CIRCUMSTANCES 
 
 KESPECTING " 
 
 THE LATE 
 
 CHARLES MONTFORD, Esq. 
 
 By GEORGE HARLET, Esq, 
 
 Hiberpool, 
 
 PRINTED BY J.'m'cREERY, HOUGHTON-STREET. 
 
 1804. 
 
^ 
 
y/y/^^^/i.icyr^ 
 
 TO 
 
 THE MEMORY OF 
 
 f7rr 
 
 CHARLES MONf^FORD, 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME, jj5 
 
 ff 
 
 THE FEEBLE RECORD OF HIS CHARACTER, 'g^ 
 
 I GIVE AND DEDICATE. 
 
 513 
 
m. 
 
-^ 
 
 # CIRCUMSTJJVCES, 
 
 itc. * 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 X HAVE sometimes smiled at men, who, in the 
 midst of sorrow for the loss of those they loved, 
 have : seemed to find the greatest consolation in 
 describing their merits, and dwelling upon their 
 virtues, their talents, and their accomplishments. 
 Grief I have supposed to be sedate and retiring, 
 indisposed to communication, and, above all 
 things, incapable of exertion, I ridiculed the woes 
 of Lord Lyttleton, whose poem on the death of 
 his wife, though I could not deny its power over 
 the heart of the reader, did not in my opinion pro- 
 ceed from that of the author. I am now undeceiv- 
 ed by severe experience. I acknowledge, with hum- 
 ble gratitude to the Giver of all good, that when 
 the first violence of grief is past, a state of com- 
 parative tranquillity succeeds, in which the highest 
 
 pleasure 
 
X 
 
 
 pleasure is to expatiate at large upon the charac- 
 ter of the friend we shall see no more; to dwell 
 with minute exactness upon the various occur- 
 rences of his life, to suppose situations in which, 
 had he been still alive, he would have acted in 
 this or in that manner, and to linger with inex- 
 haustible garrulity upon the last melancholy 
 scene, when he closed his eyes in death. The 
 world seems to me a cheerless and dreary waste, 
 in which all the joys that once danced before me 
 in such gay succession, are shrunk and blasted ; 
 yet thus cold and desolate, I feel some relief 
 in describing my friend as he was, and sometimes, 
 as I enumerate upon paper his many virtues, 
 I seem to snatch him for a moment from the 
 grave. Thus employed, as I have sustained a 
 double loss, I shall receive in some small measure 
 a double consolation. The part of his history 
 which now fixes my attention, is inseparably 
 connected with that of her whom I loved as a 
 sister; they were born for each other, and for 
 each other they died. 
 
 I first knew Charles Montford at Cambridge. 
 There were points in his character, which peculi- 
 arly attracted my admiration — a lively susceptibi- 
 lity, corrected by a most distinguishing simpli- 
 city, and an union, still more uncommon, of 
 
 pleasing 
 
pleasing gentleness; with the most manly frank- 
 ness — still more uncommon! Independance of 
 character, when it becomes so evident as to draw 
 notice, is often accompanied with a ferocity, 
 which, if it is not so disgusting as hypocrisy, is 
 infinitely more troublesome and oppressive. 
 Such men deceive themselves — they are proud of 
 the lofty independance, the generous frankness of 
 their natures, yet, perhaps, if they were not rude 
 and impertinent, they would be hypocritical and 
 mean. In Montford, a total want of disguise and 
 reserve, an incapacity, as it were, to conceal any 
 wish, or thought, or principle, where the secrets 
 of friendship were not concerned, were so tem- 
 pered with a softness and playfulness of disposi- 
 tion, that he could speak most harshly, if his 
 words alone were considered, withoilt giving the 
 least offence. These traits of character were em- 
 bellished and set off by that indescribable grace, 
 which is only found in early life, and which 
 exemplified in Montford more than any man I 
 ever saw, what the most elegant of all poets 
 means, when he speaks of the purple light of 
 youth. 
 
 It may be supposed from this description, that 
 Montford was caressed by a numerous acquain- 
 tance, that he was sought for as a necessary part of 
 
 every 
 
^ s 
 
 every society, that he was surrounded by friends. 
 He was not however generally liked at the univer- 
 sity; the easy gaiety with which he gained the 
 victory in many a well-fought dispute, roused 
 the enmity of the graver sort, who could not en- 
 dure the defeat of long-treasured learning and 
 laboured knowledge, from a man who was not 
 furnished with similar weapons. While he was 
 present, they could scarely avoid joining in the 
 laugh against themselves, but in his absence 
 they sneered at him as superficial and frivolous. 
 Others, who found him fond of pleasures, but 
 requiring in these pleasures a delicacy they did 
 not understand, accused him of affectation, while 
 some brought against him a heavier charge, 
 which every look, word, and gesture, disproved, 
 and called him insincere. While he felt within 
 himself numerous and inexhaustible resources, 
 he little regarded the title of superficial, while he 
 gratified the elegant refinement of his nature, he 
 despised the cry of the vulgar, but he was roused 
 to some degree of vexation by the glaring injus- 
 tice of the last accusation; feeling that most of 
 his misfortunes in life, had arisen from the excess 
 of that virtue in which he was said to be deficient. 
 
