
 altar "her levity did not forsake her," Harriet says. 
 It was only a family party, however. 
 
 Between dinner and tea, at Lady L.'s motion, they made me 
 play on the harpsichord ; and after one lesson they besought 
 Sir Charles to sing to my playing. He would not, he said, 
 deny any request that was made him on that day. 
 
 He sung. He has a mellow manly voice, and great command 
 of it. 
 
 This introduced a little concert. Mr. Beauchamp took the 
 violin, Lord L. the bass viol, Lord G. the German flute, and
 
 136 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 most of the company joined in the chorus. The song was from 
 "Alexander's Feast" ; the words, 
 
 Happy, happy, happy pair, 
 None but the good deserve the fair, 
 
 Sir Charles, though himself equally both brave and good, pre- 
 ferring the latter word to the former. 
 
 The next letter begins : 
 
 Saturday morning, April i$th. 
 
 Oh, Lucy, Sir Charles Grandison is gone ! Gone, indeed \ 
 Departure of , T , ,, ... . , , , 
 
 Sir Charles. He set out at three this morning ; on purpose, no doubt, to 
 
 spare his sisters and friends, as well as himself, concern. 
 
 The letter is filled with an account of the last evening, 
 broken by such exclamations as : 
 
 Angel of a man ! How is he beloved ! Lie down, hope. 
 Hopelessness, take place. Clementina shall be his. He shall 
 be hers. 
 
 She was now to return to Selby House, and did so, 
 putting up at Dunstable on Friday night. Mr. Beau- 
 champ (a cousin of the Grandisons) and Mr. Reeves 
 rode as her escort. Lord L. and Lord G. also obliged 
 her with their company on horseback. 
 
 After this, the scene is at Selby House, and Harriet is 
 
 "furjfto writing to Lady G. with the same fidelity that she had 
 
 Selby House. done to her Lucy. In return, every scrap of news from 
 
 the travelers is forwarded to her by Dr. Bartlett or the 
 
 Grandison ladies. The first is a long letter from Mr. 
 
 Lowther, the surgeon, describing their passage over 
 
 the Alps in the most dismal manner : 
 
 The unseasonable coldness of the weather (it was May) 
 and the sight of one of the worst countries under heaven, still 
 clothed with snow and deformed by continual hurricanes. 
 
 They reached the foot of Mount Cenis at break of day, 
 at Lanebourg (Lansleburg?), 
 
 a poor little village, so environed by high mountains that for 
 three months in the twelve it is hardly visited by the cheering
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 137 
 
 rays of the sun. Here it is usual to unscrew and take in pieces 
 the chaises in order to carry them on mules over the mountain, 
 and to put them together on the other side ; for the Savoy side 
 of the mountain is much more difficult to pass than the other. 
 But Sir Charles chose not to lose time ; and, therefore, left the 
 chaise to the care of the inn-keeper. 
 
 They were each carried on " a kind of horse with two 
 poles, on which is secured a sort of elbow-chair." A 
 man before, another behind, carried this machine, 
 running and skipping like wild goats from rock to 
 rock, four miles of that ascent. 
 
 Sir Horace Walpole's veritable account is almost the 
 same as this. 
 
 Sir Charles now addressed his letters to Dr. Bartlett, Letters to Dr. 
 with the full understanding that they were to be given to 
 his sisters for perusal, including Miss Byron. 
 
 He writes from Bologna, June 14-25: 
 
 Having the honor of an invitation to a conversation visit, I 
 went to the palace of Porretta in the morning. After sitting 
 about half an hour with my friend Jeronymo, I was admitted to 
 the presence of Lady Clementina. Her parents and the bishop 
 were with her. "Clementina, chevalier," said her mother, 
 " was inquiring for you. She is desirous to recover her English. 
 Are you willing, sir, to undertake your pupil again ? " 
 
 "Ah, chevalier," said the young lady, "those were happy 
 times and I want to recover them. I want to be as happy as I 
 was then." 
 
 "You have not been very well, madam ; and is it not better 
 to defer our lectures for some days, till you are quite estab- 
 lished in your health ? " 
 
 " Why, that is the thing. I know that I am not yet quite well, 
 and I want to be so ; and that is the reason that I would recover 
 my English." 
 
 " You will soon recover it, madam, when you begin. But at i nterv ; ew w j t 
 present the thought, the memory, it would require you to Clementina, 
 exert would perplex you. I am afraid the study would rather 
 retard than forward your recovery."
 
 1 38 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 "Why, now, I did not expect this from you, sir. My mama 
 has consented." 
 
 "I did, my dear, because I would deny you nothing that your 
 heart was set upon ; but the chevalier has given you such good 
 reasons to suspend his lectures that I wish you would not 
 be earnest in your request." 
 
 " But I can't help it, madam. I want to be happy." 
 
 "Well, madam, let us begin now. What English book have 
 you at hand?" 
 
 " I don't know, but I will fetch one." 
 
 She slipt out, Camilla [the maid] after her ; and the poor 
 Her impaired lady, forgetting her purpose, brought down some of her own 
 work, the first thing that came to hand out of a drawer that she 
 pulled out in her dressing-room, instead of looking in her book- 
 case. It is an unfinished piece of Noah's Ark and the rising 
 deluge, the execution admirable. And coming to me, "I 
 wonder where it has lain all this time. Are you a judge of 
 women's work, chevalier?" 
 
 She went to the table. " Come hither, and sit down by me." 
 I did. "Madam," to her mother, "my lord," to her brother, 
 "come and sit down by the chevalier and me." They did. She 
 spread it on the table, and in an attentive posture, her elbow 
 on the table, her head on one hand, pointing with the finger of 
 the other, " Now tell me your opinion of this work." 
 
 I praised, as it deserved, the admirable finger of the work- 
 woman. " Do you know, that's mine, sir? But tell me every- 
 body can praise do you see no fault ? " 
 
 " I think that is one," said I, and pointed to a disproportion 
 that was pretty obvious. 
 
 "Why, so it is. I never knew you to be a flatterer." 
 
 "Men who can find fault more gracefully," said the bishop, 
 >mplime e nt. " than others praise, need not flatter." 
 
 "Why, that is true," said she. She sighed; "I was happy 
 when I was about this work. And the drawing was my own 
 too, after after I forget the painter. But you think it 
 tolerable do you?" 
 
 " I think it, upon the whole, very fine ; if you could rectify 
 that one fault, it would be a masterpiece." 
 
 "Well, I think I'll try, since you like it." She rolled it up. 
 "Camilla, let it be put on my toilette."
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THIS Clementina episode, which is spun out to great 
 length, was to many of the coterie the most touching 
 and admirable part of the work. The character of TheCiemen- 
 
 1 tina episode. 
 
 Clementina, and her sufferings (most of which I have 
 omitted) caused by the unkindness or want of judgment 
 of her keepers and guardians, caused buckets of tears to 
 be shed by the readers of Richardson, while the anguish 
 of suspense endured by the good people at home, I 
 mean the people in the book who were interested in the 
 fate of Harriet, was shared by all London. 
 
 As for me, I never cared very much about the Italian 
 part of the book. Lady Mary is quite right when she Richardson's 
 
 . ~ ignorance of 
 
 says Richardson is no more acquainted with Italy than Italy, 
 he is with the Kingdom of Mancomingo. It is quite extra- 
 ordinary that a man of Sir Charles's cultivation should be 
 capable of traveling for eight years on the Continent, 
 tarrying especially in the cities of Italy, to bring home 
 so little material with which to adorn his conversation. 
 I do not remember his even mentioning the works of 
 art, paintings, sculpture, which must have already existed 
 in those towns ; the St. Cecilia of Raphael must have been 
 hanging in the cathedral of Bologna ; to be sure, his 
 religious convictions would have prevented his entering 
 it. Apart from this, my interests are on the side of 
 Harriet Byron, and I am always glad to get him safe 
 home again, away from the entanglements of the 
 Porretta family. 
 
 Miss Byron writes to Lady G. from Selby House, after 
 ample comments on the Italian letters forwarded to her :
 
 Miss Byron's 
 letters from 
 Selby House. 
 
 140 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 As to my health, I would fain be well. I am more sorry that 
 I am not for the sake of my friends (who are incessantly griev- 
 ing for me) than for my own. I have not, I think I have not, 
 anything to reproach myself with, nor yet anybody to reproach 
 me. To whom have I given cause of triumph over me by my 
 ill usage or insolence to them ? I yield to an event to which I 
 ought to submit ; and to a woman not less, but more worthy 
 than myself; and who has a prior claim. 
 
 I long to hear of the meeting of this noble pair. May it be 
 propitious ! May Sir Charles Grandison have the satisfaction 
 and the merit with the family of being the means of restoring to 
 reason (a greater restoration than to health) the woman, every 
 faculty of whose soul ought in that case to be devoted to God 
 and to him ! Methinks I have at present but one wish ; it is that 
 I may live to see this lady, if she is to be the happy woman. . . . 
 
 But you see Sir Charles has been indisposed. No wonder. 
 Visited by the marquis and marchioness, you see. Not a slight 
 illness, therefore, you may believe. God preserve him, and 
 restore Lady Clementina, and the worthy Jeronymo ! 
 
 His kind remembrance of me ! But, my dear, I think the 
 doctor and you must forbear obliging me with any more of his 
 letters. His goodness, his tenderness, his delicacy, his strict 
 honor, but adds Yet can any new instances add to a character 
 so uniformly good ? But the chief reason of my self-denial, if 
 you were to take me at my word as to these communications, 
 is that his affecting descriptions and narratives of Lady Clem- 
 entina's reveries (poor, poor lady !) will break my heart. Yet 
 you must send them to your ever obliged 
 
 HARRIET BYRON. 
 
 Poor Harriet ! 
 
 Lady G. went down to Selby House, taking the good 
 Visit of Lady G. Dr. Bartlctt with her, to be with Miss Byron, and if 
 possible raise her spirits with her own lively ones. 
 Hence comes this letter : 
 
 LADY G. TO LADY L. 
 
 Se/by House, Monday, July 24th. 
 
 Lord bless me, my dear, what shall we do ! My brother in 
 all probability by this time But I cannot tell how to suppose 
 it ! Ah, the poor Harriet ! The three letters from my brother,
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 141 
 
 which by the permission of Dr. Bartlett I enclose, will show 
 you that the Italian affair is now at a crisis. 
 
 The three letters are inserted here, and then, thirty 
 pages on, Lady G. continues : 
 
 Well, my dear sister ! and what did you say to the contents ? 
 I wish I had been with you and Lord L. at the time you read News from 
 them, that I might have mingled my tears with yours for the 
 sweet Harriet ! Why would my brother despatch these letters, 
 without staying till at least he could have informed us of the 
 result of the next day's meeting with Clementina? What was 
 the opportunity that he had to send away those letters, which 
 he must be assured would keep us in strange suspense ? Hang 
 the opportunity that so officiously offered ! But perhaps, in the 
 tenderness of his nature, he thought that this despatch was nec- 
 essary to prepare us for what was to follow, lest, were he to 
 acquaint us with the event as decided, our emotion would be 
 too great to be supported. We sisters to go over to attend 
 LADY CLEMENTINA GRANDISON a twelvemonth hence ! Ah ! 
 the poor Harriet ! And will she give us leave ? But surely it 
 must not, cannot be ! And yet Hush ! hush ! hush, Charlotte, 
 and proceed to facts. . . . 
 
 These three letters she is referring to, from Sir 
 Charles, narrate his arrival at Bologna and subsequent frdvafat 63 ' 3 
 interviews with the Porretta family, and especially with Bol g na - 
 Clementina, whose health was greatly improving, 
 although when he first saw her "she was in her mother's 
 arms on a couch, just come out of a fit, but not a strong 
 one. ' ' The whole family were now prepared to surrender 
 all their prejudices and render their conditions. The 
 marquis, the marchioness, the bishop, the count, and 
 Father Marescotti were all present at this interview at 
 the palace. They entered and took their places. 
 
 "My dear," said the marquis, referring to his lady. After Renewed offers 
 some little hesitation, "We have no hope, sir," said she, "of ^|j e Porretta 
 oor child's perfect restoration, but from " she stopt. 
 
 "Our compliance with every wish of her heart," said the 
 bishop.
 
 142 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 " Ay, do you proceed," said the marchioness to the prelate. 
 Desired con- ''It would be to no purpose, chevalier," questioned the 
 
 Charles. * Sir bishop, " to urge to you the topic so near to all our hearts? " 
 
 I bowed assent to what he said. 
 
 " I am sorry for it," replied the bishop. 
 
 " I am very sorry for it," said the count. 
 
 This referred, of course, to his own change of religion, 
 and they all beset him again to shake his purpose. 
 
 "You have the example of great princes, chevalier," said 
 Father Marescotti, " Henry the Fourth of France, Augustus of 
 Poland" 
 
 "True, father. But great princes are not always, and in 
 every action of their lives, great men." 
 
 And so on, and so on, at great length, but they were 
 already fully decided to surrender the point of Sir 
 Charles's conversion to the Roman Catholic faith, on 
 condition that he should never, by himself, or his English 
 divines, attempt to pervert her ; should allow her a con- 
 
 The conditions 1 - i i 
 
 of the marriage, fessor, that confessor Father Marescotti, their residence 
 to be in England after the first year, which his sisters 
 should pass with them in Italy. The long conversation 
 settled everything in detail, the education of the 
 children, daughters allowed to be Roman Catholics, 
 sons to adhere to the faith of their father. 
 
 " All we have now to do," said the marquis, "is to gain his 
 holiness's permission [the pope]. That has not been refused in 
 such cases, where either the sons or the daughters of the 
 marriage are to be brought up Catholics." 
 
 Such was the news in the three letters which Sir 
 Charles sent off to Dr. Bartlett. He closes thus : 
 
 To-morrow I am to drink chocolate with Lady Clementina. 
 We shall be left together perhaps, or only with her mother and 
 Camilla. 
 
 A long interval had to elapse before the waiting circle 
 heard further news ; it came thus :
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 143 
 
 SIR CHARLES GRANDISON TO DR. BARTLETT. 
 
 Bologna^ Saturday ev'g. 
 
 I sit down now, my dear and reverend friend, to write you surprising 
 particulars which will surprise you. There is not on earth a news - 
 nobler woman than Clementina ! What at last But I find I 
 must have a quieter heart, and fingers, too, before I can proceed. 
 
 He resumes later : 
 
 I think I am a little less agitated than I was. The above few 
 lines shall go, for they will express to you the emotions of my 
 mind when I attempted to write an account of what had then so 
 newly passed. 
 
 What had newly passed was that Clementina, in the 
 interview accorded, after showing great agitation at his 
 addresses and the warmth of them, retired to a closet, 
 putting a paper in his hand as she left him. 
 
 This paper revealed her absolute determination never clementina . s 
 to unite herself to a heretic, even if it were the beloved resolve. 
 of her heart. Here is a part of it (translated by Dr. 
 Bartlett) : 
 
 "My tutor, my brother, my friend! oh, most beloved and 
 best of men ! Seek me not in marriage ! I am unworthy of 
 thee. Thy SOUL was ever most dear to Clementina. When- 
 ever I meditated the gracefulness of thy person I restrained my 
 eye, I checked my fancy ; and how ? Why, by meditating on 
 the superior graces of thy mind. And is not that soul to be 
 saved ? thought I. Dear, obstinate, and perverse ! And shall 
 I bind my soul to a soul allied to perdition ? That so dearly 
 loves that soul, as hardly to wish to be separated from it in its 
 future lot. Oh, thou most amiable of men, how can I be sure 
 that were I thine, thou wouldst not draw me after thee by love, 
 by sweetness of manners, by condescending goodness ? I, who 
 once thought a heretic the worst of beings, have been already 
 led, by the amiableness of thy piety, to think more favorably of 
 all heretics for thy sake ! 
 
 " But dost thou indeed love me ? Or is it owing to thy gener-
 
 144 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 osity, thy compassion, thy nobleness for a creature, who, aim- 
 ing to be great like thee, could not sustain the effort ? It is in 
 thy power to hold me fast or to set me free. I know thou lovest 
 Clementina ; it is her pride to think that thou dost. But she is 
 not worthy of thee. Yet let thy heart own that thou lovest her 
 soul. Thou art all magnanimity ; thou canst sustain the effort 
 which she was unequal to. Make some other woman happy ! 
 But I cannot bear that it shall be an Italian. . . . My 
 brain wounded, my health impaired, can I expect a long life ? 
 And shall I not endeavor to make the close of it happy ? Let 
 me be great, my chevalier ! " 
 
 Every effort to change this determination was vain, and 
 
 Her determma- J > / 
 
 tion irrevocable, after repeated efforts and a (really) touching final inter- 
 view with Clementina, Sir Charles departed for England. 
 On Tuesday, September 5th, Lady G. writes : 
 Congratulate us, my dearest Miss Byron, on the arrival of my 
 brother. He came last night. It was late, and he sent to us 
 this morning, and to others of his friends. My lord and I hur- 
 ried away to breakfast with him. Ah, my dear ! we see too 
 plainly that he has been very much disturbed in mind. He 
 looks more wan, and is thinner than he was ; but he is the same 
 kind brother, friend, and good man. 
 
 And next from Selby House, Wednesday, September 
 2oth, comes this from Harriet : 
 
 MY DEAREST LADY G. : Do you know what is become of 
 
 your brother? My grandmamma Shirley has seen his ghost, 
 Grandmamma ....... . , . 
 
 Shirley sees a and talked with it near an hour ; and then it vanished. Be not 
 
 surprised, my dear creature. I am still in amaze at the account 
 my grandmamma gives us of its appearance, discourse, and 
 vanishing ! Nor was the dear parent in a reverie. It happened 
 in the middle of the afternoon, all in broad day. 
 
 Thus she tells it: "I was sitting," said she, "in my own 
 drawing-room, yesterday, by myself, when in came James, to 
 whom it first appeared, and told me that a gentleman desired 
 to be introduced to me. I was reading ' Sherlock upon Death ' 
 with that cheerfulness with which I always meditate the sub- 
 ject. I gave orders for his admittance ; and in came, to 
 appearance, one of the handsomest men I ever saw in my life, 
 in a riding dress. It was a courteous ghost ; it saluted me, or
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron. 145 
 
 at least I thought it did ; for it answering to the description that 
 you, my Harriet, had given me of that amiable man, I was 
 surprised. But contrary to the manner of ghosts, it spoke first. 
 ' Venerable lady, ' it called me, and said its name was Grandi- 
 son, in a voice so like what I had heard you speak of his that 
 I had no doubt but it was Sir Charles Grandison himself, and 
 was ready to fall down to welcome him." 
 
 The ghost left a great packet of letters for Harriet, The ghost 
 
 f ' vanishes. 
 
 refused refreshments, desired in a courtly manner an 
 answer to what it had discoursed upon, made a pro- 
 found reverence, and vanished. 
 
 So now, through the length of two more volumes, 
 everything flows smoothly, but not rapidly. Sir Charles's 
 advances are made by parallels, beginning with the 
 excellent grandparent. When he approaches the cita- 
 del, it is with caution and great delicacy. This delicacy 
 arose from the doubt whether Miss Byron would be 
 willing, or should be permitted, to condone the previous 
 preoccupation of his heart with another lady. And 
 Harriet does not surrender without endless punctilio and 
 reticence. He took her hand and was bowing upon it 
 at page 65; on page 81 the real offer of marriage begins, The offer of 
 
 ^ . oo marriage. 
 
 and extends to page 89, during which space he talks 
 steadily but well. At this first pause she writes : 
 
 Not well before, I was more than once in apprehension of 
 fainting, as he talked, agreeable as was his talk, and engaging 
 as was liis manner. My grandmamma and aunt saw my com- 
 plexion change (they had been silent throughout) at his par- 
 ticular address to me in the last part of his speech. I held my 
 handkerchief now to my eyes, and now as a cover to myself- 
 felt varying cheek. 
 
 In the most respectful and graceful manner he pressed a 
 hand of each with his lips ; mine twice. I could not speak. 
 My grandmamma and aunt, delighted, yet tears standing in 
 their eyes, looked upon each other, and upon me ; each as ex- 
 pecting the other to speak. But he was ready to continue : 
 "I have, perhaps," said he with some emotion, ''taken up too
 
 146 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Ceniury. 
 
 much of Miss Byron's attention in this my first personal decla- 
 ration. I will now return to the company. We will for this 
 evening postpone the important subject." 
 
 At last, later on, the "man of men " gave Miss Byron 
 
 The offer . ... . 
 
 accepted. an opportunity to accept him. He then, on one knee, 
 
 taking her passive hand between both his, and kissing it 
 once, twice, thrice "Repeat, dear and ever dear Miss 
 Byron," and so on, and she took out her handkerchief. 
 Endless delays, before she could be persuade to fix 
 the day. 
 
 "Why hesitates my love ? " 
 
 " Do you think six weeks " 
 
 "Six ages, my dearest, dearest creature ! Six weeks ! For 
 heaven's sake, madam " 
 
 He looked, he spoke impatience. 
 
 On his leaving me to return to company below he presented 
 me with four little boxes. "Accept, my beloved Miss Byron," 
 said he, " of these trifles." 
 
 " Very handsome jewels " they proved to be. 
 The rest of the sixth volume is occupied with accounts 
 wed<fing! l infinitely detailed of the glorious wedding, all in letters 
 to Lady G. , who was unavoidably absent. The seventh 
 volume describes the happiness of Sir Charles and Lady 
 Grandison, and a visit they received from Clementina 
 and all the Porrettas. But the book really ends with 
 the wedding. 
 
 Joy, joy, joy, was wished the happy pair from every mouth. 
 "See, my dear young ladies," said the happy and instructing 
 Mrs. Shirley, "the reward of duty, virtue, and obedience." 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life and Correspondence of Samuel Richardson. Mrs. Bar- 
 bauld. 
 
 Mrs. Barbauld's Life in "English Poetesses," by Eric 
 S. Robertson, M. A. 
 
 Richardson's Complete Works ''any edition).
 
 BOOK V. 
 FIELDING. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 NEXT to Richardson among the novelists of this 
 period, the second place is given to Henry Fielding, 
 called by Byron " the prose Homer of human nature." "The prose 
 
 T 1 11 11-1-1- Homer of 
 
 In his personal character as well as in his literary career, human nature. 
 
 in everything, indeed, but the power of his genius, he 
 
 was the exact opposite of Richardson, though very 
 
 nearly his contemporary. He lived from 1707 to 1754, 
 
 while Richardson, who was born eight years earlier, 
 
 died some years later. 
 
 He was of noble birth, being a descendant of the 
 illustrious house of Denbigh and son of General Field- 
 ing'. He was the second cousin of Lady Mary Wortley, A cousin of 
 
 J J ' Lady Mary. 
 
 descended in the same degree from George, Earl of 
 Desmond. He dedicated to her his first comedy of 
 " Love in Several Masks" in 1727. She had a great 
 regard for him ; pitied his misfortunes, excused his 
 failings, and warmly admired his best writings, above 
 all "Tom Jones/' in her own copy of which she wrote 
 Ne plus ultra. Nevertheless she frankly said she was 
 "sorry he did not himself perceive that he had made 
 Tom Jones a scoundrel." 
 
 Early in life Fielding succeeded to a ruined inheri- 
 tance, and betook himself to the stage, becoming a 
 dramatic author and lively writer in the Covent Garden 
 Journal. He produced a number of pieces, now 
 
 147
 
 148 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 entirely forgotten, which show that his talent was in no 
 Henry Field- way adapted to the theater. His career for some 
 
 ing s early * ~ 
 
 struggle with years was a continuous struggle with fortune and his 
 
 fortune. * 
 
 own extravagance. He married an excellent lady, 
 whose picture he drew in his ' ' Amelia " ; he loved her 
 passionately and she returned his affection, but they led 
 no happy life, for they were always poor and seldom in 
 a state of quiet and safety on account of his debts. If 
 he ever possessed any money, nothing could keep him 
 from squandering it at once and nothing induced him to 
 think of to-morrow. Sometimes they were living in 
 decent lodgings with tolerable comfort ; sometimes in a 
 wretched garret without the necessaries of life, not to 
 speak of sponging-houses and hiding-places where he 
 was occasionally lying perdu. His elastic gaiety of 
 spirits carried him through it all ; but meanwhile care 
 and anxiety were preying upon her more delicate organ- 
 ization, and undermining her health. She gradually 
 declined, caught a fever, and died in his arms. Yet 
 after the death of this charming woman he married her 
 maid, a person of but few apparent attractions, but an 
 excellent creature, devoted to her mistress and almost 
 broken-hearted for her loss. Her conduct as his wife 
 justified the act. 
 
 In 1742, when he was thirty-five, he first struck the 
 "Joseph vein of humorous writing in which he is considered 
 
 Andrews." . - , , . 
 
 never to have had a rival, when he produced his first 
 novel, "Joseph Andrews," which was in some sense 
 intended as a parody or caricature, ridiculing the timid 
 morality of Richardson's "Pamela," its shopkeeper 
 tone, and generally "good boy" style; "Pamela" 
 was then in full blaze of success. Fielding's novel at 
 once received the honor due to a great, original creation, 
 and in a short time he produced the remarkable sa-
 
 Fielding. 149 
 
 tirical tale, "Jonathan Wild the Great." In 1749 he was 
 appointed to the laborious, and then far from respect- 
 able, post of a London police magistrate, and while thus 
 employed composed "the finest, completest, and pro- 
 foundest of his works, the incomparable ' Tom Jones.' ' 
 This was followed after a brief interval by ' ' Amelia. ' ' 
 Ruined in health by hard work and dissipation, he 
 sailed for Lisbon in 1754. After a short time he died in 
 that city and was buried in the Protestant cemetery there. 
 The qualities which distinguish Fielding's genius are 
 accurate observation of character and an extraordinary Fielding's 
 
 genius. 
 
 power of deducing the actions and expressions of his 
 personages from the elements of their nature, a constant 
 sympathy with the vigorous unrestrained characters, in 
 all ranks of society, but especially in the lowest, which 
 he loved to delineate. In the construction of his plots 
 he is masterly. That of ' ' Tom Jones ' ' is perhaps 
 the finest example in fiction of a series, what might be 
 called an avalanche, of events, probable yet surprising, 
 each of which helps the ultimate catastrophe. He 
 possessed an almost childish delight in fun and extrava- 
 gantly ludicrous incident, combined with a philosophic 
 closeness of analysis of character and an impressive 
 tone of moral reflection, the latter often masked under a 
 pleasant air of satire and irony. His novels breathe 
 a sort of fresh open-air atmosphere, in strong contrast 
 to the artificial style employed by Richardson. 
 
 In " Tom Jones" it is difficult to know what most to 
 
 - , , , , , . Admirable 
 
 admire the artful conduct or the plot, the immense qualities of 
 variety, wit, and humor of the personages, the gaiety 
 of the incidents, or the acute remarks which the author 
 interspersed amongst the matter of the narration. The 
 trouble is that, in spite of all that is here said, which I 
 readily adduce as the best verdict of present criticism,
 
 1 50 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Fielding is so indecent in plot and language that it is 
 defect " 5 difficult to give any just idea of either without shocking 
 
 ears polite. To give the plot and omit the chief details, 
 to quote passages and draw the pen through half of 
 every sentence, leaves but a mutilated example of his 
 work. I shall try, however, to give some brilliant 
 passages, even if it is necessary to leave their connection 
 unexplained. It would be a pity to pass over the 
 breezy, delightful narrative of Fielding, and his lightly- 
 touched pictures of the life of his time, vivid as they 
 are and broadly drawn. 
 
 The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast. 
 
 An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who- 
 gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who 
 keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for 
 their money. In the former case, it is well known that the en- 
 tertainer provides what fare he pleases : and though this should 
 An author r 
 
 a host. be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his 
 
 company, they must not find any fault ; nay, on the contrary, 
 good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to com- 
 mend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of this 
 happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what 
 they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and 
 even whimsical these may prove ; and if everything is not 
 agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to 
 abuse, and to d n their dinner without control. 
 
 To prevent, therefore, giving offense to their customers by 
 any such disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest 
 and well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare which all per- 
 sons may peruse at their first entrance into the house, and 
 having thence acquainted themselves with the entertainment 
 which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what is 
 provided for them, or may depart to some ordinary better 
 accommodated to their taste. 
 
 As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man 
 who is capable of lending us either, we have condescended to 
 take a hint from these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not
 
 Fielding. 151 
 
 only a general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, but shall 
 likewise give the reader particular bills to every course which 
 is to be served up in this and the ensuing volumes. 
 
 The provision, then, which we have here made is no other 
 than Human Nature. Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, 
 though most luxurious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be 
 offended, because I have named but one article. The tortoise 
 as the alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows by 
 much experience besides the delicious calibash and calepee, 
 contains many different kinds of food, nor can the learned 
 reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here collected 
 under one general name, is such prodigious variety, that a cook 
 will have sooner gone through all the several species of animal 
 and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to 
 exhaust so extensive a subject. 
 
 An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more 
 delicate, that this dish is too common and vulgar ; for what else 
 is the subject of all the romances, novels, plays, and poems 
 with which the stalls abound ? Many exquisite viands might be 
 rejected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient cause for his con- 
 temning of them as common and vulgar, that something was to 
 be found in the most paltry alleys under the same name. In 
 reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with in authors as the 
 Bayonne hare or Bologna sausage is to be found in the shops. 
 
 But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the 
 cookery of the author ; for, as Mr. Pope tells us, 
 
 True wit is nature to advantage drest ; 
 
 What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest. 
 
 The same animal which hath the honor to have some part of 
 his flesh eaten at the table of a duke may perhaps be degraded 
 in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in 
 the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the difference 
 between the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are 
 at dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the 
 dressing, the garnishing, and the setting forth ? Hence the one 
 provokes and incites the most languid appetite, and the other 
 turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest. 
 
 In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment The author's 
 consists less in the subject than in the author's skill in well paring it. 
 dressing it up. How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to
 
 152 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 find that we have, in the following work, adhered closely to- 
 one of the highest principles of the best cook which the present 
 age, or perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath produced. This 
 great man, as is well known to all polite lovers of eating, 
 begins at first by setting plain things before his hungry guests, 
 rising afterward by degrees as their stomachs may be supposed 
 to decrease, to the very quintessence of sauce and spices. In 
 like manner, we shall represent human nature at first to the 
 keen appetite of our reader, in that more plain and simple 
 manner in which it is found in the country, and shall hereafter 
 hash and ragoo it with all the high French and Italian season- 
 ing of affectation and vice which courts and cities afford. By 
 these means, we doubt not but our reader may be rendered 
 desirous to read on forever, as the great person just above- 
 mentioned is supposed to have made some persons eat. 
 
 Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who 
 like our bill of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed 
 directly to serve up the first course of our history for their 
 entertainment. 
 
 Tom Tones, the foundling-, was adopted in the kindli- 
 
 InfancyofTom J 
 
 J nes - est manner by the excellent Mr. Allworthy, with a good 
 
 heart and no family, who found the child in his bed one 
 evening on returning from a long absence and decided 
 to adopt the boy as his own. 
 
 The readers neck brought into danger by a description; his 
 escape ; and the great condescension of Miss Bridget All- 
 worthy. 
 
 The Gothic style of building could produce nothing nobler 
 Description of than Mr. Allworthy's house. There was an air of grandeur in 
 
 Mr. Allworthy's . ,, . , . , , . , . . . . , , 
 
 estate. lt; that struck you with a\ve, and rivaled the beauties of the best 
 
 Grecian architecture ; and it was as commodious within as 
 venerable without. 
 
 It stood on the southeast side of a hill, but nearer the bottom 
 than the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the northeast by a 
 grove of old oaks which arose above it in a gradual ascent of 
 near half a mile, and yet high enough to enjoy a most charming 
 prospect of the valley beneath. 
 
 In the midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down
 
 Fielding. 153 
 
 toward the house, near the summit of which rose a plentiful 
 spring, gushing out of a rock covered with firs, and forming a 
 constant cascade of about thirty feet, not carried down a regular 
 flight of steps, but tumbling in a natural fall over the broken 
 and mossy stones till it came to the bottom of the rock, then scenery" 
 running off in a pebbly channel, that with many lesser falls 
 winded along, till it fell into a lake at the foot of the hill, about 
 a quarter of a mile below the house on the south side, and 
 which was seen from every room in the front. Out of this lake, 
 which filled the center of a beautiful plain, embellished with 
 groups of beeches and elms, and fed with sheep, issued a river, 
 that for several miles was seen to meander through an amazing 
 variety of meadows and woods till it emptied itself into the sea, 
 with a large arm of which, and an island beyond it, the prospect 
 was closed. 
 
 On the right of this valley opened another of less extent, 
 adorned with several villages, and terminated by one of the 
 towers of an old ruined abbey, grown over with ivy, and part of 
 the front, which remained still entire. 
 
 The left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, 
 composed of very unequal ground, and agreeably varied with 
 all the diversity that hills, lawns, wood, and water, laid out with 
 admirable taste, but owing less to art than to nature, could give. 
 Beyond this, the country gradually rose into a ridge of wild 
 mountains, the tops of which were above the clouds. . . . 
 
 It was now the middle of May, and the morning was remark- 
 ably serene, when Mr. Allworthy walked forth on the terrace, Mr. Allworthy 
 
 walks forth, 
 where the dawn opened every minute that lovely prospect we 
 
 have before described to his eye ; and now having sent forth 
 streams of light, which ascended the blue firmament before him, 
 as harbingers preceding his pomp, in the full blaze of his 
 majesty rose the sun, than which one object alone in this lower 
 creation could be more glorious, and that Mr. Allworthy him- 
 self presented a human being replete with benevolence, medi- 
 tating in what manner he might render himself most acceptable 
 to his Creator, by doing most good to his creatures. 
 
 Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of 
 as high a hill as Mr. Allworthy's, and how to get thee down 
 without breaking thy neck, I do not well know. However, let 
 us e'en venture to slide down together ; for Miss Bridget rings 
 her bell, and Mr. Allworthy is summoned to breakfast, where I
 
 154 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 must attend, and, if you please, shall be glad of your company. 
 The usual compliments having passed between Mr. Allworthy 
 and Miss Bridget, and the tea being poured out, he told his 
 sister he had a present for her, for which she thanked him 
 imagining, I suppose, it had been a gown, or some ornament 
 for her person. Indeed, he very often made her such presents ; 
 and she, in complacence to him, spent much time in adorning 
 herself. I say in complacence to him, because she always 
 expressed the greatest contempt for dress, and for those ladies 
 who made it their study. 
 
 Miss Bridget Allworthy was the sister of the master of 
 Miss Allworthy the house, who lived with him. She was not altogether 
 pleased when she discovered the nature of the present 
 referred to ; however, having looked at the child ear- 
 nestly as it lay asleep she could not forbear giving it a 
 hearty kiss, at the same time declaring herself wonder- 
 fully pleased with it. 
 
 About this time Miss Allworthy was married herself, 
 and had a son, who was brought up in Mr. All- 
 worthy's house along with "Tom." His name was 
 Master Blifil and they were always quarreling. 
 
 The hero of this great history appears with very bad omens. A 
 little tale of so low a kind that some may think it not worth 
 their notice. A word or two concerning a squire, and more 
 relating to a gamekeeper and a schoolmaster. 
 
 As we determined, when we first sat down to write this his- 
 tory, to flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout by the 
 directions of truth, we are obliged to bring our hero on the 
 stage in a much more disadvantageous manner than we could 
 wish ; and to declare honestly, even at his first appearance, that 
 it was the universal opinion of all Mr. Allworthy's family that 
 he was certainly born to be hanged. 
 
 Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this 
 
 His early conjecture ; the lad having from his earliest years discovered a 
 
 propensities. propensity to many vices, and especially to one which hath as 
 
 direct a tendency as any other to that fate which we have just 
 
 now observed to have been prophetically denounced against
 
 Fielding. 155 
 
 him ; he had been already convicted of three robberies, viz. : of 
 robbing an orchard, of stealing a duck out of a farmer's yard, 
 and of picking Master Blifil's pocket of a ball. 
 
 The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by 
 *u j- A i- if- u- i *u \ u j Character of 
 
 the disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed Master Blifil. 
 
 to the virtues of Master Blifil, his companion ; a youth of so 
 different a cast from little Jones that not only the family but all 
 the neighborhood resounded his praises. He was, indeed, a 
 lad of remarkable disposition ; sober, discreet, and pious beyond 
 his age ; qualities which gained him the love of every one who 
 knew him ; while Tom Jones was universally disliked ; and 
 many expressed their wonder that Mr. Allworthy would suffer 
 such a lad to -be educated with his nephew, lest the morals of 
 the latter should be corrupted by his example. 
 
 An incident which happened about this time will set the char- 
 acters of these two lads more fairly before the discerning reader 
 than is in the power of the longest dissertation. 
 
 Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, must serve for the hero of this 
 history, had only one friend among all the servants of the family. 
 This friend was the gamekeeper, a fellow of a loose kind of 
 disposition and who was thought not to entertain much stricter 
 notions concerning the difference of meum and tuum than the 
 young gentleman himself, and hence this friendship gave 
 occasion to many sarcastical remarks among the domestics, 
 most of which were either proverbs before, or at least had be- 
 come so now : and indeed the wit of them all may be com- 
 prised in that short Latin proverb, Noscitur a socio ; which, I 
 think, is thus expressed in English : "You may know him by 
 the company he keeps." 
 
 Contiguous to Mr. Allworthy's estate was the manor of one 
 of these gentlemen who are called preservers of the game, the game. 
 This species of men, from the great severity with which they 
 revenge the death of a hare or partridge, might be thought to 
 cultivate the same superstitions with the Bannians in India, 
 many of whom we are told dedicate their whole lives to the 
 preservation and protection of certain animals ; was it not that 
 our English Bannians while they preserve them from other 
 enemies will most unmercifully slaughter whole horse-loads 
 themselves ; so that they stand clearly acquitted of any such 
 heathenish superstition. 
 
 Now, as Horace tells us that there are a set of human beings
 
 156 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Tom goes out 
 with the game- 
 keeper. 
 
 Discovered 
 with a 
 partridge. 
 
 Fruges consumere nati, 
 
 "Born to consume the fruits of the earth"; so I make no 
 manner of doubt but that there are others 
 
 Feras consumere nati, 
 
 " Born to consume the beasts of the field " ; or, as it is com- 
 monly called, the game ; and none, I believe, will deny but 
 that those squires fulfil this end of their creation. 
 
 Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper ; 
 when happening to spring a covey of partridges near the border 
 of that manor over which fortune, to fulfil the wise purposes of 
 nature, had planted one of the game consumers, the birds flew 
 into it, and were marked (as it is called) by the two sportsmen, 
 in some furze bushes, about two or three hundred paces 
 beyond Mr. Allworthy's dominions. 
 
 Mr. Allworthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of 
 forfeiting his place, never to trespass on any of his neighbors ; 
 no more on those who were less rigid in this matter than on 
 the lord of this manor. With regard to others, indeed, these 
 orders had not been always very scrupulously kept ; but as the 
 disposition of the gentleman with whom the partridges had 
 taken sanctuary was well known, the gamekeeper had never 
 yet attempted to invade his territories. Nor had he done it 
 now, had not the younger sportsman, who was excessively 
 eager to pursue the flying game, over-persuaded him ; but 
 Jones being very importunate, the other, who was himself keen 
 enough after the sport, yielded to his persuasions, entered the 
 manor, and shot one of the partridges. 
 
 The gentleman himself was at that time on horseback, at a 
 little distance from them ; and hearing the gun go off, he 
 immediately made toward the place, and discovered poor 
 Tom ; for the gamekeeper had leapt into the thickest part of 
 the furze-brake, where he had happily concealed himself. 
 
 The gentleman having searched the lad, and found the 
 partridge upon him, denounced great vengeance, swearing he 
 would acquaint Mr. Allworthy. He was as good as his word ; 
 for he rode immediately to his house, and complained of the 
 trespass on his manor in as high terms and as bitter language 
 as if his house had been broken open and the most valuable 
 furniture stole out of it. He added that some other person 
 was in his company, though he could not discover him ; for
 
 Fielding. 157 
 
 that two guns had been discharged almost in the same instant. 
 And, says he, "We have found only this partridge, but the 
 Lord knows what mischief they have done." 
 
 At his return home Tom was presently convened before Mr. 
 Allworthy. He owned the fact, and alleged no other excuse 
 but what was really true, viz., that the covey was originally 
 sprung in Mr. Allworthy's own manor. 
 
 Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr. 
 Allworthy declared he was resolved to know, acquainting the betray his 
 culprit with the circumstance of the two guns, which had been com pa ni n- 
 deposed by the squire and both his servants ; but Tom stoutly 
 persisted in asserting that he was alone ; yet, to say the truth, 
 he hesitated a little at first, which would have confirmed Mr. 
 Allworthy's belief had what the squire and his servants said 
 wanted any further confirmation. 
 
 The gamekeeper, being a suspected person, was now sent 
 for, and the question put to him ; but he, relying on the prom- 
 ise which Tom had made him, to take all upon himself, very 
 resolutely denied being in company with the young gentleman, 
 or indeed having seen him the whole afternoon. 
 
 Mr. Allworthy then turned toward Tom, with more than 
 usual anger in his countenance, and advised him to confess who 
 was with him ; repeating that he was resolved to know. The 
 lad, however, still maintained his resolution, and was dismissed 
 with much wrath by Mr. Allworthy, who told him he should 
 have to the next morning to consider of it, when he should be 
 questioned by another person and in another manner. 
 
 Poor Jones spent a very melancholy night ; and the more so 
 as he was without his usual companion ; for Master Blifil was 
 gone abroad on a visit with his mother. Fear of the punish- 
 ment he was to suffer was on this occasion his least evil ; his 
 chief anxiety being lest his constancy should fail him, and he 
 should be brought to betray the gamekeeper, whose ruin he 
 knew must now be the consequence. 
 
 Nor did the gamekeeper pass the time much better. He had 
 the same apprehensions with the youth for whose humor he 
 had likewise a much tenderer regard than for his skin. 
 
 In the morning when Tom attended the reverend Mr. 
 
 Thwackum, the person to whom Mr. Allworthy had committed 
 
 - , . His punish- 
 
 the instruction of the two boys, he had the same questions put ment. 
 
 to him by that gentleman which he had been asked the evening
 
 158 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 before, to which he returned the same answer. The conse- 
 quence was a severe whipping, which he bore with great reso- 
 lution, rather than betray his friend or break the promise he 
 had made. 
 
 The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr. 
 Allworthy himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings ; 
 now as cruelty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr. 
 Allworthy could by no means support the consciousness a 
 single moment he sent for Tom and said: "lam convinced, 
 my dear child, that my suspicions have wronged you, I am 
 kindness? 1 yS sorry you have been so severely punished on this account." 
 And at last gave him a little horse to make him amends. 
 
 Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could 
 make it. The tears burst from his eyes, and he fell on his 
 knees, crying, "Oh, sir, you are too good to me. Indeed you 
 are. Indeed, I don't deserve it." And at that very instant, 
 from the fulness of his heart, had almost betrayed the secret ; 
 but the good genius of the gamekeeper suggested to him what 
 might be the consequence to the poor fellow, and this consider- 
 ation sealed his lips. 
 
 Thwackum did all he could to persuade Allworthy from 
 showing any compassion or kindness to the boy, saying, " He 
 had persisted in an untruth"; and gave some hints that a 
 second whipping might probably bring the matter to light. 
 
 But Mr. Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the 
 experiment. He said the boy had suffered enough already for 
 concealing the truth, even if he was guilty, seeing that he could 
 have no motive but a mistaken point of honor for so doing. 
 
 "Honor!" cried Thwackum with some wrath, "mere stub- 
 bornness and obstinacy ! Can honor teach any one to tell a lie, 
 or can any honor exist independent of religion ? " 
 
 A childish incident, in which, however, is seen a good-natured 
 
 disposition in Tom Jones. 
 
 The reader may remember that Mr. Allworthy gave Tom 
 Jones a little horse, as a kind of smart-money for the punish- 
 ment which he imagined he had suffered innocently. 
 