 I must confess, however, though in reality he 
 was eminently free from this vice, that his con- 
 duct 
 
i 
 
 duct was sometimes attended with its effects, and 
 though I .can write of him only to praise him,' I 
 would not wish him in this respect to become the 
 object of imitation. By his too great solicitude to 
 please, he frequently raised expectations, which it 
 was impossible for him to gratify, and many were 
 induced to rank themselves amongst his friends, 
 whom in fact he never esteemed. Another 
 cause of this reproach, was the inequality of his 
 temper — no man on earth was so subject to varia- 
 tions in his spirits — when these were high, when 
 his soul was in its elevation, in its holiday, every 
 object around him seemed clothed with ten thou- 
 sand beauties. The barren heath was enamelled 
 with flowers, the withered tree flolirished in lux- 
 uriant vegetation, stagnant water became a run- 
 ning brook, every bird was a nightingale— who- 
 ever he met, he accosted with the ardent benevo- 
 lence which burnt so vividly within him — he pro- 
 fessed his eagerness to serve, and he professed no 
 more than he felt — he made no promises for the 
 future, but at the time he spoke, no sacrifices of 
 his own convenience would have been too great. 
 Two or three hours afterwards, perhaps, those he 
 had thus caressed, found him unsociable and 
 distant. I would not justify, or even excuse an 
 uncertainty of character, which is poorly com- 
 pensated even by the brilliancy of genius ; but 
 
 let 
 
 m 
 
i6 
 
 let me remind the censurers of my friend, that 
 if he was sometimes cold, he was never morose ; 
 that in his gayer moments he had professed to 
 them no lasting attachment, or called them his 
 friends, that if he had treated them with affection, 
 he would have treated all the world in the same 
 manner. Had they wished his services, they should 
 have accepted them when he made the offer — they 
 would then have been gainers — if they missed the 
 opportunity, they should have condemned them- 
 selves as well as him who presented it. Did they 
 not display an ignorance of human nature? had 
 they known it better, they would surely have 
 been less severe upon a man, who, whatever 
 might be their disappointment, suffered more 
 than themselves, in the depression of the spirits, 
 the sinking of the heart, in that horrible state, 
 when the present is intolerable, and the future 
 hopeless. If at such a time Montford shewed no 
 affection for others, how gladly would he have fled 
 from himself. That he was capable of a lasting 
 attachment, I have witnessed in a long unaltered 
 friendship, if his bitterest enemy will follow me 
 through a few pages, he will acknowledge the 
 same truth. 
 
 In figure, Montford was something above the 
 middle size, slender, well made, and extremely 
 
 active ; 
 
il 
 
 active. His countenance, varying perpetually ac- 
 ' cording to the changes of his mind, faithful to its 
 director, never entirely lost its native sweetness. 
 There was a mild lustre in his eye, as far removed 
 from fierceness as from indolence. His com- 
 plexion was pale, but with no appearance of ill 
 health. His features were not perfectly regular, 
 but this circumstance did not diminish the attrac- 
 tions of his countenance. The tones of his voice 
 were manly and pleasing, singularly adapted to 
 every species of eloquence. He was the natural 
 son of Mr. R., a gentleman of large estate in the 
 west of England. He was always treated by his fa* 
 ther with the greatest affection, and it was not un- 
 till within a few years, when a legitimate offsprings 
 the fruit of a late marriage, were growing towards 
 maturity, that he found his home in any respect 
 uncomfortable. Mr. R. perceiving this alteration, 
 settled upon him a handsome annuity, and my 
 friend thus supplied, entered himself at the Uni- 
 versity, intending to pay his father a visit once a 
 year. They had never the least quarrel. The 
 greatest affection continued between them, and 
 as things were so well understood, there was no 
 cfauger of its interruption. 
 
 ■<*^ 
 A short time after I first saw Montford, I 
 
 ^ became so much attached to him, that I was anx- 
 % ious 
 
12 
 
 ious to Introduce him to my relations. By this 
 means I was in hopes of preserving his sodety 
 during the vacation. My nearest surviving rela- 
 tion was an uncle, who lived in Essex, about 
 fifty miles from Cambridge, and who by unal- 
 tered kindness and tenderness, had endeavoured 
 to supply the place of my parents, whom I lost 
 in very early life. He was an excellent man, 
 full of strong affections, which he lavished on 
 all whom his good judgment pointed out as wor- 
 thy of them. He had prejudices, alas I fatal 
 prejudices. Yet perhaps he would have relin- 
 quished them, had he lived long enough to see 
 the necessity of such a sacrifice. The antiquity 
 of his family was his favorite boast; the preser- 
 vation of his race, unsullied by the mixture of 
 what he called plebeian blood, his dearest object. 
 I have reasoned with him upon the absurdity of 
 pushing his ideas upon this subject to any length, 
 and pointed out to him instances, in which they 
 have effected the complete misery of families. 
 His constant answer was, that in the present 
 state of the country, it was more than ever ne- 
 cessary to maintain them in their full extent^ as 
 the only antidotes against that vulgar pride,, 
 which is the general concomitant of overflowing 
 commerce. As for your extreme cases, he would 
 say, they must be left to be provided for in an ^'^ 
 
 extraordinary 
 
15 
 
 extraordinary manner, but they cannot rationally 
 find a place in arguing upon the subject. Would 
 to God he had lived to put this maxim into ex- 
 ecution ! His wife — ^but why should I speak of 
 her? I could fill pages in her praise; but her 
 heavy afflictions will sanctify her in the, eyes of 
 the reader, and I should appear to do her vio- 
 lence, in displaying her virtues to the world. 
 jBut surely without offence, I may expatiate upon 
 those of the dead, and pay that tribute to the 
 daughter, which the mother would refuse. Yes I 
 Louisa, I will shew thee as thou wast, and never 
 purely will a brighter example appear of sensibili- 
 ty and firmness, of affection and honor. Ah I why 
 was not such a mind gifted with a frame capable 
 pf sustaining its virtuous and heroic struggles, 
 
 Louisa Harley was just of that size which 
 gives a woman sometimes the appellation of 
 liandsome, sometimes that of beautiful, according 
 to the dress she may happen to wear. No one 
 would say, her appearance was insignificant, still 
 less that it was masculine or bold. But though at 
 first sight you might have doubted how to describe 
 her, after a few minutes conversation with her, you 
 would not have hesitated to call her beautiful, ra- 
 ther than handsome. The gentleness of her man, 
 p^r and the softness of her voice, removed from you 
 
 at 
 
14 
 
 at once all idea of the heroine. Her complexion 
 was singularly delicate, not of that sort which 
 creates a suspicion of the use of art, but perpe- 
 tually varying with blushes. When we were chil- 
 dren, it was my constant reproach, in all our little 
 quarrels, that she could not speak without blush- 
 ing. I might have been equally severe when she 
 was eighteen, the time I am now alluding to, but 
 I was no longer a school-boy, and my taste was 
 changed. Her eyes did not quite deserve the 
 title of blue, but her long eye-lashes gave them a 
 soft and silken cast, particularly fascinating, and 
 their water was strikingly clear. Her features 
 were so regular, that the world would have stiled 
 her beautiful, whatever had been her countenance. 
 This I shall not describe, it was the faithful index 
 of her mind, which will sufficiently appear as I 
 proceed. 
 
 In the Easter of 98, I wrote to my uncle to 
 say I should bring my friend with me to pass the 
 vacation at his house, and not doubting of a wel- 
 come, we almost overtook my letter. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Harley received us with the greatest cordiality, 
 and Louisa, who always thought of me as her 
 brother, flew into my arms. Montford was melted 
 almost to tears by this display of unaffected feel- 
 ing, and, whem fearing she had been guilty of 
 
 some 
 
15 
 
 some indecorum, she turned from me with con- 
 fusion, and with one of her characteristic blushes, 
 to receive him with all due ceremony, he bowed 
 to her as if he was paying his adorations to some 
 superior being. With few opportunities of en- 
 joying female society, he had seen no woman like 
 Louisa— I shall be laughed at for ascribing 
 so much to a bow, yet it surely spoke sur- 
 prise, admiration, a feeling perhaps softer than, 
 admiration. There was something added from the 
 spirit of gallantry, that spirit, which finds its 
 source in delicacy and honor^ and throws such a 
 charm, not the less valuable because indescriba- 
 ble, into the intercourse of the sexes. . 
 
 After some time we retired to prepare our- 
 selves for dinner. Returning into the parlour, I 
 overtook my fair cousin on the staircase. " Well, 
 " Louisa, and what do you think of my friend?" 
 " why, really, he is not ill-looking." At that mo- 
 ment Montford's door opened, and he appeared 
 just above us upon the landing — Louisa, tapping 
 me on the shoulder, cried, " ah traitor!" and ran 
 as fast as she could down the stairs. Montford join- 
 ed me — " never before was there such a charming 
 " creature in the world," said he. " You have seen 
 " too little both of her and the world," I replied, 
 *' to be able to judge." " She can have no equal, by 
 
 " heaven !" 
 