 This horse Tom kept above half a year, and then rode him 
 The horse sold, to a neighboring fair and sold him. On his return, being ques- 
 tioned by Thwackum what he had done with the money for 
 which the horse was sold, he franklv declared he would not tell
 
 Fielding. 1 59 
 
 him. Mr. Allworthy, entering the room, took him with him 
 into another apartment ; where, being himself only present 
 with Tom, he put the same question to him which Thwackum 
 had before asked him. 
 
 Tom answered, he could in duty refuse him nothing ; but as 
 for that tyrannical rascal, he would never make him any other 
 answer than with a cudgel, with which he hoped soon to be 
 able to pay him for all his barbarities. 
 
 Mr. Allworthy very severely reprimanded the lad for his 
 indecent and disrespectful expressions concerning his master ; To ^ d r ^f ri " 
 but much more for his avowing an intention of revenge. He 
 threatened him with the entire loss of his favor if he ever heard 
 such another word from his mouth ; for, he said, he would 
 never support or befriend a reprobate. By these and the like 
 declarations, he extorted some compunction from Tom, in 
 which that youth was not over-sincere ; for he really meditated 
 some return for all the smarting favors he had received at the 
 hands of the pedagogue. He was, however, brought by Mr. 
 Allworthy to express a concern for his resentment against 
 Thwackum ; and then the good man, after some wholesome 
 admonition, permitted him to proceed, which he did as follows : 
 
 "Indeed, my dear sir, I love and honor you more than all 
 the world : I know the great obligations I have to you, and His defense. 
 should detest myself if I thought my heart was capable of 
 ingratitude. Could the little horse you gave me speak, I am 
 sure he could tell you how fond I was of your present ; for I 
 had more pleasure in feeding him than in riding him. Indeed, 
 sir, it went to my heart to part with him ; nor would I have sold 
 him upon any other account in the world than what I did. You 
 3'ourself, sir, I am convinced, in my case, would have done the 
 same ; for none ever so sensibly felt the misfortunes of others. 
 What would you feel, dear sir, if you thought yourself the 
 occasion of them ? Indeed, sir, there never was any misery 
 like theirs." 
 
 "Like whose, child?" says Allworthy. "What do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " answered Tom, " your poor gamekeeper, with all 
 his large family, ever since your discarding him, have been 
 perishing with all the miseries of cold and hunger : I could not 
 bear to see these poor wretches naked and starving, and at the 
 same time know myself to have been the occasion of all their
 
 160 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 sufferings. I could not bear it, sir ; upon my soul, I could not." 
 
 Cause of his Here the tears ran down his cheeks, and he thus proceeded. 
 
 sacrifice. < j t was to save them from absolute destruction I parted with 
 
 your dear present, notwithstanding all the value I had for it : I 
 
 sold the horse for them, and they have every farthing of the 
 
 money." 
 
 Mr. All worthy now stood silent for some moments, and 
 before he spoke the tears started from his eyes. He at length 
 dismissed Tom with a gentle rebuke, advising him for the 
 future to apply to him in cases of distress, rather than to use 
 extraordinary means of relieving them himself. 
 
 We must now leave Tom to grow up, his character 
 being sufficiently foreshadowed by these childish events 
 for the reader to understand what kind of a hero he is to 
 make, easily enlisting the sympathy of people who love 
 an honest, happy-go-lucky boy. Master Blifil, as may 
 be supposed, by the artistic need of contrast, is drawn 
 as a youth of every opposite quality to those of Tom. 
 
 A short hint of what we can do in the sublime, and a description 
 of Miss Sophia Western. 
 
 Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of the 
 winds confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy 
 Boreas and the sharp-pointed nose of bitter-biting Eurus. Do 
 thou, sweet Zephyrus, rising from thy fragrant bed, mount the 
 western sky, and lead on those delicious gales, the charms of 
 which call forth the lovely Flora from her chamber, perfumed 
 with pearly dews, when on the ist of June, her birthday, the 
 blooming maid, in loose attire, gently trips it over the verdant 
 M^ss Sop'hia mead, where every flower rises to do her homage, till the whole 
 Western. field, becomes enamelled, and colors contend with sweets which 
 
 shall ravish her most. 
 
 So charming may she now appear ! and you the feathered 
 choristers of nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can 
 excel, tune your melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. 
 From love proceeds your music, and to love it returns. Awaken 
 therefore that gentle passion in every swain : for lo ! adorned 
 with all the charms in which nature can array her ; bedecked 
 with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence, modesty, and
 
 Fielding. 161 
 
 tenderness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and 
 darting brightness from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia 
 comes ! 
 
 Reader, perhaps thou hast seen the statue of the Venus de 
 Medicis. Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beauties 
 at Hampton Court. Thou may'st remember each bright 
 
 Churchill of the galaxy, and all the toasts of the Kit-cat. Or. if Toasts of the 
 
 Kit-cat 
 their reign was before thy times, at least thou hast seen their 
 
 daughters, the no less dazzling beauties of the present age ; 
 whose names, should we here insert, we apprehend they would 
 fill the whole volume. 
 
 Now if thou hast seen all these without knowing what beauty 
 is, thou hast no eyes ; if without feeling its power, thou hast 
 no heart. 
 
 Yet it is possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all 
 these without being able to form an exact idea of Sophia, for 
 she did not exactly resemble any of them. She was most like 
 the picture of Lady Ranelegh ; and, I have heard, more still to 
 the famous Duchess of Mazarine ; but most of all she resembled 
 one whose image can never depart from my breast, and whom, 
 if thou dost remember thou hast then, my friend, an adequate 
 idea of Sophia. 
 
 Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr. Western, was a middle 
 sized woman, but rather inclining to tall. Her hair, which was 
 black, was so luxuriant that it reached her middle, before she cut 
 it to comply with the modern fashion. Her eyebrows were full, 
 even and arched beyond the power of art to imitate. Her black 
 eyes had a luster in them which all her softness could not extin- 
 guish. Her nose was exactly regular, and her mouth, in which 
 
 were two rows of ivory, exactly answered Sir John Suckling's Sir John 
 , . .. }> * J & Suckling's 
 
 description in these lines : description. 
 
 Her lips were red, and one was thin, 
 
 Compar'd to that was next her chin, 
 
 (Some bee had stung it newly). 
 
 Her cheeks were of the oval kind ; and in her right she had a 
 dimple which the least smile discovered. Her chin had cer- 
 tainly its share in forming the beauty of her face, but it was diffi- 
 cult to say whether it was either large or small, though perhaps 
 it was rather of the former kind. Her complexion had rather 
 more of the lily than of the rose ; but when exercise or modesty
 
 1 62 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 increased her natural color, no vermilion could equal it. Then 
 one might indeed cry out with the celebrated Dr. Donne : 
 
 Her pure and eloquent blood 
 Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
 That one might almost say her body thought. 
 Such was the outside of Sophia ; nor was this beautiful frame 
 The mind of disgraced by an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind was every 
 Sophia. \vay equal to her person ; nay, the latter borrowed some charms 
 
 from the former ; for when she smiled, the sweetness of her 
 temper diffused that glory over her countenance which no regu- 
 larity of features can give. But as there are no perfections of 
 the mind which do not discover themselves in that perfect inti- 
 macy to which we intend to introduce our reader with this 
 charming young creature, so it is needless to mention them 
 here : nay, it is a kind of tacit affront to our reader's under- 
 standing, and may also rob him of that pleasure which he will 
 receive in forming his own judgment of her character. 
 
 It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental 
 accomplishments she had derived from nature, they were some- 
 what improved and cultivated by art : for she had been edu- 
 cated under the care of an aunt, who was a lady of great dis- 
 cretion, and was thoroughly acquainted with the world, having 
 lived in her youth about the court, whence she had retired some 
 years since into the country. By her conversation and instruc- 
 tions, Sophia was perfectly well bred, though perhaps she 
 wanted a little of that ease in her behavior which is to be 
 acquired only by habit, and living within what is called the 
 polite circle. 
 
 Wherein the history goes back to commemorate a trifling inci- 
 dent that happened some years since ; but which, trifling as it 
 was, had some future consequences. 
 
 The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year, when 
 dem tha* mC1 " she is introduced into this history. Her father, as hath been 
 happened some said, was fonder of her than any other human creature. To 
 
 years earlier. . 
 
 her, therefore, lom Jones applied, in order to engage her 
 interest on the behalf of his friend, the gamekeeper, 
 
 But before we proceed to this business, a short recapitulation 
 of some previous matters may be necessary. 
 
 Though the different tempers of Mr. All worthy and of Mr.
 
 Fielding. 163 
 
 Western did not admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet 
 they lived upon what is called a decent footing together ; by 
 which means the .young people of both families had been 
 acquainted from their infancy ; and as they were all near of 
 the same age, had been frequent playmates together. 
 
 The gaiety of Tom's temper suited better with Sophia than Tom and 
 the grave and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the Master Blifil. 
 preference which she gave the former of these would often 
 appear so plainly that a lad of a more passionate turn than Mas- 
 ter Blifil was might have shown some displeasure at it. 
 
 As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, 
 it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost 
 recesses of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the 
 most secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their 
 closets and cupboards, only to discover their poverty and mean- 
 ness to the world. 
 
 However, as persons who suspect they have given others 
 cause of offense are apt to conclude they are offended, so Sophia 
 imputed an action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the supe- 
 rior sagacity of Thwackum discerned to have arisen from a 
 much better principle. 
 
 Tom Tones when very young had presented Sophia with a 
 ,.,,.,,., , j , ,- j The little bird, 
 
 little bird which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up and 
 
 taught to sing. 
 
 Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so 
 extremely fond that her chief business was to feed and tend it, 
 and her chief pleasure to play with it. 
 
 By these means little Tommy, for so the bird was called, was 
 become so tame that it would feed out of her hand, but she 
 always kept a small string about its leg. 
 
 One day Mr. Blifil observing the extreme fondness that she 
 showed for her little bird desired her to trust it for a moment in 
 his hand. Sophia presently complied with the request and 
 delivered him her bird, of which he was no sooner in pos- 
 session than he slipt the string from its leg and tossed it into 
 the air. 
 
 Sophia seeing her bird gone screamed out so loud that Tom 
 Jones, who was at a little distance, immediately ran to her ! 
 assistance, and stripping off his coat, applied himself to climb- 
 ing the tree to which the bird escaped. He had almost recov- 
 ered his little namesake when the branch on which it was
 
 164 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 perched and that hung over a canal broke, and the poor lad 
 plumped over head and ears in the water. 
 
 Sophia screamed ten times louder than before and indeed 
 Mr. Blifil himself now seconded her with all the vociferation in 
 his power. 
 
 The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden, 
 were instantly alarmed, and came all forth ; but just as they 
 reached the canal, Tom (for the water was luckily pretty shal- 
 low in that part) arrived safely on shore. 
 
 Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dropping 
 and shivering before him, when Mr. Allworthy desired him to 
 have patience ; and turning to Master Blifil, said, " Pray, child, 
 what is the reason of all this disturbance ? " 
 
 Blifil's e olana- Master Blifil answered, "Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for 
 tion. what I have done ; I have been unhappily the occasion of it all. 
 
 I had Miss Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the poor 
 creature languished for liberty, I own I could not forbear giving 
 it what it desired ; for I always thought there was something 
 very cruel in confining anything. It seemed to be against the 
 law of nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty ; 
 nay, it is even unchristian, for it is not doing what we would be 
 done by : but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would have been 
 so much concerned at it, I am sure I never would have done 
 it ; nay, if I had known what would have happened to the bird 
 itself : for when Master Jones, who climbed up that tree after 
 it, fell into the water, the bird took a second flight, and 
 presently a nasty hawk carried it away." 
 
 Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy's fate 
 (for her concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it when 
 Sophia's it happened), shed a shower of tears. These Mr. Allworthy 
 
 endeavored to assuage, promising her a much finer bird : but 
 she declared she would never have another. Her father chid 
 her for crying so for a foolish bird ; but could not help telling 
 young Blifil, if he was a son of his, he should be well punished. 
 Sophia now returned to her chamber, the two young gentle- 
 men were sent home, and the rest of the company returned to 
 their bottle. 
 
 Since the adventure of the bird, Sophia had been 
 absent upward of three years with her aunt, during 
 which she had seen neither of these young gentlemen.
 
 Fielding. 1 65 
 
 The young lady was now returned to her father ; who gave 
 her the command of his house, and placed her at the upper end 
 of his table, where Tom (who for his great love of hunting was 
 become a great favorite of the squire) often dined. Young 
 men of open, generous dispositions are naturally inclined to 
 gallantry, which, if they have good understandings, as was in 
 reality Tom's case, exerts itself in an obliging complacent 
 behavior to all women in general. This greatly distinguished Tom distin . 
 Tom from the boisterous brutality of mere country squires guished from 
 on the one hand, and from the solemn and somewhat sullen country squire, 
 deportment of Master Blifil on the other ; and he began now, 
 at twenty, to have the name of a pretty fellow among all the 
 women in the neighborhood. 
 
 Tom behaved to Sophia with no particularity, unless perhaps 
 by showing her a higher respect than he paid to any other ; a 
 distinction her beauty, fortune, sense, and amiable carriage 
 seemed to demand. 
 
 Sophia, with the highest degree of innocence and modesty, 
 had a remarkable sprightliness in her temper. This was so 
 greatly increased whenever she was in company with Tom, that 
 had he not been very young and thoughtless, he must have 
 observed it ; or had not Mr. Western's thoughts been generally 
 either in the field, the stable, or the dog-kennel, it might have 
 perhaps created some jealousy in him ; but so far was the 
 good gentleman from entertaining any such suspicions that he 
 gave Tom every opportunity with his daughter which any lover 
 could have wished ; and this Tom innocently improved to 
 better advantage, by following only the dictates of his natural 
 gallantry and good-nature than he might perhaps have done 
 had he had the deepest designs on the young lady. 
 
 But indeed it can occasion little wonder that this matter 
 escaped the observation of others, since poor Sophia herself 
 never remarked it ; and her heart was irretrievably lost before 
 she suspected it was in danger. 
 
 Matters were in this situation when Tom one after- 
 noon finding Sophia alone began, after a short apology, 
 to acquaint her that he had a favor to ask of her. 
 
 At this her color forsook her cheeks, her limbs trembled, and He asks a 
 her tongue would have faltered, had Tom stopped for an a%or -
 
 1 66 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 answer ; but he soon relieved her by proceeding to inform her 
 of his request, which was to solicit her interests on behalf of 
 the gamekeeper, whose own ruin and that of a large family 
 must be, he said, the consequence of Mr. Western's pursuing 
 his action against him. 
 
 Sophia presently recovered her composure, and with a smile 
 full of sweetness said, " Is this the mighty favor you asked 
 with so much gravity ? I will do it with all my heart. I really 
 pity the poor fellow, and no longer ago than yesterday sent a 
 small matter to his wife." Our youth, now emboldened with 
 his success, resolved to push the matter farther, and ventured 
 to beg her recommendation of him to her father's service. 
 
 Sophia answered: " Well, I will undertake this too, but I can- 
 not promise you as much success as in the former part, which I 
 assure you I will not quit my father without obtaining." 
 
 It was Mr. Western's custom every afternoon, as soon as he 
 was drunk, to hear his daughter play on the harpsichord ; for 
 he was a great lover of music, and perhaps, had he lived in 
 town, might have passed for a connoisseur ; for he always 
 excepted against the finest compositions of Mr. Handel. He 
 never relished any music but what was light and airy ; and 
 indeed his most favorite tunes were " Old Sir Simon the King," 
 "St. George he was for England," " Bobbing Joan," and some 
 others. 
 
 His daughter, though she was a perfect mistress of music, 
 and would never willingly have played any but Handel's, was 
 so devoted to her father's pleasure that she learnt all those 
 tunes to oblige him. However, she would now and then 
 endeavor to lead him into her own taste ; and when he required 
 the repetition of his ballads, would answer with a " Nay, dear 
 sir," and would often beg him to suffer her to play something 
 else. 
 
 This evening, however, when the gentleman was retired from 
 his bottle, she played all his favorites three times over without 
 Sophia uses an y solicitation. This so pleased the good squire that he 
 started from his couch, gave his daughter a kiss, and swore her 
 hand was greatly improved. .She took this opportunity to 
 execute her promise to Tom ; in which she succeeded so well 
 that the squire declared, if she would give him t'other bout of 
 " Old Sir Simon," he would give the gamekeeper his deputation 
 the next morning. " Sir Simon " was played again and again, till
 
 Fielding. 167 
 
 the charms of the music soothed Mr. Western to sleep. In the 
 morning Sophia did not fail to remind him of his engagement ; The 
 and his attorney was immediately sent for, ordered to stop any f^ 
 further proceedings in the action, and to make out the deputa- 
 tion. 
 
 I have given so much space to the early love affairs of 
 Tom and Sophia, because it is really the most simple 
 and charming part of the book.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 TOM'S delinquencies and misdemeanors came to such 
 
 Tom Jones a pass that he was turned out of doors, a result that 
 
 door e s doutof would not have been reached but for the ill-will of 
 
 Master Blifil and his mother, who were determined to 
 
 get rid of him, and so misrepresented his conduct to Mr. 
 
 Allworthy as to put everything in its worst light. That 
 
 good gentleman gave Tom a well-filled pocket-book 
 
 (which Tom immediately lost) and parted with him with 
 
 honest regret. 
 
 Now begins a series of wonderful adventures, in the 
 line of those of Don Quixote and Gil Bias, with the differ- 
 ence that they are described with an air of great fresh- 
 ness, and the events are all "up to date," to use a 
 modern expression. Tom fell in with Partridge, the 
 butt of the book, and they traveled together, stopping 
 at bad inns and good inns, out of pocket, falling off 
 horses, meeting villains and fine ladies, and entertaining 
 angels unawares. 
 
 Meanwhile Sophia, being urged, and threatened by 
 t S raveifn g on force to marry Blifil, ran away from her father's house, 
 accompanied by her maid Honour. These were therefore 
 traveling round the country on horseback, meeting all 
 sorts of adventures and falling into much ill-luck. Jones 
 was constantly upon their tracks, but never coming up 
 with them, although he knew they were on the road, 
 and shaped his otherwise inexplicable course in the 
 intent of following them. The picture we get of the 
 difficulties of traveling in those days is not exaggerated,
 
 Fielding. ' 169 
 
 for no doubt the dangers of a real journey were as great 
 as theirs. 
 
 The disasters which befel Tom Jones on his departure for 
 Coventry ; with the sage remarks of Partridge. 
 
 No road can be plainer than that from the place where they 
 now were to Coventry ; and though neither Jones, nor Part- 
 ridge, nor the guide, had ever traveled it before, it would seem 
 almost impossible for them to miss their way. 
 
 Circumstances, however, happening unfortunately to inter- 
 vene, our travelers deviated into a much less frequented track ; 
 and after riding full six miles, instead of arriving at the stately 
 spires of Coventry they found themselves still in a very dirty 
 lane, where they saw no symptoms of approaching the suburbs 
 of a large city. 
 
 Jones now declared that they must certainly have lost their 
 
 ,.,,-., , . . . , . ., , , Tom loses his 
 
 way ; but this the guide insisted upon was impossible ; a word way> 
 
 which, in common conversation, is often used to signify not 
 only improbable, but often what is really very likely, and, 
 sometimes, what hath certainly happened ; an hyperbolical 
 violence like that which is so frequently offered to the words 
 infinite and eternal ; by the former of which it is usual to 
 express a distance of half a yard, and by the latter, a duration 
 of five minutes. And thus it is as usual to assert the impossi- 
 bility of losing what is already actually lost. This was, in fact, 
 the case at present ; for, notwithstanding all the confident 
 assertions of the lad to the contrary, it is certain they were no 
 more in the right road to Coventry than the fraudulent, griping, 
 cruel, canting miser is in the right road to heaven. 
 
 It is not, perhaps, easy for a reader who hath never been in 
 those circumstances to imagine the horror with which darkness, 
 rain, and wind fill persons who have lost their way in the night ; 
 and who, consequently, have not the pleasant prospect of warm 
 fires, dry clothes, and other refreshments to support their 
 minds in struggling with the inclemencies of the weather. A The horror of 
 very imperfect idea of this horror will, however, serve suffi- Partridge, 
 ciently to account for the conceits which now filled the head of 
 Partridge, and which we shall presently be obliged to open. 
 
 Jones grew more and more positive that they were out of 
 their road ; and the boy himself at last acknowledged he be-
 
 170 Men and Mannets of the Eighteenth Century, 
 
 lieved they were not in the right road to Coventry ; though he 
 affirmed, at the same time, it was impossible they should have 
 missed the way. But Partridge was of a different opinion. 
 He said, "When they first set out he imagined some mischief 
 or other would happen. Did not you observe," said he to 
 Jones, " that old woman who stood at the door just as you was 
 taking horse ? I wish you had given her a small matter, with 
 all my heart ; for she said then you might repent it ; and at 
 that very instant it began to rain, and the wind hath continued 
 rising ever since. Whatever some people may think, I am 
 very certain it is in the power of witches to raise the wind 
 A witch. whenever they please. I have seen it happen very often in my 
 
 time ; and if ever I saw a witch in all my life, that old woman 
 was certainly one. I thought so myself at that very time ; and 
 if I had had any halfpence in my pocket, I would have given 
 her some ; for, to be sure, it is always good to be charitable to 
 those sort of people, for fear what may happen ; and many 
 a person hath lost his cattle by saving a halfpenny." 
 
 Jones, though he was horridly vexed at the delay which this 
 mistake was likely to occasion in his journey, could not help 
 smiling at the superstition of his friend, whom an accident now 
 greatly confirmed in his opinion. This was a tumble from his 
 horse ; by which, however, he received no other injury than 
 what the dirt conferred on his clothes. 
 
 Partridge entirely imputed this fall to the witch. 
 
 He told Mr. Jones it would certainly be his own turn next, 
 and earnestly entreated him to return back and find out the old 
 woman and pacify her. "We shall very soon," added he, 
 "reach the inn; for though we have seemed to go forward, 
 I am very certain we are in the identical place in which we 
 were an hour ago ; and I dare swear, if it was daylight, we 
 might now see the inn we set out from." 
 
 They were got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was 
 
 k>okmg n man now tlle ^'^ *~ tlle evenm s> when fi genteel-looking man, but 
 upon a very shabby horse, rode up to Jones and asked him 
 whether he was going to London ; to which Jones answered in 
 the affirmative. The gentleman replied, " I should be obliged 
 to you, sir, if you will accept of my company ; for it is very 
 late, and I am a stranger to the road.'' Jones readily complied
 
 Fielding. 
 
 171 
 
 Valor of 
 Partridge. 
 
 with the request ; and on they traveled together, holding that 
 sort of discourse which is usual on such occasions. 
 
 Of this, indeed, robbery was the principal topic : upon which 
 subject the stranger expressed great apprehensions; but Jones 
 declared he had very little to lose and consequently as little to 
 fear. Here Partridge could not forbear putting in his word. 
 " Your honor," said he, " may think it a little, but I am sure if 
 I had a hundred-pound bank-note in my pocket, as you have, I 
 should be very sorry to lose it ; but for my own part, I never 
 was less afraid in my life ; for we are four of us, and if we all 
 stand by one another, the best man in England can't rob us. 
 Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but one of us, and 
 a man can die but once That's my comfort, a man can die but 
 once." 
 
 Besides the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valor 
 which hath raised a certain nation among the moderns to a 
 high pitch of glory, there was another reason for the extra- 
 ordinary courage which Partridge now discovered ; for he had 
 at present as much of that quality as was in the power of liquor 
 to bestow. 
 
 Our company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, 
 when the stranger turned short upon Jones, and pulling out a 
 pistol, demanded that little bank-note which Partridge had 
 mentioned. 
 
 This bank-note, referred to by Partridge, was in a 
 little pocket-book they had picked up on their way. 
 Tom recognized it as belonging to Sophia, and held it 
 sacred, spite of Partridge's endeavors to make him 
 spend its contents on their necessities. 
 
 Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected 
 demand ; however, he presently recollected himself, and told 
 the highwayman all the money he had in his pocket was 
 entirely at his service ; and so saying, he pulled out upwards of 
 three guineas, and offered to deliver it ; but the other 
 answered with an oath, that would not do. Jones answered 
 coolly, he was very sorry for it, and returned the money into 
 his pocket. 
 
 The highwayman then threatened if he did not deliver the Sophia's bank- 
 bank-note that moment he must shoot him ; holding his pistol note-
 
 172 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 at the same time very near to his breast. Jones instantly caught 
 hold of the fellow's hand, which trembled so that he could 
 scarce hold the pistol in it, and turned the muzzle from him. A 
 struggle then ensued, in which the former wrested the pistol 
 from the hand of his antagonist, and both came from their 
 horses on the ground together, the highwayman upon his back, 
 and the victorious Jones upon him. 
 
 The poor fellow now began to implore mercy of the con- 
 queror ; for, to say the truth, he was in strength by no means 
 a match for Jones. " Indeed, sir," says he, " I could have no 
 intention to shoot you ; for you will find the pistol was not 
 loaded. This is the first robbery I ever attempted, and I have 
 been driven by distress to this." 
 
 At this instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards distance, 
 highwayman! * l a V anotner person on the ground, roaring for mercy in a much 
 louder voice than the highwayman. This was no other than 
 Partridge himself, who, endeavoring to make his escape from 
 the engagement, had been thrown from his horse, and lay flat 
 on his face, not daring to look up and expecting every minute 
 to be shot. 
 
 Jones having examined the pistol, and found it to be really 
 unloaded, began to believe all the man had told him before 
 Partridge came up : namely, that he was a novice in the trade, 
 and that he had been driven to it by the distress he mentioned, 
 the greatest indeed imaginable, that of a wife and five hungry 
 children, and in the utmost want and misery. The truth of all 
 which the highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered 
 to convince Mr. Jones of it, if he would take the trouble to go to 
 his house, which was not above two miles off, saying, "That 
 he desired no favor, but upon condition of proving all he had 
 alleged." 
 
 Jones at first pretended that he would take the fellow at his 
 passion. 00 ' word, and go with him, declaring that his fate should depend 
 
 entirely on the truth of his story. Upon this the poor fellow 
 immediately expressed so much alacrity that Jones was per- 
 fectly satisfied with his veracity, and began now to entertain 
 sentiments of compassion for him. lie returned the fellow his 
 empty pistol, advised him to think of honester means of reliev- 
 ing his distress, and gave him a couple of guineas for the imme- 
 diate support of his wife and his family ; adding, "he wished he
 
 Fielding. 173 
 
 had more for his sake, for the hundred pound that had been 
 mentioned was not his own." 
 
 Our readers will probably be divided in their opinions con- 
 cerning this action ; some may applaud it perhaps as an act of 
 extraordinary humanity, while those of a more saturnine tem- 
 per will consider it as a want of regard to that justice which 
 every man owes his country. Partridge certainly saw it in that 
 light ; for he testified much dissatisfaction on the occasion, 
 quoted an old proverb, and said, he should not wonder if the 
 rogue attacked them again before they reached London. 
 
 The highwayman was full of expressions of thankfulness and 
 gratitude. He actually dropt tears, or pretended so to do. He The highway- 
 vowed he would immediately return home, and would never tude. 
 afterward commit such a transgression : whether he kept his 
 word or no perhaps may appear hereafter. 
 
 Our travelers having remounted their horses, arrived in town 
 without encountering any new mishap. 
 
 Now Sophia, strangely enough, had fallen in with a 
 traveling lady who proved (really) to be her own cousin, 
 one Mrs. Fitz Patrick, who was on her way to London 
 with a certain nobleman, an Irish peer, of her neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 We will therefore attend his lordship and his fair companions, 
 who made such good expedition that they performed a journey ^l^'o London 
 of ninety miles in two days, and on the second evening arrived 
 in London without having encountered any one adventure 
 on the road worthy the dignity of this history to relate. Our 
 pen, therefore, shall imitate the expedition which it describes, 
 and our history shall keep pace with the travelers who are its 
 subject. Good writers will, indeed, do well to imitate the 
 ingenious traveler, in this instance, who always proportions his 
 stay at any place to the beauties, elegancies, and curiosities 
 which it affords. At Eshur, at Stowe, at Wilton, at Eastbury, 
 and at Prior's Park, days are too short for the ravished imagi- 
 nation ; while we admire the wondrous power of art in 
 improving nature. In some of these, art chiefly engages our 
 adtniration ; in others, nature and art contend for our applause ; 
 but, in the last, the former seems to triumph. Here nature 
 appears in her richest attire, and art, dressed with the modest-
 
 174 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centiiry. 
 
 est simplicity, attends her benignant mistress. Here nature 
 indeed pours forth the choicest treasures which she hath lav- 
 ished on this world ; and here human nature presents you with 
 an object which can be exceeded only in the other. 
 
 The same taste, the same imagination, which luxuriously 
 riots in these elegant scenes, can be amused with objects of far 
 The ingenious inferior note. The woods, the rivers, the lawns of Devon and 
 of Dorset, attract the eye of the ingenious traveler and retard 
 his pace, which delay he afterward compensates by swiftly 
 scouring over the gloomy heath of Bagshot, or that pleasant 
 plain which extends itself westward from Stockbridge, where no 
 other object than one single tree only in sixteen miles presents 
 itself to the view, unless the clouds, in compassion to our tired 
 spirits, kindly open their variegated mansions to our prospect. 
 Not so travels the money-meditating tradesman, the saga- 
 cious justice, the dignified doctor, the warm-clad grazier, with 
 all the numerous offspring of wealth and dulness. On they 
 jog, with equal pace, through the verdant meadows or over the 
 barren heath, their horses measuring four miles and a half per 
 hour with the utmost exactness ; the eyes of the beast and of 
 his master being alike directed forwards, and employed in con- 
 templating the same objects in the same manner. With equal 
 mediating" rapture the good rider surveys the proudest boasts of the archi- 
 tradesman. tect an d those fair buildings with which some unknown name 
 hath adorned the rich clothing town ; where heaps of bricks are 
 piled up as a kind of monument to show that heaps of money 
 have been piled there before. 
 
 And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, 
 we will leave to thy sagacity to apply all this to the Boeotian 
 writers, and to those authors who are their opposites. This 
 thou wilt be abundantly able to perform without our aid. 
 Bestir thyself therefore on this occasion ; for, though we will 
 always lend thee proper assistance in difficult places, as we do 
 not, like some others, expect thee to use the arts of divination 
 to discover our meaning, yet we shall not indulge thy laziness 
 where nothing by thy own attention is required ; for thou art 
 highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we intended, when 
 we began this great work, to leave thy sagacity nothing to do ; 
 or that, without sometimes exercising this talent, thou will be 
 able to travel through our pages with any pleasure or profit to 
 thyself.
 
 Fielding. 175 
 
 Tom arrived in London not long after his Sophia, but 
 it was a long time before he succeeded in finding her, Tom's arrival 
 
 ' in London. 
 
 though his search was diligent. He managed to amuse 
 himself and keep up his spirits with diversions not 
 always creditable. Here is an account of one of the few 
 unobjectionable things he did. 
 
 This was to attend Mrs. Miller and her younger daughter 
 into the gallery at the playhouse, and to admit Mr. Partridge as 
 one of the company. For as Jones had really that taste for 
 humor which many affect, he expected to enjoy much entertain- 
 ment in the criticisms of Partridge, from whom he expected 
 the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise 
 unadulterated, by art. 
 
 In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. 
 Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge take their places. 
 Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had 
 ever been in. When the first music was played, he said, " It 
 was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time, 
 without putting one another out." While the fellow was light- 
 ing the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, 
 look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of the 
 common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service." 
 Nor could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles 
 were lighted, "That here were candles enough burnt in one 
 night to keep an honest poor family for a whole twelvemonth." 
 
 As soon as the play, which was "Hamlet, Prince of Den-< 
 mark," began, Partridge was all attention, nor did he break 
 silence till the entrance of the ghost ; upon which he asked 
 Jones, " What man that was in the strange dress ; something," p artr jd Keat 
 said he, "like what I have seen in a picture. Sure it is not the play. 
 armor, is it?" Jones answered, "That is the ghost." To 
 which Partridge replied with a smile, "Persuade me to that, 
 sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost 
 in my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, 
 better than that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in 
 such dresses as that, neither." In this mistake, which caused 
 much laughter in the neighborhood of Partridge, he was 
 suffered to continue till the scene between the ghost and 
 Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick which
 
 176 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 The ghost. 
 
 Preference of 
 Partridge for 
 the king. 
 
 he had denied to Jones and fell into so violent a trembling that 
 his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him what 
 was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon 
 the stage? " O la ! sir," said he, " I perceive now it is' what 
 you told me. I am not afraid of anything ; for I know it is but 
 a play. And if it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm 
 at such a distance, and in so much company ; and yet if I was 
 frightened, I am not the only person." "Why, who," cries 
 Jones, "dost thou take to be such a coward here besides thy- 
 self?" "Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if 
 that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never 
 saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay : go along with 
 you! Ay, to be sure ! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have 
 mercy upon such fool-hardiness ? Whatever happens, it is 
 
 good enough for you. Follow^ you ? I'd follow the devil as 
 
 soon. Nay, perhaps, it is the devil for they say he can put 
 
 on what likeness he pleases. Oh ! here he is again. No 
 
 farther ! No, you have gone far enough already ; farther than 
 I'd have gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to 
 speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush, hush ! dear sir, don't you 
 hear him?" And during the whole speech of the ghost, he 
 sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on 
 Hamlet, and with his mouth open, the same passions which 
 succeeded each other in Hamlet succeeding likewise in him. 
 
 The scene is too long to make further extracts ; and 
 moreover has been so often quoted as to be pretty gen- 
 erally known, even now. 
 
 Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at 
 the end of which Jones asked him, "Which of the players he 
 liked best?" To this he answered, with some appearance of 
 indignation at the question, " The king, without doubt." " In- 
 deed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, "you are not of the 
 same opinion of the town ; for they are all agreed that Hamlet 
 is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage." " He 
 the best player ! " cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer, 
 "why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had 
 seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, 
 and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, 
 as you called it, between him and his mother, where vou told
 
 Fielding. 177 
 
 me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me, any man, that is, any 
 good man that had such a mother, would have done exactly 
 the same. I know you are only joking with me ; but indeed, 
 madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have 
 seen acting before in the country ; and the king for my money ; 
 he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the 
 other. Anybody may see he is an actor." 
 
 Things are now drawing to an end, but gradually, 
 after the fashion of all the old books. Squire Western Squire Western 
 
 in London. 
 
 came to town and discovered his daughter. Tom, after 
 a duel with a gentleman which was near to proving fatal 
 to his adversary, no other than Mr. Fitz Patrick, who 
 encountered Tom coming away from his wife, whom, 
 however, Tom had been innocently visiting on account 
 of his Sophia, was discovered in prison and forgiven by 
 the squire, Mr. Allworthy, and everybody. For Mr. 
 Alhvorthy was also in town to press the suit of Mr. Blifil 
 upon Sophia, but about this time it was proved beyond 
 peradventure that Blifil was a wretch and full of every 
 villainy ; moreover, it came now to light that Tom 
 Jones, the foundling, was the son of no other than Mr. 
 Allworthy' s sister, and therefore his elder nephew, 
 having been born before her marriage with Blifil' s 
 father. Blifil was now turned out of doors and our 
 hero reinstated. 
 
 Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to 
 Mr. Western's. He was, indeed, one of the finest figures ever Approaching 
 beheld, and his person alone would have charmed the greater 
 part of womankind ; but we hope it hath appeared already in 
 this history that nature, when she formed him, did not totally 
 rely, as she sometimes doth, on this merit only to recommend 
 her work. 
 
 Sophia, who was likewise set forth to the best advantage, for 
 which I leave my female readers to account, appeared so ex- 
 tremely beautiful that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could 
 not forbear whispering to Western that he believed she was 
 the finest creature in the world.
 
 178 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Cent^lry, 
 
 The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged 
 Allworthy out of the room, telling him he had business of con- 
 sequence to impart, and must speak to him that instant in pri- 
 vate, before he forgot it. 
 
 The happy All ends well, with the happy marriage of Tom and 
 
 Tom'and Sophia. The affairs of everybody of the slightest im- 
 portance are wound up with careful detail. 
 
 To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and 
 woman than this fond couple, so neither can any be imagined 
 more happy. They preserve the purest and tenderest affection 
 for each other, an affection daily increased and confirmed by 
 mutual endearments and mutual esteem. Nor is their conduct 
 toward their relations and friends less amiable than toward one 
 another. And such is their condescension, their indulgence, 
 and their beneficence to those below them, that there is not a 
 neighbor, a tenant, or a servant who doth not most gratefully 
 bless the day when Mr. Jones was married to his Sophia. 
 
 I reserve for the end, although Fielding introduces it 
 at the beginning of the last book, this 
 
 Farewell to the reader. 
 
 We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long 
 Simile of the journey. As we have, therefore, traveled together through so 
 stage coach. man y pages, let us behave to one another like fellow-travelers 
 in a stage coach, who have passed several days in the company 
 of each other ; and who, notwithstanding any bickerings or 
 little animosities which may have occurred on the road, gener- 
 ally make all up at last, and mount, for the last time, into their 
 vehicle with cheerfulness and good-humor ; since after this one 
 stage it may possibly happen to us, as it commonly happens to 
 them, never to meet more. 
 
 As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it 
 a little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the 
 good company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it 
 is well known that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid 
 aside ; whatever characters any of the passengers have for the 
 jest-sake personated on the road are now thrown off, and the 
 conversation is usually plain and serious. 
 
 In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of
 
 Fielding. 179 
 
 this work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I 
 shall here lay it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I Variety of 
 shall be obliged to cram into this book, will afford no room for matter - 
 any of those ludicrous observations which I have elsewhere 
 made, and which may sometimes, perhaps, have prevented 
 thee from taking a nap when it was beginning to steal upon 
 thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at most very 
 little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only ; and, in- 
 deed, when thou hast perused the many great events which this 
 book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages con- 
 tained in it scarce sufficient to tell the story. 
 
 And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have 
 no other) of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an 
 entertaining companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I 
 have desired. If in anything I have offended, it was really 
 without any intention. Some things, perhaps, here said may 
 have hit thee or thy friends ; but I do most solemnly declare 
 
 they were not pointed at thee or them. I question not but thou H . e! ? r . t y wel1 ' 
 
 n wishing, 
 
 hast been told, among other stones of me, that thou wast 
 
 to travel with a very scurrilous fellow ; but whoever told thee 
 so did me an injury. No man detests and despises scurrility 
 more than myself; nor hath any man more reason ; for none 
 hath ever been treated with more ; and what is a very severe 
 fate, I have had some of the abusive writings of those very 
 men fathered upon me, who, in other of their works, have 
 abused me themselves with the utmost virulence. 
 
 All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead 
 long before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal ; for how- 
 ever short the period may be of my own performances, they 
 will most probably outlive their own infirm author and the 
 weakly productions of his abusive contemporaries. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Henry Fielding (Men of Letters Series). 
 Complete Works of Henry Fielding.
 
 BOOK VI. 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH is another figure of the time 
 among the most delightful ; he was born in Ireland 
 
 Birth and & . 
 
 parentage. (which perhaps accounts for it) of Protestant parents. 
 His father was a clergyman, his mother was the daugh- 
 ter of one. In Goldsmith's Dr. Primrose we may 
 recognize the father ; of his first school-teacher, Thomas 
 Byrne, this may answer as the picture : 
 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 I kne\v him well, and every truant knew. 
 Well had the boding tremblers learnt to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face : 
 Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 
 Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault : 
 The village all declared how much he knew ; 
 'T\vas certain lie could write, and cipher too ; 
 Land lie could measure, terms and tides presage ; 
 And even the story ran that he could gauge. 
 
 Goldsmith's Every biography of Goldsmith is interesting, but we 
 
 London'." must postpone his acquaintance to his arrival in London. 
 
 He was twenty-seven years and three months old when 
 
 he first set his foot in London streets, and he was to be 
 
 a Londoner and nothing else all the rest of his life.
 
 Goldsmith. 181 
 
 At that time, in 1756, the population of London \vas 
 about 700,000. The reign of George II., which had London in 1756. 
 already extended over nearly thirty years, was approach- 
 ing its close. In home politics what was chiefly inter- 
 esting was the persistence in office of the Duke of 
 Newcastle's unpopular ministry opposed, however, by 
 Pitt (afterward Lord Chatham), and soon to give way 
 before the genius of that statesman, and to be succeeded 
 by that blaze of Pitt's ascendancy which makes the last 
 years of George II. so brilliant a period in British 
 annals. For Britain and Frederick the Great of Prussia 
 were already on an understanding with each other, and 
 the Seven Years' War was beginning. Not till 1757, 
 indeed, when Pitt became prime minister, did the alli- 
 ance begin to promise its splendid results Clive's con- 
 quests in India, Wolfe's in America, etc. Just at 
 present, while Newcastle was in power, things had a 
 blacker look. Byng's blundering at Minorca, the all 
 but certain loss of Hanover, and the like these were 
 the topics for the 700,000 Londoners ; unless they chose 
 to talk rather of such matters nearer home as the 
 building of the new chapel for Whitefield in Tottenham 
 Court Road, or the opening of the Foundling Hospital, 
 or the proposed taking down of the old houses on 
 London Bridge. 
 
 To assist them to proper opinions on these and all 
 other subjects there were the London newspapers 
 daily, weekly, and bi-weekly, Whig, Tory, and what 
 
 ,," 11 r v 1 1 A busv time in 
 
 not ; as well as quite an abundance of critical journals, literature. 
 reviews, and magazines. For it was beginning to be a 
 very busy time in British literature. It was no longer 
 on the court, or on Whig and Tory ministers, or on the 
 casual patronage of noblemen of taste, that men of letters 
 depended, but on the demand of the general public of
 
 1 82 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 readers and book-purchasers, as it could be ascertained 
 and catered for by booksellers making publishing their 
 business. The center of this book-trade was naturally 
 London ; and here, accordingly, hanging on the book- 
 sellers, and writing for the newspapers and magazines, 
 but with side glances also to the theaters and their man- 
 agers, were now congregated such a host of authors and 
 Authors con- critics by profession as had never been known in London 
 
 gregated in 
 
 London. before, many of them now dismissed into oblivion as 
 
 the smaller fry of this Grub Street world of London in 
 the latter days of George II. Amongst them was John- 
 son, then forty-seven years of age. The poet Young was 
 alive, in old age, and at least occasionally in London ; 
 and Londoners confirmed were Richardson, approach- 
 ing his seventieth year, with all his novels published, 
 and Smollett, not past his thirty-seventh year, but with 
 some of his best novels published, and now working 
 hard at histories, reviews, and all sorts of things. Field- 
 ing had been dead two years, and Sterne, though some 
 years over forty, had not yet been heard of. The poet 
 Collins was dying in madness at Chichester. Garrick, 
 Chesterfield, Warburton, Shenstone, Gray, Horace Wai- 
 pole, who were alive in England, could be and were in 
 London if they liked. Burke, who was Goldsmith's 
 junior, was already there. 
 
 Such was the state of the world of British letters at 
 
 state of the the end of the Second George's reiq;n. when Goldsmith 
 
 world of letters. 
 
 came to London. Colley Gibber was laureate, of whom 
 Johnson had written : 
 
 Great George's acts let tuneful Gibber sing, 
 For nature formed the poet for the king. 
 
 But Cibber, who was now eighty-four years of age, did 
 not live beyond 1757. He was succeeded by William 
 Whitehead, whose laureateship extended from 1757 to
 
 Goldsmith. 183 
 
 1788. The whole of Goldsmith's literary career, as it 
 happened, and large portions also of the lives of others 
 whom we now associate with him, fell within this 
 memorable period. 
 
 For a long time Goldsmith's life in London was one Hack-work and 
 of mere drudgery and literary hack-work. In 1758 he 
 was living in No. 12, Green Arbour Court, Old Bailey 
 a dingy little old square, approached from Farringdon 
 Street by a passage called Break-Neck Steps, now all 
 demolished, and surviving only in Washington Irving' s 
 description of it when he visited it for Goldsmith's sake, 
 and found it a colony of washerwomen, and slovenly 
 with wash-tubs on the pavement and clothes hung to dry 
 on lines from the windows. 
 
 About this time he writes in a letter to a friend : 
 
 Alas ! I have many a fatigue to encounter before that happy 
 time arrives when your poor old simple friend may again give a 
 loose to the luxuriance of his nature, sitting by Kilmore fire- 
 side, recount the various adventures of a hard-fought life, laugh 
 over the follies of the day, join his flute to your harpsichord, 
 and forget that ever he starved in those streets where Butler 
 and Otway starved before him. 
 
 It gives me some pain to think I am almost beginning the 
 world at the age of thirty-one. Though I never had a day's w ^rl'i n at thirty- 
 illness since I saw you, I am not that strong, active man you one - 
 once knew me. You scarcely can conceive how much eight 
 years of disappointment, anguish, and study have worn me 
 clown. If I remember right, you are seven or eight years older 
 than me ; yet I dare venture to say that, if a stranger saw us 
 both, he would pay me the honors of seniority. Imagine to 
 yourself a pale, melancholy visage, with two great wrinkles 
 between the eyebrows, with an eye disgustingly severe, and a 
 big wig ; and you have a perfect picture of my present appear- 
 ance. ... I can neither laugh nor drink ; have contracted 
 a hesitating, disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage 
 that looks ill-nature itself; in short, I have thought myself into
 
 184 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 a settled melancholy and an utter disgust of all that life brings 
 with it. ... Your last letter, I repeat it, was too short ; 
 you should have given me j-our opinion of the design of the 
 heroi-comical poem which I sent you. You remember I intended 
 to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in a paltry alehouse. 
 You may take the following specimen of the manner, which I 
 flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies may 
 be described somewhat in this way : 
 
 The window, patched with paper, lent a ray 
 
 Descri tion of That feebly showed the state in which he lay ; 
 
 his room. The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread, 
 
 The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 
 
 The game of goose was there exposed to view, 
 
 And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; 
 
 The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place, 
 
 And Prussia's monarch showed his lamp-black face. 
 
 The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 
 
 A rusty grate unconscious of a fire ; 
 
 An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored, 
 
 And five cracked teacups dressed the chimney-board. 
 
 This letter was written in February, 1759, and within 
 
 A turn for the , , . , , . 
 
 better. a month or t\vo after that date things took a turn for the 
 
 better with Goldsmith. 
 
 Acquaintances were multiplying" round him. Even in 
 his worst distress the sociable creature had made him- 
 self at home with his landlord's family ; his flute and 
 sweetmeats, when he had them, were at the service of 
 the children of Green Arbour Court, some of whom 
 grew up to remember him and tell anecdotes of him ; 
 and we hear of one person, an ingenious watchmaker of 
 the neighborhood, who vised to spend evenings \vith 
 him. Then, according to Thackeray's observation that 
 there never was an Irishman so low in circumstances but 
 there was some Irishman lower still and looking up to 
 him and going errands for him, there were several 
 fellow-countrymen of Goldsmith clinging to him, to be 
 helped by him when he could hardly help himself
 
 Goldsmith. 185 
 
 especially a certain Ned Purdon, who had been his 
 schoolfellow. At the Temple Coffee House, also, there ^f c "| t ral 
 were opportunities for something like general society. 
 But in the course of 1759 we have more distinct traces of 
 Goldsmith's contact with known men in London. It 
 was in March in that year, just before the publication of 
 Goldsmith's "Inquiry into the State of Polite Learn- 
 ing," that the Rev. Mr. Percy, afterward Bishop Percy 
 of the ballads, paid that first memorable visit to him in 
 Green Arbour Court, the queer incidents of which he 
 used afterward to describe. From that day Percy and 
 Goldsmith were friends for life. 
 
 Garrick's first encounter with Goldsmith was several 
 months later, and much less pleasant. The secretary- 
 ship of the Society of Arts being vacant, Goldsmith was 
 anxious to obtain the post, and waited on the great actor 
 to solicit his vote and interest. Garrick, it is said, re- 
 minded him of a passage in his " Polite Learning," and 
 asked how he could expect his support after that. It 
 was a passage in which, while discussing the prospects 
 of the drama, Goldsmith had expressed rather sharply 
 the common complaint then made against theater man- 
 agers, that they neglected contemporary talent and lived 
 on old stock-plays which cost them nothing. " Indeed," 
 said he bluntly, "I spoke my mind, and believe I said 
 what was very right." And so they parted civilly, and 
 it was long before Garrick and Goldsmith came really Garrick and 
 
 . , . . . .. . . . Goldsmith. 
 
 together. Quite otherwise it was between Goldsmith 
 and Smollett. It is pleasant to think of these two, per- 
 haps the most strongly contrasted humorists and men of 
 genius of their day the simple, gentle-hearted, sweet- 
 styled Irishman, and the bold, spleneticallv-independent, 
 irascible, richly-inventive, rough-writing, but somber and 
 melancholic Scotchman as knit together bv some mu-
 
 1 86 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 tual regard, when Smollett was already in the full bustle 
 of his fame and industry, and Goldsmith struggling and 
 in need of employment. During the whole of 1759, as we 
 have seen, they had been, to some extent, fellow-work-^ 
 men. And in the end of that year there was a visit of 
 Smollett, along with the bookseller Newbery of St. 
 Bookseller Paul's Churchyard, to Goldsmith's lodgings in Green 
 Arbour Court, which led to important results. 
 
 Newbery was the famous printer in those days of all 
 children's books, and as it is well known that he em- 
 ployed him for much of his hack-work, there is a sort of 
 vague suspicion that Goldsmith may have been the 
 author of " Goody Two Shoes."
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IT was in the Public Ledger that Goldsmith made his 
 great hit. He had been engaged by Newbery to 
 furnish for this newspaper an article of some amusing 
 kind twice a week, to be paid for at the rate of a guinea 
 per article. He had already written one or two articles 
 to suit, when the idea struck him of bringing on the 
 scene an imaginary philosophic Chinaman, resident in The Chinaman 
 
 1 . in London. 
 
 London after long wanderings from home, and of 
 making the adventures of this Chinaman, and his obser- 
 vations of men and things in the western world, as 
 recorded in letters supposed to be written by him to 
 friends in China, together with the replies of these 
 friends, the material for a series of papers which should 
 consist of character sketches, social satire, and whimsi- 
 cal reflection on all sorts of subjects, connected by a 
 slight thread of story. He had always had a fancy for 
 China and the Chinese. This is the style of them : 
 
 Were we to estimate the learning of the English by the num- 
 ber of books that are every day published among them, 
 perhaps no country, not even China itself, could equal them in 
 this particular. I have reckoned not less than twenty-three Twenty-three 
 new books published in one day, which upon computation new books a 
 makes eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five in one 
 year. Most of these are not confined to one single science, but 
 embrace the whole circle. History, politics, poetry, mathe- 
 matics, metaphysics, and the philosophy of nature, are all com- 
 prised in a manual not larger than that in which our children 
 are taught the letters. If, then, we suppose the learned of 
 England to read but an eighth part of the works which daily 
 come from the press (and sure none can pretend to learning 
 upon less easy terms), at this rate every scholar will read a
 
 1 88 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 thousand books in one year. From such a calculation you may 
 conjecture what an amazing fund of literature a man must be 
 possessed of, who thus reads three new books every day, not 
 one of which but contains all the good things that ever were 
 said or written. 
 
 And yet I know not how it happens, but the English are not, 
 in reality, so learned as would seem from this calculation. We 
 
 English lim- . , , ,. . . ,, , . , .. 
 
 itations and meet but few who know all arcs and sciences to perfection ; 
 whether it is that the generality are incapable of such extensive 
 knowledge, or that the authors of those books are not adequate 
 instructors. In China the emperor himself takes cognizance of 
 all the doctors in the kingdom who profess authorship. In 
 England every man may be an author that can write ; for they 
 have by law a liberty, not only of saying what they please, but 
 of being also as dull as they please. . . . 
 
 When a man has once secured a circle of admirers, he may 
 be as ridiculous here as he thinks proper ; and it all passes for 
 elevation of sentiment or learned absence. If he transgresses 
 the common forms of breeding, mistakes even a teapot for a 
 tobacco-box, it is said that his thoughts are fixed on more 
 important objects : to speak and to act like the rest of mankind 
 is to be no greater than they. There is something of oddity in 
 the very idea of greatness ; for we are seldom astonished at a 
 thing very much resembling ourselves. 
 
 When the Tartars make a Lama, their first care is to place 
 him in a dark corner of the temple : here he is to sit half con- 
 cealed from view, to regulate the motion of his hands, lips, and 
 eyes ; but, above all, he is enjoined gravity and silence. This, 
 however, is but the prelude to his apotheosis : a set of emis- 
 saries are despatched among the people, to cry up his piety, 
 gravity, and love of raw flesh ; the people take them at their 
 word, approach the Lama, now become an idol, with the most 
 humble prostration ; he receives their addresses without mo- 
 idol Lama an tion, commences a god, and is ever after fed by his priests with 
 the spoon of immortality. The same receipt in this country 
 serves to make a great man. The idol only keeps close, sends 
 out his little emissaries to be hearty in his praise ; and straight, 
 whether statesman or author, he is set down in the list of fame, 
 continuing to be praised while it is fashionable to praise, or 
 while he prudently keeps his minuteness concealed from the 
 public.
 
 Goldsmith. 189 
 
 I have visited many countries, and have been in cities without 
 number, yet never did I enter a town which could not produce Little great 
 ten or twelve of those little great men ; all fancying themselves men> 
 known to the rest of the world, and complimenting each other 
 upon their extensive reputation. It is amusing enough when 
 two of these domestic prodigies of learning mount the stage of 
 ceremony, and give and take praise from each other. I have 
 been present when a German doctor, for having pronounced a 
 panegyric upon a certain monk, was thought the most ingen- 
 ious man in the world ; till the monk soon after divided this 
 reputation by returning the compliment ; by which means they 
 both marched off with universal applause. 
 
 FROM "THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD." 
 The princes of Europe have found out a manner of rewarding 
 their subjects who have behaved well, by presenting them with 
 about two yards of blue ribband, which is worn about the shoul- 
 der. They who are honored with this mark of distinction are 
 called knights, and the king himself is always the head of the Order of 
 order. This is a very frugal method of recompensing the most 
 important services ; and it is very fortunate for kings that their 
 subjects are satisfied with such trifling rewards. Should a 
 nobleman happen to lose his leg in a battle, the king presents 
 him with two yards of ribband, and he is paid for the loss of his 
 limb. Should an embassador spend all his paternal fortune 
 in supporting the honor of his country abroad, the king pre- 
 sents him with two yards of ribband, which is to be considered 
 as an equivalent to his estate. In short, while an European 
 king has a yard of blue or green ribband left he need be under 
 no apprehensions of wanting statesmen, generals, and soldiers. 
 I cannot sufficiently admire those kingdoms in which men 
 with large patrimonial estates are willing thus to undergo real 
 
 hardships for empty favors. A person, already possessed of a . 
 
 Empty favors. 
 
 competent fortune, who undertakes to enter the career of ambi- 
 tion, feels many real inconveniences from his station, while it 
 procures him no real happiness that he was not possessed of 
 before. He could eat, drink, and sleep before he became a 
 courtier, as well, perhaps better, than when invested with his 
 authority. He could command flatterers in a private station, 
 as well as in his public capacity, and indulge at home every 
 favorite inclination, uncensured and unseen by the people.
 
 1 90 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Observation of 
 Confucius. 
 
 New books. 
 
 I look upon these courtiers as a set of good-natured, mis- 
 guided people, who are indebted to us, and not to themselves, 
 for all the happiness they enjoy. For our pleasure, and not 
 their own, they sweat under a cumbrous heap of finery ; for our 
 pleasure, the lacquied train, the slow-parading pageant, with all 
 the gravity of grandeur, moves in review : a single coat, or a 
 single footman, answers all the purposes of the most indolent 
 refinement as well ; and those who have twenty may be 
 said to keep one for their own pleasure and the other nineteen 
 merely for ours. So true is the observation of Confucius, 
 "That we take greater pains to persuade others that we are 
 happy, than in endeavoring to think so ourselves." 
 
 But though this desire of being seen, of being made the sub- 
 ject of discourse, and of supporting the dignities of an exalted 
 station, be troublesome enough to the ambitious, yet it is well 
 for society that there are men thus willing to exchange ease and 
 safety for danger and a ribband. We lose nothing by their 
 vanity, and it would be unkind to endeavor to deprive a child 
 of its rattle. If a duke or a duchess are willing to carry a long 
 train for our entertainment, so much the worse for themselves ; 
 if they choose to exhibit in public, with a hundred lacquies and 
 mamelukes in their equipage, for our entertainment, still so 
 much the worse for themselves ; it is the spectators alone who 
 give and receive the pleasure ; they only are the sweating fig- 
 ures that swell the pageant. 
 
 There are numbers in this city who live by writing new 
 books ; and yet there are thousands of volumes in every large 
 library unread and forgotten. This, upon my arrival, was one 
 of those contradictions which I was unable to account for. " Is 
 it possible," said I, " that there should be any demand for new 
 books, before those already published are read ? Can there be 
 so many employed in producing a commodity with which the 
 market is already overstocked and with goods also better 
 than any of modern manufacture ? " 
 
 What at first view appeared an inconsistence is a proof at 
 once of this people's wisdom and refinement. Even allowing 
 the works of their ancestors better written than theirs, yet those 
 of the moderns acquire a real value by being marked with the 
 impression of the times. Antiquity has been in the possession 
 of others ; the present is our own : let us first, therefore, learn
 
 Goldsmith. 191 
 
 to know what belongs to ourselves and then, if we have leisure, 
 cast our reflections back to the reign of Shonou, who governed 
 twenty thousand years before the creation of the moon. 
 
 The volumes of antiquity, like medals, may very well serve 
 to amuse the curious ; but the works of the moderns, like the Modern and 
 
 - ... . . - ,. ancient works 
 
 current coin of a kingdom, are much better lor immediate use : compared, 
 the former are often prized above their intrinsic value, and 
 kept with care ; the latter seldom pass for more than they are 
 worth, and are often subject to the merciless hands c*f sweating 
 critics and clipping compilers : the works of antiquity are ever 
 praised, those of the moderns read : the treasures of our 
 ancestors have our esteem, and we boast the passion ; those of 
 contemporary genius engage our heart, although we blush to 
 own it. The visits we pay the former resemble those we pay 
 the great the ceremony is troublesome, and yet such as we 
 would not choose to forego : our acquaintance with modern 
 books is like sitting with a friend our pride is not flattered in 
 the interview, but it gives more internal satisfaction. 
 
 In proportion as society refines, new books must ever be- 
 come more necessary. Savage rusticity is reclaimed by oral 
 admonition alone ; but the elegant excesses of refinement are 
 best corrected by the still voice of studious inquiry. In a 
 polite age almost every person becomes a reader, and receives 
 more instruction from the press than the pulpit. The preach- The press and 
 ing bonze may instruct the illiterate peasant; but nothing less e P u P 11 - 
 than the insinuating address of a fine writer can win its way to 
 an heart already relaxed in all the effeminacy of refinement. 
 
 Instead, then, of thinking the number of new publications 
 here too great, I could wish it still greater, as they are the 
 most useful instruments of reformation. Every country must 
 be instructed either by writers or preachers ; but as the 
 number of readers increases, the number of hearers is pro- 
 portionally diminished ; the writer becomes more useful and 
 the preaching bonze less necessary. 
 
 " The Citizen of the World" was published complete 
 in 1762, and Goldsmith received five guineas for the new 
 copyright.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S receipts at this time, and chiefly from 
 Goldsmith's Newberv, may be calculated at what would be equiva- 
 
 receipts. * 
 
 lent now to about ^250 or ^300 a year ; and, though 
 he was generally on the debtor side in Newbery's books, 
 for work paid for in part beforehand, there is yet evi- 
 dence that the Goldsmith of Wine Office Court was, 
 socially, in a different plight from the Goldsmith of 
 Green Arbour Square. Not only does he frequent the 
 theaters and taverns, attend meetings of the Society of 
 Arts, and drop in on Monday evenings at the famous 
 Robin Hood Debating Society in Butcher Row, he even 
 "receives" in his own lodging, is sponged upon there 
 for guineas and half-guineas by rascals that know his 
 good-nature, and sometimes gives literary suppers. One 
 such supper, given by him in Wine Office Court, is 
 memorable. It was on the 3ist of May, 1761. Whether 
 Meeting with Johnson had met Goldsmith before is uncertain ; most 
 probably he had, for the author of the " Inquiry into 
 Polite Learning" and the "Chinese Letters" can hardly 
 have remained a stranger to him ; but this, at all events, 
 was their first meeting not merely casual. Johnson had 
 accepted Goldsmith's invitation to meet a party of 
 friends, and Percy was to accompany him. As the two 
 were walking to Wine Office Court, Percy observed, to 
 his surprise, that Johnson had on "a new suit of 
 clothes," with "a new wig nicely powdered," and 
 everything in style to match. Struck with such a varia- 
 tion from Johnson's usual habits, he ventured a remark
 
 Goldsmith. 193 
 
 on the subject. "Why, sir," said Johnson in reply, " I 
 hear that Goldsmith, who is a very great sloven, justifies 
 his disregard of cleanliness and decency by quoting my 
 practice, and I am desirous this night to show him a 
 better example." And so the two went in, and the 
 door was shut behind them and the others ; and there 
 was, no doubt, much noise and splendid talk far into the 
 night ; but it has not been reported, for there was no 
 Boswell there. 
 
 From that day began the immortal intimacy of the 
 gentle Goldsmith with the great Johnson, and all that 
 peculiar radiance over the London of the eighteenth 
 century which we still trace to the conjunction of their 
 figures in its antique streets. Of only three of his con- 
 temporaries in the English world of letters had Gold- 
 smith written with admiration approaching to enthusiasm 
 Smollett, the poet Gray, and Johnson. A recluse at 
 Cambridge, Gray was inaccessible. With Smollett an 
 acquaintance had already been established ; but the Goldsmith's 
 
 intimates. 
 
 resident London life of the overworked and melancholic 
 novelist was nearly over, and he was about to be a 
 wanderer thenceforth in search of health. But at last 
 Goldsmith had happened on that most massive and cen- 
 tral of the three, toward whom in any case all intel- 
 lectual London consciously or unconsciously gravitated. 
 Johnson was then in his fifty-second year, living in 
 chambers in Inner Temple Lane not yet "Dr.," and 
 not yet pensioned, though on the point of being so ; but 
 already witli much of his greatest work done, and firm 
 in his literary dictatorship. Goldsmith was nineteen 
 years younger, and with the best of his work before 
 him. 
 
 This acquaintance with Johnson led to his introduction 
 to Reynolds (not yet Sir Joshua), then forty years of age,
 
 194 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 living in his mansion in Leicester Square, and hospita- 
 Re h noids ^le, w * tn ^ s kind serenity of attached disposition and his 
 
 ,6,000 a year, to the largest circle of friends that any 
 man ever drew around him. To these occasions Gold- 
 smith was certainly welcome. Here he would meet 
 Edmund Burke, who barely remembered him at Trinity 
 College, Dublin ; and sometimes he and Johnson, leav- 
 ing Reynolds' s, and parting with Burke at the door, 
 would go down the Strand to Johnson's chambers in 
 Inner Temple Lane, or perhaps (for, as we know, 
 Johnson hated early hours) drop in for more talk at the 
 Mitre Tavern in Fleet Street. 
 
 The Mitre ^ n t ^ ie s * te * Jh nson ' s Mitre Tavern stands Hoare's 
 
 Tavern. Bank, which dates from 1680 ; the sign of the Golden 
 
 Bottle, still preserved over the door (a leathern bottle 
 such as was used by haymakers for their ale), represents 
 the flask carried by the founder when he came up to 
 London to seek his fortune. 
 
 It was either at some now unknown lodging in town, 
 occupied for some little time, or, more probably, at the 
 Islington apartments in Mrs. Fleming's house, that 
 there occurred late in 1764 an incident in Goldsmith's 
 life of which very varying versions have been given, but 
 of which the true account is indubitably Dr. Johnson's. 
 
 I received one morning [Johnson long afterward told Bos- 
 well] a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great dis- 
 tress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging 
 that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a 
 guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly 
 went as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had 
 arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. 
 I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had 
 got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork 
 into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to 
 him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then
 
 Goldsmith, 195 
 
 told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he pro- 
 duced to me. I looked into it and saw its merit ; told the land- 
 lady I would soon return ; and, having gone to a bookseller, 
 sold it for ^60. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he dis- 
 charged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone 
 for having used him so ill. 
 
 This was the manuscript of ' ' The Vicar of Wakefield. ' ' .< The Vicar of 
 At this very time he had another thing by him, written Wakefield -" 
 for his own pleasure, and according to his own best ideas 
 of literary art. This was his poem of " The Traveller," 
 the idea of which had occurred to him nine years before, 
 during his own continental wanderings, and some frag- 
 ments of which he had then written and sent home from 
 Switzerland to his brother Henry. On this poem, as 
 well as on " The Vicar of Wakefield," he had been for 
 some time engaged in his Islington lodgings, writing it 
 slowly and bringing it to the last degree of finish, but so 
 diffident of its success as to say nothing about it to his 
 friends. Reynolds, indeed, once visiting him, found 
 him bending over something at his desk, and at the 
 same time holding up his finger in rebuke every now 
 and then to a little dog he was teaching to sit on its 
 haunches in a corner of the room ; and, on looking over 
 his shoulder at the manuscript, he could see that it was a 
 poem, and was able to read and remember one couplet. 
 At length, probably at the very time of Johnson's visit of 
 rescue, Goldsmith took Johnson into his confidence in 
 the matter of the poem too. It was highly approved by 
 that judge, who even added a line or two of his own ; 
 the elder Newbery, who may already have been spoken 
 to about it, jdid not mind promising twenty guineas for 
 it ; and on the igth of December, 1764, it was pub- 
 lished, price one shilling and sixpence, with this title, "T^Travei- 
 " A Traveller ; or a Prospect of Society : A Poem. By ler -"
 
 196 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith, M. B." It was the first publication 
 of Goldsmith's that bore his name, and it was dedicated, 
 in terms of beautiful affection, to his brother, the Rev. 
 Henry Goldsmith. 
 
 The publication of ' ' The Traveller ' ' was an epoch in 
 in his life. Goldsmith's life. Now at last, at the age of six-and- 
 
 thirty, he stood forth, not as an essayist, compiler, and 
 anonymous prose-humorist, but avowedly as a candidate 
 for those higher and finer honors that belong to the 
 name of English poet. 
 
 As by his "Traveller" Goldsmith had taken his 
 place among English poets, so by " The Vicar of Wake- 
 field " he took a place, if not as one of the remark- 
 able group of English novelists that distinguished the 
 middle of the eighteenth century, at least with peculiar 
 conspicuousness near that group. Richardson had been 
 five years dead ; Fielding twelve years ; only Smollett 
 of the old three remained, with his " Humphry Clinker" 
 still to be written. How simple this "Vicar of Wake- 
 field" was, how humorous, how pathetic, how graceful 
 in its manner, how humane in every pulse of its mean- 
 Popularity of ing, how truly and deeplv good ! So said evervbody ; 
 
 "The Vicar of &) , . , , , . 
 
 Wakefieid." and gradually into that world 01 imaginary scenes and 
 beings made familiar to British readers by former works 
 of fiction, and the latest additions to which had been 
 Smollett's and Sterne's inventions, a place of especial 
 regard was found for the ideal Wakefieid, the Primrose 
 family, and all their belongings. 
 
 Everybody, even in our time, has read, or must read, 
 "The Vicar of Wakefieid " ; but I select some passages 
 as pictures of the period, especially those that give an 
 idea of simple country life as contrasted with the city 
 manners of Evelina's friends given later.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE place of our retreat was in a little neighborhood, consist- 
 ing of farmers, who tilled their own grounds and were equal 
 strangers to opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the The vicar de- 
 conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited home 8 . 8 
 towns or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from the 
 polite, they still retained the primeval simplicity of manners ; 
 and, frugal by habit, they scarce knew that temperance was a 
 virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of labor, but 
 observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They 
 kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine 
 morning, ate pancakes on Shrovetide, showed their wit on the 
 first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. 
 Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighborhood came 
 out to meet their minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and 
 preceded by a pipe and tabor. A feast also was provided for 
 our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down ; and what the 
 conversation wanted in wit was made up in laughter. 
 
 The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the 
 following manner : By sunrise we all assembled in our com- iVuie^epubHc. 
 mon apartment, the fire being previously kindled by the serv- 
 ant. After we had saluted each other with proper ceremony 
 for I always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of 
 good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friend- 
 ship we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us 
 another day. This duty being performed, my son and I went 
 to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and daugh- 
 ters employed themselves in providing breakfast, which was 
 always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this 
 meal, and an hour for dinner ; which time was taken up in 
 innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philo- 
 sophical arguments between my son and me. 
 
 As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors 
 after it was gone down, but returned home to the expecting
 
 198 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 family, where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire 
 were prepared for our reception. Nor were we without guests : 
 sometimes farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbor, and 
 often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our goose- 
 berry wine, for the making of which we had lost neither the 
 receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had several 
 ways of being good company ; while one played the other 
 would sing some soothing ballad Johnny Armstrong's "Last 
 Good-Night," or "The Cruelty of Barbara Allen." The night 
 was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my 
 youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day ; 
 and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best was to have a 
 halfpenny on Sunday to put into the poor's box. 
 When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all 
 
 Sunday a day my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well soever I 
 fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of 
 my daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached to all 
 their former finery ; they still loved laces, ribbands, bugles, and 
 catgut ; my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson 
 paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her. 
 
 The first Sunday, in particular, their behavior served to- 
 mortify me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be 
 dressed early the next day ; for I always loved to be at church 
 a good while before the rest of the congregation. They punc- 
 tually obeyed my directions ; but when we were to assemble in 
 the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters 
 dressed out in all their former splendor, their hair plastered up- 
 with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled 
 up in a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not 
 help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from 
 whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, 
 my only resource was to order my son, with an important air, 
 to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the command ; 
 
 reproved. but I repeated it with more solemnity than before. "Surely, 
 
 my dear, you jest," cried my wife; "we can walk it perfectly 
 well: we want no coach to carry us no\v." "You mistake, 
 child," returned I, "we do want a coach; for if we walk to- 
 church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot 
 after us." "Indeed," replied my wife, "I always imagined 
 that my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and hand- 
 some about him." " You may be as neat as you please," in-
 
 Goldsmith. 199 
 
 terrupted I, " and I shall love you the better for it ; but all this 
 is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings and pinkings and 
 patchings will only make us hated by all the wives of our 
 neighbors. No, my children," continued I, more gravely, 
 "those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut ; 
 for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of 
 decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding 
 is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate 
 calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world might be 
 clothed from the trimmings of the vain." 
 
 This remonstrance had the proper effect : they went with 
 great composure, that very instant, to change their dress ; and Change of 
 the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at 
 their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into 
 Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones ; and, 
 what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved 
 by this curtailing. 
 
 There were a couple of soi-disant fine ladies from the 
 town, whose arrival had rather turned the heads of the 
 ladies of the vicar's family. Through their influence 
 
 the sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin without doors, 
 and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My wife ob- 
 served that rising too early would hurt her daughters' eyes, 
 that working after dinner would redden their noses ; and she 
 convinced me that the hands never looked so white as when 
 they did nothing. Instead therefore of finishing George's shirts, 
 we now had them new-modeling their old gauzes or flour- 
 ishing upon catgut. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their for- 
 mer gay companions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and 
 the whole conversation ran upon high life, and high-lived com- 
 pany, with pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musical glasses. 
 
 My wife and daughters happening to return a visit at neighbor 
 Flamborough's, found that family had lately got their pictures 
 drawn by a limner, who traveled the country and took like- traits. 
 nesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and ours had 
 long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the alarm 
 .at this stolen march upon us ; and, notwithstanding all I could
 
 2oo Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 say, and I said much, it was resolved that we should have our 
 pictures done too. 
 
 Having, therefore, engaged the limner for what could I do ? 
 our next deliberation was to show the superiority of our taste 
 in the attitudes. As for our neighbor's family, there were seven 
 of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges a thing 
 quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in the 
 world. We desired to have something in a brighter style ; and, 
 after many debates, at length came to a unanimous resolution 
 of being drawn together, in one large historical family piece. 
 This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, 
 and it would be infinitely more genteel ; for all families of any 
 taste were now drawn in the same manner. As we did not 
 immediately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were 
 contented each with being drawn as independent historical 
 figures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the 
 hi'stodcai ent painter was desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her 
 pictures. stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids 
 
 by her side ; while I, in my gown and band, was to present her 
 with my books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia would be 
 drawn as an Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed 
 in a green Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her 
 hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep 
 as the painter could put in for nothing ; and Moses was to be 
 dressed out with a hat and white feather. Our taste so much 
 pleased the Squire that he insisted on being put in as one of the 
 family, in the character of Alexander the Great, at Olivia's 
 feet. This was considered by us all as an indication of his 
 desire to be introduced into the family, nor could we refuse his 
 request. The painter was therefore set to work, and, as he 
 wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days 
 the whole was completed. The piece was large, and, it must 
 be owned, he did not spare his colors ; for which my wife gave 
 him great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his 
 thYpfcture. performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance which had not 
 occurred till the picture was finished now struck us with dis- 
 may. It was so very large that we had no place in the house 
 to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is 
 inconceivable ; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. 
 The picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we 
 hoped, leaned, in a most mortifying manner, against the kitchen
 
 Goldsmith. 201 
 
 wall, where the canvas was stretched and painted, much too 
 large to be got through any of the doors, and the jest of all our 
 neighbors. One compared it to Robinson Crusoe's long-boat, 
 too large to be removed ; another thought it more resembled a 
 reel in a bottle ; some wondered how it could be got out, but 
 still more were amazed how it ever got in. 
 
 And so on ; but enough. The story is too pathetic, 
 and moreover too familiar, to find a place here like 
 Goldsmith's own story, which I have dealt with only in 
 explanation of my extracts, and in connection with the 
 men of his time. 
 
 In 1774 Goldsmith had come to the end of some years 
 of labor in compiling ; and now, if ever, was the time for in compiling.* 
 carrying into effect the resolution, to which he had been 
 persuading himself, of retiring permanently into some 
 quiet part of the country and coming to London only 
 for two months every year. But, in fact, either to go or 
 stay would have been difficult for him. All his resources 
 were gone ; his feet, as he walked in the streets, were in 
 a meshwork of debt, to the extent of about ,2,000 ; 
 and all that he could look forward to, with any promise 
 of relief in it, was the chance of a new stretch of some 
 ten thousand acres of additional hack-work and com- 
 pilation, for some bookseller who would not mind pre- 
 paying for the labor in part. 
 
 He went in "March, for a week or two, to his retreat at 
 Hyde on the Edgeware Road, when an attack of a local 
 complaint to which he had for some time been subject 
 brought him back to his chambers in the Temple. The 
 immediate illness passed off, but a kind of nervous fever 
 followed ; doctors were sent for, but without avail. 
 "Your pulse," said one of them to the patient, "is in 
 greater disorder than it should be from the state of your 
 fever : is your mind at ease? " " It is not," said Gold-
 
 2O2 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 smith. And so, with varying symptoms, he lay on in 
 his chambers in Brick Court till Monday, the 4th of 
 April, 1774, on which day it was known through town 
 His death. t h at Goldsmith was dead. He died at half-past four that 
 morning in strong convulsions. 
 
 When Burke was told the news, he burst into tears. 
 When Reynolds was told it, he left his painting-room, 
 where he then was, and did no more work that day. 
 How Johnson was affected at the moment we can only 
 guess ; but three months afterward he wrote as follows 
 to Bennet Langton, in Lincolnshire : 
 
 Chambers, you find, is gone far, and poor Goldsmith is gone 
 much farther. He died of a fever, exasperated, as I believe, 
 by the fear of distress. He raised money and squandered it 
 by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. But let 
 not his frailties be remembered ; he was a very great man. 
 
 When Goldsmith died he was forty-five years and five 
 months old. His body was buried, on the gth of April, 
 in the burying-ground of the Temple Church. The 
 monument to him in Westminster Abbey, with the Latin 
 inscription by Johnson, was erected in 1776. 
 
 In the Temple Church there is a modern monument 
 to Oliver Goldsmith erected in 1860. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott's epitaph for him is : 
 
 Scott , s The wreath of Goldsmith is unsullied ; he wrote to exalt vir- 
 
 epitaph. tue and expose vice ; and he accomplished his task in a manner 
 
 which raises him to the highest rank among British authors. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Goldsmith's Complete Works, with memoir by David Mas- 
 son. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. William Black. (English Men of Letters.) 
 Biography of Oliver Goldsmith. Washington Irving. 
 Famous Plays. J. F. Molloy. (London, 1886.)
 
 BOOK VII. 
 HORACE WALPOLE AND GRAY. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE correspondence of Horace Walpole is a great 
 mine of facts and fancies, too extensive to explore for spondence". 
 any one without ample leisure and strong inclination to 
 the task. These letters were pronounced by Walter 
 Scott to be the best in our language, and Lord Byron de- 
 clared them to be incomparable. Since these verdicts, 
 the collections of letters by Walpole that were known to 
 Scott and Byron have received the addition of several 
 others, published at different times, besides many sepa- 
 rate letters which have come to light. The total num- 
 ber of Walpole' s published letters cannot now fall much 
 short of three thousand ; the earliest of these is dated 
 in November, 1735, the latest in January, 1797. Thus 
 we see that the correspondence extends nearly over our 
 period. Throughout all these sixty years, the writer, to Its extent - 
 use his own phrase, lived always in the big, busy world, 
 and whatever there passed before him, his restless fingers, 
 restless even when stiffened by the gout, recorded and 
 commented on for the amusement of his correspondents. 
 It is a serious piece of work to attack this mass of nar- 
 rative and description, anecdotes and criticisms, and 
 very much of it is irrelevant to our purpose, and has 
 ceased to be interesting. 
 
 Mr. Seeley's excellent, and not too large, book gives 
 admirable selections from the letters, with reference to
 
 204 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 just those things that are interesting to my subject, and 
 it is from his careful selections that I further condense. 
 
 Horace Walpole was born on the 24th of September, 
 Birth and 1717, the vounofest son of the foremost Englishman of 
 
 parentage. ' ' ' 
 
 his time, Sir Robert Walpole. Walpole tells us that in 
 the first years of his life he was much indulged both by 
 his mother and Sir Robert, being a delicate child ; and 
 he relates the story of being carried, on account of his 
 longing to see the king, to St. James's to kiss the hand 
 of George I., just before His Majesty began his last 
 journey to Hanover. He was sent to Eton and from 
 there to King's College, Cambridge. As soon as he 
 became of age he was put in the possession of a hand- 
 some income, from several purely sinecure offices pro- 
 cured for him by his father, all capable of being executed 
 by deputy, and leaving him with plenty of money and 
 nothing to do. 
 
 Thus at leisure, he set out on the continental tour 
 Traveling with which was then considered indispensable for a man of 
 fashion. His companion was the poet Gray, with whom 
 Walpole then formed a friendship which lasted through 
 their lives, in spite of the interruption caused by a 
 slight dissension that came up between them in travel- 
 ing, as so often happens in the midst of the fatigues of 
 journeys. 
 
 Walpole took his seat in Parliament, and delivered his 
 maiden speech in 1742, but it cloee not appear that he 
 acquired any reputation in debate. His constant attend- 
 ance at the House had the chief merit, it would seem, 
 for furnishing material for his correspondence, and the 
 same may be said for his wide acquaintance with fash- 
 ionable society. 
 
 During his active life the war of parties was largely 
 carried on by anonymous pamphlets, and Walpole gave
 
 Horace \ValpoIe and Gray. 205 
 
 powerful help in this way to the subjects which aroused 
 his interest. 
 
 But he found in art and literature his chief employ- , 
 
 " J Art and htera- 
 
 ment. He read widely, especially in the line of history ture his chief 
 
 J J employment. 
 
 and archaeology, and thus developed a passion for col- 
 lecting and imitating antiquities and curiosities of all 
 kinds. For this he had means and leisure, as his duties, 
 for instance as Usher of the Exchequer, were nominally 
 to shut the gates of the Exchequer, and to provide the 
 Exchequer and Treasury with the paper, parchment, 
 pens, ink, sand, wax, tape, and other articles of the sort 
 used in their department. 
 
 His chief amusement for many years was the erection 
 and adornment of his villa at Twickenham, an eccentric 
 little building on the Thames, in which he gathered a 
 collection of pictures and all sorts of curiosities. He 
 called it Strawberry Hill. 
 
 He bought the place with only a cottage on it from 
 Mrs. Ghenevix, who kept a fashionable toy-shop, and he 
 writes : 
 
 It's a little plaything house that I got out of Mrs. Chenevix's vj]la at 
 shop, and is the prettiest bauble that ever you saw. It is set in Twickenham, 
 enameled meadows, with filagree hedges : 
 
 A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled, 
 
 And little finches wave their wings in gold. 
 
 Walpole had acquired in his antiquarian research a 
 fatal fondness for Gothic architecture ; but his zeal was 
 not according to much knowledge, not guided by a very 
 pure taste. The cottage grew into a strange nondescript 
 edifice, half castle, half cloister, still small in its propor- 
 tions, with all kinds of grotesque decorations, with a 
 library, refectory, gallery, round tower, hexagon closet 
 titles to make the mouth water of an Ann Radcliffe. 
 In a small cloister, outside the house, stood the blue
 
 206 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 and white china bowl in which Walpole's cat was really 
 drowned, so worthily celebrated by Gray's poem. 
 
 The buildings were not solid in construction, and to 
 this day their "ginger-bread Gothic" and "pie-crust 
 battlements ' ' are subjects for ridicule, but I think it was 
 charming of Walpole to amuse himself exactly as he 
 pleased in the matter of building him a house, without 
 the slightest deference to his neighbor's opinions or any 
 feeling that he must be and do like the rest of the world. 
 In fact, he rather enjoyed the defects in his work and 
 was as well aware as anybody of its flimsiness. 
 
 The place was filled with all sorts of wonderful objects. 
 Lord Macaulay says : 
 
 In his villa every apartment is a museum, every piece of 
 furniture is a curiosity ; there is something strange in the form 
 A curiosity of the shovel, there is a long story belonging to the bell-rope. 
 We wander among a profusion of rarities of trifling intrinsic 
 value, but so quaint in fashion or connected with such remark- 
 able names and events that they may well detain our attention 
 a moment. A moment is enough. Some new relic, some new 
 unique, some new carved work, some new enamel, is forthcom- 
 ing in an instant. One cabinet of trinkets is no sooner closed 
 than another is opened. 
 
 Walpole established a printing press, amongst other 
 things, on the grounds, with which he amused the com- 
 pany who came incessantly to visit him. 
 
 Thus employed, and always actively in society, and 
 Mode of exist- always writing away at his letters, this remarkable man 
 passed a cheerful, airy kind of existence. When he 
 was seventy-four he became by the death of his nephew 
 Earl of Oxford, but he never took his seat in the House 
 of Lords and seldom used the new title. Some of his 
 letters after the succession are signed " the lateH. W.," 
 and some of them "the uncle of the late Earl of 
 Oxford." He died in 1797 in his eightieth year, in the 
 
 ence.
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 207 
 
 full possession of his faculties, though for a long time he 
 had suffered greatly from the effects of gout, to which 
 he was a martyr. 
 
 Walpole was unpopular in his time, and the comments 
 upon him by his contemporaries are severe ; unneces- 
 sarily so, it seems to us, who read him through his letters 
 at this distance. Inconsistency, caprice, eccentricity, 
 affectation are charged against him. No doubt his pride 
 of rank, his strong likes and dislikes, freely displayed, 
 made him enemies. 
 
 He wrote and published a good many things, but his 
 novel, the "Castle of Otranto," although highly praised, "Castieof 
 
 . . Otranto." 
 
 is extremely dull, and his other publications are as 
 nearly as possible forgotten. It is pleasant to say that 
 in the dispute with America he maintained, from the 
 first, the right of our colonies to liberty and independ- 
 ence. 
 
 There is no doubt that Walpole regarded letter- 
 writing as an art, and that he counted on being remem- 
 bered by his letters far more than by any other of his 
 writings. Meanwhile he himself is better than anything 
 he writes.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 I PASS over Walpole's earliest letters, and those 
 written during his travels. The following is written to 
 his friend John Chute, whose acquaintance he made at 
 Florence, from his father's seat at 
 
 Honghton, August 20, 1743. 
 
 INDEED, MY DEAR SIR : You certainly did not use to be 
 stupid, and till you give me more substantial proof that you are 
 so, I shall not believe it. As for your temperate diet and milk 
 bringing about such a metamorphosis, I hold it impossible. I 
 have such lamentable proofs every day before my eyes of the 
 stupefying qualities of beef, ale, and wine that I have contracted 
 a most religious veneration for your spiritual nouriture. Only 
 imagine that I here every day see men who are mountains of 
 roast beef, and only seem just roughly hewn out into the out- 
 lines of human form, like the giant-rock at Pratolino ! I shud- 
 Country man- der when I see them brandish their knives in act to carve, and 
 look on them as savages that devour one another. I should 
 not stare at all more than I do if yonder alderman at the lower 
 end of the table was to stick his fork into his neighbor's jolly 
 cheek, and cut a brave slice of brown and fat. Why, I'll swear 
 I see no difference between a country gentleman and a sirloin ; 
 whenever the first laughs, or the latter is cut, there run out 
 just the same streams of gravy ! Indeed, the sirloin does not 
 ask so many questions. I have an aunt here, a family piece of 
 goods, an old remnant of inquisitive hospitality and economy, 
 who, to all intents and purposes, is as beefy as her neighbors. 
 She wore me so down yesterday with interrogatories that I 
 dreamt all night she was at my ear with "who's" and 
 "why's" and " when's " and "where's," till at last in my 
 very sleep I cried out, " For heaven's sake, madam, ask me no 
 more questions ! " 
 
 Oh, my dear sir, don't you find that nine parts in ten of the 
 world are of no use but to make vou wish vourself with that
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 209 
 
 tenth part ? I am so far from growing used to mankind by 
 living amongst them that my natural ferocity and wildness does 
 but every day grow worse. They tire me, they fatigue me ; I 
 don't know what to do with them ; I don't know what to say to 
 them ; I fling open the windows and fancy I want air ; and 
 when I get by myself, I undress- myself, and seem to have had 
 people in my pockets, in my plaits, and on my shoulders. I 
 indeed find this fatigue worse in the country than in town, 
 because one can avoid it there and has more resources, but it is 
 there too. I fear 'tis growing old ; but I literally seem to have 
 murdered a man whose name was Ennui, for his ghost is ever 
 before me. They sav there is no English word for ennui ; I Definition 
 
 3 . of ennui. 
 
 think you may translate it most literally by what is called 
 "entertaining people" and "doing the honors," that is, you sit 
 an hour with somebody you don't know and don't care for, 
 talk about the wind and the weather, and ask a thousand fool- 
 ish questions, which all begin with, "I think you live a good 
 deal in the country," or, "I think you don't love this thing or 
 that." Oh ! 'tis dreadful. 
 
 Horace was soon in the full tide of fashion, not to say 
 dissipation ; for a good many years the opera, plays, 
 balls, routs, and other diversions, public and private, 
 mingled with accounts of journeys to visit great houses 
 in the country, fill up the letters, together with abund- 
 ance of scandal and playful jesting on the follies of the 
 day. Here is an amusing account of the sensation pro- 
 duced by the earthquake which alarmed London in Earthquake 
 
 of 1750. 
 
 Portents and prodigies are grown so frequent that they have 
 lost their name. 
 