16 
 
 *< heaven !" said he. We were then at the parlour 
 door — on opening it, he said, " I fear I alarmed 
 you, Miss Harley" — '' no, no," she returned, " you 
 *^ but interrupted a tete-a-tete, but indeed the 
 ^* place was a little too public," looking archly at 
 me. I recollect these circumstances, trifling as 
 they are, as if they were of yesterday, let the 
 reader pardon me if I am too minute in relating 
 them. At dinner, Montford was in high spirits, 
 and I saw with indescribable pleasure, that the 
 family rejoiced in their new acquaintance. In the 
 private intercourse of life there is not, perhaps, a 
 higher gratification, than to form an intimacy 
 between strangers whom we respect and love. The 
 neW/ friendship becomes a pledge and security for 
 the old. It is a link which seemed wanting to 
 complete the chain— this added, all is complete, 
 firm and durable — as far as human power alone is 
 concerned, indissoluble. Why was it attended in 
 this instance with consequences so fatal? Why 
 was a feeling so pure, apparently so little partak- 
 ing of the frailty of our nature, converted into the 
 most insupportable of evils. Alas! what would I 
 say? It is for him who cannot err, to act, for 
 erring man to submit and adore. 
 
 After dinner, my uncle began to talk of the 
 improvements he was making uppn his estate. 
 
 Agricylture 
 
17 
 
 Agriculture was a subject, which Montford had 
 studied. He hinted some experiments which had 
 been made with success by his father, at his 
 instigation. My uncle was delighted. The bottle 
 went round with uncommon expedition, and had 
 not a message from the ladies proposed a walk 
 rather earlier than usual, we should soon have 
 been unable to understand it. Montford and 
 I rose, leaving my uncle to take his evening 
 nap — We were scarcely out of the room when he 
 
 ^- called me back — " Come here George — that friend 
 
 " of yours is a fine fellow, a very fine fellow," said 
 
 _ he, *'* on my life I never thought so well of you 
 
 i *' before — such a friend is as great an ornament as 
 
 * .*' an advantage to you — hold him fast, my boy, to 
 , " your old age — well, go and take your walk, I am 
 *' sure it will be a pleasant one — I could almost 
 -*' forsake my arm chair and accompany you, but 
 " habits, old habits, are too strong." I went up to 
 him, and giving him a hearty shake by the hand, 
 followed my friend. I never knew Montford more 
 entertaining than during this walk. Whether it is, 
 as Sir Harry Wildair tells us, *' that burgundy 
 makes a man talk like an angel," or that he was in- 
 spired by the charming tranquillity of the evening, 
 or what is most probable, by the beauty of Louisa, 
 who walked by his side, he pursued whatever 
 subject occurred, with such a combination of wit, 
 
 B sense, 
 
18 
 
 sense, and feeling, as to astonish me, who had 
 often acknowledged his conversational powers. 
 My aunt, who was leaning upon my arm, whisper- 
 ed now^ and then her admiration. Louisa's eyes 
 sparkled more than ever, if it was not the glow of 
 exercise suffused over her lovely face, that gave 
 them their new lustre. We almost forgot Mn Har- 
 ley, and it was not till after the usual time of tea, 
 that we returned to him. He received us however 
 with the greatest good humour. The rest of the 
 evening was past in cards, and other amusements, 
 almost as pleasantly as the first part of it. The next 
 morning Montford and I rode out. He discovered 
 ten thousand beauties in the different prospects I 
 pointed out to him, which had never struck me 
 before. The day after I persuaded Louisa to ac- 
 company us, and she was more surprised than I 
 had been, to find how little she knew of the coun- 
 try where she had spent the greatest part of her 
 life. Thus passed our time, and almost the only 
 vexation, a vexation of which the whole party 
 partook, was caused by the arrival of any visitor. 
 
 One morning Montford did not appear at 
 breakfast, I looked for him in his room, but he was 
 not to be found. Mr. Harley, whose serenity 
 of temper w^as now and then disturbed by the 
 gout, and who had suffered a restless flight from 
 
 its 
 
19 
 
 its attacks, was angry. " Yes," said he, ^' these 
 " are your modern manners — you receive a fel- 
 " low into your house, he goes out and comes 
 " in just when he pleases — he disregards the 
 " usual hours of the family, and this he calls 
 " ease. By Jupiter, if he were any other man 
 " than Charles Montford, he should have no 
 " breakfast at all." Montford, however, did not 
 arrive. Louisa was discomposed. She was hurt at 
 the displeasure of her father, which, however 
 slight, interrupted most painfully to her gentle 
 and affectionate mind, the harmony in which we 
 had been living. At length Charles entered the 
 room — " A thousand pardons 1" cried he, " I 
 " fear I am beyond the proper hour." Mr. 
 Harley looked at his watch — " Ah Mr. Harley, 
 continued he, " a silent reproof is the most hor- 
 '> ribleof all, but you shall hear my adventure, 
 *' and then I am sure you will forgive me." My 
 uncle stretched out his hand to him — " What a 
 " poor wretch this gout makes a man," said he. 
 The reconciliation was complete. The blood 
 mounted into the cheeks of Louisa, and she was 
 obliged to bend closely over the table to conceal 
 a transient tear. " I was returning from my 
 ^^ walk," said Montford, *' when I met one of 
 *' your labourers going to his work — his mein at 
 *' some distance, struck me. There appeared in 
 
 B5 "him 
 
50 
 
 ** him a grace, visible even in his method of 
 " walking, which resembled in no respect that 
 " of a poor peasant. As I approached nearer, 
 *' I thought I perceived a peculiar dignity in 
 '' his countenance — Lavater would find here, 
 " thought I, a patient sorrow, an acute sense 
 " of suffering, with a lofty pride, a gene- 
 " rous magnanimity, capable of bearing the 
 " most severe — when I came up to him, I 
 " could not help bidding him good morning 
 " and boAving to him — he took off his hat— I 
 " was in a romantic mood, and his broad and 
 " ample forehead bespoke in my eyes, extent of 
 " capacity." " He has seen the count," said 
 Louisa. " The count!" replied Montford, 
 staring, " What do you mean?" '' Not a 
 " ghost," returned Louisa, " but did you speak 
 ** to him ?" " Yes," said Montford, laughing, 
 " and entered into conversation with him. I 
 " found him a foreigner, and can now guess hy 
 " the rank you have given him, something of 
 " his history." " Louisa shall give it you at 
 "" full length," said my uncle, " after breakfast. 
 " You will then see the necessity of maintaining 
 . " in its extent, that high born pride which 
 <^ makes a man ashamed of sinking under ad- 
 " versity — you will see how closely this is con- 
 '* nected in the count de Liancourt with that of 
 
 '' birth. 
 
21 
 
 " birth. He looks back upon a long line of 11- 
 " lustrious ancestry, and finds unspeakable plea- 
 " sure in the thought, that even in the hardest 
 '' circumstances, he has not degraded those from 
 *' whom he is sprung. He is not so rich as they 
 " were ; he has not the same number of depen- 
 " dants and followers ; but he has the same 
 " unsullied honor, and this still makes his rela- 
 " tionship dear." After breakfast, which Mont- 
 ford sufficiently shewed was tedious to him, he 
 reminded Louisa of the task she was to under- 
 take; this might have been performed in a few 
 minutes, but from the frequent interruptions of 
 the auditor, it occupied more than an hour. 
 
 The count de Liancourt was an emigrant noble 
 of France, he had adhered to the fortunes of his 
 sovereign, long after they became hopeless, and 
 by his intrepid language and conduct, had been 
 the object of the fear and hatred of the ruling 
 powers. He was fortunate enough however, to 
 make his escape in the beginning of the reign 
 of Robespierre. On his arrival in this country, 
 he had been supported, in common with many 
 others in a similar situation, by the subscriptions 
 so liberally made for this purpose ; but his proud 
 and lofty mind could ill bear a state of de- 
 pendance upon the bounty of the affluent, and 
 
 he 
 
9 
 
 he determined to earn by labour that subsistance, 
 which he could not endure as a gift. With this 
 view he made diligent inquiries in the counties 
 bordering upon Middlesex, for he was then in 
 London, and having informed himself of the 
 character of Mr. Harley, applied to him, as the 
 person under whom he wished to put his pro- 
 ject into execution. My uncle was happy in 
 being able to serve a man of such a character, 
 and hoping that the bare intention of working, 
 would be sufficient to satisfy honor, received him, 
 nominally he imagined, amongst his labourers. 
 The count de Liancourt however, had not so 
 satisfied himself His imperious and searching 
 soul suffered no self-delusion. He laboured with 
 the lowest peasant, and never shrunk from the 
 task. He steadily refused every invitation from 
 the hall, declaring with a smile, that he had seen 
 enough in his own country of the confusion of 
 ranks and situations. The sole difference between 
 him and the rest of the workmen, was in his not 
 appearing with them at the end of the week to 
 receive his wao-es : what he had earned was sent 
 to his cottage This my uncle insisted upon. 
 