 My text is not literally true ; but as far as earthquakes go 
 toward lowering the price of wonderful commodities, to be 
 sure we are overstocked. We have had a second, much more 
 violent than the first ; and you must not be surprised if by next 
 post you hear of a burning mountain sprung up in, Smithfield. 
 In the night between Wednesday and Thursday last (exactly a 
 month since the first shock), the earth had a shivering fit 
 between one and two ; but so slight that, if no more had fol-
 
 2io Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Centiiry. 
 
 lowed I don't believe it would have been noticed. I had been 
 awake, and had scarce dozed again on a sudden I felt my bol- 
 ster lift up my head ; I thought somebody was getting from 
 under my bed, but soon found it was a strong earthquake, that 
 lasted near half a minute, with a violent vibration and great 
 roaring. I rang my bell ; my servant came in, frightened out 
 of his senses ; in an instant we heard all the windows of the 
 neighborhood flung up. I got up and found people running 
 Slight dam- ' nto ^ ie streets but saw no mischief done ; there has been 
 age done. some ; two old houses flung down, several chimneys and 
 
 much china-ware. The bells rang in several houses. Admiral 
 Knowles, who has lived long in Jamaica, and felt seven there, 
 says this was more violent than any of them : Francesco pre- 
 fers it to the dreadful one at Leghorn. The wise say that if we 
 have not rain soon, we shall certainly have more. Several 
 people are going out of town, for it has nowhere reached above 
 ten miles from London ; they say, they are not frightened, but 
 that it is such fine weather, "Why, one can't help going out 
 into the country ! " The only visible effect it has had was on 
 the ridotto, at which, being the following night, there were but 
 four hundred people. 
 
 A parson, \vho came into White's the morning of earthquake 
 the first, and heard bets laid on whether it was an earthquake 
 or the blowing up of powder-mills, went away exceedingly 
 Betting upon scandalized, and said, " I protest, they are such an impious set 
 of people, that I believe if the last trumpet was to sound, they 
 would bet puppet-show against Judgment." If we get any 
 nearer still to the torrid zone, I shall pique myself on sending 
 you a present of cedrati and orange-flower water : I am already 
 planning a terreno for Strawberry Hill. 
 
 I told you the women talked of going out of town ; several 
 families are literally gone, and many more going to-day and 
 to-morrow ; for what adds to the absurdity is, that the second 
 shock having happened exactly a month after the former, it 
 prevails that there will be a third on Thursday next, another 
 month, which is to swallow up London. I am almost ready to 
 burn my letter now I have begun it, lest you think I am laugh- 
 ing at you : but it is so true, that Arthur of White's told me last 
 night that he should put off the last ridotto, which was to be 
 on Thursday, because he hears nobody would come to it. I 
 have advised several who are going to keep their next earth-
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 211 
 
 quake in the country, to take the bark for it, as it is so periodic. 
 Dick Leveson and Mr. Rigby, who had supped and stayed late 
 at Bedford House the other night, knocked at several doors, 
 and in a watchman's voice cried, "Past four o'clock, and a 
 dreadful earthquake." But I have done with this ridiculous Ridiculous 
 panic ; two pages were too much to talk of it. 
 
 I had not time to finish my letter on Monday. I return to the 
 earthquake, which I had mistaken ; it is to be to-day. This 
 frantic terror prevails so much that within these three days 
 seven hundred and thirty coaches have been counted passing 
 Hyde Park Corner, with whole parties removing into the 
 country. Here is a good advertisement which I cut out of the 
 papers to-day : 
 
 "On Monday next will be published, price 6d., a true and 
 exact List of all the Nobility and Gentry who have left, or shall 
 leave, this place through fear of another Earthquake." 
 
 Several women have made earthquake gowns ; that is, warm 
 gowns to sit out of doors all to-night. These are of the more 
 courageous. One woman, still more heroic, is come to town 
 on purpose ; she says, all her friends are in London, and she 
 will not survive them. But what will you think of Lady Cath- 
 arine Pelham, Lady Frances Arundel, and Lord and Lady Gal- 
 way, who go this evening to an inn ten miles out of town, 
 where they are to play at brag till five in the morning, and then 
 come back I suppose, to look for the bones of their husbands 
 and families under the rubbish ? 
 
 Not long after the earthquake we find Walpole A f ro]ic at 
 engaged in a frolic at Vauxhall, in the best of company, Vauxhaii. 
 a gay party ' ' parading up ' ' the river in a barge, a boat 
 of French horns attending, and the young ladies sing- 
 ing. 
 
 At last we assembled in our booths. Lady Caroline in the front 
 with the visor of her head erect and looking gloriously jolly 
 and handsome. She had fetched my brother Orford from the 
 next box, where he was enjoying himself with \\v-ipctite partie, 
 to help us to mince chickens. We minced seven chickens into 
 a china dish, which Lady Caroline stewed over a lamp with 
 three pots of butter and a flagon of water, stirring and rattling 
 and laughing, and we every minute expecting to have the dish
 
 212 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 fly about our ears. ... In short, the whole air of our 
 party was sufficient, as you may imagine, to take up the whole 
 attention of the garden ; so much so that from eleven o'clock 
 till half an hour after one we had the whole concourse round 
 our booth ; at last they came into the little gardens of each 
 booth on the sides of ours, till Harry Vane took up a bumper 
 and drank their healths. 
 
 After the king's marriage (George III. to Queen 
 Royal marriage. Charlotte) he writes : 
 
 When we least expected the queen, she came, after being ten 
 days at sea, but without sickness for above half an hour. She 
 was gay the whole voyage, sung to her harpsichord, and left 
 the door of her cabin open. They made the coast of Suffolk last 
 Saturday and on Monday morning she landed at Harwich ; so 
 prosperously has Lord Anson executed his commission. She 
 lay that night at your old friend Lord Abercorn's at Witham in 
 Essex ; and, if she judged by her host, must have thought she 
 was coming to reign in the realm of taciturnity. She arrived at 
 St. James's a quarter after three on Tuesday the 8th. When 
 she first saw the palace she turned pale ; the Duchess of Ham- 
 ilton smiled. 
 
 "My dear duchess," said the princess, "you may laugh; 
 you have been married twice ; but it is no joke to me." 
 
 Anecdotes of Is this a bad proof of her sense ? On the journey they 
 
 the queen. . . , . . 
 
 wanted to curl her toupet. 
 
 " No, indeed," said she, " I think it looks as well as those ot 
 the ladies who have been sent for me : if the king would have 
 me wear a periwig, I will ; otherwise I shall let myself alone." 
 
 The Duke of York gave her his hand at the garden gate ; 
 her lips trembled, but she jumped out with spirit. In the gar- 
 den the king met her ; she would have fallen at his feet ; he 
 prevented and embraced her, and led her into the apartments, 
 where she was received by the Princess of Wales and Lady 
 Augusta : these three princesses only dined with the king. At 
 ten the procession went to chapel, preceded by unmarried 
 daughters of peers and peeresses in plenty. The new princess 
 was led by the Duke of York and Prince William ; the arch- 
 bishop married them ; the king talked to her the whole time 
 with great good-humor, and the Duke of Cumberland gave her 
 away. She is not tall, nor a beauty ; pale, and very thin ; but
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 213 
 
 looks sensible, and is genteel. Her hair is darkish and fine ; 
 her forehead low, her nose very well, except the nostrils Her appear- 
 spreading too wide ; her mouth has the same fault, but her ance< 
 teeth are good. She talks a good deal, and French tolerably ; 
 possesses herself, is frank, but with great respect to the king. 
 After the ceremony the whole company came into the drawing- 
 room for about ten minutes, but nobody was presented that 
 night. The queen was in white and silver ; an endless mantle 
 of violet-colored velvet, lined with ermine, and attempted to be 
 fastened on her shoulder by a bunch of large pearls, dragged 
 itself and almost the rest of her clothes half way down her 
 waist. On her head was a beautiful little tiara of diamonds ; a 
 diamond necklace, and a stomacher of diamonds, worth three- 
 score thousand pounds, which she is to wear at the coronation 
 too. Her train was borne by the ten bridesmaids ; their heads 
 crowned with diamonds, and in robes of white and silver. 
 
 The peace of Paris brought many French people over 
 to join the society of London. Walpole gave an enter- 
 tainment to some of these guests at Strawberry Hill. 
 
 . . . We breakfasted in the great parlor, and I had filled , . 
 
 the hall and large cloister by turns with French horns and 
 clarionettes. As the French ladies had never seen a printing- 
 house I carried them into mine ; they found something ready 
 set, and desiring to see what it was, it proved as follows : 
 
 THE PRESS SPEAKS FOR MADAME DE BOUFFLERS. 
 The graceful fair, who loves to know, 
 Nor dreads the north's inclement snow ; 
 Who bids her polish'd accent wear 
 The British diction's harsher air ; 
 Shall read her praise in every clime 
 Where types can speak or poets rhyme. 
 
 FOR MADAME Dussox. 
 Feign not an ignorance of what I speak ; 
 You could not miss my meaning were it Greek : 
 'Tis the same language Belgium uttered first, 
 The same which from admiring Gallia burst. 
 True sentiment a like expression pours ; 
 Each countrv savs the same to eves like vours.
 
 214 Men an d Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 You will comprehend that the first speaks English, and that 
 the second does not ; that the second is handsome, and the first 
 not ; and that the second was born in Holland. 
 
 A fortnight afterward he writes : 
 
 June jth. 
 
 Last night we had a magnificent entertainment at Richmond 
 Entertainment , ,. . , 
 
 at Richmond House, a masquerade and fireworks. A masquerade was a 
 
 new sight to the young people, who have dressed themselves 
 charmingly, without having the fear of an earthquake before 
 their eyes, though Prince William and Prince Henry were not 
 suffered to be there. The Duchesses of Richmond and Graf- 
 ton, the first as a Persian sultana, the latter as Cleopatra and 
 such a Cleopatra ! were glorious figures, in very different 
 styles. Mrs. Fitzroy in a Turkish dress, Lady George and 
 Lady Bolingbroke as Grecian girls, Lady Mary Coke as 
 Imoinda, and Lady Pembroke as a pilgrim, were the principal 
 beauties of the night. The whole garden was illuminated, and 
 the apartments. An encampment of barges decked with 
 streamers in the middle of the Thames kept the people from 
 danger, and formed a stage for the fireworks, which were 
 placed, too, along the rails of the garden. The ground rooms 
 lighted, with supper spread, the houses covered and filled with 
 people, the bridge, the garden full of masks. 
 
 Last Thursday the Duchess of Queensberry gave a ball, 
 Duchess of opened it herself with a minuet, and danced two country 
 Queensberry. dances : as she had enjoined everybody to be with her by six, 
 to sup at twelve, and go away directly. The only extraordi- 
 nary thing the duchess did was to do nothing extraordinary, 
 for I do not call it very mad that some pique happening 
 between her and the Duchess of Bedford, the latter had this 
 distich sent to her, 
 
 Come with a whistle, and come with a call, 
 Come with a good-will, or come not at all. 
 
 . . . If it was not too long to transcribe, I would send you 
 an entertaining petition of the periwig-makers to the king, in 
 which they complain that men will wear their own hair. 
 Should one almost wonder if carpenters were to remonstrate 
 that since the peace their trade decays, and that there is no 
 more demand for wooden legs ? Apropos, my Lady Hertford's
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 215 
 
 friend, Lady Harriot Vernon, has quarreled with me for 
 smiling at the enormous head-gear of her daughter, Lady 
 Grosvenor. She came one night to Northumberland House 
 with such a display of frizz that it literally spread beyond her 
 shoulders. I happened to say it looked as if her parents had 
 stinted her in hair before marriage and that she was deter- 
 mined to indulge her fancy now. 
 
 Strawberry Hill, March p, /7<5j. 
 
 I had time to write but a short note with the "Castle of Note with the 
 Otranto," as your messenger called on me at four o'clock, as I otranto.' 
 was going to dine abroad. Your partiality to me and Straw- 
 berry have, I hope, inclined you to excuse the wildness of 
 the story. You will even have found some traits to put you in 
 mind of this place. When you read of the picture quitting its 
 panel, did not you recollect the portrait of Lord Falkland, all 
 in white, in my gallery ? Shall I even confess to you what was 
 the origin of this romance ? I waked one morning, in the 
 beginning of last June, from a dream, of which all I could 
 recover was that I had thought myself in an ancient castle 
 (a very natural dream for a head like mine filled with Gothic 
 story), and that on the uppermost bannister of a great staircase 
 I saw a gigantic hand in armor. In the evening I sat down and 
 began to write, without knowing in the least what I intended to 
 say or relate. The work grew on my hands, and I grew fond 
 of it add, that I was glad to think of anything rather than 
 politics. In short, I was so engrossed with my tale, which I 
 completed in less than two months, that one evening I wrote 
 from the time I had drunk my tea, about six o'clock, till half 
 an hour after one in the morning, when my hand and fingers 
 were so weary that I could not hold the pen to finish the 
 sentence, but left Matilda and Isabella talking in the middle of 
 a paragraph. You will laugh at my earnestness ; but if I have 
 amused you by retracing with any fidelity the manners of 
 ancient days I am content, and give you leave to think me 
 as idle as you please. 
 
 A large part of Walpole' s correspondence was des- 
 patched at night after his return from the theater or a po'L" 30 
 reception. His habits were late. He was a late riser, 
 and he often played cards till two or three o'clock in the
 
 2 1 6 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 morning. Whist he disliked, but gave himself to faro 
 while that game was in vogue, and afterward to loo, 
 with all the fervor of a devotee. But when not thus 
 occupied the hours observed by the fashionable world 
 allowed him to retire early to his desk. How different 
 those hours were then from what they are now may be 
 gathered from Walpole's amusing sketch of a retarded 
 dinner, at which he was a sufferer, in 1765 : 
 
 Now for my disaster ; you will laugh at it, though it was 
 woful to me. I was to dine at Northumberland House, and 
 
 A retarded went a little after hour ; there I found the countess, Lady Itetty 
 Mackenzie, Lady Strafford ; my Lady Finlater, who was never 
 out of Scotland before ; a tall lad of fifteen, her son ; Lord 
 Drogheda, and Mr. \Vorseley. At five arrived Mr. Mitchell, 
 who said the Lords had begun to read the Poor-bill, which 
 would take at least two hours, and perhaps would debate it 
 afterward. \Ve concluded dinner would be called for, it not 
 being very precedented for ladies to wait for gentlemen no 
 such thing. Six o'clock came seven o'clock came our 
 coaches came well ! we sent them away, and excuses were 
 we were engaged. Still the countess's heart did not relent, 
 nor uttered a syllable of apology. We wore out the wind and 
 the weather, the opera and play, Mrs. Cornely's and Almack's, 
 and every topic that would do in a formal circle. We hinted, 
 represented in vain. The clock struck eight : my lady at last 
 said she would go and order dinner ; but it was a good half- 
 hour before it appeared. We then sat down to a table for four- 
 teen covers : but instead of substantial, there was nothing but 
 a profusion of plates striped red, green, and yellow, gilt plates, 
 blacks, and uniforms ! My Lady Finlater, who had never seen 
 
 guests these embroidered dinners, nor dined after three, was fam- 
 
 ished. The first course stayed as long as possible, in hopes of 
 the lords ; so did the second. The dessert arrived at last, and 
 the middle disli was actually set on when Lord Finlater and 
 Mr. Mackay arrived ! Would you believe it? the dessert was 
 remanded, and the whole first course brought back again. 
 . When the clock struck eleven I said I was engaged to 
 supper and came home to bed.
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 217 
 
 In 1770, Walpole descants on the extravagance of the 
 
 Extravagance 
 of the age. 
 
 What do you think of a winter-Ranelagh erecting in Oxford 
 Road, at the expense of sixty thousand pounds ? The new 
 bank, including the value of the ground and of the houses de- 
 molished to make room for it, will cost three hundred thou- 
 sand ; and erected, as my Lady Townley says, by sober citizens, 
 too ! I have touched before to you on the incredible profusion 
 of our young men of fashion. I know a younger brother who 
 literally gives a flower-woman half a guinea every morning for 
 a bunch of roses for the nose-gay in his button-hole. There 
 has lately been an auction of stuffed birds ; and, as natural his- 
 tory is in fashion, there are physicians and others who paid 
 forty and fifty guineas for a single Chinese pheasant ; you may 
 buy a live one for five. After this, it is not extraordinary that 
 pictures should be dear. We have at present three exhibitions. 
 One West, who paints history in the taste of Poussin, gets 
 three hundred pounds for a piece not too large to hang over a 
 chimney. He has merit, but is hard and heavy, and far 
 unworthy of such prices. The rage to see these exhibitions is 
 so great that sometimes one cannot pass through the streets 
 where they are. But it is incredible what sums are raised by 
 mere exhibitions of anything a new fashion ; and to enter at 
 which you pay a shilling or half a crown. Another rage is for 
 prints of English portraits : I have been collecting them for 
 over thirty years, and originally never gave for a mezzotinto 
 above one or two shillings. The lowest are now a crown ; most, 
 from half a guinea to a guinea. Then we have Etruscan vases, 
 made of earthenware, in Staffordshire (by Wedgwood) from 
 two to five guineas ; and or nioulu, never made here before, 
 which succeeds so well that a tea-kettle, which the inventor 
 offered for one hundred guineas, sold by auction for one hundred 
 and thirty. In short, we are at the height of extravagance and 
 improvements, for we do improve rapidly in taste as well as in 
 
 . ,. , r . _ . Its improve- 
 
 the former. I cannot say so much for our genius. Poetry is moms, 
 gone to bed, or into our prose ; we are like the Romans in that 
 too. If we have the arts of the Antonines, we have the 
 fustian also. 
 
 In July, 1770, Walpole received a command to attend
 
 2i8 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 the Princess Amelia on a visit to Stowe. He describes 
 Princess what occurred to George Montagu : 
 
 Amelia. 
 
 We breakfasted at half an hour after nine ; but the princess 
 did not appear till it was finished ; then we walked in the 
 garden, or drove about in cabriolets till it was time to dress ; 
 dined at three, which, though properly proportioned to the 
 smallness of the company to avoid ostentation, lasted a vast 
 while, as the princess eats and talks a great deal ; then again 
 into the garden till past seven, when we came in, drank tea and 
 coffee, and played at pharaoh till ten, when the princess retired, 
 and we went to supper, and before twelve to bed. You will see 
 there was great sameness and little vivacity in all this. It was 
 broken a little by fishing, and going round the park one of the 
 mornings ; but, in reality, the number of buildings and variety 
 of scenes in the garden made each day different from the rest, 
 and my meditations on so historic a spot prevented my being 
 tired. Every acre brings to one's mind some instance of 
 the parts or pedantry, of the taste or want of taste, of the 
 ambition or love of fame, or greatness or miscarriages, of those 
 that have inhabited, decorated, planned, or visited the place. 
 
 On Wednesday night a small Vauxhall was acted for us at 
 
 A small the grotto in the Elysian Fields, which was illuminated with 
 
 Vauxhall. , . , , ,. , , , 
 
 lamps, as were the thicket and two little barks on the lake. 
 
 With a little exaggeration I could make you believe that noth- 
 ing ever was so delightful. The idea was really pretty ; but as 
 my feelings have lost something of their romantic sensibility, I 
 did not quite enjoy such an entertainment alfresco so much as 
 I should have done twenty years ago. The evening was more 
 than cool and the destined spot anything but dry. There were 
 not half lamps enough, and no music but an ancient militiaman, 
 who played cruelly on a squeaking tabor and pipe. As our 
 procession descended the vast flight of steps into the garden, 
 in which was assembled a crowd of people from Buckingham 
 and the neighboring villages to see the princess and the show, 
 the moon shining very bright, I could not help laughing as I 
 surveyed our troop, which, instead of tripping lightly to such 
 an Arcadian entertainment, were hobbling down by the balus- 
 trades, wrapped up in cloaks and great-coats, for fear of catching 
 cold. The earl, you know, is bent double, the countess very 
 lame ; I am a miserable walker, and the princess, though as
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 219 
 
 strong as a Brunswick lion, makes no figure in going down 
 fifty stone stairs. Except Lady Anne, and by courtesy Lady slight an- 
 Mary, we were none of us young enough for a pastoral. We n y ances - 
 supped in the grotto, which is as proper to this climate as a sea- 
 coal fire would be in the dog-days at Tivoli.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 IN 1773 Walpole gives an anecdote about Garrick 
 and Goldsmith ; it is the year before Goldsmith died. 
 
 An cdote of ^ dined and passed Saturday at Beauclerks' with the Edge- 
 
 Garrick and combes, the Garricks, and Dr. Goldsmith, and was most 
 thoroughly tried, as I knew I should be, I who hate playing off 
 a butt. Goldsmith is a fool, the more wearying for having 
 some sense. It was the night of a new comedy, called "The 
 School for Wives," which was exceedingly applauded, and 
 which Charles Fox says is execrable. Garrick has at least the 
 chief hand in it. I never saw anybody in a greater fidget, nor 
 more vain when he returned, for he went to the play-house at 
 half past five, and we sate waiting for him till tea, when he was 
 to act a speech in " Cato " with Goldsmith ! That is, the latter 
 sate in t'other's lap, covered with a cloak, and while Gold- 
 smith spoke Garrick's arms, that embraced him, made foolish 
 actions. How could one laugh when one had expected this for 
 four hours ! 
 
 In a letter to Horace Mann, dated November 24, 
 1774, he writes : 
 
 Don't tell me I am grown old and peevish and supercilious 
 A prophecy. name the geniuses of 1774 and I submit. The next Augustan 
 age will dawn on the other side of the Atlantic. There will, 
 perhaps, be a Thucydides at Boston, a Xenophon at New 
 York, and in time a Virgil at Mexico, and a Newton at Peru. 
 At last some curious traveler from Lima will visit England and 
 give a description of the ruins of St. Paul's, like the editions of 
 Balbec and Palmyra ; but am I not prophesying, contrary to my 
 usual prudence, and casting horoscopes of empires like Rous- 
 seau? 'Tis well, I will go and dream my visions. 
 
 Walpole' s traveler from Lima has often been quoted 
 as the original of Macaulay's " New Zealander, " stand- 
 ing on London Bridge in a vast solitude to sketch the
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 221 
 
 ruins of St. Paul's. But Macaulay invented his New 
 Zealander in 1840, whereas the extract above given is ?fe cau '2 y ' s 1 
 taken from Walpole' s correspondence with Mann and ander -" 
 was first published from the original manuscripts only 
 in 1843. 
 
 The letters keep on, with the same persevering liveli- 
 ness, from year to year ; in 1781 he writes : 
 
 I saw Dr. Johnson last night (then seventy-two years old) at 
 Lady Lucan's, who had assembled a blue-stocking meeting in 
 imitation of Mrs. Vesey's babels. It was so blue, it was quite 
 Mazarine blue. Mrs. Montagu kept aloof from Johnson, like 
 the West from the East. 
 
 This is not our Lady Mary (who died in 1762), but a 
 lady who originated the "Blue-stocking Club," one of s tocking U ciub.' 
 the pet dislikes of Horace. He writes about the same 
 time : 
 
 I met Mrs. Montagu t'other night at a visit. She said she 
 had been alone the whole preceding day, quite hermetically 
 sealed. I was very glad she was uncorked, or I might have 
 missed that piece of nonsense. She is one of my principal 
 entertainments at Mrs. Vesey's, who collects all the graduates 
 and candidates for fame, where they vie with one another till 
 they are as unintelligible as the good folks at babel. 
 
 From Strawberry Hill, in August, 1782, he writes : 
 
 Drowned as we are, the country never was in such beauty ; 
 the herbage and leafage are luxurious. The Thames gives 
 itself Rhone airs, and almost foams ; it is none of your home- 
 brewed rivers that Mr. Brown makes with a spade and a water- 
 ing-pot. Apropos, Mr. Duane, like a good housewife, in the 
 middle of his grass-plot, has planted a pump and watering 
 trough for his cow, and I suppose on Saturdays dries his towels 
 and neckcloths on his orange-trees ; but I must have done, or 
 the post will be gone. 
 
 At the end of 1782 Mrs. Siddons was the talk of the Mrs. siddons 
 
 _. . .. , ,, , , ...... the talk of the 
 
 town. Prejudiced as Walpole was apt to be in his judg- town.
 
 222 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 merits of actors, as of authors, his impressions of this 
 famous actress will be read with interest. 
 
 I have been in town two days, and seen Mrs. Siddons. She 
 on^f her pleased me beyond my expectation, but not up to the admira- 
 tion of the ton, two or three of whom were in the same box 
 with me. Mr. Crawford asked me if I did not think her the 
 best actress I ever saw ? I said, " By no means ; we old folks 
 were apt to be prejudiced in favor of our first impressions." 
 She is a good figure, handsome enough, though neither nose nor 
 chin according to the Greek standard, beyond which they both 
 advance a good deal. Her hair is either red, or she has no ob- 
 jection to its being thought so, and had used red powder. Her 
 voice is clear and good ; but I thought she did not vary its 
 modulations enough, nor ever approach enough to the familiar 
 but this may come when more habituated to the awe of the 
 audience of the capital. Her action is proper, but with little 
 variety ; when without motion, her arms are not genteel. 
 Thus you see all my objections are very trifling ; but what I 
 really wanted, but did not find, was originality, which an- 
 nounces genius, and without both I am never intrinsically 
 pleased. All Mrs. Siddons did, good sense or good instruction 
 might give. I dare to say that were I one and twenty, I should 
 have thought her marvelous ; but, alas ! I remember Mrs. Por- 
 ter and the Dumesnil and remember every accent of the for- 
 mer in the very same part. Yet this is not entirely prejudice : 
 don't I equally recollect the whole progress of Lord Chatham 
 and Charles Townshend, and does it hinder my thinking Mr. 
 Fox a prodigy ? Pray don't send him this paragraph. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Mrs. Siddons continues to be the mode, and to be modest 
 Modest and and sensible. She declines great dinners, and says her business 
 and the cares of her family take up her whole time. When 
 Lord Carlisle carried her the tribute money from Brooks's, he 
 said she was not manierec enough. " I suppose she was grate- 
 ful," said my niece, Lady Maria. Mrs. Siddons was desired to 
 play "Medea" and "Lady Macbeth." " Xo," she replied, 
 "she did not look on them as female characters." She was 
 questioned about her transactions with Garrick : she said, 
 " He did nothing but put her out ; that he told her she moved
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 223 
 
 her right hand when it should have been her left. In short," 
 said she, " I found I must not shade the tip of his nose." 
 
 The recent invention of air balloons (1784) was at invention of 
 this time exciting general interest. He says : 
 
 This enormous capital that must have some occupation is 
 most innocently amused with those philosophic playthings. An 
 Italian, one Lunardi, is the first air-go-natit that has mounted 
 into the clouds in this country. He is said to have bought three 
 or four thousand pounds in the stocks, by exhibiting his person, 
 his balloon, and his dog and his cat, at the Pantheon for a 
 shilling a visitor. Blanchard, a Frenchman, is his rival ; and I 
 expect that they will soon have an air fight in the clouds like a 
 stork and a kite. 
 
 In 1785 he reports from Strawberry Hill ': 
 
 Dr. Burney and his daughter Evelina-Cecilia have passed a 
 day and a half with me. He is lively and agreeable ; she half 
 and half sense and modesty, which possess her so entirely that 
 not a cranny is left for affectation or pretension. Oh ! Mrs. 
 Montagu, you are not above half as accomplished. 
 
 To the end of his life, although much crippled by gout, 
 Walpole retained his love for life and movement. He 
 received a visit from Queen Charlotte at Strawberry oiTeen Char- 
 Hill as kite as the summer of 1795. He sends an 
 
 account of it to Conway : 
 
 Strawberry. 
 
 As you are, or have been in town, your daughter (Mrs. 
 Darner) will have told you in what a bustle I am, preparing, 
 not to visit, but to receive an invasion of royalties to-morrow ; 
 and cannot even escape them, like Admiral Cornwallis, though 
 seeming to make a semblance ; for I am to wear a sword, and 
 have appointed my two aides-de-camp, my nephews, George 
 and Horace Churchill. If I fall, as ten to one but I do, to be 
 sure it will be a superb tumble, at the feet of a queen, and eight 
 daughters of kings ; for besides the six princesses, I am to have 
 the Duchess of York and the Princess of Orange ! Woe is me, 
 at seventy-eight, and with scarce a hand and foot to my back ! 
 Adieu ! Yours, etc., 
 
 A POOR OLD REMNANT.
 
 224 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 He adds later : 
 
 I am not dead of fatigue with my royal visitors, as I expected 
 to be, though I was on my poor lame feet three whole hours. 
 Your daughter, who kindly assisted me in doing the honors, 
 will tell you the particulars, and how prosperously I succeeded. 
 The queen was uncommonly condescending and gracious, and 
 deigned to drink my health when I presented her with the last 
 glass, and to thank me for all my attentions. Indeed, my mem- 
 ory de la vieille cour was but once in default. As I had been 
 assured that Her Majesty would be attended by her chamber- 
 lain, yet was not, I had no glove ready when I received her at 
 the step of her coach ; yet she honored me with her hand to 
 lead her up stairs ; nor did I recollect my omission when I 
 led her down again. Still, though gloveless, I did not squeeze 
 the royal hand, as vice-chamberlain did to Queen Mary. 
 
 The last letter. T^ 6 l ast letter from Horace Walpole was addressed to 
 Lady Ossory, then almost the sole survivor of his early 
 friends : 
 
 MY DEAR MADAM : You distress me infinitely by showing my 
 idle notes, which I cannot conceive can amuse anybody. My 
 old-fashioned breeding impels me every now and then to reply 
 to the letters you honor me with writing, but in truth very 
 unwillingly, for I seldom can have anything particular to say ; 
 I scarce go out of my own house, and then only to two or three 
 private places, where I see nobody that really knows anything, 
 and what I learn comes from newspapers, that collect intelli- 
 gence from coffee-houses ; consequently what I neither believe 
 nor report. At home I see only a few charitable elders, except 
 His retired life, about four-score nephews and nieces of various ages, who are 
 brought to me about once a year, to stare at me as the Methu- 
 saleh of the family, and they can speak only of their contem- 
 poraries, which interest me no more than if they talked of their 
 dolls, or bats and balls. Must not the result of this, madam, 
 make me a very entertaining correspondent ? And can such 
 letters be worth showing ? or can I have any spirit when so old, 
 and am reduced to dictate ? 
 
 Oh ! my good madam, dispense with me from such a task, 
 and think how it must add to it to apprehend such letters being 
 shown. Pray send me no more such laurels, which I desire no
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 225 
 
 more than their leaves when decked with a scrap of tinsel, and 
 stuck on twelfth cakes that lie on the shop-boards of pastry- 
 cooks at Christmas. I shall be quite content with a sprig of 
 rosemary thrown after me, when the parson of the parish com- 
 mits my dust to dust. Till then, pray, madam, accept the 
 resignation of your ancient servant, ORFORD. 
 
 Walpole in 1772 was thus described : His figure was 
 not merely tall, but more properly lone and slender to Personal 
 
 _ appearance. 
 
 excess. His eyes were remarkably bright and pene- 
 trating, his voice extremely pleasant. He always en- 
 tered a room in that style of affected delicacy which 
 fashion had then made almost natural, chapeau has 
 between his hands, or under his arm, knees bent, and 
 feet on tiptoe as if afraid of a wet floor. His dress 
 in summer was a lavender suit, the waistcoat embroid- 
 ered with a little silver, or of white silk worked in the 
 tambour ; partridge silk stockings, and gold buckles, 
 ruffles and frills, generally lace. In summer no powder, 
 but his wig combed straight and queued behind, show- 
 ing his very smooth forehead.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 BY the side of Horace Walpole's butterfly existence 
 the even tenor of the ways of Thomas Gray is in con- 
 
 yvaysof trast. His life was passed in alternating: between Cam- 
 
 Thomas Gray. _ r 
 
 bridge and Stoke, where his home was, West End 
 House, a simple farmstead of two stories, with a rustic 
 porch before the front door. It was here that he 
 finished the "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," and 
 here that he received the visit which made him write 
 "The Long Story," for a long time unpublished, as 
 Gray considered its allusions too personal for the public. 
 It is, as Mr. Gosse says, " excellent fooling," and inter- 
 esting as a picture of Gray's home life. 
 
 In his "Life of Gray" Mr. Gosse goes on to tell 
 Manuscript how, at the manor house at Stoke, Lady Cobham, who 
 
 of the " Elegy." 
 
 seems to have known Horace Walpole, read the " Elegy 
 in a Country Churchyard" in manuscript before it had 
 been many months in existence, and conceived a violent 
 desire to know the author. So quiet was Gray, and so 
 little inclined to assert his own personality, that she was 
 unaware that he and she had lived in the same country 
 parish for several years, until Rev. Mr. Robert Purt, 
 a Cambridge fellow, settled at Stoke, told her that 
 "thereabouts there lurked a wicked imp they call a 
 poet." Mr. Purt, however, enjoyed a very slight ac- 
 quaintance with Gray (he was offended shortly after- 
 ward at the introduction of his name into "The Long 
 Story" and very properly died of small-pox immedi- 
 ately), and could not venture to introduce him to her 
 ladyship. Lady Cobham, however, had a guest staying 
 
 226
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 227 
 
 with her, a Lady Schaub, who knew a friend of Gray's, 
 a Lady Brown. On this very meager introduction 
 Lady Schaub and Miss Speed, the niece of Lady Cob- 
 ham, were persuaded by her ladyship, who shot her LadyCobham 
 
 3 J and her guest. 
 
 arrow like Teucer from behind the shield of Ajax, to 
 call boldly upon Gray. They did so in the summer 
 of 1751, but when they had crossed the fields to West 
 End House they found that the poet had gone out 
 for a walk. They begged the ladies to say nothing of 
 their visit, but they left amongst the papers in Gray's 
 study this piquant little note : " Lady Schaub' s compli- 
 ments to Mr. Gray ; she is sorry not to have found him 
 at home, to tell him that Lady Brown is quite well." 
 
 This little adventure assumed the hues of mystery and 
 romance in so uneventful a life as Gray's, and curiosity 
 combined with good manners to make him put his shy- 
 ness in his pocket and return Lady Schaub' s polite but 
 eccentric call. That far-reaching spider, the Viscountess 
 Cobham, had now fairly caught him in her web, and for 
 
 .... . Caught in 
 
 the remaining nine years of her life she and her niece, a Wt;b - 
 Miss Speed, were his fast friends. Indeed, his whole 
 life might have been altered if Lady Cobham had had 
 her way, for it seems certain that she would have been 
 highly pleased to have seen him the husband of Harriet 
 Speed and inheritor of the fortunes of the family. At 
 one time Gray seems to have been really frightened lest 
 they should marry him suddenly, against his will ; and 
 perhaps he almost wished they would. At all events, 
 the only lines of his which can be called amatory were 
 addressed to Miss Speed. She was seven years his 
 junior, and when she was nearly forty she married a 
 very young French officer, and went to live abroad. 
 
 The romantic incidents of the call just described in- 
 spired Gray with his fantastic account of them given in
 
 228 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 " The Long Story." He dwells on the ancient seat of 
 *ke Huntingdons and Hattons, from the door of which 
 one morning issued 
 
 A brace of warriors, not in buff, 
 
 But rustling in their silks and tissues. 
 
 The first came cap-a-pie from France, 
 Her conquering destiny fulfilling, 
 
 Whom meaner beauties eye askance, 
 And vainly ape her art of killing. 
 
 The other Amazon kind Heaven 
 
 Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire ; 
 
 But Cobham had the polish given, 
 And tipped her arrows with good-nature. 
 
 With bonnet blue and capuchine, 
 
 And aprons long, they hid their armor ; 
 
 And veiled their weapons, bright and keen, 
 In pity to the country farmer. 
 
 These warriors sallied forth in the cause of a lady 
 
 Amazon 
 
 warriors. of high degree, who had just heard that the parLsh 
 
 contained a poet, and who 
 
 Swore by her coronet and ermine 
 
 She'd issue out her high commission 
 To rid the manor of such vermin. 
 
 At last they discovered his lowly haunt, and bounce in 
 without so much as a tap at his door : 
 
 The trembling family they daunt, 
 
 They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle ; 
 
 Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt, 
 And up-stairs in a whirlwind rattle. 
 
 Each hole and cupboard they explore. 
 
 Each creek and cranny of his chamber, 
 Run hurry-scurry round the floor, 
 
 And o'er the bed and tester chamber. 
 
 Into the drawers and china pry, 
 
 Papers and books, a huge imbroglio ;
 
 Horace \Valpole and Gray. 229 
 
 Under a teacup he might lie, 
 Or creased, like dog's-ears, in a folio. 
 
 The pitying- Muses, however, have conveyed him 
 away, and the proud Amazons are obliged to retreat ; Their "treat, 
 but they have a malignity to leave a spell behind them, 
 which their victim finds when he slinks back to his 
 
 home : 
 
 The words too eager to unriddle 
 
 The poet felt a strange disorder ; 
 Transparent bird-lime formed the middle, 
 
 And chains invisible the border. 
 
 So cunning was the apparatus, 
 
 The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, 
 That, will he nill he, to the great house. 
 
 He went as if the devil drove him. 
 
 When he arrives at the manor house, of course, he is 
 dragged before the great lady, and is only saved from 
 destruction by her sudden fit of clemency : 
 
 The ghostly prudes with haggard face 
 
 Already had condemned the sinner. 
 My lady rose, and with a grace 
 
 She smiled, and bid him come to dinner. 
 
 To show how playful Gray could be on occasions the 
 delightful letter to Walpole is quoted entire in which 
 first appeared the lines '' on a favorite cat," drowned in 
 
 a tub of gold-fishes. 
 
 Cambridge, March i, 1747. 
 
 As one ought to be particularly careful to avoid blunders in a 
 letter of condolence, it would be a sensible satisfaction to me, 
 before I testify my sorrow and the sincere part I take in your 
 misfortune, to know for whom it is I lament. I knew Zara and tc/VValpole^ 
 Selima (Selima,' was it? or Fatima?), or rather I knew them 
 both together; for I cannot justly say which was which. Then 
 as to your "handsome cat," the name you distinguish her by, 
 I am no less at a loss, as well knowing one's handsome cat is 
 always the cat one loves best ; or if one be alive and one dead, 
 it is usuallv the latter which is the handsomest. Besides, if the
 
 230 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 point were never so clear, I hope you do not think me so ill-bred 
 or so imprudent as to forfeit all my interest in the survivor ; oh, 
 no ! I would rather seem to mistake, and imagine to be sure 
 it must be the tabby one that had met with sad accident. Till 
 this matter is a little better determined, you will excuse me if I 
 do not begin to cry "Tempus inane peto, requiem, spatium- 
 que doloris." Which interval is the more convenient, as it 
 gives me time to rejoice with you on your new honors [Wai- 
 pole had just been elected F. R. S.]. This is only a beginning ; 
 I reckon next week we shall hear you are a Freemason. 
 Heigh-ho ! I feel (as you, to be sure, have long since) that I 
 have very little to say, at least in prose. Somebody will be 
 the better for it ; I do not mean you, but your cat, feue 
 Mademoiselle Selime, whom I am about to immortalize for 
 one week or fortnight, as follows : 
 
 Twas on a lofty vase's side 
 
 d]at e h Cf a he Where China's gayest art had dyed 
 
 favorite cat. The azure flowers that blow, 
 
 The pensive Selima reclined, 
 
 Demurest of the tabby kind, 
 Gazed on the lake below. 
 
 Her conscious tail her joy declared : 
 The fair round face, the snowy beard, 
 
 The velvet of her paws, 
 Her coat that with the tortoise vies, 
 Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes 
 
 She saw and purr'd applause. 
 
 Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide 
 Two beauteous forms were seen to glide, 
 
 The genii of the stream ; 
 Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue 
 Through richest purple to the view 
 
 Betray'd a golden gleam. 
 
 The hapless nymph with wonder saw : 
 A whisker first, and then a claw 
 
 With many an ardent wish 
 She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize 
 What female heart can gold despise ? 
 
 What cat's averse to fish ?
 
 Horace Walpole and Gray. 231 
 
 Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent 
 
 Again she stretched, again she bent, The fatal slip. 
 
 Nor knew the gulf between 
 (Malignant fate sat by and smiled) 
 The slipp'ry verge her feet beguiled ; 
 
 She tumbled headlong in ! 
 
 Eight times emerging from the flood 
 She mewed to ev'ry wat'ry god 
 
 Some speedy aid to send : 
 No dolphin came, no nereid stirr'd, 
 No cruel Tom nor Susan heard 
 
 What favorite has a friend ! 
 
 From hence, ye beauties ! undeceived, 
 Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, 
 
 And be with caution bold : 
 Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes 
 And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, 
 
 Nor all that glisters, gold ! 
 
 Here is an extract from Walpole' s "Castle of 
 
 /-N ^ i i r "Castle of 
 
 Otranto. One is enough to give a hint of its terrors, otranto." 
 
 Young Conrad's birthday was fixed for his espousals. The 
 company was assembled in the chapel of the castle, and every- 
 thing ready for beginning the divine office, when Conrad him- 
 self was missing. Manfred, impatient of the least delay, and 
 who had not observed his son retire, despatched one of his at- 
 tendants to summon the young prince. The servant, who had 
 not staid long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad's 
 apartment, came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, 
 his eyes staring, and foaming at the mouth. He said nothing, 
 but pointed at the court. The company were struck with 
 terror and amazement. The Princess Hippolita, without know- 
 ing what was the matter, but anxious for her son, swooned 
 away. Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the pro- 
 crastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, 
 asked imperiously what was the matter? The fellow made no 
 answer, but continued pointing toward the court-yard ; and at 
 last, after repeated questions put to him, cried out, "Oh! the 
 helmet ! the helmet ! " In the meantime some of the company
 
 232 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 had run into the -court, from whence was heard a confused 
 noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred, who began to 
 be alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to get informa- 
 tion of what occasioned this strange confusion. Matilda re- 
 mained, endeavoring to assist her mother, and Isabella staid 
 for the same purpose, and to avoid showing any impatience for 
 the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had conceived little 
 affection. 
 
 The first thing that struck Manfred's eyes was a group of his 
 The terrible servants endeavoring to raise something that appeared to him a 
 mountain of sable plumes. He gazed without believing his 
 sight. "What are ye doing?" cried Manfred wrathfully ; 
 "where is my son?" A volley of voices replied, "Oh! my 
 lord ! the prince ! the prince ! the helmet ! the helmet ! " 
 Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew 
 not what, he advanced hastily but what a sight for a father's 
 eyes ! he beheld his child dashed to pieces, and almost buried 
 under an enormous helmet, an hundred times more large than 
 any casque ever made for human beings, and shaded with as 
 proportionable number of black feathers. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Horace Walpole and His World. L. B. Seeley, M. A. 
 
 Macaulay's Essay on Horace Walpole. 
 
 Thomas Gray. Edmund W. Gosse. (English Men of 
 Letters. ) 
 
 Castle of Otranto. Horace Walpole. Mrs. Barbauld's 
 British Novelists, Vol. 22. 
 
 Vicar of Wakefield. Oliver Goldsmith. British Novelists, 
 Vol. 23.
 
 BOOK VIII. 
 EVELINA AND DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Queen Anne Street, London, Saturday, April sd. 
 
 THIS moment arrived. Just going to Drury Lane Theater. 
 The celebrated Mr. Garrick performs Ranger. I am quite in 
 ecstasy. So is Miss Mirvan. How fortunate that he should cifa^e'r^of 
 happen to play ! We would not let Mrs. Mirvan rest till she " Evelina." 
 consented to go. Her chief objection was to our dress, for we 
 have had no time to Londonize ourselves ; but we teased her 
 into compliance, and so we are to sit in some obscure place 
 that she may not be seen. As to me, I should be alike 
 unknown in the most conspicuous or most private part of the 
 house. 
 
 I can write no more now. I have hardly time to breathe 
 only just this, the houses and streets are not quite so superb 
 as I expected. However, I have seen nothing yet, so I ought 
 not to judge. 
 
 Well ; adieu, my dearest sir, for the present ; I could not for- 
 bear writing a few words instantly on my arrival, though I 
 suppose my letter of thanks for your consent is still on the 
 road. 
 