 The only circumstance that seemed mate- 
 rially to oppress the spirits of the count, was 
 his uncertainty with regard to the fate of his 
 
 wife. 
 
53 
 
 wife. Had he supposed, that the rage of the 
 tyrant who then governed France, would have 
 been directed against women, nothing would 
 have induced him to leave her ; but hoping that 
 she might follow him at her leisure, he took the 
 only means of escape in his power, in flying 
 alone. From that time to the period of which 
 I am writing, he had heard nothing of her — all 
 his inquiries had been unsuccessful. Thus w^re 
 these unfortunate persons torn from each other- — 
 it was in the ardour of early affection — they 
 were both young, and had not been long mar- 
 ried. 
 
 Montford found singular pleasure in visiting 
 his new acquaintance. I seldom accompanied 
 him, for though the count had taken ^o per- 
 sonal dislike to me, but on the contrary always 
 treated me with the greatest politeness, I per- 
 ceived he did not wish to put himself on a 
 footing of familiarity with me. This I attri- 
 buted to some delicate reflection on my near 
 relationship with Mr. Harley, and I did not dare 
 to intrude. 
 
 It would not be difficult to describe the figure 
 and countenance of the count de Liancourt— the 
 outlines are strongly marked, and not to be mis- 
 taken, 
 
'■( 
 
 u 
 
 taken, but I have seen a portrait by Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, which represents him with singular 
 accuracy — if there is a difference, I would say, 
 that the count has somewhat of a gayer air — it 
 is generally known, I believe, under the deno- 
 mination of the banished lord, and to it I refer 
 the reader. 
 
 At length the day arrived when Montford 
 and myself were obliged to return to Cambridge 
 for the term. After a pressing invitation from 
 Mr, Harley to spend a part of the next summer 
 with him, and having accepted it with more 
 warmth if possible than it was given, we set out. 
 My friend, who had shewn sufficiently with- 
 out the help of words, how deeply he was im- 
 pressed with the remembrance of the pleasant 
 fortnight he had passed, began, when we were 
 scarcely seated in the carriage, to describe it in 
 all its minutiae. " As for your cousin Harley,'* 
 said he, " on my life you are the most fortunate 
 " fellow in the universe. — Well— you'll let me 
 " come and see you sometimes — perhaps as I 
 *' grow old I shall not envy you." " Envy 
 " me ! no, no — but what are you thinking of ? 
 " I am not going to marry my cousin." " Not 
 " marry her ! why she loves you, that is plain, 
 " and what blessing can equal the affection of 
 
 " a woman 
 
55 
 
 «' a woman like her I" "Pshaw! Pshaw! Charles, 
 ** you would not have me marry my sister, for 
 "so I have always considered Louisa. — Ah 
 " Charles, if it was not for that frightful bar 
 " in your escutcheon — but my uncle must have 
 *^ a clear pedigree." Montford laughed. " No, 
 " no," said he, " my ambition soars not so high, 
 " I will observe her from a distance, I will ad- 
 " mire her — ^but love, love, Harley, is too costly 
 " a passion for us poor sons of chance." Her^e 
 we were silent a few minutes — Alas I how far 
 was I from reflecting on the ruin to which I wad 
 contributing. 
 
 I had not been long at Cambridge before I was 
 congratulated by many, on the great improve- 
 ment in the spirits of my friend. He was no 
 longer subject to those sudden and extreme va- 
 riations, which made it uncertain, when he en- 
 tered into society, whether he would amuse or 
 sadden it. He was now always cheerful, some- 
 times rising into his former elevations, but never 
 sinking into his former depressions. I was not 
 slow in attributing this fortunate change to its 
 real cause. Montford, on his return from school, 
 had passed two years with his father. Amongst 
 those who live at a o-reat distance from the ca- 
 
 o 
 
 pital and great cities, the progress of know- 
 ledge 
 
2b 
 
 ledge is slow and heavy. Prejudices are seldom 
 attacked, and therefore increase rather than di- 
 minish. Real merit, perhaps seldom seen, is not 
 understood — We must not be surprised, there- 
 fore, that Montford was received in his father's 
 neighbourhood with far less consideration than 
 he deserved. He soon perceived that his com- 
 pany was endured, rather than solicited, and that 
 he owed even the cold civilities he met with, to 
 bis father's situation in life. A natural son could 
 not be admitted into society upon a footing with 
 others — this was to infringe the sacred laws of 
 wedlock, to set a wretched example to the poor, 
 to encourage vice in all ranks — the danger was 
 pressing — the politician at the coffee-house ut- 
 teired his decree, the old lady at the card-table 
 enforced its execution. It may easily be con- 
 ceived, how much a man of Montford' s disposi- 
 tion would feel the misery of such an entrance 
 into the world. He was severely disappointed, 
 and lamented, as he has often told me, with in- 
 describable anguish, that the period which is the 
 object of all the ardent prayers of other men, 
 should be thus cheerless for him. Even his home 
 became intolerable. An imperious woman and her 
 family treated him with harshness, and from the 
 description he has given me of his situation for a 
 year, I think he would scarcely have survived a 
 