 Saturday night. 
 
 O, my dear sir, in what raptures am I returned ! Well may 
 Mr. Garrick be so celebrated, so universally admired I had p , 
 not any idea of so great a performer. of Garrick. 
 
 Such ease ! such vivacity in his manner ! such grace in his 
 motions ! such fire and meaning in his eyes ! I could hardly 
 believe he had studied a written part, for every word seemed 
 to be uttered from the impulse of the moment. 
 
 His action at once so graceful and so free ! his voice so 
 clear, so melodious, yet so wonderfully various in its tones ! 
 Such animation ! every look speaks !
 
 234 Men an d Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 I would have given the world to have had the whole play 
 acted over again. And when he danced O, how I envied 
 Clarinda ! I almost wished to have Jumped on the stage and 
 joined them. 
 
 I am afraid you will think me mad, so I won't say any more ; 
 yet, I really believe Mr. Garrick would make you mad too if 
 you could see him. I intend to ask Mrs. Mirvan to go to 
 the play every night while we stay in town. She is extremely 
 kind to me ; and Maria, her charming daughter, is the sweetest 
 girl in the world. 
 
 Garrick took leave of the stage on the loth of June, 
 1776, one year and a half before the publication of 
 "Evelina." Ranger and Clarinda are characters in 
 "The Suspicious Husband," a comedy by Dr. Benja- 
 Garnck's m ' n Hoadley. Garrick died in 1779 ; with him, accord- 
 
 ing to Dr. Burney, "Nature and Shakespeare together 
 expired." 
 
 Monday, April 4th. 
 
 We are to go this evening to a private ball, given by Mrs. 
 Stanley, a very fashionable lady of Mrs. Mirvan's acquaintance. 
 
 We have been a shopping, as Mrs. Mirvan calls it, all this 
 morning, to buy silks, caps, gauzes, and so forth. 
 
 The shops are very entertaining, especially the mercers ; there 
 seem to be six or seven men belonging to each shop ; and 
 every one took care, by bowing and smirking, to be noticed. 
 I thought I should never have chosen a silk, for they produced 
 so many, I knew not which to fix upon ; and they recommended 
 them all so strongly, that I fancy they thought I only wanted 
 persuasion to buy everything they showed me. And indeed 
 they took so much trouble that I was almost ashamed I could 
 not. 
 
 I have just had my hair dressed. You can't think how oddly 
 
 my head feels; full of powder and black pins, and a great 
 
 Pins and cushion on the top of it. I believe you would hardly know me, 
 
 for my face looks quite different to what it did before my hair 
 
 was dressed. 
 
 I am half afraid of this ball to-night, for you know I have 
 never danced but at school ; however, Miss Mirvan savs there is
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 235 
 
 nothing in it. Adieu, my dear sir. Poor Miss Mirvan cannot 
 wear one of her caps, because they dress her hair too large. 
 
 Queen Anne Street, April 5, Tuesday morning. 
 
 I have a vast deal to say, and shall give all this morning to 
 my pen. As to my plan of writing every evening the adven- 
 tures of the day, I find it impracticable ; for the diversions here 
 are so very late that if I begin my letters after them I could not 
 go to bed at all. 
 
 We passed a most extraordinary evening. A private ball this 
 was called, so I expected to have seen about four or five A private ball, 
 couple , but Lord ! my dear sir, I believe I saw half the world ! 
 Two very large rooms were full of company ; in one were cards 
 for the elderly ladies, and in the other were the dancers. My 
 mamma Mirvan, for she always calls me her child, said she 
 would sit with Maria and me till we were provided with part- 
 ners, and then join the card-players. 
 
 The gentlemen, as they passed and repassed, looked as if 
 they thought we were quite at their disposal, and only waiting 
 for the honor of their commands ; and they sauntered about, in 
 a careless, indolent manner, as if with a view to keep us in sus- 
 pense. I don't speak of this in regard to Miss Mirvan and 
 myself only, but to the ladies in general ; and I thought it so 
 provoking that I determined in my own mind that, far from 
 humoring such airs, I would rather not dance at all than with 
 any one who should seem to think me ready to accept the first 
 partner who would condescend to take me. 
 
 Not long after, a young man who had for some time looked 
 
 ... i J r r A 4.- * The { P Lovel. 
 
 at us with a kind of negligent impertinence advanced on tiptoe 
 
 toward me ; he had a set smile on his face, and his dress was so 
 foppish that I really believe he even wished to be stared at ; 
 and yet he was very ugly. 
 
 Bowing almost to the ground with a sort of swing and wav- 
 ing his hand with the greatest conceit, after a short and silly 
 pause, he said, " Madam may I presume?" and stopt, offer- 
 ing to take my hand. I drew it back, but could scarce forbear 
 laughing. "Allow me, madam," continued he, affected by 
 breaking off every half moment, "the honor and happiness if 
 I am not so unhappy as to address you too late to have the 
 happiness and honor 
 
 Again he would have taken my hand, but, bowing my head, I
 
 236 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Lord Orville. 
 
 Evelina's 
 Slyness. 
 
 begged to be excused, and turned to Miss Mirvan to conceal 
 my laughter. He then desired to know if I had already 
 engaged myself to some more fortunate man ? I said, No, 
 and that I believed I should not dance at all. He then re- 
 treated. 
 
 Very soon after another gentleman who seemed about six 
 and twenty years old, gaily but not foppishly dressed, and 
 indeed extremely handsome, with an air of mixed politeness 
 and gallantry desired to know if I was engaged, or would 
 honor him with my hand. 
 
 Well, I bowed, and I am sure I colored for indeed I was 
 frightened at the thoughts of dancing before so many people all 
 strangers, and, which was worse, with a stranger. But he took 
 my hand, and led me to join in the dance. 
 
 The minuets were over before we arrived, for we were kept 
 late by the milliners making us wait for our things. 
 
 He seemed very desirous of entering into conversation with 
 me ; but I could hardly speak a word, and nothing but shame 
 prevented my returning to my seat and declining to dance at all. 
 
 He appeared to be surprised at my terror, which I believe 
 was but too apparent : however, he asked no questions, though 
 I fear he must think it very strange, for I did not choose to tell 
 him it was owing to my never before dancing but with a 
 school-girl. 
 
 His conversation was sensible and spirited ; his air and ad- 
 dress were open and noble ; his manners gentle, attentive, and 
 infinitely engaging ; his person is all elegance, and his coun- 
 tenance the most animated and expressive I have ever seen. 
 
 In a short time we were joined by Miss Mirvan, who stood 
 next couple to us. But how was I startled when she whispered 
 me that my partner was a nobleman ! This gave me a new 
 alarm : how will he be provoked, thought I, when he finds 
 what a simple rustic he has honored with his choice ! one 
 whose ignorance of the world makes her perpetually fear doing 
 something wrong ! 
 
 That he should be so much my superior every way quite dis- 
 concerted me ; and you will suppose my spirits were not much 
 raised when I heard a lady, in passing us, say, "This is the 
 most difficult dance I ever saw." 
 
 "O dear, then," cried Maria to her partner, "with your 
 leave, I'll sit down till the next."
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 
 
 237 
 
 Unintentional 
 rudeness. 
 
 Consequent em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 "So will I too, then," cried I, "for I am sure I can hardly 
 stand." 
 
 " But you must speak to your partner first," answered she ; 
 for he had turned aside to talk with some gentlemen. How- 
 ever, I had not sufficient courage to address him ; and so away 
 we all three tript and seated ourselves at another end of the 
 room. 
 
 This brought Evelina into difficulties, for her partner 
 was seeking for her, and before long found and ap- 
 proached her. 
 
 He begged to know if I was not well ? You may easily im- 
 agine how much I was embarrassed. I made no answer ; but 
 hung my head like a fool and looked on my fan. 
 
 He then, with an air the most respectfully serious, asked 
 if he had been so unhappy as to offend me ? 
 
 " No, indeed ! " cried I ; and in hopes of changing the dis- 
 course, and preventing his further inquiries, I desired to know 
 if he had seen the young lady who had been conversing 
 with me ? 
 
 No ; but would I honor him with any commands to her ? 
 
 " O, by no means ! " 
 
 Was there any other person with whom I wished to speak ? 
 
 I said No, before I knew I had answered at all. 
 
 Should he have the pleasure of bringing me any refreshment ? 
 
 I bowed, almost involuntarily. And away he flew. 
 
 I was quite ashamed of being so troublesome, and so much Gallantry of 
 above myself as these seeming airs made me appear ; but Lord Orville. 
 indeed I was too much confused to think or act with any 
 consistency. 
 
 If he had not been as swift as lightning, I don't know whether 
 I should not have stolen away again ; but he returned in a 
 moment. When I had drank a glass of lemonade, he hoped, 
 he said, that I would again honor him with my hand, as a new 
 dance was just begun. I had not the presence of mind to say a 
 single word, and so I let him once more lead me to the place I 
 had left. 
 
 When the dance was over, seeing me still very much flurried, 
 he led me to a seat, saying that he would not suffer me to 
 fatigue myself from politeness.
 
 238 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 We were sitting in this manner, he conversing with all gaiety, 
 I looking down with all foolishness, when that fop, his name 
 was Lovel, who had first asked me to dance, with a most 
 ridiculous solemnity approached, and, after a profound bow or 
 two, said, "I humbly beg pardon, madam and of you too, my 
 The fop again, lord for breaking in upon such agreeable conversation which 
 must, doubtless, be more delectable than what I have the 
 honor to offer but ' ' 
 
 I interrupted him I blush for my folly with laughing ; yet I 
 could not help it ; for, added to the man's stately foppishness 
 (and he actually took snuff between every three words), when I 
 looked round at Lord Orville, I saw such extreme surprise 
 in his face, the cause of which appeared so absurd that I 
 could not for my life preserve my gravity. 
 
 I had not laughed before from the time I had left Miss 
 Mirvan, and I had much better have cried then ; Lord Orville 
 actually stared at me ; the beau, I know not his name, looked 
 quite enraged. "Refrain madam," said he, with an important 
 air, "a few moments refrain ! I have but a sentence to trouble 
 you with. May I know to what accident I must attribute not 
 having the honor of your hand ? " 
 
 " Accident, sir ! " repeated I, much astonished. 
 
 "Yes, accident, madam; for surely -I must take the 
 liberty to observe pardon me, madam it ought to be no 
 common one that should tempt a lady so young a one too 
 to be guilty of ill manners." 
 
 A confused idea now for the first time entered my head, 
 of something I had heard of the rules of an assembly ; but 
 I was never at one before I have only danced at school and 
 so giddy and heedless I was, that I had not once considered 
 Rules of an th e impropriety of refusing one partner and afterward accepting 
 another. I was thunderstruck at the recollection : but, while 
 these thoughts were rushing into my head, Lord Orville, with 
 some warmth, said, "This lady, sir, is incapable of meriting 
 such an accusation!" 
 
 Evelina, indeed, had showed ignorance of the first 
 rules of politeness, and Lord Orville, later, had some 
 trouble with Lovel, the fop, but it occasioned no serious 
 difficulty.
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 239 
 
 The creature for I am very angry with him made a low 
 bow, and with a grin the most malicious I ever saw, "My 
 lord," said he, "far be it from me to accuse the lady for having 
 the discernment to distinguish and prefer the superior attrac- 
 tions of your lordship." 
 
 Again he bowed and walked off. 
 
 Was ever anything so provoking ? I was ready to die with 
 shame. "What a coxcomb ! " exclaimed Lord Orville ; while 
 I, without knowing what I did, rose hastily, and moving off, " I 
 can't imagine," cried I, "where Mrs. Mirvan has hid herself!" 
 
 "Give me leave to see," he answered. He returned in a 
 moment, and told me that Mrs. Mirvan was at cards but would 
 be glad to see me, and I went immediately. There was but 
 one chair vacant ; so, to my great relief, Lord Orville presently 
 left us. In a short time, however, he returned. I consented 
 with the best grace I could to go down another dance, for Another dance. 
 I had had time to recollect myself ; for it occurred to me that, 
 insignificant as I was, compared to a man of his rank and 
 figure, still as he had chosen me for a partner, why, I should 
 endeavor to make the best of it. 
 
 After the dance, tired, ashamed, and mortified, I begged to 
 sit down, and soon after we returned home. Lord Orville did 
 me the honor to hand me to the coach. Oh, these fashionable 
 people !
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Vulgar con- 
 nections. 
 
 Invitation to 
 the opera. 
 
 ALTHOUGH Evelina was thus introduced into very 
 good society in London she had to associate with some 
 dreadfully vulgar relations, or at least connections, her 
 second cousins, the Branghtons ; she was obliged to be 
 civil to them on account of their aunt, who was her 
 grandmother, an underbred little old French woman, 
 Madame Duval. Evelina was portionless, and it was 
 hoped that Madame Duval might make her heiress of 
 her considerable fortune. 
 
 One evening, while Miss Mirvan and Evelina were 
 dressing for the opera in high spirits, a carriage was 
 heard to stop at the door, and in a few moments their 
 chamber door was flung open, and they saw the two 
 Miss Branghtons enter the room. 
 
 " We're come to take you to the opera, Miss ; papa and my 
 brother are below, and we are to call for your grandmama as 
 we go along." 
 
 " I am very sorry," answered I, " that you should have taken 
 so much trouble, as I am engaged already." 
 
 " Engaged ! Lord, Miss, never mind that," cried the young- 
 est ; "this young lady will make your excuses I dare say ; it's 
 only doing as one would be done by, you know." 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am," said Miss Mirvan, " I shall myself be very 
 sorry to be deprived of Miss Anville's company this evening." 
 
 "Well, Miss, that is not so very good-natured in you," said 
 Miss Branghton, "considering we only come to give our cousin 
 pleasure ; it's no good to us ; it's all upon her account ; for we 
 came, I don't know how much round about to take her up." 
 
 "I am extremely obliged to you," said I, "and very sorry 
 you have lost so much time ; but I cannot possibly help it, for 
 I engaged myself without knowing you would call."
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 241 
 
 " Lord, what signifies that?" said Miss Polly, "you're no old 
 maid, and so you needn't be so very formal ; besides, I dare 
 say those you are engaged to a'n't half so near related to you 
 as we are." 
 
 " I must beg you not to press me any further, for I assure you 
 it is not in my power to attend you." 
 
 "Why, we came all out of the city on purpose ; besides, your 
 grandmama expects you ; and, pray, what are we to say to 
 her?" 
 
 "Tell her, if you please, that I am much concerned but that 
 I am pre-engaged." 
 
 " And who to ? " demanded the abrupt Miss Branghton. 
 
 "To Mrs. Mirvan and a large party." 
 
 " And, pray, what are you all going to do, that it would be 
 such a mighty matter for you to come along with us ? " 
 
 " \Ve are all going to to the opera." 
 
 " O dear, if that be all, why can't we go altogether?" 
 
 I was extremely disconcerted at this forward and ignorant 
 
 " Ignorant 
 
 behavior, and yet their rudeness very much lessened my con- behavior. 
 
 cern at refusing them. Indeed, their dress was such as would 
 have rendered their scheme of accompanying our party imprac- 
 ticable, even if I had desired it ; and this, as they did not them- 
 selves find it out, I was obliged, in terms the least mortifying I 
 could think of, to tell them. 
 
 They were very much chagrined, and asked where I should 
 sit. 
 
 " In the pit," answered I. 
 
 "In the pit!" repeated Miss Branghton; "well, really, I 
 must own, I should never have supposed that my gown was not 
 good enough for the pit ; but come, Polly, let's go ; if Miss 
 does not think us fine enough for her, why to be sure she may 
 choose." 
 
 Surprised at this ignorance, I would have explained to them 
 that the pit at the opera required the same dress as the boxes ; 
 but they were so much affronted they would not hear me ; and, 
 in great displeasure, left the room, saying they would not have 
 troubled me, only they thought I should not be so proud with 
 my own relations, and that they had at least as good a right 
 to my company as strangers. 
 
 I endeavored to apologize, and would have sent a long mes- 
 sage to Madame Duval ; but they hastened away without
 
 242 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 listening to me ; and I could not follow them down stairs, 
 because I was not dressed. The last words I heard them say 
 
 Madame Duval were, "Well, her grandmama will be in a fine passion, that's 
 in a passion. , ., , . 
 
 one good thing. 
 
 And sure enough, while they were sitting at tea the 
 old lady burst in furious, and insisted on carrying 
 Evelina off with her. 
 
 When we came to her lodgings, we found all the Branghtons 
 in the passage, impatiently waiting for us with the door open. 
 
 " Only see, here's Miss ! " cried the brother. 
 
 "Well, I declare, I thought as much!" said the younger 
 sister. 
 
 "Why, Miss!" said Mr. Branghton, "I think you might as 
 well have come with your cousins at once ; it's throwing 
 money in the dirt to pay two coaches for one fare." 
 
 " Lud, father," cried the son, "make no words about that 
 for I'll pay for the coach that Miss had." 
 
 While this passed the Miss Branghtons were examining my 
 dress, which, indeed, was very improper for my company, and 
 as I was extremely unwilling to be so conspicuous amongst 
 them, I requested Madame Duval to borrow a hat or bonnet for 
 me of the people of the house. But she never wears either 
 herself, and thinks both very English and barbarous, therefore 
 she insisted that I should go full dressed, as I had prepared 
 myself for the pit, though I made many objections. 
 
 If I had not been too much chagrined to laugh, I should have 
 been diverted at their ignorance of whatever belongs to an 
 opera. They could not tell at what door we ought to enter 
 and wandered about for some time without knowing which 
 way to turn. 
 
 Mr. Branghton refused to pay half a guinea a piece 
 for tickets to the pit, so they finally found themselves in 
 the gallery, where their amazement and disappointment 
 became general. For a few instants they looked at one 
 another without speaking, and then they all broke 
 silence at once. 
 
 One-shilling "Lord, papa," exclaimed Miss Polly, "why, you have 
 
 brought us to the one-shilling gallery ! "
 
 Evelina, and Dr. Johnson. 
 
 243 
 
 They continued to express their dissatisfaction till the cur- 
 tain drew up, after which their observations were very curious. 
 They made no allowance for the customs, or even for the lan- 
 guage, of another country ; but formed all their remarks upon 
 comparisons with the English theater. 
 
 Notwithstanding my vexation at having been forced into 
 a party so very disagreeable, and that, too, from one so much 
 so very much the contrary, yet, would they have suffered 
 me to listen, I should have forgotten everything unpleasant, 
 and felt nothing but delight in hearing the sweet voice of voice of 
 Signer Millico, the first singer ; but they tormented me with Signer Millico. 
 continual talking. 
 
 "What a jabbering they make!" cried Mr. Branghton, 
 "there's no knowing a word they say. Pray, what's the 
 reason they can't as well sing in English ? but I suppose the 
 fine folks would not like it, if they could understand it." 
 
 " How unnatural their action is ! " said the son ; " why, now, 
 who ever saw an Englishman put himself in such out-of-the- 
 way postures? " 
 
 "For my part," said Miss Polly, "I think it's very pretty, 
 only I don't know what it means." 
 
 "Lord, what does that signify?" cried her sister; "mayn't 
 one like a thing without being so very particular ? You may 
 see that Miss likes it, and I don't suppose she knows more 
 of the matter than we do." 
 
 A gentleman, soon after, was so obliging as to make room in 
 the front row for Miss Branghton and me. We had no sooner 
 seated ourselves than Miss Branghton exclaimed, "Good 
 gracious ! only see ! why, Polly, all the people in the pit are 
 without hats, dressed like anything ! " 
 
 "Lord, so they are," cried Miss Polly; "well, I never saw 
 the like ! it's worth coming to the opera, if one saw nothing 
 else." 
 
 When the curtain dropped they all rejoiced. Miss Branghton 
 looking at me declared that she was not genteel enough to ad- 
 mire it. Miss Polly confessed that if they would but sing English 
 she would like it very well. The brother wished he could raise 
 a riot in the house, because then he might get his money again. 
 And finally they all agreed it was monstrous dear. 
 
 This seems to us poor fun, but it was the delight of 
 
 Comments of 
 the cousins.
 
 244 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Marylebone 
 Garden. 
 
 Fireworks. 
 
 all London. Dr. Johnson loved his Branghtons, and 
 considered them a wonderful piece of work. 
 
 Another time Evelina went with these same cousins to 
 Marylebone Garden. Pepys had walked in it, and John 
 Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham ; and here it was also 
 that Mrs. Fountain, the famous beauty of her day, was 
 once saluted by Dick Turpin, who said, " Be not 
 alarmed, madam, you may now boast that you have 
 been kissed by Turpin." 
 
 This garden, as it is called, is neither striking for magnifi- 
 cence nor for beauty ; and we were all so dull and languid, 
 that I was extremely glad when we were summoned to the 
 orchestra, upon the opening of a concert ; in the course of 
 which I had the pleasure of hearing a concerto on the violin by 
 Mr. Barthelemon, who to me seems a player of exquisite fancy, 
 feeling, and variety. 
 
 When notice was given us that the fireworks were preparing, 
 we hurried along to secure good places for the sight ; but very 
 soon we were so encircled and incommoded by the crowd that 
 Mr. Smith proposed the ladies should make interest for a form 
 to stand upon : this was soon effected : and the men then left 
 us to accommodate themselves better ; saying they would re- 
 turn the moment the exhibition was over. 
 
 The firework was really beautiful ; and told, with wonderful 
 ingenuity, the story of Orpheus and Eurydice : but at the 
 moment of the fatal look which separated them forever there 
 was such an explosion of fire, and so horrible a noise, that we 
 all, as of one accord, jumpt hastily from the form, and ran 
 away some paces, fearing that we were in danger of mischief, 
 from the innumerable sparks of fire which glittered in the air. 
 
 Mr. Smith was lodger on the first floor in the house 
 inhabited by the Branghtons. They thought him very 
 fine ; he soon fell a victim to Evelina's charms. 
 
 Another day they went in a hackney coach to Picca- 
 dilly, 
 
 and then had a walk through Hyde Park ; which in any other 
 company would have been delightful. I was much pleased
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 245 
 
 with Kensington Gardens, and think them infinitely preferable 
 to those of Vauxhall. 
 
 Young Branghton was extremely troublesome ; he insisted 
 upon walking by my side, and talked with me almost by 
 compulsion. Once, indeed, when I was accidentally a few 
 yards before the rest, he said, " I suppose, Miss, aunt has told 
 you about you know what? ha'n't she, Miss ? " 
 
 Madame Duval planned a match between Evelina and 
 young Branghton, and as she had money to leave, the 
 plan was encouraged by all her cousins. 
 
 While we were strolling round the garden, I perceived, walk- 
 ing with a party of ladies at some distance, Lord Orville ! I thefdistan'ce! 
 instantly retreated behind Miss Branghton, and kept out of 
 sight till we had passed him ; for I dreaded being seen by him 
 again in a public walk with a party of which I was ashamed. 
 
 Happily I succeeded in my design, and saw no more of him ; 
 for a sudden and violent shower of rain made us all hasten out 
 of the gardens. We ran till we came to a small green-shopi 
 where we begged shelter. Here we found ourselves in com- 
 pany with two footmen, whom the rain had driven into the 
 shop. Their livery I thought I had before seen ; and, upon 
 looking from the window, I perceived the same upon a coach- 
 man belonging to a carriage which I immediately recollected 
 to be Lord Orville's. 
 
 Fearing to be known, I whispered Miss Branghton not to 
 
 speak my name. Had I considered but a moment, I should Unwise 
 
 caution, 
 have been sensible of the inutility of such a caution, since not 
 
 one of the party call me by any other appellation than that of 
 Cousin or of Hfiss ; but I am perpetually involved in some dis- 
 tress or dilemma from my own heedlessness. 
 
 This request excited very strongly her curiosity : and she 
 attacked me with such eagerness and bluntness of inquiry that 
 I could not avoid telling her the reason of my making it, and, 
 consequently, that I was known to Lord Orville : an acknowl- 
 edgment which proved the most unfortunate in the world ; for 
 she would not rest till she had drawn from me the circum- 
 stances attending my first making the acquaintance. Then, 
 
 calling to her sister, she said, "Lord, Pollv, only think ! Miss j Miss , ha ?, 
 
 danced with a 
 
 has danced with a lord ! lord ! "
 
 246 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 A coronet- 
 coach. 
 
 Evelina almost 
 in tears. 
 
 "Well," cried Polly, "that's a thing I should never have 
 thought of! And pray, Miss, what did he say to you ? " 
 
 This question was much sooner asked than answered ; and 
 they both became so very inquisitive and earnest that they 
 soon drew the attention of Madame Duval and the rest of the 
 party ; to whom, in a very short time, they repeated all they 
 had gathered from me. 
 
 "Goodness, then," cried young Branghton, " if I was Miss, 
 if I would not make free with his lordship's coach, to take me 
 to town." 
 
 "Why, ay," said the father, "there would be some sense in 
 that ; that would be making some use of a lord's acquaintance, 
 for it would save us coach-hire." 
 
 " Lord, Miss," cried Polly, " I wish you would ; for I should 
 like of all things to ride in a coronet-coach." 
 
 "I promise you," said Madame Duval, "I'm glad you've 
 thought of it, for I don't see no objection ; so let's have the 
 coachman called." 
 
 "Not for the world," cried I, very much alarmed ; "indeed, 
 it is utterly impossible." 
 
 "Why so ? " demanded Mr. Branghton ; " pray, where's the 
 good of your knowing a lord if you're never the better for 
 him ? " 
 
 "Ma foi, child," said Madame Duval, "you don't know no 
 more of the world than if you was a baby. Pray, sir (to one of 
 the footmen), tell that coachman to draw up, for I wants to 
 speak to him." 
 
 To the despair of Evelina a footman ran to ask the 
 permission of his lordship. 
 
 He returned in a few minutes ; and, bowing to me with the 
 greatest respect, said, " My lord desires his compliments, and 
 his carriage will be always at Miss Anville's service." 
 
 I was so much affected by this politeness, and chagrined at 
 the whole affair, that I could scarce refrain from tears. Madame 
 Duval and the Miss Branghtons eagerly jumped into the coach, 
 and desired me to follow. I would rather have submitted to 
 the severest punishment ; but all resistance was vain. 
 
 During the whole ride I said not a word ; however, the rest 
 of the party were so talkative that my silence was very imma- 
 terial. We stopped at our lodgings ; but when Madame Duval
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 247 
 
 and I alighted, the Branghtons asked if they could not be car- 
 ried on to Snow Hill ? The servants, now all civility, made no 
 objection. Remonstrances from me would, I too well knew, be 
 fruitless ; and therefore, with a heavy heart, retired to my own 
 room and left them to their own direction. 
 
 There was further trouble, for going up Snow Hill the 
 coach came up against a cart with a jog that almost 
 pulled the wheel off, and young Branghton, inobservant 
 of the glass being up, poked his head through the 
 window. Probably Lord Orville's coach had never be- Broken glass, 
 fore been seen in so vulgar a part of London as "the 
 city." 
 
 The viaduct from Holborn has made people forget the 
 steepness of Snow Hill, down which Mohocks in Queen 
 Anne's time used to amuse themselves by rolling de- 
 fenseless women in barrels. Gay, in "Trivia," writes : 
 
 Who has not heard the scorner's midnight fame ? 
 Who has not trembled at the Mohock's name ? 
 I pass their desperate deeds, and mischief done, 
 Where from Snow Hill black steepy torrents run, 
 How matrons, hooped within the hogshead's womb, 
 Were tumbled furious thence. 
 
 This is the last we shall see of the Branghtons, for 
 Madame Duval, upon discovering an old beau she con- Branghtons! e 
 sidered her own at the feet of Evelina, fell into a rage, 
 and swore to take no further interest in her affairs unless 
 she would instantly agree to marry young Branghton. 
 
 This of course was out of the question, and what- 
 ever expectations of advantage from Madame Duval 
 had been entertained by Evelina's well-wishers being 
 now at an end, Evelina returned to her guardian, 
 the Reverend Mr. Villars, an excellent clergyman, 
 who had been the tutor of Evelina's grandfather, Mr. 
 Evelyn (hence her name). Mr. Evelyn, after the death 
 of his first (and lovely) wife, foolishly married Madame
 
 248 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Duval, who was then a waiting girl at a tavern. He 
 survived this second marriage only two years, a period 
 quite long enough to reveal to him that this second wife 
 Antecedents was no siu ' ta bl e guardian for the daughter left him by 
 the first. He bequeathed his daughter, therefore, to the 
 care of Villars, who brought her up tenderly, strangely 
 enough to be later called upon to perform the same 
 offices for her daughter, Evelina, the granddaugh- 
 ter of his pupil and friend. As Evelina was an orphan, 
 poor and nameless, it was thought advisable if possible 
 to make up the long quarrel with Madame Duval, her 
 grandmother, and this was one reason why she was 
 allowed to go to London.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 IT was rather hard on old Mr. Villars, after having 
 the charge of Evelyn's daughter during her youth, R ... 
 again to find himself, through circumstances which hap- Villars. 
 pened before the beginning of the book, burdened with 
 the responsibility of another girl to be educated, but he 
 did not shirk the obligation. 
 
 Mr. Villars writes to Evelina : 
 
 Berry Hill, July jth. 
 
 Welcome, thrice welcome, my darling Evelina, to the arms 
 of the truest, the fondest of your friends ! Mrs. Clinton [a 
 trusty old housekeeper], who shall hasten to you with these 
 lines, will conduct you directly hither ; for I can consent no 
 longer to be parted from the child of my bosom ! the comfort 
 of my age ! the sweet solace of all my infirmities ! 
 
 I have much to say to you, many comments to make upon 
 your late letters, some parts of which give me no little uneasi- 
 ness ; but I will reserve my remarks for our future conver- 
 sations. Hasten, then, to the spot of thy nativity, the abode of 
 thy youth, where never yet care or sorrow had power to annoy His tenderness 
 thee. O that they might ever be banished this peaceful dwell- for Evelina. 
 ing. 
 
 Adieu, my dearest Evelina ! I pray but that thy satisfaction 
 at our approaching meeting may bear any comparison with 
 
 mine ! 
 
 ARTHUR VILLARS. 
 
 Evelina was now at home, but her correspondent, 
 Miss Mirvan (the book is all in letters), chides her with 
 a lack of her usual liveliness. In time the cause of her 
 evident depression conies to light. 
 
 I know not how to come to the point ; twenty times have I 
 attempted it in vain ; but I \\'A\ force myself to proceed. 
 
 249
 
 250 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Oh, Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed that one who 
 Depression of seemed formed as a pattern for his fellow-creatures, as a model 
 of perfection one whose elegance surpassed all description 
 whose sweetness of manners disgraced all comparison ; oh, 
 Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed that Lord Orville 
 would have treated me with indignity ? 
 
 Never, never again will I trust to appearances ; rnever con- 
 fide in my own weak judgment ; never believe that person to 
 be good who seems to be amiable ! What cruel maxims are we 
 taught by a knowledge of the world ! But while my own re- 
 flections absorb me, I forget you are still in suspense. 
 
 I had just finished the last letter which I wrote to you from 
 London when the maid of the house brought me a note. It 
 was given to her, she said, by a footman, who told her he 
 would call the next day for an answer. 
 
 This note but let it speak for itself. 
 
 " To Miss ANVILLE : With transport, most charming of thy 
 Its cause. seX) did I read the letter with which you yesterday morning 
 
 favored me. I am sorry the affair of the carriage should have 
 given you any concern, but I am highly flattered by the anxiety 
 you express so kindly. Believe me, my lovely girl, I am truly 
 sensible of the honor of your good opinion, and feel myself 
 deeply penetrated with love and gratitude. The correspon- 
 dence you have so sweetly commenced I shall be proud of con- 
 tinuing ; and I hope the strong sense I have of the favor you do 
 me will prevent your withdrawing it. Assure yourself that I 
 desire nothing more ardently than to pour forth my thanks at 
 your feet, and to offer those vows which are so justly the 
 tribute of your charms and accomplishments. In your next I 
 intreat you to acquaint me how long you shall remain in town. 
 The servant, whom I shall commission to call for an answer, 
 has orders to ride post with it to me. My impatience for his 
 arrival will be very great, though inferior to that with which I 
 burn to tell you, in person, how much I am, my sweet girl, your 
 grateful admirer, "ORVJLLE." 
 
 Evelina's letter was a note hastily written to Lord 
 Orville in her anguish on hearing the injury caused to 
 his coach, by the carelessness of her cousins. She had 
 given it to the maid to post.
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 251 
 
 Her first impression on reading his note was one of 
 delight. 
 
 Unsuspicious of any impropriety from Lord Orville, I per- 
 ceived not immediately the impertinence it implied I only First 
 
 , j .1 . ,. . . j j T 1 emotions, 
 
 marked the expressions of his own regard ; and I was so much 
 
 surprised that I was unable for some time to compose myself, 
 or read it again : I could only walk up and down the room, 
 repeating to myself, "Good God, is it possible? am I then 
 loved by Lord Orville ? ' ' 
 
 But this dream was soon over, and I awoke to far different 
 feelings. Upon a second reading I thought every word changed 
 it did not seem the same letter I could not find one sentence 
 that I could look at without blushing : my astonishment was 
 extreme, and it was succeeded by the utmost indignation. 
 
 If, as I am very ready to acknowledge, I erred in writing to 
 Lord Orville, was it for him to punish the error ? If he was of- 
 fended, could he not have been silent ? If he thought my letter 
 ill-judged, should he not have pitied my ignorance ? have con- 
 sidered my youth, and allowed for my inexperience ? 
 
 Evelina's depression of spirits could not fail to attract 
 the anxious attention of her kind guardian. She writes : 
 
 Mr. Villars himself was grave, and I had not sufficient spirits . . 
 to support a conversation merely by my own efforts. As soon Mr. Villars. 
 as dinner was over, he took a book, and I walked to the win- 
 dow. I believe I remained near an hour in this situation. All 
 my thoughts were directed to considering how I might dispel 
 the doubts which I apprehended Mr. Villars had formed, with- 
 out acknowledging a circumstance which I had suffered so 
 much pain merely to conceal. But while I was thus planning 
 for the future, I forgot the present ; and so intent was I upon 
 the subject which occupied me that the strange appearance of 
 my unusual inactivity and extreme thoughtfulness never oc- 
 curred to me. But when, at last, I recollected myself and 
 turned round, I saw that Mr. Villars, who had parted with his 
 book, was wholly engrossed in attending to me. I started from 
 my reverie, and, hardly knowing what I said, asked if he had 
 been reading ? 
 
 He paused a moment, and then replied, " Yes, my child a 
 book that both afflicts and perplexes me."
 
 252 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 He means me, thought I ; and therefore I made no answer. 
 
 "What if we read it together?" continued he, "will you 
 assist me to clear its obscurity ? " 
 
 " If if you please ; I believe " said I, stammering. 
 
 "Well, then, my love, I was thinking of the regret it was 
 natural you should feel upon quitting those from whom you had 
 Evelina's received civility and kindness, with so little certainty of ever 
 
 seeing them again, or being able to return their good offices. 
 These are circumstances that afford but melancholy reflections 
 to young minds ; and the affectionate disposition of my Evelina, 
 open to all social feelings, must be hurt more than usual by 
 such considerations. You are silent, my dear. Shall I name 
 those whom I think most worthy the regret I speak of? We 
 shall then see if our opinions coincide." 
 
 Still I said nothing, and he continued. 
 
 " In your London journal, nobody appears in a more amiable, 
 a more respectable light than Lord Orville ; and perhaps 
 
 " I knew what you would say," cried I hastily, " and I have 
 long feared where your suspicions would fall ; but indeed, sir, 
 you are mistaken ; I hate Lord Orville he is the last man in 
 the world in whose favor I should be prejudiced." 
 
 I stopped ; for Mr. Villars looked at me with such infinite 
 surprise that my own warmth made me blush. 
 
 " You hate Lord Orville ! " repeated he. 
 
 I could make no answer ; but took from my pocket-book the 
 showrHn 1 " letter, and giving it to him, " See, sir," said I, " how differently 
 
 explanation. the same man can talk and write ! " 
 
 He read it three times before he spoke ; and then said, "I 
 am so much astonished that I know not what I read. When 
 had you this letter ? " 
 
 I told him. Again he read it, and, after considering its con- 
 tents some time, said, " I can form but one conjecture concern- 
 ing this most extraordinary performance ; he must certainly 
 have been intoxicated when he wrote it." 
 
 "Lord Orville intoxicated!" repeated I; "once I thought 
 him a stranger to all intemperance ; but it is very possible, for 
 I can believe anything now." 
 
 " That a man who had behaved with so strict a regard to 
 delicacy," continued Mr. Villars, " and who, as far as occasion 
 had allowed, manifested sentiments the most honorable, should 
 thus insolently, thus wantonly, insult a modest young woman,
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 253 
 
 in his perfect senses, I cannot think possible. But, my dear, 
 you should have enclosed this letter in an empty cover, and 
 have returned it to him again ; such a resentment would at once 
 have become your character, and have given him an opportu- 
 nity, in some measure, of clearing his own. He could not well 
 have read this letter the next morning without being sensible 
 of the impropriety of having written it." 
 
 Excellent Mr. Villars ! Here shines the man of the 
 world, as well as the solicitous guardian. But what a 
 world, when such an explanation of an ungentlemanly 
 action should be possible but satisfactory ! Of course 
 Evelina had not thought of returning the letter. The 
 good old gentleman further provided for the well-being 
 of his Evelina by sending her to Bristol Hot-wells, with 
 his friend, Mrs. Selwyn, by her cordial invitation. 
 
 The Hot-wells of Bristol, which have been known for 
 
 riji . , ,, Hot-wells of 
 
 tour hundred years, enjoyed a great reputation in the Bristol, 
 days of Evelina, now completely out-lived. The situa- 
 tion of "Clifton Downs" is mentioned in Miss Edge- 
 worth's "Waste Not, Want Not," as well as in the 
 books of our period. It is extremely picturesque ; the 
 Avon here flows through a deep gorge now crossed by 
 a suspension bridge. "St. Vincent's Rocks" and 
 "The Giant's Cave" and "Nightingale Valley" are 
 names remaining from the fashionable era of the locality. 
 There is, and doubtless was in Evelina's time, a plateau 
 dotted with fine trees and the villas of well-to-do citi- 
 zens of Bristol. 
 
 Evelina writes : 
 
 Bristol Hot-ivells, August zSth. 
 
 You will be again surprised, my dear Maria, at seeing whence 
 I date my letter : but I have been very ill, and Mr. Villars was 
 so much alarmed that he not only insisted upon my accom- 
 panying Mrs. Selwyn hither, but earnestly desired she would 
 hasten her intended journey.
 
 254 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 We traveled very slowly, and I did not find myself so much 
 fatigued as I expected. We are situated upon a most delightful 
 A delightful spot ; the prospect is beautiful, the air pure, and the weather 
 very favorable to invalids. I am already better, and I doubt 
 not but I shall soon be well ; as well, in regard to mere health, 
 as I wish to be. 
 
 Here she passed a fortnight so quiet, so serene, that 
 it gave her reason to expect a settled calm, but lo ! who 
 should arrive upon the scene but Lord Orville, to wait 
 upon his very pretty sister, Lady Louisa Larpent. 
 Whereon her next letter to Mr. Villars begins : 
 
 Oh. sir, Lord Orville is still himself! still what, from the mo- 
 Lord Orville ' ' . . 
 himself again, ment I beheld, I believed him to be all that is amiable in 
 
 man ! and your happy Evelina, restored at once to spirits and 
 tranquillity, is no longer sunk in her own opinion, nor discon- 
 tented with the world ; no longer, with dejected eyes, sees the 
 prospect of passing her future days in sadness, doubt, and sus- 
 picion ! with revived courage she now looks forward, and ex- 
 pects to meet with goodness, even among mankind : though 
 still she feels, as strongly as ever, the folly of hoping, in any 
 second instance, to meet with perfection. 
 
 Your conjecture was certainly right ; Lord Orville, when he 
 wrote that letter, could not be in his senses. Oh, that intem- 
 perance should have power to degrade so low a man so noble ! 
 
 This brother and sister, Lord Orville and Lady 
 Louisa, were staying with Mrs. Beaumont, at her beau- 
 tiful home upon Clifton Hill ; fortunately Mrs. Sehvyn 
 knew Mrs. Beaumont, and so, with Evelina, she waited 
 mont 'Garden u P on her at once. They were invited into the garden. 
 
 We had not walked long ere, at a distance, I perceived Lord 
 Orville, who seemed just dismounted from his horse, enter the 
 garden. All my perturbation returned at the sight of him ! 
 yet I endeavored to repress every feeling but resentment. As 
 he approached us, he bowed to the whole party ; but I turned 
 away my head to avoid taking any share in his civility. Ad- 
 dressing himself immediately to Mrs. Beaumont, he was begin- 
 ning to inquire after his sister : but, upon seeing my face, he
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 255 
 
 suddenly exclaimed, "Miss Anville ! " and then he advanced 
 and made his compliments to me not with an air of vanity or 
 impertinence, nor yet with a look of consciousness or shame ; 
 but with a countenance open, manly, and charming ! with a 
 smile that indicated pleasure, and eyes that sparkled with 
 delight ! on my side was all that consciousness ; for by him, I 
 really believe, the letter was, at that moment, entirely forgotten. 
 
 With what politeness did he address me ! with what sweet- 
 ness did he look at me ! the very tone of his voice seemed flat- The same old 
 tering ! he congratulated himself upon his good fortune in charm - 
 meeting with me ; hoped I should spend some time in Bristol, 
 and inquired, even with anxiety inquired, if my health was the 
 cause of my journey ; in which case his satisfaction would be 
 converted into apprehension. 
 
 Vet, struck as I was with his manner, and charmed to find 
 him such as he was wont to be, imagine not, my dear sir, that 
 I forgot the resentment I owe him, or the cause he has given 
 me of displeasure ; no, my behavior was such as I hope, had 
 you seen, you would not have disapproved : I was grave and 
 distant ; I scarce looked at him when he spoke, or answered 
 him when he was silent. 
 
 As he must certainly observe this alteration in my conduct, 
 I think it could not fail making him both recollect and repent 
 the provocation he had so causelessly given me ; for surely he 
 was not so wholly lost to reason as to be now ignorant he had 
 ever offended me. 
 
 I may as well here explain that Lord Orville never 
 wrote the offending' letter at all. It was a piece of malice 60 
 malice on the part of Sir Clement Willoughby, another 
 admirer, who was in fact the villain no self-respecting 
 novel in those days could be without. Sir Clement had 
 intercepted Evelina's note on its way to the post, 
 opened it, and answered it in the manner we have seen. 
 This all came out later. 
 
 Lord Orville was beloved not only by Evelina but by 
 all Miss Barney's readers ; the world accepted him more lover. 
 readily even than it did Sir Charles. He was the pattern- 
 lover of all the voun<j- ladies of that generation. I am fond
 
 256 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 of him myself. He was evidently a gentleman, for even 
 the reproach of over-drinking is removed from him. No 
 doubt Evelina's conduct at their first ball amused him, 
 and he may have begun the acquaintance with a certain 
 condescending pity for the country girl, but instead of 
 being disgusted by the vulgarity of her companions, his 
 real kindness of heart seems to have led him to protect 
 her, at first with no other motive than that of good- 
 breeding ; but her simplicity and vivacity and especially 
 her sincerity created a warmer feeling, which perhaps 
 was increased by her coldness of manner, for which 
 there appeared to him to be no reasonable ground. 
 
 But these little matters were easily straightened out, 
 Complications and here the book might end, but for the mystery of 
 
 cleared up. _,.,,., . . ... 
 
 Evelina s birth, and a quantity of complications on side 
 issues I have not thought worth while to mention, which 
 have to be cleared up. Mrs. Beaumont invited them to 
 Clifton. "Here I am, my dear sir," writes Evelina, 
 "under the same roof, an inmate of the same house as 
 Lord Orville." 
 