 second 
 
£1 
 
 second similar to it. Now all was changed, he 
 had been treated not only without coolness, but 
 with the greatest cordiality, by a family, whom, in 
 his coldest moments, he could esteem for their 
 many virtues, but of whom, when he recollected 
 their attachment to him, he could not think 
 without the warmest affection. He had scarcely 
 supposed there were such people in existence. 
 Now he hoped there were many like them — if 
 not — he felt himself satisfied. 
 
 4 
 
 Considering me as the author of all his hap- 
 piness, he became more attached to me, if possible, 
 than before. We lived together almost entirely, 
 and if I were to select the period of my life, I 
 should most wish to repeat, it would undoubtedly 
 be the two, or three months, I now passed with 
 him at Cambridge. 
 
 One evening, as we were sitting together, 
 after one of our little dinners, which we often 
 agreed must shame the Sabine banquets of a great 
 poet, however he might compare them to those 
 of heaven, our window wide open, to admit the 
 warm, yet refreshing breezes, our wine old, and 
 fresh from the cellar, as we were thus sitting, 
 sometimes still, and sometimes swinging on our 
 chairs, making a thousand remarks with, or with- 
 out 
 
58 
 
 out meaning, laughing at a thousand jests, withj 
 or without point — " Charles," I said, " I am going 
 " to send a packet to my cousin Louisa." — ■ 
 " What is it?" " OhI a true university present, a 
 " book." " Indeed I" " Nothing less than Rous- 
 " seau's Heloisa." " You intend it as a mirror in 
 " which she may see herselrf, I suppose." " Heaven 
 " forbid!" " Ah! be assured at that moment I but 
 " thought of Julia's virtues, I had forgotten her 
 *' weaknesses." " That is but a poor escape; would 
 " Julia have been so excellent if she had not erred; 
 " did not many of her brightest charms arise from 
 *' these weaknesses ; where would have been the 
 " merit of her virtuous struggles; should we have 
 " so much admired her as the wife of Mr. Wol- 
 " mar? No, no, my cousin will not thank you for 
 *' the compliment." " She will not think herself 
 " disparaged when she has read the book, and 
 " whatever she may tell us, I shall persist, that 
 " unassuming in the midst of power, animated 
 " with every tender affection, and all the sublime 
 " of virtue, beautiful, gentle, unaffected, sensible, 
 " she is still very like Julia." " Well then, said 
 *' I, let us fill our glasses, and drink my cousin's 
 " health, Charles threw the wine on the table, and 
 " I was sure that my uncle would overlook the 
 " bar in the escutcheon," 
 
 " A little 
 
29 
 
 $^^ 
 
 ¥ 
 
 A little more than a month after this, I 
 received a letter from Louisa, which, as it serves 
 to shew her character, and from its effect on 
 Montford's mind, had a considerable influence on 
 the events 1 am about to relate; I shall be par- 
 doned if I transcribe. 
 
 *' I have at last read your wonderful book, 
 " and I assure you, though your praises had raised 
 '• my expectations very high, I was not disappoint- 
 " ed. I was rather alarmed by the preface, for you 
 " know I am hardly beyond the age the author so 
 " confidently threatens with destruction. However, 
 ^ " when I perceived how unlike his characters are 
 '* to the beings of this world, I began to lose my 
 " fears, for as I cannot resemble them in their 
 " virtues, I may hope to escape their errors. You 
 " had prepared me for these celestial creatures, 
 " but I do not agree with you in your censure upon 
 *' the author, for not being content with the men 
 " and women of this world. To be sure there are 
 " no such friends as Julia and Clara, or as Lord 
 '*' Edward and St. Preux, and though I have a 
 " pretty good opinion of myself, I am afraid I 
 " should not make so good a wife to an old man of 
 " fifiy, asMrs.Wolmar, particularly if I was before 
 '^' attached to one nearer my own age. How you 
 '" would have behaved to him who had taken your 
 " love from you, I cannot guess. Would you have 
 