 Sir John Belmont, who appears on the scene at Clifton, 
 was the father of Evelina. Having abandoned his wife 
 not long after the birth of a daughter, he had always 
 refused to believe that Evelina was his child, having 
 been convinced by the wicked Dame Green, Evelina's 
 first nurse, that another young lady bore that title. All 
 these difficulties are now overcome, the father's heart 
 Evelina softened, Evelina recognized. Lord Orville' s time was 
 
 recognized. . 
 
 come. Before leaving Mrs. Beaumont's, on the last 
 day of Evelina's visit, they all went after dinner to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 Mrs. Selwyn said she must prepare for her journey, and 
 begged me to see for some books she had left in the parlor. 
 And here while I was looking for them, I was followed by
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 257 
 
 Lord Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and said, " Is 
 this true, Miss Anville, are you going? " 
 
 Miss Anville was the name borne by Evelina during 
 her life while her father refused to recognize her. 
 
 " I believe so, my lord," said I, still looking for the books. 
 
 " So suddenly, so unexpectedly must I lose you ? " 
 
 "No great loss, my lord," cried I, endeavoring to speak 
 cheerfully. 
 
 "Is it possible," said he gravely, "Miss Anville can doubt 
 my sincerity? " 
 
 "I can't imagine," cried I, "what Mrs. Selwyn has done 
 with these books." 
 
 "Would to heaven," continued he, "I might flatter myself 
 you would allow me to prove it ! " 
 
 " I must run up stairs," cried I, greatly confused, " and ask 
 what she has done with them." 
 
 " You are going, then," cried he, taking my hand, "and you- 
 give me not the smallest hope of your return ! will you not, 
 then, my too lovely friend ! will you not, at least, teach me, 
 with fortitude like your own, to support your absence?" 
 
 " My lord," cried I, endeavoring to disengage my hand, 
 "pray let me go ! " 
 
 "I will," cried he, to my inexpressible confusion dropping 
 on one knee, " if you wish to leave me ! " 
 
 "Oh, my lord," exclaimed I, "rise, I beseech you, rise ! 
 such a posture to me ! surely your lordship is not so cruel as to 
 mock me ! " 
 
 "Mock you!" repeated he earnestly, "no, I revere you! I 
 esteem and I admire you above all human beings ! you are the 
 friend to whom my soul is attached as to its better half ! you 
 are the most amiable, the most perfect of women ! and you are 
 dearer to me than language has the power of telling." 
 
 I attempt not to describe my sensations at that moment ; I 
 scarce breathed ; I doubted if I existed the blood forsook EvelhVa!" ' 
 my cheeks, and my feet refused to sustain me ; Lord Orville, 
 hastily rising, supported me to a chair, upon which I sunk, 
 almost lifeless. 
 
 For a few minutes we neither of us spoke ; and then seeing 
 me recover, Lord Orville, though in terms hardly articulate, 
 entreated my pardon for his abruptness. The moment my
 
 258 Me?t and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 strength returned, I attempted to rise, but he would not per- 
 mit me. . . 
 
 His protestations, his expressions, were too flattering for 
 repetition ; he drew from me the most sacred secret of my 
 heart. 
 
 still upon his He was still upon his knees when the door opened and Mrs. 
 
 Selwyn entered. 
 
 I snatched my hand from Lord Orville ; he, too, started and 
 rose, and Mrs. Selwyn stood facing us in silence. 
 
 "At last, my lord," said she sarcastically, "have you been 
 so good as to help Miss Anville look for my books ? " 
 
 "Yes, madam," answered he, attempting to rally, "and 
 I hope we shall soon be able to find them." 
 
 "Your lordship is extremely kind," said she drily, "but I 
 can by no means consent to take up any more of your time." 
 Then looking on the window-seat, she presently found the 
 books, and added, " Come, here are just three ; this important 
 affair may give employment to us all." She then presented 
 one of them to Lord Orville, another to me, and taking a third 
 herself, with a most provoking look she left the room. 
 
 He detained Evelina for a few natural questions, which 
 he offered with much delicacy, thus : 
 
 "My lord, I can stay no longer Mrs. Selwyn will lose 
 all patience." 
 
 "Deprive her not of the pleasure of her conjectures but tell 
 me, are you under Mrs. Selwyn's care ? " 
 
 " Only for the present, my lord." 
 
 An important "Not a few are the questions I have to ask Miss Anville: 
 
 question. among them, the most important is, whether she depends 
 
 wholly on herself, or whether there is any other person for 
 whose interest I must solicit?" 
 
 This was surely a mild manner of finding' out whether 
 she had any father, or even any name to speak of. She 
 replied : 
 
 " I hardly know, my lord; I hardly know myself to whom I 
 most belong." 
 
 " Suffer, suffer me then," cried he with warmth, "to hasten 
 the time when your grateful Orville may call you all his own ! "
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 259 
 
 The subject of the improper letter was cleared up 
 before they parted. Her note he had never received, 
 never answered, as he assured her in the most solemn 
 manner. 
 
 It was now settled by all the advisers and guardians Marriage to 
 
 take place at 
 
 that the marriage should take place at once. "ce. 
 
 Lord Orville executed his utmost eloquence to reconcile me 
 to this hasty plan ; but how was I startled when he told 
 me that next Tuesday was the day appointed by my father to 
 be the most important of my life ! 
 
 But she consented, with great sweetness, although she 
 must have had in mind the long delays imposed by 
 Harriet Byron upon her suitor under similar circum- 
 stances. 
 
 The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, 
 Lord Orville went to wait upon her father, while she ^ e fauf e r Vith 
 went to walk with Mrs. Beaumont and the rest. 
 
 Lord Orville was not long absent : he joined us in the garden 
 with a look of gaiety and good humor that revived us all. 
 " You are just the party," said he, " I wished to see together. 
 Will you, madam (taking my hand), allow me the honor of 
 introducing you, by your real name, to two of my nearest 
 relations? Mrs. Beaumont, give me leave to present to you 
 the daughter of Sir John Belmont, a young lady who, I am 
 sure, must lung since have engaged your esteem and admira- 
 tion, though you were a stranger to her birth." 
 
 Sir John's settlements were perfectly satisfactory ; in 
 fact, he was so delighted with his real daughter, now he 
 had found her, that he was most amiable. And now it 
 ends. There is no thought of going to Berry Hill to be 
 married, and no account whatever of the wedding, but 
 the good Villars is asked for his consent. He replies : v'marTagain 
 
 Every wish of my soul is now fulfilled for the felicity of my 
 Evelina is equal to her worthiness ! 
 
 Yes, my child, thy happiness is engraved in golden charac-
 
 260 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 ters upon the tablets of my heart ; and their impression is 
 indelible : for, should the rude and deep-searching hand of 
 misfortune attempt to pluck them from their repository, the 
 fleeting fabric of life would give way ; and in tearing from my 
 vitals the nourishment by which they are supported, she would 
 but grasp at a shadow insensible to her touch. 
 
 Give thee my consent? Oh, thou joy, comfort, and pride 
 of my life, how cold is that word to express the fervency of my 
 approbation ! Yes, I do indeed give thee my consent ; and so 
 thankfully, that, with the humblest gratitude to providence, I 
 would seal it with the remnant of my days. 
 
 Hasten then, my love, to bless me with thy presence, and to 
 receive the blessings with which my fond heart overflows ! 
 
 The story ends thus : 
 
 LETTER LXXXIV. 
 EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS. 
 
 All is over, my dearest sir ; and the fate of your Evelina is 
 Close of the decided! This morning, with fearful joy and trembling grati- 
 book. tude, she united herself forever with the object of her dearest, 
 
 her eternal affection. 
 
 I have time for no more ; the chaise now waits which is to 
 conduct me to dear Berry Hill, and to the arms of the best 
 of men. 
 
 EVELINA. 
 
 Throughout the book there is a good deal of horse- 
 play, which I have here left out entirely, between Ma- 
 dame Duval and Captain Mirvan, and between Captain 
 Mirvan and the fop named Lovel, whose conduct was 
 shown in the first chapter. I dislike this feature in the 
 book, and it is altogether unsuited to the modern taste ; 
 but it was to such scenes that ' ' Evelina ' ' owed its first 
 popularity.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THIS was the novel which created such a sensation 
 when it first appeared anonymously in London in 1778. 
 
 1 r . J '' Fanny Burney. 
 
 In her diary, which Fanny Burney began at the age of 
 fifteen, she thus records the event : 
 
 This year was ushered in by a grand and most important 
 event ! At the latter end of January the literary world was 
 favored with the first publication of the ingenious, learned, and 
 most profound Fanny Burney ! I doubt not but this memorable 
 affair will, in future times, mark the period whence chronolo- 
 gers will date the zenith of the polite arts in this island ! 
 
 This admirable authoress has named her most elaborate per- 
 formance, "Evelina; or, A Young Lady's Entrance into the 
 World." 
 
 The manuscript was secretly sent to a publisher, by 
 the way of a frolic of the young people, and rather to 
 the surprise of the young author accepted. 
 
 Frances Burney, who was born in June, 1752, had a 
 happy childhood and youth in her London home, in ^udhood. and 
 Poland Street, where Dr. Burney lived with his several 
 children, in an atmosphere of reading, music, and intel- 
 ligent occupation. The house was full of books ; and 
 people who talked about them easily came and went, 
 for Dr. Burney' s miscellaneous society included eminent 
 men in literature not only English, but many accom- 
 plished foreigners, and the house was a place where such 
 people liked to come and were welcome. By the time 
 Fanny was fourteen she had, it is said, studied many of 
 the best authors of her father's library , of which she had . 
 
 - ' Her father's 
 
 the uncontrolled range. Whether she had or not, she librar y-
 
 262 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 was familiar with the backs of these books, which is 
 something in itself, implying a sense of acquaintance and 
 familiarity with great authors, just as a child feels at 
 home with the grown people about him, without having 
 very much conversation with them. Dr. Burney's 
 second wife, Fanny's step-mother, brought into the 
 family several children by her former marriage who had 
 been always friends and playmates of the young Bur- 
 neys. These all went to live with them in St. Martin' s 
 Street, making a large and congenial circle. Among 
 the names of the friends who used to assemble round 
 
 Society at their tea-table and join their simple early suppers could 
 
 be found all the interesting literary, musical, and artistic 
 people of their time. London was smaller than it is now, 
 and the literary and intelligent people found each other 
 readily. 
 
 Fanny, one of the younger ones, used to sit and 
 listen or watch, then slip away and write for her own 
 amusement in a little play-room there was up t\vo pairs 
 of stairs, where the toys of the little children were lying 
 round. This pursuit was a secret ; only her sister Susan 
 was in it, until the new mother, discovering the prac- 
 tice, was worried about it, and in a friendly manner 
 advised little Fanny to give it up. The female writer of 
 novels and romances was at that time in but poor repute 
 in the literary world, and Mrs. Burney was probably 
 right from her point of view. 
 
 The good little girl was so wrought upon in her sense 
 of duty and obedience that she resolved to make an 
 auto dc fe of all her manuscripts, and, if possible, to 
 throw away her pen. Seizing, therefore, an oppor- 
 tunity when Dr. and Mrs. Burney were from home, she 
 
 I'.urninji her made over to a bonfire in a paved play-court her whole 
 
 manuscripts. . . . . . .. ' . ....... 
 
 stock oi prose compositions, while her laithml Susanna
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 263 
 
 stood by, weeping at the conflagration. Among the 
 works thus immolated was one tale of considerable 
 length, the " History of Caroline Evelyn," the mother 
 of Evelina. 
 
 This sacrifice was made in the young authoress's fif- 
 teenth year, and for some weeks she probably adhered 
 to her resolution of composing no more works of fiction, 
 and began, perhaps as a less objectionable employment, 
 the journal which she continued during so many years. 
 But the perennial fountain could not be restrained ; her Fa , s 
 imagination was haunted by the singular situations ' ' to imagination, 
 which Caroline Evelyn's infant daughter might be ex- 
 posed, from the unequal birth by which she hung sus- 
 pended between the elegant connections of her mother 
 and the vulgar ones of her grandmother ' ' ; thus present- 
 ing contrasts and mixtures of society so unusual, yet, 
 under the supposed circumstances, so natural, that irre- 
 sistibly, and almost unconsciously, the whole story of 
 " Evelina ; or, A Young Lady's Entrance into the 
 World," was pent up in the inventor's memory ere a 
 paragraph was committed to paper. 
 
 Writing was to her always more difficult than com- 
 posing, because her time and her pen found ample 
 employment in transcribing for her father, who was 
 occupied at every spare moment with preparations for 
 his great work, " The General History of Music." 
 
 In the summer of 1770 Fanny obtained several months 
 
 r 1 f 1 i- 1 TA Absence of 
 
 of leisure for her own studies and compositions, as Dr. Dr. Bumey. 
 Burney then set out on a solitary tour through France 
 and Italy, for the purpose of collecting materials for his 
 history ; but on his return in the spring of 1771 she 
 was employed as his principal amanuensis, in preparing 
 the minutes of his tour for the press. All his daughters, 
 however, shared in this service, copying- his numerous
 
 264 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 manuscripts, tracing over and over again the same page 
 when his nicety of judgment suggested alterations ; 
 while their patient and affectionate assiduity brought its 
 own reward, in the extension of knowledge and im- 
 provement of taste which accrued from such labors. 
 
 Before she consented to prepare her manuscript for 
 
 publication, a difficulty occurred, for she felt a con- 
 
 A conscientious scientious scruple whether it would be right to allow her- 
 
 scruple. 
 
 self such an amusement unknown to her father. She 
 had never taken any important step without his sanction, 
 and had now refrained from asking it through confusion 
 at acknowledging her authorship and dread of his desir- 
 ing to see her performance. However, in this, as in 
 every instance during her life, she no sooner saw what 
 was her duty than she honestly performed it. Seizing, 
 therefore, an opportunity when her father was away 
 somewhere, she avowed to him, with many blushes, 
 " her secret little work, and her odd inclination to see it 
 in print ' ' ; adding, that her brother Charles would 
 transact the affair with a bookseller at a distance, so that 
 her name could never transpire, and only entreating that 
 he would not himself ask to see the manuscript. " His 
 amazement was even surpassed by his amusement ; and 
 his laugh was so gay that, revived by its cheering sound, 
 she lost all her fears and embarrassment, and heartily 
 joined in it, though somewhat at the expense of her new 
 author-like dignity." 
 
 Dr. Burney thought her project as innocent as it was 
 
 consent. whimsical, and kindly embracing her, enjoined her to be 
 
 careful in guarding her own incognita, and then dropped 
 
 the subject without even asking the name of her book. 
 
 With heightened spirits she now sent the manuscript 
 to the publisher, who, in a few days, signified his ap- 
 probation, proposing to pay twenty pounds for it
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 265 
 
 "an offer which was accepted with alacrity, and bound- 
 less surprise at its magnificence ! " 
 
 In the ensuing January, 1778, "Evelina" was pub- 
 lished, a fact which only became known to its writer 
 from her hearing the newspaper advertisement read 
 accidentally at breakfast-time, by her step-mother, Mrs. 
 Burney. 
 
 The immediate advantage that Miss Burney derived 
 
 J . Sudden 
 
 from her sudden celebrity as the authoress of ' ' Evelina ' ' celebrity, 
 was her acquaintance with the great Dr. Johnson. He 
 was delighted with the book, and still more delighted 
 when he learned that it was written by the daughter of 
 his friend Dr. Burney, who had desired early in the 
 matter that Mrs. Thrale should be let into the secret. 
 Fanny writes to her father upon this. 
 
 As to Mrs. Thrale your wish of telling her quite unmans 
 me ; I shook so when I read it that, had anybody been present, 
 I must have betrayed myself. 
 
 But if you do tell Mrs. Thrale, won't she think it strange 
 where I can have kept company, to describe such a family as 
 the Branghtons, Mr. Smith, and some others? Indeed (thank 
 heaven !), I don't myself recollect ever passing half-an-hour at 
 a time with any one person quite so bad ; so that I am afraid 
 she will conclude I must have an innate vulgarity of ideas, to 
 assist me with such coarse coloring for the objects of my imagi- 
 nation. Not that I suppose the book would be better received 
 by her for having characters very pretty and all alike. 
 
 And when the lady's approbation was secure, she 
 writes to Susan : 
 
 Mrs. Thrale ! she she is the goddess of my idolatry ! What 
 an cloge is hers ! an tloge that not only delights at first, but Mrs - Thraie's 
 
 . . . . , , , approbation. 
 
 proves more and more nattering every time it is considered ! 
 
 I often think when I am counting my laurels, what a pity it 
 would have been had I popped off in my last illness, without 
 knowing what a person of consequence I was ! and I some- 
 times think that, were I now to have a relapse, I could never go
 
 266 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 off with so much clat! I am now at the summit of a high 
 hill ; my prospects on one side are bright, glowing, and invit- 
 ingly beautiful ; but when I turn round, I perceive, on the other 
 side, sundry caverns, gulfs, pits, and precipices, that, to look at, 
 make my head giddy and my heart sick. I see about me, 
 indeed, many hills of far greater height and sublimity ; but I 
 have not the strength to attempt climbing them ; if I move, it 
 must be downwards. I have already, I fear, reached the pin- 
 nacle of my abilities, and therefore to stand still will be my best 
 policy. 
 
 Mrs. Thrale soon invited her, with her father, to dine 
 
 Dining at 
 
 Sueatham. at btreatham. 
 
 LONDON, AUGUST. I have now to write an account of the 
 most consequential day I have spent since my birth ; namely, 
 my Streatham visit. 
 
 Our journey to Streatham was the least pleasant part of the 
 day, for the roads were dreadfully dusty, and I was really in the 
 fidgets from thinking what my reception might be, and from 
 fearing they would expect a less awkward and backward kind 
 of person than I was sure they would find. 
 
 Mr. Thrale's house is white, and very pleasantly situated, in a 
 fine paddock. Mrs. Thrale was strolling about, and came to us 
 as we got out of the chaise. 
 
 " Ah," cried she, " I hear Dr. Burney's voice ! and you have 
 brought your daughter? well, now you are good ! " 
 
 She then received me, taking both my hands, and with 
 mixed politeness and cordiality welcoming me to Streatham. 
 When we were summoned to dinner, Mrs. Thrale made my 
 father and me sit on each side of her. I said that I hoped I 
 did not take Dr. Johnson's place for he had not yet appeared. 
 
 "No," answered Mrs. Thrale, "he will sit by you, which I 
 am sure will give him great pleasure." 
 
 Soon after we were seated this great man entered. I have so 
 cHn'm:r hnSOn at true a veneration for him that the very sight of him inspires me 
 with delight and reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirmities 
 to which he is subject ; for he has almost perpetual convulsive 
 movements, either of his hands, lips, feet, or knees, and some- 
 times of all together. 
 
 Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him, and he took his place.
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 267 
 
 We had a noble dinner and a most elegant dessert. Dr. John- 
 son, in the middle of dinner, asked Mrs. Thrale what was in 
 some little pies that were near him. 
 
 "Mutton," answered she, "so I don't ask you to eat any, 
 because I know you despise it." 
 
 " No, madam, no," cried he ; "I despise nothing that is good 
 of its sort ; but I am too proud now to eat of it. Sitting by 
 Miss Burney makes me very proud to-day ! " 
 
 Some time after the doctor began laughing to himself, and 
 then, suddenly turning to me, he called out, "Only think, 
 Polly ! Miss has danced with a lord ! " 
 
 "Ah, poor Evelina! " cried Mrs. Thrale, "I see her now in 
 Kensington Gardens. What she must have suffered ! Poor Ev eHna again, 
 girl ! what fidgets she must have been in ! And I know Mr. 
 Smith, too, very well ; I always have him before me at the 
 Hampstead Ball, dressed in a white coat and tambour waist- 
 coat, worked in green silk. Poor Mr. Seward ! Mr. Johnson 
 made him so mad t'other day ! 'Why, Seward,' said he, ' how 
 smart you are dressed ! why, you only want a tambour waist- 
 coat to look like Mr. Smith ! ' But I am very fond of Lady 
 Louisa ; I think her as well drawn as any character in the 
 book ; so fine, so affected, so languishing, and, at the same 
 time, so insolent ! " 
 
 She then ran on with several of her speeches. 
 
 Some time after, she gave Dr. Johnson a letter from Dr. 
 Jebb, concerning one of the gardeners who is very ill. When 
 he had read it, he grumbled violently to himself, and put it 
 away with marks of displeasure. 
 
 "What's the matter, sir?" said Mrs. Thrale ; "do you find 
 any fault with the letter ? " 
 
 "No, madam, the letter is well enough, if the man knew how- 
 to write his own name ; but it moves my indignation to see 
 a gentleman take pains to appear a tradesman. Mr. Branghton 
 would have written his name with just such beastly flourishes." 
 
 As everybody was talking about her book, while 
 Fanny was still unknown as its author, she heard many book. 
 amusing- comments from such visitors at Mrs. Thrale' s 
 as these :
 
 268 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 "A gentleman whom we know very well," said Miss Palmer, 
 " when he could learn nothing at the printer's, took the trouble 
 to go all about Snow Hill, to see if he could find any silver- 
 smith's." 
 
 "Well, he was a cunning creature ! " said Mrs. Thrale ; " but 
 Dr. Johnson's favorite is Mr. Smith." 
 
 "So he is of everybody," answered she; "he and all that 
 family : everybody says such a family never was drawn before. 
 But Mrs. Cholmondeley's favorite is Madame Duval ; she acts 
 her from morning to night, and ma-fa? s everybody she sees. 
 But though we all want so much to know the author, both Mrs. 
 Cholmondeley and my uncle himself say they should be 
 frightened to death to be in her company, because she must be 
 such a very nice observer that there would be no escaping her 
 with safety." 
 
 What strange ideas are taken from a mere book reading ! 
 But what follows gave the highest delight I can feel. 
 
 "Mr. Burke," she continued, "doatsonit: he began it one 
 
 Opinion of morning at seven o'clock and could not leave it a moment ; he 
 
 Edmund . . ,. ,._ 
 
 Burke. sat up all night reading it. He says he has not seen such a 
 
 book he can't tell when." 
 
 Mrs. Thrale gave me involuntarily a look of congratulation, 
 and could not forbear exclaiming, "How glad she was Mr. 
 Burke approved it ! " 
 
 I make these quotations from Miss Burney's diary, 
 which has page upon page of such description, to show 
 how the polite world was delighted with the vulgar folks 
 in "Evelina," and also for the glimpse they give of Dr. 
 Johnson. 
 
 This great big celebrated man was now firmly estab- 
 Dr Johnson Hshed in the house of the Thrales, who with much good 
 Thraies! nature allowed him to be there. Mr. Thrale, in the be- 
 
 ginning, was much charmed with Johnson's conversation 
 and apparently commanded, rather than persuaded, his 
 wife to add him to their household if possible as a per- 
 manent inmate. The great man availed himself of the 
 hospitality held out to him, and in 1766 began a tenancy 
 of sixteen years under their roof.
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson. 269 
 
 He was therefore absolutely a fixture in the family 
 when Fanny Burney met him there in 1778. When he 
 first came to the Thrales' he was fifty-six, short-sighted, 
 afflicted with stertorous breathing ; he dressed shabbily 
 and seldom attended to the cleanliness of his linen. His 
 wigs were so scrubby and so burnt away in front by Personal 
 contact with candles, that Mr. Thrale's valet had much 
 ado to make him presentable for the dinner-table. At 
 any meal he usually busied himself so intently that the 
 veins in his forehead swelled, and the perspiration broke 
 out upon him. His voice was loud, and of course his 
 manners were dictatorial. He was so fond of late hours 
 that the servants of the house looked upon him as the 
 curse of the establishment. 
 
 "I lie down," he used to say, "that my acquaint- 
 ances may sleep ; but I lie down to endure oppressive 
 misery and soon rise again to pass the night in anxiety Sleepless 
 and pain. ' ' When the candles did not burn brightly he 
 would seize them and turn them upside down till they 
 improved, the droppings falling to the carpet. He never 
 was in time for breakfast. He was ever quarreling with 
 Mrs. Thrale's mother, who was also an inmate of the 
 house, and whom he loved to irritate. He likewise 
 would be very rude, on occasion, to visitors whom the 
 Thrales might ask to their table. All this, together 
 with Johnson's frequent illnesses, these generous hosts 
 tolerated for so many years, in order to cherish a man 
 who was great at the bottom of his heart, and whom 
 they had the sense and charity to rate at his inner 
 worth. There is no record of Mrs. Thrale's having once Mrs. Thrale's 
 
 , . .... ... .... good-nature. 
 
 lost her temper with the shaggy philosopher, irritating 
 to any hostess as his habits must have been. She her- 
 self records with a pardonable pride that she had never 
 anything to blame herself for in her attentions to him.
 
 2 jo Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 But Samuel Johnson was a great man, and it is a proof 
 of it that everybody tolerated his eccentricities, con- 
 doned his untidiness, and loved him. 
 
 He wrote a quantity of things, now generally con- 
 ceded to be dull ; to quote from his " Rasselas " would 
 add nothing to our knowledge of the manners of his 
 own time ; while his own manners, as we have seen, 
 must be taken as an exception from the general rule of 
 the day, which was in favor of elegance and punctilio. I 
 will give this passage of his too heavily loaded style as 
 a specimen of what is meant by ' ' Johnsonese. ' ' 
 
 The proverbial oracles of our parsimonious ancestors have 
 informed us that the fatal waste of fortune is by small expenses, 
 Specimen of by the profusion of sums too little singly to alarm our caution, 
 and which we never suffer ourselves to consider together. Of 
 the same kind is the prodigality of life ; he that hopes to look 
 back hereafter with satisfaction upon past years must learn to 
 know the present value of single minutes, and endeavor to let 
 no particle of time fall useless to the ground. 
 
 A simple writer would have expressed this in some 
 such way as the following : 
 
 Take care of the pennies, says the thrifty old proverb, and 
 the pounds will take care of themselves. In like manner we 
 might say, Take care of the minutes and the years will take 
 care of themselves. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Evelina, with Introduction by Annie Raine Ellis. ( London, 
 1892.) 
 
 Diary of Madame d'Arblay. Fanny Burney. 
 
 English Poetesses. (Mrs. Thrale. j Eric S. Robertson. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. Leslie Stephen. (Men of Letters Series.)
 
 BOOK IX. 
 BEAU NASH AND BATH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 ONE of the good-natured things, among those that 
 Goldsmith was doing all the time, was to write a life 
 of Beau Nash, the monarch of Bath. Besides being a 
 truthful biography of that singular man, it is interesting A fashionable 
 for its description of how things were carried on in the 
 leading watering place of the eighteenth century. 
 
 Bath at that time was what Newport was in our own 
 country fifty years ago, and what Narragansett Pier fain 
 would be to-day the resort of the fashionable people in 
 the season when they wished to divert themselves away 
 from London. It was so well known, and so indis- 
 pensable, so to speak, that all the real people we are 
 now reading about are mentioned as resorting thither 
 and all the make-believe people in the novels make a 
 point of doing so. Some account of Bath, therefore, 
 seems an important detail in our study of the manners 
 of the century. 
 
 This is what Baedeker's Great Britain (1894) says 
 about it : 
 
 Bath, the chief place in Somerset, is a handsome town of 
 
 51,844 inhabitants, beautifully situated in the valley of the Avon Some facts . 
 ... - . .. .... . . , concerning it. 
 
 and on the slopes of the surrounding hills, and is perhaps 
 unrivaled among provincial English towns for its combination 
 of archaeological, historic, scenic, and social interests. It is a 
 city of crescents and terraces, built in a very substantial manner 
 of fine gray limestone, and rising tier above tier to a height of
 
 272 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Traditional 
 discovery of 
 Bath. 
 
 Goldsmith's 
 intentions. 
 
 Family of 
 Beau Nash. 
 
 about six hundred feet. Among the most characteristic streets 
 are the Royal Lansdown and Camden Crescents, the Circus and 
 Pulteney Street, all of which recall similar streets in Edin- 
 burgh. Milsom Street is the fashionable street. 
 
 Tradition ascribes the discovery of the springs of Bath to an 
 ancient British prince named Bladud who was afflicted with 
 leprosy and observed their beneficial effects on a herd of swine 
 suffering from a similar disease. The therapeutic value of the 
 waters did not escape the eyes of the bath-loving Romans, who 
 built here a large city, with extensive baths and temples, of 
 which numerous remains have been discovered. 
 
 So much for Baedeker. We will now turn to Gold- 
 smith's more genial, though less statistic style. 
 
 I profess to write the history of a man placed in the middle 
 ranks of life ; of one whose vices and virtues were open to the 
 eye of the most undiscerning spectator ; who was placed in 
 public view without power to repress censure or command 
 admiration ; who had too much merit not to be remarkable, 
 yet too much folly to arrive at greatness. I attempt the char- 
 acter of one who was just such a man as probably you or I may 
 be , but with this difference, that he never performed an action 
 which the world did not know, or ever formed a wish which he 
 did not take pains to divulge. In short I have chosen to write 
 the life of the noted Mr. Nash, as it will be the delineation of a 
 mind without disguise, of a man ever assiduous without indus- 
 try and pleasing to his superiors without any superiority of 
 genius or understanding. 
 
 It is a matter of very little importance who were the parents, 
 or what was the education, of a man who owed so little of his 
 advancement to either. He seldom boasted of family or learn- 
 ing, and his father's name and circumstances were so little 
 known that Dr. Cheyne used frequently to say that Nash had 
 no father. The Duchess of Marlborough one day rallying him 
 in public company upon the obscurity of his birth, compared 
 him to Gil Bias, who was ashamed of his father. "No, 
 madam," said Nash, "I seldom mention my father in company, 
 not because I have any reason to be ashamed of him, but 
 because he has some reason to be ashamed of me." 
 
 His father had strained his little income to give his son such
 
 Beau Nash and Bath. 273 
 
 an education, but from the boy's natural vivacity, he hoped 
 a recompense from his future preferment. In college, however, Early educa- 
 he soon showed that though much might be expected from his l 
 genius, nothing could be hoped from his industry. A mind 
 strongly turned to pleasure always is first seen at the university : 
 there the youth first found himself freed from the restraint of 
 tutors, and being treated by his friends in some measure as a 
 man, assumes the passions and desires of a ripe age, and dis- 
 covers in the boy what are likely to be the affections of his 
 maturity. 
 
 . . . When King William was on the throne, Mr. Nash was 
 a member of the Middle Temple. It had long been customary MfadteTemp 
 for the Inns of Court to entertain our monarchs upon their 
 accession to the crown, or some such remarkable occasion, 
 with a revel and pageant. In the earlier periods of our history, 
 poets were the conductor of these entertainments ; plays were 
 exhibited and complimentary verses were then written ; but by 
 degrees the pageant alone was continued, Sir John Davis being 
 the last poet that wrote verses upon such an occasion, in the 
 reign of James I. 
 
 This ceremony, which has been at length totally discontinued, 
 was last exhibited in honor of King William, and Mr. Nash 
 was chosen to conduct the whole with proper decorum. He a pageant, 
 was then but a very young man ; but we see at how early an 
 age he was thought proper to guide the amusements of his 
 country, and be the arbiter elegantiarum of his time ; we see 
 how early he gave proofs of that spirit of regularity for which 
 he afterward became famous, and showed an attention to 
 those little circumstances, of which, though the observance be 
 trifling, the neglect has often interrupted men of the greatest 
 abilities in the progress of their fortunes. 
 
 Nash was now fairly for life entered into a course of gaiety 
 and dissipation, and steady in nothing but the pursuit of 
 variety. He was thirty years old, without fortune, or useful 
 talents to acquire one. He had hitherto only led a life of 
 expedients ; he thanked chance alone for his support, and 
 having been long precariously supported, he became at length 
 totally a stranger to prudence or precaution. Not to disguise 
 any part of his character, he was now by profession a gamester, 
 and went on from day to day, feeling the vicissitudes of rapture 
 and anguish in proportion to the fluctuations of fortune.
 
 274 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 At this time London was the only theater in England for 
 Gaming in pleasure or intrigue. A spirit of gaming had been introduced 
 
 in the licentious age of Charles II. and had by this time thriven 
 surprisingly. Yet all its devastations were confined to London 
 alone. So this great mart of every folly sharpers from every 
 country daily arrived for the winter ; but were obliged to leave 
 the kingdom at the approach of summer, in order to open 
 a new campaign at Aix, Spa, or The Hague. Bath, Tunbridge, 
 Scarborough, and other places of the same kind here, were 
 then frequented only by such as really went for relief; the 
 pleasures they afforded were merely rural ; the company splen- 
 etic, rustic, and vulgar. In this situation of things people of 
 fashion had no agreeable summer retreat from the town, and 
 usually spent that season amidst a solitude of country squires, 
 parsons' wives, and visiting tenants or farmers ; they wanted 
 some place where they might have each other's company, and 
 win each other's money, as they had done during the winter in 
 town. 
 
 Queen Anne visited Bath in 1702 and this set the 
 Bath. fashion. There were so few people that they danced 
 
 in the bowling-green to the music of the fiddle and haut- 
 boy, and sauntered about under the sycamore trees. 
 
 Still the amusements of the place were neither elegant 
 nor conducted with delicacy. General society among people 
 of rank or fortune was by no means established. The no- 
 bility still preserved a tincture of Gothic haughtiness, and 
 refused to keep company with the gentry at any of the public 
 entertainments of the place. Smoking in the rooms was per- 
 mitted ; gentlemen and ladies appeared in a disrespectful 
 manner at public entertainments in aprons and boots. With an 
 eagerness common to those whose pleasures come but seldom, 
 they generally continued them too long ; and thus they were 
 rendered disgusting by too free an enjoyment. If the company 
 liked each other, they danced till morning ; if any person lost at 
 cards, he insisted on continuing the game till luck should turn. 
 
 The lodgings for visitants were paltry, though expensive ; 
 the dining-rooms and other chambers were floored with boards 
 colored brown with soot and small beer to hide the dirt ; the 
 walls were covered with unpainted wainscot ; the furniture cor-
 
 Beau Nash and Bath. 275 
 
 responded with the meanness of the architecture ; a few oak- 
 chairs, a small looking glass, with a fender and tongs, com- 
 posed the magnificence of these temporary habitations. The 
 city was in itself mean and contemptible ; no elegant buildings, 
 no open streets, no uniform squares. The pump-house was 
 without any director ; the chairmen permitted no gentlemen or 
 ladies to walk home by night without insulting them, and to 
 add to all this, one of the greatest physicians of his age con- 
 ceived a design of ruining the city, by writing against the effi- 
 cacy of the waters. It was from a resultment of some affronts 
 he had received there that he took this resolution, and ac- 
 cordingly published a pamphlet, by which he said "he would 
 cast a toad into the spring." 
 
 In this situation it was that Nash first arrived in Bath. 
 He promised to charm away the toad. He hired a 
 band of music. The company increased. Nash tri- 
 umphed and became the monarch of the little state 
 of Bath. 
 
 The balls began at six and ended at eleven. Every- 
 thing was performed in proper order. The ball opened Conduct of the 
 with a minuet danced by the two persons of highest dis- 
 tinction present. When the minuet was over the lady 
 returned to her seat, and Nash took the gentleman to a 
 new partner, every gentleman being obliged to dance 
 twice, until the minuets were over, which generally 
 lasted two hours. At eight began the country dances, 
 ladies of quality according to their rank standing up first. 
 At nine o'clock was a short interval for rest, when the 
 gentlemen helped their partners to tea. After this the 
 dancing continued till the clock struck eleven, when the 
 master of ceremonies entered the ball-room and ordered 
 the music to desist by lifting up his finger. This 
 stopped the dancing, and, some time allowed for becom- 
 ing cool, the ladies were handed to their chairs. 
 
 He was not less strict with regard to the dresses. He 
 had the strongest aversion to a white apron and abso-
 
 276 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 lutely excluded them. He had still more trouble with 
 
 the gentlemen, in stopping the use of the sword, but in 
 
 this he triumphed at last, as well as concerning boots, 
 
 boots d forbid- which he would not permit to be worn. By ridicule he 
 
 den - succeeded in breaking up this custom, and few men 
 
 ventured to be seen at the assembies in Bath in a riding 
 
 dress. If any gentleman through ignorance or haste 
 
 appeared in the rooms in boots, Nash, bowing, would 
 
 tell him that " he had forgot his horse."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE city of Bath, by such assiduity, soon became the theater 
 
 of summer amusements for all people of fashion ; and the B ? th th ^ resort 
 
 r of people of 
 
 manner of spending the day there must amuse any but such as fashion, 
 disease or spleen had made uneasy to themselves. The follow- 
 ing is a faint picture of the pleasures that scene affords. Upon 
 a stranger's arrival at Bath he is welcomed by a peal of the 
 abbey bells, and, in the next place, by the voice and music of 
 the city waits. For these civilities, the ringers have generally a 
 present made them of half a guinea, and the waits of half a 
 crown or more, in proportion to the person's fortune, gener- 
 osity, or ostentation. These customs, though disagreeable, are, 
 however, liked, or they would not continue. The greatest 
 incommodity attending them is the disturbance the bells must 
 give the sick. But the pleasure of knowing the name of every 
 family that comes to town recompenses the inconvenience. 
 Invalids are fond of news, and upon the first sound of the bells 
 everybody sends out to inquire for whom they ring. 
 
 After the family is thus welcomed to Bath, it is the custom 
 for the master of it to go to the public places, and subscribe to* amusements, 
 two guineas at the assembly houses toward the balls and music 
 in the pump-house, for which he is entitled to three tickets 
 every ball night. His next subscription is a crown, half a 
 guinea, or a guinea, according to his rank and quality, for the 
 liberty of walking in the private walks belonging to Simpson's 
 assembly house ; a crown or half a guinea is also given to the 
 booksellers, for which the gentleman is to have what books he 
 pleases to read at his lodgings, and at the coffee-house another 
 subscription is taken for pen, ink, and paper, for such letters as 
 the subscriber shall write at it during his stay. The ladies, too, 
 may subscribe to the booksellers, and to a house by the pump- 
 room, for the advantage of reading the news and for enjoying 
 each other's conversation. 
 
 Things being thus adjusted, the amusements of the day are 
 generally begun by bathing, which is no unpleasing method of 
 passing away an hour or so.
 
 278 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 The hours for bathing are commonly between six and nine in 
 the morning, and the baths are every morning supplied with 
 fresh water ; for when the people have done bathing, the 
 sluices in each bath are pulled up, and the water is carried off 
 by drains into the river Avon. 
 
 In the morning the lady is brought in a close chair, dressed 
 in her bathing clothes, to the bath ; and, being in the water, the 
 woman who attends presents her with a little floating dish like 
 a basin ; into which the lady puts a handkerchief, a snuff-box, 
 and a nosegay. She then traverses the bath ; if a novice, with 
 a guide ; if otherwise, by herself; and having amused herself 
 thus while she thinks proper, calls for her chair, and returns to 
 her lodgings. 
 
 The amusement of bathing is immediately succeeded by a 
 Program of general assembly of people at the pump-room ; some for plea- 
 pleasure, sure, and some to drink the hot waters. Three glasses at three 
 different times is the usual portion for every drinker ; and the 
 intervals between every glass are enlivened by the harmony of 
 a small band of music, as well as by the conversation of the 
 gay, the witty, or the forward. 
 
 From the pump-room the ladies, from time to time, with- 
 draw to a female coffee-house, and from thence return to their 
 lodgings to breakfast. The gentlemen withdraw to their coffee- 
 houses, to read the papers, or converse on the news of the day, 
 with a freedom and ease not to be found in the metropolis. 
 
 People of fashion make public breakfasts at the assembly 
 houses, to which they invite their acquaintances, and they 
 sometimes order private concerts ; or, when so disposed, 
 attend lectures on the arts and sciences, which are frequently 
 taught there in a pretty superficial manner, so as not to tease 
 the understanding, while they afford the imagination some 
 amusement. The private concerts are performed in the ball- 
 rooms ; the tickets a crown each. 
 
 Concert breakfasts at the assembly house sometimes make 
 Concert break- also a part of the morning's amusement here, the expenses of 
 which are defrayed by a subscription among the men. Per- 
 sons of rank and fortune who can perform are admitted into 
 the orchestra, and find a pleasure in joining with the per- 
 formers. 
 
 Thus we have the tedious morning fairly over. When noon 
 approaches, and church (if any please to go there) is done, some
 
 Beau Nash and Bath. 279 
 
 of the company appear upon the parade, and other public walks, 
 where they continue to chat and amuse each other, till they 
 have formed parties for the play, cards, or dancing for the 
 evening. Another part of the company divert themselves 
 with reading in the booksellers' shops, or are generally seen 
 taking the air and exercise, some on horseback, some in 
 coaches. Some walk in the meadows round the town, winding 
 along the side of the river Avon and the neighboring canal ; 
 while others are seen scaling some of those romantic precipices 
 that overhang the city. 
 
 When the hour of dinner draws nigh, and the company are The dinn 
 returned from their different recreations, the provisions are hour, 
 generally served with the utmost elegance and plenty. Their 
 mutton, butter, fish, and fowl, are all allowed to be excellent, 
 and their cookery still exceeds their meat. 
 
 After dinner is over, and eveningprayers ended, the company 
 meet a second time at the pump-house. From this they retire 
 to the walks, and from thence go to drink tea at the assembly 
 houses, and the rest of the evenings are concluded either with 
 balls, plays, or visits. A theater was erected in the year 1705, 
 by subscription, by people of the highest rank, who permitted 
 their arms to be engraven on the inside of the house, as a 
 public testimony of their liberality toward it. Every Tuesday 
 and Friday evening is concluded with a public ball, the contri- 
 butions to which are so numerous that the price of each ticket diversions, 
 is trifling. Thus Bath yields a continued rotation of diversions, 
 and people of all ways of thinking, even from the libertine to 
 the Methodist, have it in their power to complete the day with 
 employments suited to their inclinations. 
 
 The equipage of Beau Nash was sumptuous, and he usually 
 traveled to Tunbridge in a post chariot and six grays, with 
 outriders, footmen, French horns, and every other appendage 
 of expensive parade. He always wore a white hat, and to 
 apologize for this singularity said he did it purely to secure it 
 from being stolen ; his dress was tawdry, though not perfectly 
 genteel ; he might be considered as a beau of several genera- 
 tions, and in his appearance he in some measure mixed the 
 fashions of the last age with those of the present. He per- 
 fectly understood elegant expense, and generally passed his 
 time in the very best company, if persons of the first distinc- 
 tion deserve that title.
 
 280 Men and Manners of the Righteenth Centiiry. 
 
 For all this display Nash had no other resource but gambling, 
 to which he devoted all his talents. Long practice had given 
 him immense skill, although he was not a gamester by tem- 
 perament ; he was too emotional and generous to preserve the 
 phlegmatic coolness necessary for perfection in the art. 
 
 Moreover, gaming had reached such extremes that 
 gambling. in the twelfth year of George II. the prevalent games 
 
 were decreed fraudulent and unlawful. Pharaoh, basset, 
 and hazard were now condemned, but the law was 
 scarcely made before new games were invented to elude 
 it, and rolly-polly, Marlborough's battles came up ; but 
 especially the E. O. tables, which, by the way, plays a 
 conspicuous part in Miss Edgeworth's "Belinda," half 
 a century later. 
 
 By the profits of such a table Nash succeeded in 
 existing, being mean enough to enter into a confederacy 
 with creatures lower than himself to evade the law and 
 share the plunder. His transactions in this matter 
 Goldsmith calls ' ' the greatest blot in his life ; and this, 
 it is hoped, will find pardon." He was cheated by his 
 confederates and in time ruined, and began to decline 
 from his former favor and esteem, "the just consequence 
 of his quitting, though but ever so little, the paths of 
 honor." 
 
 He lived to become an old man. As Nestor was a 
 Beau age fthe man f tnree a g es > so Nash sometimes called himself 
 a beau of three generations. 
 
 As he grew old and poor, he became garrulous, people grew 
 tired of him ; a variety of causes concurred to embitter his de- 
 parting life, such as the weakness and infirmities of exhausted 
 nature ; the admonitions of the grave, which aggravated his 
 follies into vices ; the ingratitude of his dependents, who for- 
 merly flattered his fortunes ; but particularly the contempt of 
 the great, many of whom quite forgot him in his wants. Yet 
 his death was sincerely regretted by the city to which he had 
 been so long and so great a benefactor.
 
 Beau Nash and Bath, 281 
 
 He died at his house in St. John's Court, Bath, on the i2th 
 of February, 1761, aged eighty-seven years, three months, and His death, 
 some days. The day after his death, the mayor called the 
 corporation together, when they granted fifty pounds toward 
 burying their sovereign with proper respect. After the corpse 
 had lain four days, it was conveyed to the abbey church in 
 that city, with a solemnity somewhat peculiar to his character. 
 About five the procession moved from his house ; the charity 
 girls, two and two, preceded ; next the boys of the charity 
 school, singing a solemn occasional hymn. Next marched the 
 city music, and his own band, sounding at proper intervals a 
 dirge. Three clergymen immediately preceded the coffin, 
 which was adorned with sable plumes, and the pall supported 
 by the six senior aldermen. The masters of the assembly 
 rooms followed as chief mourners ; the beadles of that hos- 
 pital which he had contributed so largely to endow went 
 next ; and last of all the poor patients themselves, the lame, 
 the emaciated, and the feeble, followed their old benefactor to 
 his grave, shedding unfeigned tears, and lamenting themselves 
 in him. 
 
 It would seem that Tunbridge Wells was a sort of 
 
 , , _ , . Tunbridge 
 
 dependence of oath, as we may learn by the state in Weils, 
 which he has been said to drive thither. I have a 
 colored picture (in Richardson's life) of Tunbridge 
 Wells in 1748. It represents the broad parade ground 
 before the buildings of the place, a street in fact, but 
 more a mall, for there is a row of tremendously tall trees 
 on one side, on the other a row of low houses with steep 
 slanting, apparently tiled, roofs. An arcade with pil- 
 lars runs along the row, with shops behind, and ladies 
 and gentlemen of fashion are parading about the walks, 
 the ladies in huge hoops, the men in wigs and cocked 
 hats.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ALL of our friends, real or unreal, at any rate those of 
 any quality, were at Bath sooner or later. Perhaps the 
 Arabella at fi rs t to arrive, in 1752, was Arabella, the heroine of 
 "The Female Quixote." Let us read a few of her ex- 
 periences, as her eccentricities throw some light on 
 the manners of the place. 
 
 After the death of her father, the marquis, Mr. Glan- 
 ville's father and sister visited Arabella at the castle, 
 now her own, and accompanied by Mr. Glanville they 
 all set out in a coach and six, attended by several 
 servants on horseback. You remember her home was 
 in Wales. 
 
 The ladies, their lodgings having been provided beforehand, 
 retired to their different chambers to repose themselves after 
 the fatigue of their journey. Miss Glanville the next morning 
 prest Arabella to go to the pump-room, assuring her she would 
 find a very agreeable amusement. 
 
 Arabella accordingly consented to accompany her, and being 
 
 Arabella ^j^ tne ladies went in an undress of a morning she accommo- 
 
 appears at the 
 
 pump-room. dated herself to the custom, and went in a negligent dress ; but 
 instead of a capuchin she wore something very like a veil of 
 black gauze which covered almost all her face and part of her 
 waist, and gave her a very singular appearance. Miss Glanville 
 was too envious of her cousin's superiority in point of beauty 
 to inform her of any oddity in her dress, which she thought 
 might expose her to the ridicule of those that saw her, and Mr. 
 Glanville was too little a critic in ladies' apparel to be sensible 
 that Arabella was not in the fashion ; and since everything she 
 wore became her extremely, he could not choose but think she 
 dressed admirably well ; he handed her therefore with a great 
 deal of satisfaction into the pump-room, which happened to be 
 greatly crowded that morning. 
 
 282
 
 Beau Nash and Bath. 283 
 
 The attention of most part of the company was immediately 
 engaged by the appearance Lady Bella made. Strangers are Her singular 
 here most strictly criticized, and every new object affords a dress - 
 delicious feast of raillery and scandal. 
 
 The ladies, alarmed at the singularity of her dress, crowded 
 together in parties ; and the words, "Who can she be? Strange 
 creature! Ridiculous!" and other exclamations of the kind 
 were whispered, very intelligibly. The men were struck by 
 her figure, veiled as she was. Her fine stature, the beautiful 
 turn of her person attracted all their notice. Her name and 
 quality were presently whispered all over the room. The men, 
 hearing she was a great heiress, found greater beauties to 
 admire in her person ; the ladies, awed by the sanction of 
 quality, dropped their ridicule on her dress, and began to quote 
 examples of whims full as inexcusable. One remembered that 
 Lady I. F. always wore her ruffles reversed ; that the Countess 
 of went to court in a farthingale, etc. 
 
 Having consulted her fancy in a rich silver stuff she bought 
 for the dress she should wear the next ball night, a person was Costume after 
 sent for to make it ; and Arabella, who followed no fashion but the model of 
 her own taste, which was formed on the manners of the hero- 
 ines, ordered the woman to make her a robe after the same 
 model as the Princess Julia's. The mantua-maker, who 
 thought it might do her great prejudice with her new cus- 
 tomer to acknowledge she knew nothing of the Princess Julia, 
 or the fashion of her gown, replied at random and with great 
 pertness that that taste was quite out, and she would advise 
 her ladyship to have her clothes made in the present mode, 
 which was far more becoming. 
 
 "You can never persuade me," said Arabella, "that any 
 fashion can be more becoming than that of the Princess Julia's, 
 who was the most gallant princess upon earth, and knew better 
 than any other how to set off her charms. It may be a little 
 obsolete now," pursued she, "for the fashion could not but 
 alter a little in the compass of two thousand years." 
 
 "Two thousand years, madam!" said the woman, in a great 
 surprise. " Lord help us trades-people if they did not alter a dre^mak^. 1 ' 16 
 thousand times in as many days. I thought your ladyship was 
 speaking of the last month's taste, which, as I said before, is 
 quite out now." 
 
 " Well," replied Arabella, " let the present mode be what it
 
 284 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 will, I insist on having my clothes made after the pattern of 
 the beautiful daughter of Augustus, being convinced that none 
 other can be half so becoming." 
 
 " What fashion was that, pray, madam?" said the woman ; "I 
 never saw it." 
 
 ''How!" replied Arabella, "have you already forgot the 
 fashion of the Princess Julia's robe, which you said was worn 
 but last month? or are you ignorant that the Princess Julia and 
 the daughter of Augustus is the same person ? " 
 
 "I protest, madam," said the woman, extremely confused, 
 " I had forgot that till you called it to my mind." 
 
 " Well," said Arabella, "make me a robe in the same taste." 
 
 The dress is described at length and wonderful it 
 was, if only that she wore no hoop at that period. The 
 tale of the Princess Julia had spread, and all were dis- 
 posed for jesting, but " her noble air and the inexpress- 
 ible grace which accompanied all her movements drew 
 the admiration of the whole assembly." 
 
 They had stayed a long time in Bath, when Sir Charles, hav- 
 Departure of . J J . 
 
 Arabella. .., ing affairs that required his presence in London, proposed to 
 
 his niece the leaving Bath in a few days, to which she con- 
 sented, and accordingly they set out for London in Arabella's 
 coach and six, attended by the servants on horseback, her 
 women having been sent away before in the stage. 
 
 Nothing very remarkable happened during this journey, with 
 the exception of several small mistakes of Arabella's, such as 
 her supposing a neat country girl, who was riding behind a 
 man, to be some lady or princess in disguise forced away by a 
 lover she hated, and entreating Mr. Glanville to attempt her 
 rescue, who could not be persuaded to believe it was as 
 she said, and forbade his son to meddle in other people's 
 affairs.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 AMONG the books of this time now forgotten is 
 "Pompey the Little, or the Life and Adventures of a "Pompeythe 
 
 . . Little." 
 
 Lap-dog" ; it was written by Coventry, about 1750, 
 and survived long enough to find a place in Mrs. Bar- 
 bauld's " British Novelists." Lady Mary calls it 
 
 a real and exact representation of life, as it is now acted in Lon- 
 don, as it was in my time, and as it will be I do not doubt 
 a hundred years hence, with some little variation of dress and 
 perhaps of government. I found in it many of my acquaint- 
 ances. Lady T. and Lady O. are so well painted, I fancied I 
 heard them talk, and have heard them say the very things there 
 repeated. 
 
 On such good authority, I take from " Pompey " as 
 a specimen of real manners this description of a fine 
 gentleman, with the account of a fashionable visit and 
 the latest news from Bath. The little book is written 
 satirically, and this is of course exaggerated. 
 
 Dress was his darling vanity ; and consequently his rooms 
 were more filled with clothes than curiosities : there all the Description ofa 
 prjde of Paris was exhibited to view ; suits of velvet and em- fine gentleman, 
 broidery, sword hilts, red-heeled shoes, and snuff boxes, 
 lay about in negligent confusion. Nor did he appear with less 
 tclat without doors ; for he had shown his gilt chariot and bay 
 horses in all the streets of gay resort, and was allowed to have 
 the most splendid brilliant equipage in London. The club at 
 White's voted him a member ; and there was a rivalry among 
 the ladies of fashion, who should first engage him to their 
 assemblies. Not any one came into the side-box at a play- 
 house with so graceful a negligence ; and it was generally 
 confessed that he had the most accomplished manner of talk- 
 ing nonsense of any man of quality in London. 
 
 The two sisters had lain longer in bed than usual the morn- 
 285
 
 286 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 ing after their arrival in town, which was owing to the fatigue 
 of their journey. They had but just finished their breakfast at 
 twelve o'clock ; Aurora was sitting down to her harpsichord 
 and Theodosia reading the play bills for the evening, when the 
 door opened and the count was ushered by a servant into 
 the room. 
 
 When the first ceremonies were over, and the count had 
 expressed the prodigious satisfaction he felt in seeing them re- 
 turned to town, he inquired what kind of a season they had at 
 
 The season at Path 
 
 Bath. 
 
 "Why, really," said Theodosia, "a very good one: there 
 
 were many agreeable people there, and all of them easy and 
 sociable ; which made our time pass away cheerfully and 
 pleasantly." 
 
 " You amaze me ! " cries the count. " Impossible, madam ! 
 How can it be, ladies ? I had letters from Lord Marmozet and 
 Lady Betty Scornful, assuring me that, except you and them- 
 selves, there were not three decent creatures in the place. I 
 have Lady Betty's letter in my pocket, I believe at this 
 moment Oh, no, upon recollection, I put it this morning into 
 my cabinet, where I preserve all my letters from people of 
 quality." 
 
 Aurora, smothering a laugh, said she was extremely obliged 
 to Lord Marmozet and Lady Betty for ranking her and her 
 sister in the catalogue of decent beings ; " But surely," added 
 she, "they must have been delirious when they wrote their 
 letters, for the Bath was extremely full." 
 
 " Full," cries the count, interrupting her ; "oh, madam, that 
 is very possible, and yet there might be no company, that is 
 none of us ; nobody that one knows ; for as for all the tramon- 
 tanes that come by the cross post, we never reckon them any- 
 thing but monsters in human shape that serve to fill up the 
 stage of life, like ciphers in a play. For instance, you often see 
 an awkward girl appear in the rooms with a frosty face, as if she 
 was just come from feeding poultry in her father's yard ; or you 
 see a booby squire, with a head resembling a stone-ball over 
 a gate-post. Now it would be the most ridiculous thing in life 
 to call such people company. 'Tis the want of titles and not 
 the want of faces that makes a place empty ; for if there is 
 nobody one knows, if there is none of us in a place, we esteem 
 all the rest as mob and rabble."
 
 Beau Nash and Bath. 287 
 
 In Smollett's " Humphrey Clinker," written in 1766, 
 there is a good deal about Bath. We saw something: '' Humphrey 
 
 & . s Clinker." 
 
 of Smollett in connection with Goldsmith, as one of the 
 set of brilliant writers of our period. His books are 
 little read now, and almost forgotten, but, like himself, 
 found favorites during his life. The omnivorous Lady 
 Mary enjoyed him ; she writes, after receiving his trans- 
 lation of " Don Quixote " : 
 
 I am sorry my friend Smollett loses his time in translations. 
 He has certainly a talent for invention, though I think it flags a 
 little in his last work (" Count Fathom "). " Don Quixote " is 
 a difficult undertaking. I shall never desire to read any at- 
 tempt to new-dress him. I had rather take pains to understand 
 him in the original Spanish than sleep over a stupid trans- 
 lation. 
 
 "Humphrey Clinker" is all in letters ; and the differ- 
 ent characters recount their impressions in characteristic 
 ways. This is the description which the sentimental, 
 languishing heroine, Miss Lydia Medford, sends to her 
 friend. As Beau Nash had died in 1761, at a great age, 
 the "pretty little Master of Ceremonies" must have 
 been his successor. 
 
 Bath, April 26, 1766. 
 To Miss WILLIS, AT GLOUCESTER. 
 
 My Dearest Companion: The pleasure I received from 
 yours, which came to hand yesterday, is not to be expressed. Letter from 
 Love and friendship are, without doubt, charming passions ; Lydia Medford. 
 which absence serves only to heighten and improve. Your 
 kind present of the garnet bracelets I shall keep as carefully as 
 I preserve my own life ; and I beg you will accept, in return, of 
 my heart house-wife, with the tortoise-shell memorandum 
 book, as a trifling pledge of my unalterable affection. 
 
 Bath is to me a new world all is gaiety, good humor, and 
 diversion. The eye is continually entertained with splendor of 
 dress and equipage ; and the ear with the sound of coaches, 
 chaises, chairs, and other carriages. The merry bells ring 
 round from morn till night. Then we are welcomed by the
 
 288 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 The Master of 
 Ceremonies. 
 
 Ladies in the 
 bath. 
 
 The pump- 
 room. 
 
 city waits in our own lodgings ; we have music in the pump- 
 room every morning, cotillions every forenoon in the room, 
 balls twice a week, and concerts every other night, besides pri- 
 vate assemblies and parties without number. As soon as we 
 were settled in our lodgings, we were visited by the Master of 
 the Ceremonies ; a pretty little gentleman, so sweet, so fine, so 
 civil, and polite, that in our country he might pass for the 
 Prince of Wales : then he talks so charmingly, both in verse 
 and prose, that you would be delighted to hear him discourse ; 
 for you must know he is a great writer, and has got five trage- 
 dies ready for the stage. He did us the favor to dine with us 
 by my uncle's invitation ; and the next day squired my aunt 
 and me to every part of Bath ; which, to be sure, is an earthly 
 paradise. The Square, the Circus, and the Parades put you in 
 mind of the sumptuous palaces represented in prints and pic- 
 tures ; and the new buildings, such as Princes-row, Harlequin's- 
 row, Bladud's-row, and twenty other rows, look like so many 
 enchanted palaces raised on hanging terraces. 
 
 At eight in the morning we go in dishabille to the pump- 
 room ; which is crowded like a Welch fair ; and there you see 
 the highest quality and the lowest trades-folk jostling each 
 other, without ceremony, hail-fellow well-met. The noise of 
 the music playing in the gallery, the heat and flavor of such a 
 crowd, and the hum and buzz of their conversation, gave me 
 the headache and vertigo the first day ; but afterward all these 
 things became familiar, and even agreeable. Right under the 
 pump-room windows is the King's Batli ; a huge cistern, where 
 you see the patients up to their necks in hot water. The ladies 
 wear jackets and petticoats of brown linen, with chip hats, in 
 which they fix their handkerchiefs to wipe the sweat from their 
 faces ; but, truly, whether it is owing to the steam that sur- 
 rounds them, or to the heat of the water, or the nature of the 
 dress, or to all three causes together, they look so flushed, and 
 so frightful, that I always turn my eyes another way. 
 
 For my part, I content myself with drinking about half a 
 pint of the water every morning. The pumper, with his wife 
 and servant, attend within a bar ; and the glasses, of different 
 sizes, siand ranged in order before them, so that you have 
 nothing to do but to point at that which you choose, and it is 
 filled immediately, hot and sparkling from the pump. It is 
 the only water I could ever drink without being sick. Far from
 
 Beau Nash and Bath. 289 
 
 having that effect, it is rather agreeable to the taste, grateful to 
 the stomach, and reviving to the spirits. You cannot imagine 
 what wonderful cures it performs. My uncle began with it the 
 other day, but he made wry faces in drinking, and I am afraid 
 he will leave it off. 
 
 Hard by the pump-room is a coffee-house for the ladies ; but 
 my aunt says young girls are not admitted, inasmuch as the Coffee-house, 
 conversation turns upon politics, scandal, philosophy, and 
 other subjects above our capacity ; but we are allowed to 
 accompany them to the booksellers' shops, which are charming 
 places of resort, where we read novels, plays, pamphlets, and 
 newspapers, for so small a subscription as a crown a quarter ; 
 and in these offices of intelligence (as my brother calls them), 
 all the reports of the day, and all the private transactions of the 
 Bath, are first entered and discussed. From the booksellers' 
 shop we make a tour through the milliners and toy-men ; and 
 commonly stop at Mr. Gills, the pastry-cook, to take a jelly, a 
 tart, or a small basin of vermicelli. There is, moreover, 
 another place of entertainment on the other side of the river, 
 opposite the Grove, to which the company cross over in a boat. 
 It is called the Spring Gardens ; a sweet retreat, laid out in spring 
 walks and ponds, and parterres of flowers ; and there is a long Gardens, 
 room for breakfasting and dancing. As the situation is low 
 and damp, and the season has been remarkably wet, my uncle 
 won't suffer me to go thither, lest I should catch cold ; but my 
 aunt says it is all a vulgar prejudice ; and, to be sure, a great 
 many gentlemen and ladies of Ireland frequent the place with- 
 out seeming to be the worse for it. They say dancing at 
 Spring Gardens, when the air is moist, is recommended to 
 them as an excellent cure for rheumatism. I have been twice 
 at the play, and the decorations of the theater are very fine. 
 
 After all, the great scenes of entertainment at Bath are the 
 two public rooms, where the company meet alternatively every 
 evening. They are spacious, lofty, and when lighted up 
 appear very striking. They are generally crowded with well- 
 dressed people, who drink tea in separate parties, play at 
 cards, walk, or sit or chat together, just as they are disposed. 
 Twice a week there is a ball, the expense of which is defrayed 
 by a voluntary subscription among the gentlemen, and every -r^e ball-room 
 subscriber has three tickets. I was there Friday last with my 
 aunt, under the care of my brother, who is a subscriber. The
 
 290 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 place was so hot and the smell so different from what we 
 are used to in the country that I was quite feverish when we 
 came away. Aunt says it is the effect of a vulgar constitution, 
 reared among woods and mountains, and that, as I become 
 accustomed to genteel company, it will wear off. But I am 
 afraid I have put you out of all patience with this long, uncon- 
 nected scrawl ; which I shall therefore conclude, with assuring 
 you that neither Bath nor London, nor all the diversions of life, 
 shall ever be able to efface the idea of my dear Letty from the 
 heart of your ever affectionate, 
 
 LYDIA MEDFORD. 
 
 Evelina, just before she became Lady Orville, was 
 taken to Bath, in company with some of her friends, 
 
 Evelina at 
 
 Bath. amongst them the beau who tormented her at the ball. 
 
 She writes : 
 
 The charming city of Bath answered all my expectations. 
 The Crescent, the prospect from it, and the elegant symmetry 
 of the Circus, delighted me. The Parades, I own, rather dis- 
 appointed me ; one of them is scarce preferable to some of the 
 best paved streets in London ; and the other, though it affords 
 a beautiful prospect, a charming view of Prior Park and of the 
 Avon, yet wanted something in itself of more striking elegance 
 than a mere broad pavement, to satisfy the ideas I had formed 
 of it. 
 
 At the pump-room, I was amazed at the public exhibition of 
 the ladies in the bath ; it is true, their heads are covered with 
 bonnets ; but the very idea of being seen in such a situation by 
 whoever pleases to look is indelicate. 
 
 " Really now," cried Mr. Lovel, looking into the bath, "I 
 
 must confess it is, to me, very incomprehensible why the ladies 
 
 The bathing choose that frightful unbecoming dress to bathe in ! I have 
 
 often pondered very seriously upon the subject, but could 
 
 never hit upon the reason." 
 
 "Well, I declare," said Lady Louisa, " I should like of all 
 things to set something new a-going ; I always hated bathing, 
 because one can get no pretty dress for it ! now do, there's a 
 good creature, try to help me to something." 
 
 "Who, me ! O dear, ma'am," said he, simpering, "I can't 
 pretend to assist a person of your ladyship's taste ; besides I
 
 Beau Nash and Bath. 291 
 
 have not the least head for fashions. I really don't think I ever 
 invented above three in my life ! but I never had the least turn 
 for dress never any notion of fancy or elegance." 
 
 " Oh, fie, Mr. Lovel ! how can you talk so ? " 
 
 "The Bath amusements," said Lord Orville, "have a same- 
 ness in them, which, after a short time, renders them rather 
 insipid ; but the greatest objection that can be made to the 
 place is the encouragement it gives to gamesters." 
 
 "Why, I hope, my lord, you would not think of abolishing Gamjn 
 gaming,' 1 '' cried Lord Merton, " 'tis the very zest of life ! Devil 
 take me if I could live without it." 
 
 " I am sorry for it," said Lord Orville gravely. 
 
 "Evelina" was written in 1778, yet the same singular 
 customs of the pump-room were still extant. 
 
 Horace Walpole had a low opinion of the place, and 
 as far as we know avoided it. 
 
 In Miss Austen's " Persuasion," written in 1816, the 
 characters visit Bath, no longer in its early splendor, and 
 settled into an agreeable resort for people in search of 
 health and variety, rather than the excesses of fashion. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Life of Beau Nash. Oliver Goldsmith. 
 Smollett's Life, and Humphrey Clinker. 
 Mrs. Barbauld's British Novelists, Vol. 30.
 
 BOOK X. 
 
 MRS. RADCLIFFE AND HER FOL- 
 LOWERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE immense success of Walpole's original and really 
 Ann Radciiffe. clever " Castle of Otranto " encouraged other and more 
 accomplished artists to follow in the same track. The 
 first name on the list is Ann Radciiffe, whose romances 
 exhibit a surprising power over the emotions of fear 
 and undefined mysterious suspense. Her two greatest 
 works are "The Romance of the Forest" and "The 
 Mysteries of Udolpho." Her favorite scenery is that 
 of Italy and the south of France, the ruined castles of 
 the Pyrenees and the Apennines form the theater, and 
 the dark passions of profligate Italian counts the princi- 
 pal moving power, of her wonderful fictions. The sub- 
 stance of them is all pretty much the same ; mystery is 
 the spell ; the personages are made to suffer such 
 extremities of terror and intense suffering, and, above 
 all, suspense, that we sympathize with their fate as if 
 they were real. 
 
 Ann Radciiffe was born in London in 1764 ; she died 
 death and therein 1823. Her maiden name was Ward. At the 
 
 age of twenty-two she married Mr. William Radciiffe, a 
 law student, who afterward became the editor and pro- 
 prietor of a weekly newspaper, The English Chronicle. 
 Her first novel, called the "Castles of Athlin and 
 Dunbayne," I have never seen. Probably it no longer
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 293 
 
 exists. It is said to have given no great indication 
 of her future powers, though it presented the wild, im- 
 probable plot and unnatural characters of her later 
 writings. "The Sicilian Romance" is better, and 
 "The Romance of the Forest" is sufficient of itself to 
 put her at the head of all writers of melodramatic 
 romance. "The Mysteries of Udolpho " (1790), how- 
 ever, is undoubtedly her masterpiece. Her last novel, 
 "The Italian," deals with racks, tortures, dungeons, and 
 confessionals, and is not equal to the others. 
 
 The chief peculiarity of Mrs. Radcliffe' s work, in 
 which it differs from the plan of the ' ' Castle of Peculiarity of 
 Otranto," is that, toward the close of all her stories, she cliffe's work, 
 carefully explains away all the mysteries as incidents 
 produced by natural and generally insignificant agencies. 
 This gives the writer a great deal of trouble, and de- 
 tracts from the effect of her powerful descriptions. The 
 strange part of it is that her contemporaries remained 
 just as much frightened after the horrors were explained 
 .as they were before, and real young ladies continued 
 to tremble at mysterious sounds and subterranean 
 passages, after Mrs. Radcliffe had told them over and 
 over again that there was nothing in them. 
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe' s work had many imitators ; and thus 
 was inaugurated a period of intense sentiment and 
 effusion of style which produced a quantity of rubbish 
 much beloved by our grandmothers. 
 
 But I still find a great charm in Mrs. Radcliffe' s 
 description of scenes she never saw, and must confess 
 being able to thrill with the terrors she desires to excite. 
 She was an indefatigable writer, and I think her plan 
 was to publish a book once in two years or thereabouts. 
 I imagine her sitting comfortably in London and writing 
 about crags and ravines in Southern France without any
 
 294 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 real knowledge of landscape outside of England. It 
 seems that she made once a tour through Germany ~ 
 it is strange that all her novels are laid elsewhere. I do 
 not believe she ever saw Gascony or the Apennines. 
 Evidently she was a diligent reader, and wrote with the 
 map before her. 
 
 "The Mysteries of Udolpho" is immensely long, three 
 Three thick thick volumes, of which the plot is most complicated. 
 
 volumes. l _ 
 
 The character of the heroine is sweet and attractive. I 
 find her quite human. As for Valancourt, who is, 
 in fact, out of the book most of the time, either at the 
 wars, or in prison for other people's crimes, he was the 
 idol of all novel readers of his day and generation. 
 
 I must limit my extracts chiefly to the description of 
 the castle of Udolpho, a universal synonym for terror 
 in the latter part of the eighteenth century ; but I 
 cannot resist transcribing the opening of the tale, for 
 its really graceful expression. Every chapter, by the 
 way, has a poetic quotation at its head, and original 
 poems by Mrs. Ann are scattered through all her books. 
 
 . . . Home is the resort 
 Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where, 
 Supporting and supported, polished friends 
 And dear relations mingle into bliss. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of 
 Gascony, stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. 
 "The'" 8 Aubert. From its windows were seen the pastoral landscapes 
 
 nd S i te h ie ^ >of f Guienne and Gascony stretching along the river, gay with 
 luxuriant woods and vines, and plantations of olives. To the 
 south the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose 
 summits veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and 
 lost again, as the partial vapors rolled along, were some- 
 times barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and 
 sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept 
 downward to their base. These tremendous precipices were
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 295 
 
 contrasted by the soft green of the pastures and woods that 
 hung upon their skirts ; among whose flocks and herds and 
 simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above, 
 delighted to repose. To the north and to the east, the plains of 
 Guienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance ; on 
 the west Gascony was bounded by the Bay of Biscay. 
 
 There were stirring times in France and Navarre at 
 the end of this sixteenth century, but I have never 
 encountered any reference in "The Mysteries" to the 
 political situation. 
 
 We must leave the pleasant banks of the Garonne and Among the 
 convey the reader by force, as Emily was taken, to the A P ennlnes - 
 neighborhood of the castle which gives its name to the 
 book, situated somewhere among the Apennines. 
 
 Wild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had 
 far less of the sublime than had those of the Alps which guard 
 the entrance of Italy. Emily was often elevated, but seldom 
 felt those emotions of indescribable awe which she had so con- 
 tinually experienced in her passage over the Alps. 
 
 Toward the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley. 
 Mountains whose shaggy steeps seemed to be inaccessible 
 almost surrounded it. To the east a vista opened, and exhib- 
 ited the Apennines in their darkest horrors ; and the long 
 perspective of retiring summits rising over each other, their 
 ridges clothed with pines, exhibited a stranger image of gran- 
 deur than any Emily had yet seen. The sun had just sunk 
 below the top of the mountains she was descending, whose 
 long shadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping 
 rays shooting through an opening of the cliff touched with a 
 yellow gleam the summits of the forest that hung upon the 
 opposite steeps, and streamed in full splendor upon the towns 
 and battlements of a castle that spread its extensive ramparts 
 along the brow of a precipice above. The splendor of these 
 illuminated objects was heightened by the contrasted shade 
 which involved the valley below. 
 
 "There," said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several 
 
 hours, "isUDOLPHO." Udolpho. 
 
 Montoni is the villain who is in possession of Emily
 
 296 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 for the moment, having suddenly married her aunt. 
 
 Emily, gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle which she 
 understood to be Montoni's for though it was now lighted up 
 by the setting sun, the Gothic greatness of its features, and its 
 moldering walls of dark gray stone, rendered it a gloomy and 
 sublime object. As she gazed, the light died away on its walls, 
 leaving a melancholy purple tint which spread deeper and 
 deeper as the thin vapor crept up the mountain, while the 
 battlements above were still tipped with splendor. From these 
 too the rays soon faded and the whole edifice was invested 
 with the solemn duskiness of evening. . . . 
 
 At length the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and 
 
 soon after reached the castle gates, where the deep tones of the 
 
 portal bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their 
 
 Fearful arrival, increased the fearful emotions that had assailed Emily. 
 
 emotions of ' 
 
 Emily. While they waited till the servant within should come to- 
 
 open the gates, she anxiously surveyed the edifice ; but the 
 gloom that overspread it allowed her to distinguish little more 
 than a part of its outline, with the mossy walls of the ramparts, 
 and to know that it was vast, ancient, and dreary. While 
 Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard 
 within the gates, and the undrawing of bolts ; after which aa 
 ancient servant of the castle appeared, forcing back the huge 
 folds of the portal to admit his lord. As the carriage-wheels 
 rolled heavily under the portcullis, Emily's heart sunk, and she 
 seemed as if she was going into her prison. 
 
 Another gate delivered them into the second court, 
 grass-grown and more wild than the first. 
 
 The servant who came to light Montoni bowed in silence, and 
 the muscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of 
 joy. Montoni noticed the salutation by a slight motion of his 
 head, and passed on ; while his lady [the aunt was with them] 
 followed, looking round with a degree of surprise and discon- 
 tent which she seemed fearful of expressing, and Emily, sur- 
 wonde?' d veying the extent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder. 
 
 They approached a marble staircase, where the arches opened 
 to a lofty vault from the center of which hung a tripod lamp 
 which a servant was hastily lighting, and the rich fret-work of 
 the roof, a corridor leading into several upper apartments and
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 297 
 
 a painted window, stretching nearly from the pavement to the 
 ceiling of the hall, became gradually visible. 
 
 These people were entirely unexpected by their vas- _ 
 
 f f * J The arrival 
 
 sals at the castle, which explains the lack of preparation, unexpected 
 
 Having crossed the foot of the staircase and passed through 
 an ante-room, they entered a spacious apartment whose walls, 
 wainscoted with black larch wood, the growth of the neighbor- 
 ing mountains, were scarcely distinguishable from darkness 
 itself. 
 
 " Bring more light," said Montoni as he entered. The serv- 
 ant, setting down his lamp, was withdrawing to obey him, when 
 Madame Montoni observing that the evening air of this moun- 
 tainous region was cold, and that she should like a fire, Mon- 
 toni ordered that wood should be brought. 
 
 While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame 
 Montoni sate silently on a couch at the upper end of it, waiting 
 till the servant returned, Emily was observing the singular 
 solemnity and desolation of the apartment viewed as it now 
 was by the glimmer of the single lamp, placed near a large f t ", 1 1 ^. presslve 
 Venetian mirror that duskily reflected the scene, with the tall 
 figure of Montoni passing slowly along, his arms folded, and 
 his countenance shaded by the plume that waved in his hat. 
 
 This made a terrible impression on the grand- 
 mothers. 
 
 From the contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind pro- 
 ceeded to the apprehension of what she might suffer in it, till 
 the remembrance of Valancourt, far, far distant ! came to her 
 heart, and softened it into sorrow. . . 
 
 Emily rose to withdraw. "Goodnight, madame," 
 she said to her aunt. " But you do not know the way 
 to your chamber," said the aunt. As this was obvious, 
 a servant was sent for. This was Madame Montoni' s 
 maid, Annette, a nice prattling person, who seemed to 
 have been finding her way about the castle, and listening 
 to alarming tales from the servants. 
 
 They went through corridors and passage-ways, los- 
 ing their way, calling in vain for assistance, and finding
 
 298 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 themselves at last at the head of the marble staircase 
 where they started. Annette now found a servant, 
 who conducted Emily to her chamber. 
 
 It was in a remote part of the castle at the very end of 
 the corridor from which the suite of apartments opened 
 Emily's through which they had been wandering. The lonely aspect 
 
 of her room made Emily unwilling that Annette should leave 
 her immediately, and the dampness of it chilled her with more 
 than fear. She entreated Caterina to bring some wood and 
 light a fire, of which the bright blaze somewhat dispelled the 
 gloom of the chamber. The maid dismissed, Emily examined 
 her room and its furniture. It was lofty and spacious, like those 
 she had passed through, and like many of them had its walls 
 lined with dark larch wood. The bed and other furniture was 
 very ancient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like all that 
 she had seen in the castle. One of the high casements which 
 she opened overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was 
 hid in darkness. 
 
 As she walked round it, she passed a door that was not quite 
 
 shut ; and perceiving that it was not the one through which she 
 
 entered, she brought the light to discover whither it led. She 
 
 opened it, and going forward had nearly fallen down a steep, 
 
 A _, narrow staircase that wound from it, between two stone walls. 
 
 J\ bleep, Ild.II OW 
 
 staircase. She wished to know to what it led, and was the more anxious 
 
 since it communicated so immediately with her apartment ; but 
 in the present state of her spirits she wanted courage to venture 
 into the darkness alone. Closing the door, therefore, she en- 
 deavored to fasten it, but upon further examination perceived 
 that it had no bolts on the chamber side, though it had two on 
 the other. By placing a heavy chair against it, she in some 
 measure remedied the defect ; yet she was still alarmed at the 
 thought of sleeping in this remote room alone, with a door 
 opening she knew not whither. 
 
 This anxiety was increased when she came to look at 
 
 this door the next day and found that it had been 
 
 do'or yster US fastened on the outside since she saw it first, by some 
 
 unknown person for some unknown reason. But this 
 
 came later. On the evening we are reading about,
 
 Mrs. Raddiffe and her Followers. 299 
 
 her thoughts recurred to her strange situation, then turned 
 to the image of Valancourt ; her melancholy was assisted 
 by the hollow sighing of the wind along the corridor and 
 around the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood had long 
 been extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the 
 dying embers, till a loud gust that swept through the corridor 
 and shook the doors and casements alarmed her ; for its 
 violence had moved the chair she had placed as a fastening, 
 and the door leading to the private staircase stood half open. 
 Her curiosity and her fears were again awakened. She took 
 the lamp to the top of the steps, and stood hesitating whether 
 to go down ; but again the profound stillness and gloom of the 
 place awed her, and determining to inquire further when day- 
 light might assist the search, she closed the door and placed 
 against it a stronger guard. 
 
 She now retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the . ... 
 table ; but its gloomy light, instead of dispelling her fear, the castle, 
 assisted it ; for by its uncertain rays she almost fancied she saw 
 shapes flit past her curtains and glide into the remote obscurity 
 of her chamber. The castle clock struck one before she closed 
 her eyes in sleep. 
 
 Thus ends Emily's first night in the castle of Udolpho. 
 
 Next morning, Emily requested to be changed into 
 another room without questionable doors and communi- 
 cating stairways, but this being refused she determined 
 to bear with patience the evil she could not remove. 
 
 In order to make her room as comfortable as possible, she 
 unpacked her books, her sweet delight in happier days, and 
 her soothing resource in the hours of moderate sorrow ; but 
 there were hours when even these failed of their effect, when 
 the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the sublimest writers 
 were felt no longer. 
 
 Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the 
 furniture of the room, she took out her drawing utensils and Emily's little 
 was tranquil enough to be pleased with the thought of sketch- 
 ing the sublime scenes beheld from her windows ; but she sud- 
 denly checked this pleasure, not from the difficulty of the 
 subject, but because remembering how often she had soothed 
 herself by the intention of obtaining amusement of this kind, and
 
 300 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth 
 
 The veiled 
 picture. 
 
 Unsatisfied 
 curiosity. 
 
 had been prevented by some new circumstance of misfortune. 
 
 To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her 
 misfortunes, she attempted to read ; but her attention wandered 
 from the page, and at length she threw aside the book and de- 
 termined to explore the adjoining chambers of the castle. Her 
 imagination was pleased with the view of ancient grandeur, 
 and an emotion of melancholy awe awakened all its powers, as 
 she walked through rooms obscure and desolate, where no 
 footsteps had passed probably for many years, and remembered 
 all the legends existing of the former possessors of the edifice. 
 
 This brought to her recollection a veiled picture which had 
 attracted her curiosity on the preceding night while she, with 
 Annette, was vainly seeking her chamber, as they passed 
 through one of the vast deserted apartments. 
 
 As she traversed the chambers that led to this one, she found 
 herself somewhat agitated ; but a terror of this nature, as it 
 occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high expec- 
 tation, is purely sublime, and leads us, by a kind of fascination, 
 to seek even the object from which we appear to shrink. . . . 
 
 Emily passed on with faltering steps ; and having paused a 
 moment at the door before she attempted to open it, she then 
 hastily entered the chamber, and went toward the picture, 
 which appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, 
 that hung in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and 
 then with a timid hand lifted the veil ; but instantly let it fall 
 perceiving that what it contained was no picture, and before 
 she could leave the chamber she dropped senseless on the floor. 
 
 Here we must leave the poor Emily ; and if it seems 
 cruel to furnish no explanation of what she saw, it is no 
 worse than what Mrs. Radcliffe was capable of, for even 
 the details of the sight were long denied her readers ; 
 and the natural explanation of it, which removed every 
 idea of the horrible, to supply its place by that of ex- 
 treme unpleasantness, is postponed to the very end of 
 the work.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 "THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY" was published in 
 1796. and has. in a way. survived the greater part "The Children 
 
 J r of the Abbey." 
 
 of the romances written after Mrs. Radcliffe. It re- 
 mained even to the middle of our century a favorite 
 with its own class of readers, and has been several times 
 reprinted. It was written by Regina Maria Roche, 
 a lady whom I have been unable to find anything 
 about. Her style is sprightly and original, and her 
 plan differs from that of Mrs. Radcliffe, in that the latter 
 deals with ghosts, mysterious sounds, and numerous 
 murders that for the most part turn out to amount 
 in nothing at all ; while Regina Maria keeps a real 
 grandmother immured in an abbey for a whole book. 
 There is a certain vivacity in the movement of the char- 
 acters, which on the whole makes them a bit more 
 human than Mrs. Radcliffe' s, but not so much literary 
 ability appears in her construction of the plot, if there 
 be any. As for the picture of manners, in the extracts I 
 give, it is hard to imagine it a very faithful one. Too 
 much imagination is mingled with the descriptions for 
 them to appear trustworthy. 
 
 Yellow sheafs from rich Ceres the cottage had crowned, 
 
 Green rushes were strewed on the floor ; 
 The casements sweet woodbine crept wantonly round, 
 
 And decked the sod seats at the door. 
 
 Cunningham. 
 
 Hail, sweet asylum of my infancy ! Content and innocence 
 
 reside beneath your humble roof, and charity unboastful of the The first 
 
 ... TT -i u A L chapter opens, 
 
 good it renders. Hail, ye venerable trees ! my happiest hours 
 
 of childish gaiety were passed beneath your shelter then, 
 
 301
 
 302 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 careless as the birds that sung upon your boughs, I laughed 
 the hours away, nor knew of evil. 
 
 Here surely I shall be guarded from duplicity ; and if not 
 happy, at least in some degree tranquil. Here unmolested 
 may I wait, till the rude storm of sorrow is overblown, and my 
 father's arms are again expanded to receive me. 
 
 Such were the words of Amanda at the beginning of 
 the book, but the reader is instantly snatched away to the 
 remote past, and a still more remote part of the kingdom 
 of Scotland, to learn the early history of her parents and 
 especially of her mother, the unfortunate Malvina. 
 
 Here there was a fine old abbey, belonging to the family 
 Fine old abbey of Dunreath ; the high hills which nearly encompassed it were 
 ofDunreath. almost all covered with trees, whose dark shades gave an 
 appearance of gloomy solitude to the building. 
 
 The present possessor, the Earl of Dunreath, was now far 
 advanced in life ; twice had he married, in expectation of a 
 male heir to his large estates, and twice he had been 
 disappointed. 
 
 Here is the description of two beautiful portraits 
 of the earl's daughters, painted by an artist who had 
 come to the abbey expressly at his desire, to draw them. 
 
 In one of them Lady Augusta appeared negligently reclined 
 upon a sofa, in a verdant alcove ; the flowing drapery of the 
 loose robe in which she was habited set off her fine figure ; 
 little cupids were seen fanning aside her dark-brown hair, and 
 strewing roses on her pillow. 
 
 In the other Lady Malvina was represented in the simple 
 attire of a peasant girl, leaning on a little grassy hillock, whose 
 foot was washed by a clear stream, while her flocks browsed 
 around, and her dog rested beneath the shade of an old tree, 
 that waved its branches over her head, and seemed sheltering 
 her from the beams of a meridian sun. 
 
 Marriage of Of these, it was Malvina, the unfortunate and perse- 
 
 cuted, who unwise 
 ing circumstances 
 
 Fitzaian. anc cuted, who unwisely married Fitzalan under the follow-
 
 Mrs. Raddiffe and her Followers. 303 
 
 It was long past the midnight hour ere Malvina would 
 attempt repairing to the chapel ; when she at last rose for that 
 purpose she trembled universally ; a kind of horror chilled her 
 heart ; she began to fear she was about doing wrong, and 
 hesitated ; but when she reflected on the noble generosity of 
 Fitzalan, and that she herself had precipitated him into the 
 measure they were about taking, her hesitation was over ; 
 and leaning on her maid, she stole through the winding 
 galleries, and, lightly descending the stairs, entered the long 
 hall, which terminated in a dark arched passage, that opened 
 into the chapel. 
 
 This was a wild and gloomy structure, retaining everywhere 
 vestiges of that monkish superstition which had erected it ; be- 
 neath were the vaults which contained the ancestors of the 
 Earl of Dunreath, whose deeds and titles were enumerated on 
 Gothic monuments ; their dust-covered banners waving around 
 in sullen dignity to the rude gale, which found admittance 
 through the broken windows. 
 
 No good came of this marriage, except the long and Two children 
 agitating history of their t\vo children, Oscar and Amanda" 1 
 Amanda Malvina. These characters were such favorites 
 with the grandmothers, that many children in the early 
 years of our century were christened with their names. 
 We shall return to the abbey later on, but it is now 
 with Amanda Malvina, our heroine, and her hero that 
 we have to do. 
 
 Lord Mortimer was now in the glowing prime of life : his 
 person was strikingly elegant and his manners insinuatingly 
 pleasing ; seducing sweetness dwelt in his smile, and, as he descri 
 pleased, his expressive eyes could sparkle with intelligence or 
 beam with sensibility ; and to the eloquence of his language, 
 the harmony of his voice imparted a charm that seldom failed 
 of being irresistible ; his soul was naturally the seat of every 
 virtue ; but an elevated rank, and splendid fortune, had placed 
 him in a situation somewhat inimical to their interests, for he 
 had not always strength to resist the strong temptations which 
 surrounded him ; but though he sometimes wandered from the 
 boundaries of virtue, he had never yet entered upon the con-
 
 304 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Amanda's 
 flight. 
 
 Amanda at the 
 ball. 
 
 fines of vice never really injured innocence, or done a deed 
 which could wound the bosom of a friend ; his heart was alive 
 to every noble propensity of nature ; compassion was one of its 
 strongest feelings, and never did his hand refuse obedience to 
 the generous impulse. Among the various accomplishments 
 he possessed was an exquisite taste for music, which, with 
 every other talent, had been cultivated to the highest degree of 
 possible perfection ; his spending many years abroad had given 
 him every requisite advantage for improving it. The soft, 
 melodious voice of Amanda would of itself almost have made 
 a conquest of his heart ; but aided by the charms of her face 
 and person, altogether were irresistible. 
 
 Their love was progressing favorably until circum- 
 stances, and Amanda's father, tore her abruptly away 
 from Mortimer, who was not even informed of her 
 flight, to the north of Ireland, stopping at Dublin to 
 see Oscar, who was there with his regiment. So, in the 
 words of the author, 
 
 We shall now bid adieu to Oscar for the present, and, draw- 
 ing on our boots of seven leagues, step after Fitzalan and 
 Amanda. 
 
 It is possible that the present reader may not see 
 Oscar again till the end of these extracts. 
 
 After a pleasant journey, on the evening of the fourth 
 day, our travelers arrived at their destined habitation, 
 Castle Carberry. Here, strange to say, she found 
 good society ; amongst others, fashionable people from 
 London, and went to a ball to which she was invited. 
 
 She wore a robe of plain white lutestring, and a crape tur- 
 ban, ornamented with a plume of drooping feathers. She had 
 no appearance of finery, except a chain of pearls about her 
 bosom, from which hung her mother's picture, and a light 
 wreath of embroidered laurel, intermingled with silver blos- 
 soms, round her petticoat. Her hair, in its o\vn native and 
 glossy hue, floated on her shoulders, and partly shaded a cheek 
 where the purity of the lily was tinted with the softest bloom of 
 the rose.
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 305 
 
 At this ball she met her Dunreath relatives, her aunt, 
 Lady Augusta, now Marchioness of Roslin, with her 
 disagreeable daughter, Lady Euphrasia. These con- 
 nections had cast off her mother, and now ignored her, 
 on account of the midnight marriage in the abbey. 
 
 Here also was Lord Mortimer, paying attentions , 
 
 Coldness ot 
 
 (though unwillingly) to Lady Euphrasia to oblige his Lord Mortimer. 
 
 father. He took no notice of Amanda Malvina, being, 
 
 with reason, deeply offended with her on account of her 
 
 sudden departure from his neighborhood. So the poor 
 
 girl had but a sad time at the ball, and it would have 
 
 been worse but for a new admirer who was much 
 
 attracted by her charms and extremely kind to her. 
 
 There was an old Lady Greystock at Carberry, who 
 took a fancy to Amanda and invited her to travel with 
 her to London, as her companion. 
 
 Here she met her cousins again, who could not very , 
 
 J Amanda m 
 
 well help recognizing her, and accordingly invited her London. 
 to dinner and to a brilliant assembly after it, where Lady 
 Euphrasia persuaded a ' ' beau " to " quiz the ignorant 
 Irish country girl." 
 
 This "fop" is so like Miss Burney's Lovel in 
 " Evelina," it would seem that the type really did exist 
 in those days. 
 
 "Have you seen any of the curiosities of London, my 
 dear?" exclaimed Freelove, lolling back in his chair, and con- 
 templating the luster of his buckles, unconscious of the ridicule 
 he excited. 
 
 " I think I have," said Amanda, somewhat archly, and glanc- 
 ing at him, " quite an original in its kind." Her look, as well 
 as the emphasis on her words, excited another laugh at his 
 expense, which threw him into a momentary confusion. 
 
 " I think," said he, as he recovered from it, "the Monument 
 and the Tower would be prodigious fine sights to you, and I 
 make it a particular request that I may be included in your
 
 306 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 party whenever you visit them, particularly the last place." 
 "And why," replied Amanda, "should I take the trouble of 
 visiting wild beasts, when every day I may see animals equally 
 strange, and not half so mischievous ? " 
 
 Freelove, insensible as he was, could not mistake the mean- 
 ing of Amanda's words, and he left her with a mortified air, 
 being, to use his own phrase, "completely done up." 
 
 The wild beasts at the Tower were the most popular 
 sight of London at that time, and hence comes the 
 proverb "Seeing the Lions." In the "Lion Tower" 
 the kings of England formerly kept these wild beasts ; 
 the first were three leopards presented to Henry III. by 
 the Emperor Frederick, in allusion to the royal arms ; a 
 bear from Norway was soon added ; an elephant was 
 procured in the same reign, and a lion in the time of 
 Edward II. 
 
 There was a shocking villain named Belgrave in the 
 book ; and his advances, combined with the machina- 
 Beigravethe tions of Euphrasia, who wanted Lord Mortimer for her- 
 self, drove Amanda from London. Her father was at 
 this time still at Carberry, where Amanda, after endless 
 privations and dangers, losing her pocket-book, falling 
 ill, at last joined him only to see him die in her arms, 
 
 Death of , , ' , . ... 
 
 Fitzaian. broken down by his misfortunes. 
 
 She then changed her name and went into a convent, 
 to avoid Lord Mortimer, whom, with his dying breath, 
 Fitzaian had extracted a promise from her not to marry. 
 She changed it again (I think) and strangely enough 
 found herself as a governess in the neighborhood of the 
 abbey of Dunreath, where she was of course unknown, 
 unrecognized, the family being absent. 
 
 The abbey was one of the most venerable looking buildings 
 Amanda had ever beheld ; but it was in melancholy grandeur 
 she now saw it in the wane of its days, when its glory was 
 passed away, and the whole pile proclaimed desertion and
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 307 
 
 decay. She saw it when, to use the beautiful language of Hutch- 
 
 inson, "its pride was brought low, when its magnificence was The abbey of 
 
 sinking in the dust, when tribulation had taken the seat of hos- Dun reath. 
 
 pitality, and solitude reigned, where once the jocund guest had 
 
 laughed over the sparkling bowl, whilst the owls sang nightly 
 
 their strains of melancholy to the moonshine that slept upon 
 
 its moldering battlements." 
 
 "Am I really," she asked herself, "in the seat of my an- 
 cestors ? Am I really in the habitation where my mother was 
 born where her irrevocable vows were plighted to my father ? 
 I am ; and oh ! within it may I at last find an asylum from the 
 vices and dangers of the world ; within it may my sorrowing 
 spirit lose its agitation, and subdue, if not its affections, at 
 least its murmurs, at the disappointment of those affections." 
 
 The care-taker, Mrs. Bruce, showed her the different por- 
 traits. She suddenly stopped before one. "That," cried she, 
 "is the Marchioness of Roslin's, drawn for her when Lady 
 Augusta Dunreath." Amanda cast her eyes upon it, and per- 
 ceived in the countenance the same haughtiness as still dis- 
 tinguished the marchioness. She looked at the next panel, and 
 found it empty. 
 
 "The picture of Lady Malvina Dunreath hung there," said 
 Mrs. Bruce ; "but after her unfortunate marriage it was taken 
 down." "And destroyed!" exclaimed Amanda mournfully. Malvina's 
 
 " No ; but it was thrown into the old chapel, where, with the P rtrait a s ain - 
 rest of the lumber (the soul of Amanda was struck at these 
 words), it has been locked up for years." "And is it impos- 
 sible to see it?" asked Amanda. "Impossible, indeed," 
 replied Mrs. Bruce. "The chapel and the whole eastern 
 part of the abbey have long been in a ruinous situation, on 
 which account it has been locked up." Amanda could scarcely 
 conceal the disappointment she felt at finding she could not see 
 her mother's picture. She would have entreated the chapel 
 might be opened for that purpose had she not feared exciting 
 suspicions by doing so. 
 
 This desire to find her mother's portrait induced 
 Amanda to prowl round the chapel place ' ' with the rest 
 of the lumber." The remarkable result was that she
 
 308 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 actually discovered her own grandmother, alive, who 
 had been there for years. 
 
 It was thus. Amanda had discovered a crevice in the 
 chapel leading to a chamber, a lofty hall, and some 
 stairs. 
 
 Amanda's heart began to beat with unusual quickness, and 
 she thought she should never reach the end of the gallery. 
 
 Discovery of a g^e at j ast came to a door ; it was closed, not fastened ; she 
 grandmother. 
 
 pushed it gently open, and could just discern a spacious room. 
 
 This, she supposed, had been her mother's dressing-room. 
 The moonbeams, as if to aid her wish of examining it, suddenly 
 darted through the casements. Cheered by the unexpected 
 light, she advanced into the room : at the upper end of it some- 
 thing in white attracted her notice. She concluded it to be 
 the portrait of Lady Malvina's mother, which she had been 
 informed hung in this room. She went up to examine it ; but 
 her horror may be better conceived than described, when she 
 found herself not by a picture, but by the real form of a 
 woman, with a death-like countenance ! She screamed wildly 
 at the terrifying specter, for such she believed it to be, and 
 quick as lightning flew from the room. Again was the moon 
 obscured by a cloud, and she involved in utter darkness. She 
 ran with such violence that, as she reached the door at the 
 end of the gallery, she fell against it. Extremely hurt, she 
 had not power to move for a few minutes ; but while she 
 involuntarily paused, she heard approaching footsteps. Wild 
 with terror, she instantly recovered her faculties, and at- 
 tempted opening it ; but it resisted all her efforts. "Protect 
 me, Heaven !" she exclaimed, and at the moment felt an icy 
 hand upon hers ! Her senses instantly receded, and she sunk 
 to the floor. 
 
 The icy hand belonged to her grandmother. 
 
 This formerly wicked but now repentant old lady 
 The suppressed promptly produced a will of the late Earl of Dunreath 
 which she had previously suppressed, leaving all the 
 money and estates to Oscar and Amanda. 
 
 Amanda soon made herself known to Lord Mor-
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 309 
 
 timer, who had diligently been searching for her through 
 the greater part of three volumes. Oscar was rescued 
 from a debtor's prison, where he had unjustly been cast 
 by the villain Belgrave. 
 
 Belgrave had killed himself. Lord Mortimer's father 
 was dead, by which he became Lord Cherbury. Oscar, Happy conciu- 
 
 J sion. 
 
 succeeding to the family title, became Lord Dunreath. 
 The wicked are all dead and the living all happy. 
 The wedding of Amanda and Lord Cherbury, formerly 
 Mortimer, took place at the cottage in Wales where the 
 story begins.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 "The Heroine, 
 or Cherubina." 
 
 A mock 
 romance. 
 
 IN the beginning of our century appeared a burlesque 
 upon this class of romances, which had a great success. 
 It is in itself decidedly clever, and it is quite evident 
 that the romance-readers devoured it with the same zest 
 that they had for the tales it parodied. It was written 
 by Eaton Stannard Barrett, further described on his 
 title-page as "Esquire." Born at Cork in 1786, Bar- 
 rett was educated at a school at Wandsworth, and 
 afterward entered the Middle Temple. But he never 
 seems to have practiced at the bar, and he died pre- 
 maturely of consumption in Wales. He made several 
 incursions into literature. He wrote a comedy ; he 
 wrote political satires against the Whigs of his day, 
 of which one, "All the Talents," obtained some con- 
 temporary reputation ; and he wrote a Popesque eulogy 
 on "Woman," and the "mock romance" of which the 
 full title is " The Heroine, or Adventures of Cherubina." 
 It was published in 1813, dedicated to the Right Hon. 
 George Canning, and bore for motto, " L'histoire d'une 
 femme est toujours un roman." 
 
 A later American edition was printed in Baltimore in 
 1823; copies of either are rare now, and such as exist 
 are still tenderly treasured by the ladies who came to 
 possess them in the time when the book was regarded 
 as a masterpiece. 
 
 The heroine, named Cherry Wilkinson, is the only 
 daughter of a farmer who, by "honest and disgusting 
 industry," has acquired what he could scarcely acquire 
 now a considerable fortune. Cherry's "governess,"
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 311 
 
 Biddy the maid, who has been discharged for misconduct, 
 and who has stuffed her pupil with romance, easily 
 persuades her that she is a "child of mystery." There- A child of 
 upon Miss Wilkinson discovers with the aid of an old n 
 indenture that her real name is, or should be, Cheru- 
 bina de Willoughby, and that she is called to the career 
 of a heroine. For this she has really certain indispen- 
 sable physical qualifications. Although but fifteen she is 
 tall and "aerial," her hair is flaxen, her face Grecian, 
 and her eyes blue and sleepy. She has also, according 
 to one of her admirers, "a voice soft as the Creolian 
 lyre." Further, she is an adept in most of the other Requisites of 
 
 J the true 
 
 requisites. She can ' ' blush to the tips of her fingers ' ' ; heroine. 
 faint at pleasure ; has tears, sighs, and half sighs at 
 command ; is mistress of the entire gamut of smiles, 
 from fragmentary to fatal, and is fully skilled in the arts 
 of gliding, tripping, flitting, and tottering, which last, 
 being the "approach movement of heroic distress," is 
 the heroine's ne phis ultra. She is also fully posted in 
 the obligations of a heroine to "live a month on a 
 mouthful," to accomplish long journeys without fatigue, 
 and to obtain the necessities of life without the tedious 
 formalities of payment. Her really attractive qualities 
 are excellent health, great good-nature, and a sense of 
 fun which extends even to her noticing herself ridiculous 
 occasionally. The book is a series of letters to Biddy ; 
 I limit my extracts to the denouement. 
 
 Oh ye, whoever ye are, whom chance or misfortune may here- 
 after conduct to this spot, to you I speak, to you reveal the 
 story of my wrongs, and ask you to revenge them. Vain hope ! tlfl'last " 
 yet it imparts some comfort to believe that what I now write may 
 one day meet the eye of a fellow-creature, that the words which 
 tell my sufferings may one day draw pity from the feeling heart. 
 
 Know, then, that on the fatal day which saw me driven from 
 my castle, four men in black visors entered the cottage where I
 
 312 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Tragic 
 happenings. 
 
 had taken shelter, and forced me and -my minstrel into a car- 
 riage. We traveled miles in silence. At length they stopped, 
 cast a cloak over my face, and carried me along winding pas- 
 sages, and up and down flights of steps. They then took off the 
 cloak, and I found myself in an antique and Gothic apartment! 
 My conductors laid down a lamp and disappeared. I heard the 
 door barred upon me. O sound of despair ! O moment of un- 
 utterable anguish ! Shut out from day, from friends, from life 
 in the prime of my years, in the height of my transgressions 
 I sink under the 
 
 Almost an hour has now passed in solitude and silence. Why 
 am I brought hither ? Why confined thus rigorously ? O dire 
 extremity ! O state of living death ! Is this a vision ? Are 
 these things real? Alas, I am bewildered. 
 
 An ancient 
 chamber. 
 
 Such, Biddy, was the manuscript that I scribbled last night 
 after the mysterious event which it relates. You shall now 
 hear what has occurred since. 
 
 According to common usage, I first took the lamp and began 
 examining the chamber. On one wall hung historical arras, 
 worked in colorless and rotten worsted, and depicting scenes 
 from the Provencal romances ; the deeds of Charlemagne and 
 his twelve peers ; the crusaders, troubadours, and Saracens ; 
 and the necromantic feats of the magician Jurl. The remaining 
 walls were wainscoted with black larch wood ; and over the 
 painted and escutcheoned windows hung iron visors, tattered 
 pennons, and broken shields. An antique bed of decayed dam- 
 ask stood in a corner ; and a few moth-eaten chairs, tissued and 
 fringed with threads of tarnished gold, were round the room. 
 At the further end a picture of a warrior on horseback, darting 
 his spear into a prostrate soldier, was enclosed in a frame of 
 uncommon magnitude that reached down to the ground. An 
 old harp which occupied one corner proved imprisonment, and 
 some clots of blood upon the floor proved murder. 
 
 I gazed with delight at this admirable apartment ; it was a 
 perfect treasure ; nothing could exceed it ; all was in the best
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 313 
 
 style of horror, and now for the first time I felt the full and 
 unqualified consciousness of being as real a heroine as ever 
 existed. 
 
 An ancient waiting woman interrupted her delight, 
 to whom Cherubina began talking in very old English. 
 
 " And pray, good woman, who is your lord ? " 
 " Good woman ! " cries she bridling, "no more good woman 
 than yourself Dame Ursaline, if you please." 
 
 She elicited from the old woman that she was in the Baron 
 keeping of one Baron Hildebrand, and might expect a brand - 
 visit from him. 
 
 At last I heard a heavy tread along the corridor ; the door 
 was unbarred, and a huge but majestic figure strode into the 
 chamber. The black plume towering in his cap, the armorial 
 coat, Persian sash, and Spanish cloak, all set off with the most 
 muscular frown imaginable, made him look truly tremendous. 
 
 "Lady!" he cried in a voice which vibrated through my 
 brain, "I am the Baron Hildebrand, that celebrated ruffian. 
 My plans are terrible and unsearchable. Hear me ! " 
 
 He then explained his plans. He had seized Cheru- 
 bina in order to force her to marry the Lord Mont- 
 morenci, because he wished to prevent this gentleman 
 from marrying his daughter, the Lady Sympathina. 
 Cherubina was acquainted with Montmorenci, in fact he 
 had been doing service as her chief suitor during the 
 book. 
 
 "In two days therefore, madam," he concluded, "you will 
 give him your hand or suffer imprisonment for life." obstinacy of 
 
 "My lord, I will not wed Montmorenci," I said, in a tone of Cherubina. 
 the sweetest obstinacy. 
 
 He started from his seat, and began to pace the chamber 
 with colossal strides. Conceive the scene : the tall figure of 
 Hildebrand passing along ; his folded arms ; the hideous deso- 
 lation of the room, and my shrinking figure. It was fine, very 
 fine. It resembled a pandemonium where a fiend was tor- 
 menting an angel of light. Yet insult and oppression had but
 
 314 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Celebrated 
 personages. 
 
 Old acquaint- 
 ances. 
 
 added to his charms ; as the rose throws forth fresh fragrance 
 by being mutilated. He rushed out of the chamber. 
 
 Nothing in nature could be better than my conduct on this 
 occasion. I was delighted with it, and with the castle, with 
 everything. I therefore knelt and chanted a vesper hymn, so 
 soft and solemn ; while my eyes like a Magdelen's were cast to 
 the planets. 
 
 Shortly after, our heroine received information of a 
 visit she might expect from distinguished individuals 
 who were coming to call. 
 
 And now the promised hour was approaching when I should 
 see the recorded personages of romance. I therefore heroin- 
 ized myself as much as possible, and elegantly leaning on the 
 harp awaited their arrival. . 
 
 Meanwhile I figured them, adorned with all the venerable 
 loveliness of a virtuous old age, even in grayness engaging, 
 even in wrinkles interesting. Hand in hand they walk down 
 the gentle slope of life, and often pause to look back upon the 
 scenes which they have quitted. The happy vale of their 
 childhood, the turreted castle, the cloistered monastery. I 
 anticipated how this interview with them would improve me in 
 my profession. No longer drawing from books alone, I might 
 now copy from the original. The hand of a master would 
 guide mine, and I should quaff primeval waters from the 
 source itself. 
 
 As I sate thus rapt, I heard steps in the passage ; the bolts 
 were undrawn, and Sympathina, at the head of the company, 
 entered and announced their names. 
 
 Sir Charles Grandison came forward the first. He was an 
 emaciated old oddity, and wore flannels and a flowing wig. 
 
 Lady Grandison leaned on his arm, bursting with fat and 
 laughter, so unlike what I had conceived of Harriet Byron 
 that I turned from her quite disgusted. 
 
 Mortimer Delville came next, and my disappointment at find- 
 ing him a plain, sturdy, hard-featured fellow was soon absorbed 
 in my still greater regret at seeing his Cecilia once the blue- 
 eyed, sun-tressed Cecilia 'now flaunting in all the reverend 
 graces of a painted grandmother. 
 
 These are characters in Miss Burney's second novel.
 
 Mrs. Raddiffe and her Followers. 315 
 
 After them advanced Lord Mortimer and his Amanda ; but 
 he had fallen into flesh ; and she with a face like scorched 
 parchment appeared broken-hearted. I was too much shocked 
 and astonished to speak ; but Sir Charles, bowing over my 
 hand his old custom, you know thus broke silence : 
 
 "Your ladyship may recollect that I have always been cele- 
 brated for giving advice Marry Montmorenci ; trust me, love s . ad revela- 
 before marriage is the surest preventive of love after it. I know 
 most of these heroes and heroines myself, and I know that 
 nothing can equal their misery." 
 
 " Do you know Lord Orville and his Evelina?" said I, "and 
 are they not happy? Pray," said I, addressing Amanda, " are 
 not your brother Oscar and his Adela happy ? " 
 
 " Alas, no ! " cried she. " Oscar became infatuated with the 
 charms of Evelina's old grandmother, Madame Duval, so poor 
 Adela left him." 
 
 "How shocking!" said I. "But Pamela the virtuous 
 Pamela?" [Richardson's first heroine.] 
 
 "Made somewhat a better choice," said Sir Charles, "for 
 she ran off with Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia, when he re- 
 turned to the happy valley." 
 
 There is more of this sort. The same idea has been 
 more cleverly carried out in Miss Porter's little play, p ia\ s . 
 "Place aux Dames," in which the wives of Shake- 
 speare's heroes condole with each other over their 
 matrimonial infelicities. 
 
 Cherubina, by her natural ready wit, soon escaped 
 from the Gothic chamber, but dire disillusion awaited 
 her. There was nothing Gothic about the castle, 
 which was no castle, but a modern country-house, of Jastie astle n 
 which one apartment had been fitted up with old- 
 fashioned furniture. 
 
 She came to a room where, concealed by a curtain, 
 she could see all her late guests feasting round a supper- 
 table, having laid off all disguise. They were engaged 
 in laughing at her credulity, amongst them her former 
 admirer Montmorenci, whose real name was Abraham
 
 3 1 6 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Grundy, the instigator of the whole affair ; another 
 boasted of having enacted the part at a masquerade in 
 the beginning of the book of old Whylome Eftsoones, 
 in order to make her believe herself, Cherry Wilkinson, 
 to be Lady Cherubina de Willoughby. 
 
 Indignant, she sprang boldly forward amongst them 
 
 all, to be seized fast by one of them, when suddenly he 
 
 Rescue by was torn from her by Stuart, her honorable and sincere 
 
 Stuart. J 
 
 lover, who, seeing her good qualities, had been en- 
 deavoring, from the beginning, to emancipate her from 
 her foolish ones, like Glanville in "The Female 
 Quixote," who is equally loyal to Arabella. 
 
 The book soon ends, for Cherry Wilkinson, who is a 
 breezy, wholesome sort of a girl, readily shakes off her 
 follies and becomes repentant and reasonable. 
 
 Stuart put " Don Quixote" into her hands and "by 
 Wholesome his lively advice and witty reasoning," joined to her 
 
 ending. 
 
 natural good sense, perfected her mental reformation.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Now, Jane Austen, in 1798, wrote her "Northanger 
 Abbey," which is also a burlesque upon the romantic 
 novels ; but she evidently had no knowledge of Cheru- Jane Austen . s 
 bina until much later. "Northanger Abbey" was sold burl que. 
 in 1803, to a publisher in Bath, for ten pounds, but it 
 found so little favor in his eyes that he did not venture 
 to publish it, and it seems to have remained unnoticed 
 in his drawer until after the appearance of ' ' Pride 
 and Prejudice," "Mansfield Park," and "Emma." 
 Her reputation established, ' ' Northanger Abbey ' ' was 
 allowed to come forth in 1818. 
 
 Meanwhile, while it was still shut up in the drawer, 
 but not until 1814, Miss Austen came upon the work of 
 Eaton Stannard Barrett, Esq. She writes her sister 
 
 from London : 
 
 March 2d. 
 
 I finished "The Heroine" last night, and was very much 
 amused by it. It diverted me exceedingly. 
 
 And in the same letter, farther on : 
 
 This evening we have drank tea, and I have torn through 
 the third volume of "The Heroine." I do not think it falls 
 off. It is a delightful burlesque, particularly on the Radcliffe 
 style. 
 
 Jane Austen was born in 1775, so she was but twenty- 
 three when she wrote " Northanger Abbey," evidently 
 inspired by the foolishness she perceived in the current Austen, 
 novels of her time. 
 
 It is a good novel in itself, apart from the satire on 
 the older books, although not equal to her maturer 
 works, which I may not touch, as they belong to this
 
 318 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 century ; while I may venture on the extracts that bear 
 upon the old novels we have been reading about. 
 
 The adventures of her heroine, Catherine Morland, 
 Adventures of took place in Bath, rather later than our other friends 
 
 another 
 
 heroine. report. 
 
 They made their appearance in the lower rooms ; and the 
 Master of the Ceremonies introduced to her a very gentleman- 
 like young man as a partner ; his name was Tilney. 
 
 Catherine also made the acquaintance of Isabella, and 
 this conversation occurred between them in the pump- 
 room, one morning. 
 
 " Have you been here long ? " 
 
 "Oh ! these ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here 
 this half-hour. But now let us go and sit down at the other 
 end of the room and enjoy ourselves. I have a hundred things 
 to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain 
 this morning just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, 
 and that would have thrown me into agonies ! Do you know, I 
 saw the prettiest hat you can imagine in a shop-window in 
 Milsom Street just now ; very like yours, only wiih coquelicot 
 ribbands instead of green ; I quite longed for it. But, my 
 dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all 
 this morning? Have you gone on with ' Udolpho ' ? " 
 
 "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke ; and I am 
 got to the black veil." 
 
 "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not 
 
 Talk about the te ]| you wnat j s behind the black veil for the world ! Are you 
 romances. 
 
 not wild to know? 
 
 " Oh ! yes, quite ; what can it be? But do not tell. me ; I 
 would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a 
 skeleton ; I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton. Oh ! I am 
 delighted with the book ! I should like to spend my whole life 
 in reading it, I assure you ; if it had not been to meet you, I 
 would not have come away from it for all the world." 
 
 " Dear creature ! how much I am obliged to you ; and when 
 you have finished ' Udolpho,' we will read "The Italian" to- 
 gether ; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of 
 the same kind for you."
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 319 
 
 Mr. Tilney proved a very agreeable acquaintance, a 
 sensible, well-bred young gentleman fitting for the acq 
 church, though not at all in the line of the Mortimers 
 and Orvilles. His sister was charming and his father was 
 General Tilney, and they lived at Northanger Abbey, a 
 real abbey, like those of the romances she adored ; 
 whither, to her rapture, she was invited to accompany 
 them, upon a visit, when they all were ready to leave 
 Bath. The journey was made in carriages, and for the 
 greater part of it Mr. Tilney drove Catherine in his 
 open carriage. 
 
 As they drew near the end of their journey, her impatience 
 for a sight of the abbey, for some time suspended by his con- 
 versation on subjects very different, returned in full force, and 
 every bend in the road was expected, with solemn awe, to 
 afford a glimpse of its massy walls of gray stone, rising amidst 
 a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the sun play- 
 ing in beautiful splendor on its high Gothic windows. But so 
 low did the building stand that she found herself passing 
 through the great gates of the lodge, into the very grounds of 
 Northanger, without having discerned even an antique chim- 
 ney. 
 
 On the whole, the abbey was disappointing from a The abbey dis- 
 romantic point of view, for modern ease and comfort a PP intm - 
 prevailed, good furniture, heavy carpets, and ample 
 service. Still, as she went up to bed : 
 
 The night was stormy ; the wind had been rising at intervals 
 the whole afternoon ; and by the time the party broke up it 
 blew and rained violently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall, 
 listened to the tempest with sensations of awe ; and when she 
 heard it rage round a corner of the ancient building, and close 
 with sudden fury a distant door, felt for the first time that she 
 was really in an abbey. Yes, these were characteristic sounds ; 
 they brought to her recollection a countless variety of dreadful 
 situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings had wit- 
 nessed, and such storms ushered in ; and most heartily did she
 
 320 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 Agreeably rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance 
 
 dismal. within walls so solemn ! 
 
 On entering her room, her spirits were immediately 
 assisted by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire. 
 
 She looked round the room. The window curtains seemed 
 in motion. It could be nothing but the violence of the wind 
 penetrating through the divisions of the shutters ; and she 
 stepped boldly forward, carelessly humming a tune, to assure 
 herself of its being so, peeped courageously behind each 
 curtain, saw nothing on either low window-seat to scare her, 
 and on placing a hand against the shutter, felt the strongest 
 conviction of the wind's force. A glance at the old chest, as 
 
 An old chest. she turned away from this examination, was not without its 
 use ; she scorned the causeless fears of an idle fancy, and 
 began with a most happy indifference to prepare herself for 
 bed. "She should take her time; she should not hurry her- 
 self ; she did not care if she were the last person up in the 
 house. But she would not make up her fire ; that would seem 
 cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of light after she 
 were in bed." The fire, therefore, died away ; and Catherine, 
 having spent the best part of an hour in her arrangements, was 
 beginning to think of stepping into bed, when, on giving a 
 parting glance round the room, she was struck by the appear- 
 ance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in a 
 situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice 
 before. She took her candle and looked closely at the cabi- 
 net. It was not absolutely ebony and gold ; but it was Japan, 
 black and yellow Japan of the handsomest kind ; and as she 
 held her candle the yellow had very much the effect of gold. 
 
 The key was in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look 
 into it ; without the smallest expectation of finding anything, 
 she could not sleep till she had examined it. So, placing the 
 candle with great caution on a chair, she seized the key with a 
 very tremulous hand, and tried to turn it ; but it resisted her 
 utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it 
 another way ; a bolt flew, and she believed herself successful ; 
 but how strangely mysterious ! the door was still immovable. 
 At length it did open ; and not vain, as hitherto, was her 
 
 A roll of paper, search ; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper pushed
 
 Mrs. Raddiffe and her Followers. 321 
 
 back into the further part of the cavity, apparently for conceal- 
 ment, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. 
 Her heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew 
 pale. She seized, with an unsteady hand, the precious manu- 
 script, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters ; 
 and resolved instantly to peruse every line before she at- 
 tempted to rest. 
 
 The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn 
 to it with alarm ; but there was no danger of its sudden 
 extinction, it had yet some hours to burn ; and that she might 
 not have any greater difficulty in distinguishing the writing 
 than what its ancient date might occasion she hastily snuffed it. 
 Alas ! it was snuffed and extinguished in one. A lamp could 
 not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine, for a few 
 moments, was motionless with horror. It was done com- 
 pletely ; not a remnant of light in the wick could give hope to 
 the rekindling breath. Darkness impenetrable and immovable 
 filled the room. A violent gust of wind, rising with sudden A gust of wind, 
 fury, added fresh horror to the moment. Catherine trembled 
 from head to foot. In the pause which succeeded, a sound 
 like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck 
 on her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more. 
 A cold sweat stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from 
 her hand, and groping her way to the bed, she jumped hastily 
 in, and sought some suspension of agony by creeping far 
 underneath the clothes. To close her eyes in sleep that night 
 she felt must be entirely out of the question. With a curiosity 
 so justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated, 
 repose must be absolutely impossible. The storm, too, 
 abroad so dreadful ! She had not been used to feel alarm from 
 wind, but now every blast seemed fraught with awful intelli- 
 gence. The manuscript so wonderfully found, so wonderfully 
 accomplishing the morning's prediction, how was it to be 
 accounted for ? What could it contain ? to whom could it 
 relate ? by what means could it have been so long concealed ? 
 
 Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied Gather- AI1 the c i oc k s 
 
 ine had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the E^cfaim'the 
 
 house before the tempest subsided, or she unknowingly h 
 fell fast asleep.
 
 322 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 The housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at eight 
 o'clock the next day was the sound which first roused Cather- 
 ine ; and she opened her eyes, wondering that they could ever 
 have been closed on objects of cheerfulness ; her fire was 
 already burning, and a bright morning had succeeded the tem- 
 pest of the night. Instantaneously with the consciousness of 
 existence returned her recollection of the manuscript ; and 
 springing from her bed in the very moment of the maid's going 
 away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had 
 burst from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back 
 to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow. She now 
 plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript of equal 
 length with the generality of what she had shuddered over in 
 books ; for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small 
 disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much 
 less than she had supposed it to be at first. 
 
 Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page. She started at 
 its import. Could it be possible, or did not her senses play 
 Disillusion. her false ? An inventory of linen, in coarse and modern char- 
 acters, seemed all that was before her ! If the evidence of 
 sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill in her hand. 
 She seized another sheet, and saw the -same articles with little 
 variation ; a third, a fourth, and a fifth, presented nothing new. 
 Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats, faced her in each. 
 Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure 
 scarcely more interesting. Such was the collection of papers 
 (left, perhaps, as she could then suppose, by the negligence of 
 a servant, in the place whence she had taken them) which had 
 filled her with expectation and alarm, and had robbed her of 
 half her night's rest ! She felt humbled to the dust. Could 
 not the adventure of the chest have taught her wisdom ? A 
 corner of it catching her eye as she lay seemed to rise up in 
 judgment against her. Nothing could now be clearer than the 
 absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that a manuscript 
 of many generations back could have remained undiscovered 
 in a room such as that, so modern, so habitable, or that she 
 should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet 
 the key of which was open to all. 
 
 Ashamed but Catherine was heartily ashamed already, but not 
 
 not cured. quite cured, until she was one day caught beyond a
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers. 323 
 
 gallery which she was exploring with the intention of 
 verifying a shocking plot of mystery, and even murder, 
 which she had herself conjured up. 
 
 At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened, some 
 one seemed with swift steps to ascend the stairs, by the head 
 of which she had yet to pass before she could gain the gallery. 
 She had no power to move. With a feeling of terror not 
 very definable she fixed her eyes on the staircase, and in a few Foolish 
 moments it gave Henry to her view. " Mr. Tilney ! " she ex- terror, 
 claimed; in a voice of more than common astonishment. He 
 looked astonished too. "Good God!" she continued, not 
 attending to his address, "how came you here? How came 
 you up that staircase ? " 
 
 " How came I up that staircase!" he replied, greatly sur- 
 prised. "Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard 
 to my own chamber ; and why should I not come up it ? " 
 
 Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and could say 
 no more. He seemed to be looking in her countenance for 
 that explanation which her lips did not afford. She moved on 
 toward the gallery. " And may I not, in my turn," said he, as 
 he pushed back the folding doors, "ask how came you here? 
 This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the 
 breakfast-parlor to your apartment as that staircase can be 
 from the stables to mine." 
 
 The encounter led to a serious explanation and a 
 pretty severe lesson from the young man to the lady, 
 which was sufficient to bring her wholly to her senses. 
 Like all the heroines, she had succeeded in winning the 
 affection and regard of Henry Tilney in spite of her 
 romantic folly. . He said amongst other things, after 
 she had confessed the silly romance she had imagined 
 concerning his relations : 
 
 "Remember the country and the age in which we live. 
 Remember that we are English : that we are Christians. Con- 
 sult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, 
 your own observation of what is passing around you. Does 
 our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws
 
 324 Men and Manners of the Eighteenth Century. 
 
 connive at them ? Could they be perpetrated without being 
 known in a country like this, where social and literary inter- 
 course is on such a footing ; where every- man is surrounded 
 by a neighborhood of voluntary spies ; and where roads and 
 newspapers lay everything open ? Dearest Miss Morland, what 
 ideas have you been admitting ? " 
 
 They had reached the end of the gallery and with tears of 
 shame she ran off to her own room. The visions of romance 
 were over. Catherine was completely awakened. 
 
 Strange to say, Henry Tilney continued his atten- 
 tions. Some difficulties arose to separate the lovers, 
 One more but it all turned out well in the end, and Catherine 
 
 happy ending. ' 
 
 Morland became the happy Mrs. Henry Tilney. 
 
 It would be pleasant to continue in the path which 
 Miss Austen has opened, with her descriptions of home 
 life and the manners of the early nineteenth century. 
 But this is to tread on forbidden ground. My task is 
 limited. We have been busy with the characters and 
 figures of an earlier age, and now like ghosts we must 
 disappear ; for the dawn of a new day is beginning to 
 show itself. Jane Austen's star we have already per- 
 ceived, Maria Edgeworth's is not far off, and the great 
 planet Walter Scott will soon with its broad glow 
 extinguish smaller lights. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Mrs. Barbauld's British Novelists, Vols. 31, 32, 33. 
 Mysteries of Udolpho. 
 
 Forsyth's Novels and Novelists of the Eighteenth Century. 
 Memoir of Jane Austen. ByJ. E.Leigh. (Bentley, London, 
 
 1879.)
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Addison and Gay, 75. 
 
 Addison, Joseph, birth and parentage, 
 77 ; education and travels, 77 ; re- 
 turn to England, 77; political offices, 
 78 ; marriage, 78 ; characteristics, 
 78; mode of life, 78; human sym- 
 pathies, 79; "Sir Roger de Cover- 
 ley," 79, 86 ; Vauxhall Gardens, 85 ; 
 Spectator, 87. 
 
 "Amelia," 149. 
 
 Austen, Jane, 317; "Northanger 
 Abbey," 318. 
 
 Barbauld, Mrs., 44. 
 
 Barrett, Eaton Stannard, 310; 
 '' Cherubina," 310. 
 
 Bath, Baedeker's description, 271 ; 
 Goldsmith's, 274; amusements, 274 ; 
 balls, 275 ; baths and waters, 278 ; 
 descriptions in " Female Quixote," 
 282 ; in " Pompey the Little," 285 ; 
 in "Humphrey Clinker," 287; in 
 '' Evelina," 290. 
 
 Beau Nash and Bath, 271. 
 
 " Beggar's Opera," 105. 
 
 Burke, Edward, 194. 
 
 Burnet, Bishop, u. 
 
 Burney, Dr. and Miss, 223. 
 
 Burney, Fanny, 45; birth and child- 
 
 " Evelina," 233. 
 
 Evelina and Dr. Johnson, 233. 
 
 Extracts. Addison : " Sir Roger de 
 Coverley, 79, 85, 86 ; Spectator, 87- 
 104. Austen: " Northanger Abbey," 
 318-324. Barrett: "Cherubina," 
 310-316. Burney: "Evelina," 233- 
 260. Coventry: " P o m p e y the 
 Little," 285. Fielding: "Tom 
 Jones," 150-179. Gay: Poem to 
 Pope, 35; "Trivia," 105-108. 
 Gray: "The Long Story," 228; 
 " Lines on the Death of a Cat," 
 231. Goldsmith: "Chinese Let- 
 ters," 187-191 ; "Vicar of Wake- 
 field," 197-201. Lennox: "Female 
 Quixote," 48-72, 282. Montague : 
 Letters, 16,36,38, 115, 116 ; Parody on 
 " The Dunciad," 37. Pope: "Rape 
 of the Lock," 27-33. Radcliffe: 
 "Mysteries of Udolpho," 294-300; 
 " Children of the Abbey," 301-309. 
 Richardson: "Sir Charles Grandi- 
 son," 117-146. Smollett: " Hum- 
 phrey Clinker," 287. Walpole : Let- 
 ters, 208-225; "Castle of Otranto," 
 
 hood, 261 ; society, 262; "Evelina,"' Fielding, Henry, 147 ; early struggles, 
 
 263; acquaintance with Dr. John- 
 son and Mrs. Thrale, 263. 
 
 " Castle of Otranto," 207, 215, 231 
 
 Charlotte, Queen, 212, 223. 
 
 " Cherubina," 310. 
 
 " Children of the Abbey," 301. 
 
 " Chinese Letters," 187. 
 
 " Clarissa Harlowe," 113. 
 
 Congreve, 36. 
 
 Devil's Tavern, 44. 
 
 Dresden, 21. 
 
 Earthquake in London, 209. 
 
 147 ; marriage, 148 ; "Joseph An- 
 drews," 148 ; "Jonathan Wild," 149 ; 
 "Tom Jones," 149-150; "Amelia," 
 149 ; death, 149. 
 
 Free/wider, 77. 
 
 Garrick, 185, 234; Garrick and Gold- 
 smith, 220. 
 
 Gay, John, 34; poem to Pope, 35; 
 account of, 105. 
 
 George I., 22. 
 
 George II.. 22. 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver, birth and parent- 
 
 325
 
 326 
 
 Index. 
 
 age, 180 ; life in London, 183 ; inter- 
 course with Garrick, 185; with 
 Smollett, 185; "Chinese Letters," 
 187; Dr. Johnson, 193; Joshua Rey- 
 nolds, 193; Burke, 194; "Vicar of 
 Wakefield," 195, 197; "Traveller," 
 195 ; death, 202. 
 
 Gray, Thomas, 226; friendship with 
 Lady Cobham, 227; "Elegy," 226; 
 " Long Story," 228. 
 
 Guardian, 77. 
 
 Herrenhausen, 23. 
 
 Highmore, Miss, 109. 
 
 " Humphrey Clinker," 287. 
 
 Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 193, 194, 265; 
 acquaintance with Mrs. Thrale, 
 268 ; personal habits, 269 ; style, 
 270. 
 
 "Jonathan Wild," 149. 
 
 "Joseph Andrews," 148. 
 
 Lennox, Charlotte, 44; works, 44; 
 birth, 44; death, 45; comments of 
 Lady Mary and Dr. Johnson, 45 ; 
 "Female Quixote," 45, 48; com- 
 ments of Mrs. Barbauld, 46. 
 
 Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Mon- 
 tague, 16, 36, 38. 
 
 Letters of Horace Walpole, 208. 
 
 " Lines on the Death of a Cat," 231. 
 
 " Long Story," 228. 
 
 Marylebone Garden, 244. 
 
 Mitre Tavern, 194. 
 
 Montague, Edward Wortley, 9, 14. 
 
 Montague, Lady Mary Wortley, birth, 
 9; parentage and marriage, 9, 18 ; 
 personal characteristics, 9 ; Kit-cat 
 Club, 10 ; education, 10; early life, 
 n, 12, 13; travels in Germany, 19; 
 letters, 16, 36, 38; travels in the 
 East, 24 ; return to Europe, 24 ; 
 Pope, 25, 36, 37 ; parody on " The 
 Dunciad," 37 ; separation from hus- 
 band and life in Europe, 42 ; return 
 to England, 42 ; death, 43. 
 
 Montague, Sidney, 13. 
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe and her Followers, 292. 
 
 " Mysteries of Udolpho," 294. 
 
 Nash, Beau, family, 272; life of gai- 
 ety in London, 273 ; life at Bath, 274 ; 
 equipage and toilet, 279 ; gaming, 
 280; death, 281. 
 
 Newbery, 186. 
 
 " Pamela/' 113. 
 
 Parody on " The Dunciad," 37. 
 
 Percy, Bishop, 185. 
 
 " Pompey the Little," 285. 
 
 Pope and Lady Mary, 9. 
 
 Pope, Alexander, childhood, 26; liter- 
 ary career, 26; Twickenham, 26; 
 " Rape of the Lock," 27 ; character- 
 istics, 34 ; grotto, 36 ; Lady Mary, 
 36, 37- 
 
 Portland, Lady, 41. 
 
 Prague, 20. 
 
 Radcliffe, Ann, birth and death, 292 ; 
 list of works, 292; "Mysteries of 
 Udolpho," 294; "Children of the 
 Abbey," 301. 
 
 " Rape of the Lock," 27. 
 
 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 193. 
 
 Richardson and Harriet Byron, 109. 
 
 Richardson, Samuel, 109; the grotto, 
 109; personal characteristics, no; 
 novels, in ; " Pamela," 113; "Clar- 
 issa," 113; "SirCharles Grandison," 
 115 ; life at Parson's Green, 117. 
 
 Siddons, Mrs., 222. 
 
 " Sir Charles Grandison," 115. 
 
 "Sir Roger de Coverley," 79, 86. 
 
 Smollett, 182, 193. 
 
 Spectator, 77, 87. 
 
 Steele, 76. 
 
 Strawberry Hill, 205, 213. 
 
 Taller, 76. 
 
 Thrale, Mrs., 265, 266, 269. 
 
 " Tom Jones," 149, 150. 
 
 " Traveller," 195. 
 
 " Trivia," 105. 
 
 Turpin, Dick, 244. 
 
 Twickenham, 25, 26, 36, 205. 
 
 Vauxhall Gardens, 85, 211. 
 
 " Vicar of Wakefield," 197. 
 
 Vienna, 19. 
 
 Walpole, Mrs. Anne, 13. 
 
 Walpole, Dolly, 13. 
 
 Walpole and Gray, 203. 
 
 Walpole, Horace, birth and edu- 
 cation, 204; travels with Gray, 204; 
 entrance to Parliament, 204 ; Twick- 
 enham, 205; death, 206; "Castle of 
 Otranto," 207; letters, 208; per- 
 sonal characteristics, 225.
 
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