 " become 
 
" become his best friend? all this is, as you say, 
 *' very unnatural, but then it is unnaturally good, 
 ** not what is, I know, but what we would wish to 
 *' be. We may approach as near as we can, and our 
 *' incapacity to complete the imitation, may teach 
 " us humility. I have got a simile for you, and, 
 ^' like a true woman, I have taken it from my toi- 
 ^' lette. These unnaturally excellent characters, I 
 " compare to a spotless mirror, in which, whoever 
 " looks, will discover his deformities, and, perhaps, 
 * ' became better by self-abasement. You will go on 
 *' and say they are easily destroyed. Alas I it is too 
 " true. They are exposed to ten thousand evils, 
 " grosser spirits know not — a breath soils them — • 
 " a gale of wind breaks them in pieces. But if the 
 " persons in this exquisite performance were a little 
 " more within our reach, I do not see the danger of 
 " studying them. However fond of power you 
 *' men may be, surely the greatest tyrant amongst 
 " you w ould not wish a more dutiful and humble 
 " wife than Julia. Then every one sees that she is 
 " much happier with her old husband, than her 
 *' youthful lover — the fond and judicious mother 
 *^ of two lovely children, the idol of a doating fa- 
 " ther, the mistress of a family, the giver of hap- 
 *^ piness to a large neighbourhood—should we not 
 *^ imitate her in this situation, rather than when 
 *^ she is torn by contending emotions, andperpetu- 
 
 " ally 
 
31 
 
 " ally fluctuating between error and repentance. 
 " The author must surely have had a very poor 
 " opinion of the ladies. But perhaps he had raised 
 " his expectations of us too high, and took this 
 " method of resenting his disappointment — per- 
 " haps he supposed we should not read his book 
 " through — there is some danger of this, for he 
 " has followed the first part, which alone can 
 " be formidable, by some very dull letters — I 
 " mean those upon the Parisian manners. I know 
 " you admire them, but 1 agree with Julia, and 
 ♦' I was very glad to find she reproved her lover 
 •' for writing them. You see I am resolved ta 
 " have my revenge on the author, for his bad 
 " opinion of us — yet I am very willing to forgive 
 *' him — he must be a strange, whimsical, suscepti- 
 " ble being, full of the highest and most dignified 
 " sentiments of virtue — his passions I am sure were 
 " violent — how often did they betray him into vice, 
 " and how insupportable was his subsequent re- 
 " morse. My only sensations with regard to him 
 " shall be, pity for his errors, and gratitude for 
 " the pleasure I have found in his writings. You 
 " see I venture to differ from you, and I am going 
 " to differ from you still more. You told me I 
 " should find some stupid domestic descriptions 
 " in the fourth and fifth parts. Now really my at- 
 " tention was never more fixed through the whole 
 *' book, than by these very letters. I was so inte- 
 
 " rested 
 
32 
 
 " rested in Julia, that I began to be sorry she was 
 " not a little more human, and I rejoiced to meet 
 " her on more equal ground in domestic life. I 
 " think if I were a Swiss I could love the country as 
 " well as she did, and if she had been an English- 
 " woman, perhaps she would have indulged herself 
 " in a trip to London once a year — at least I hope 
 " so. You were right, (I must agree with you at 
 " last) in your praises upon the description of her 
 " death, and particularly poor CJara's sorrow. 
 '^ This too the critics call unnatural, I suppose. — 
 ^' Tell me, my dear philosophical cousin, if it is 
 " unnatural to be affected with such a description, 
 •* or is there something more interesting than 
 '* nature ? But how came you in your critique to 
 '' forget a letter of only a page and a half, written 
 " to be sure by no very important person in the 
 " drama, the little Henrietta. Its naivete, its sim- 
 " plicity, the afiection expressed in it, are inimi- 
 " table, and the author could give no better proof, 
 ''- had he studied for ages, that he knew and felt 
 <' what virtue was. There is one letter I cannot 
 " make up my mind upon, and I expect a grave 
 " university epistle from you, to enlighten me up- 
 " on it. I mean that from Julia to St. Preux, just 
 ''' before she died. After having been so faithful a 
 *' wife for seven or eight years, after having so 
 *' long centered her affections in her husband, her 
 
 " friends, 
 
33 
 
 "friends, and her children, ought she to have 
 " been in love at last. I do not like this, ^nd you 
 "must not prove it to be right. 
 
 " See what a grave serious critique I have 
 "written you. Yet, do not think my temper 
 " changed. When I see you again, I shall be as 
 " gay and ridiculous as ever." 
 
 I could not forbear shewing this letter to 
 Montford. He returned it without making any 
 remark, but it was easy to see how much it 
 increased his admiration of the writer — I was 
 prevented from making my promised visit to Mr. 
 Harley, till late in the summer, and Montford 
 took the opportunity of seeing his father in the 
 west. However, about the middle of August, we 
 met in Essex. At the time we arrived, a large 
 party was expected for the shooting season, and 
 every day brought some new visitor. Among these 
 was Mr. M — — , a gentleman of large fortune, 
 who professed himself an admirer of Louisa. He 
 was of an ancient family, and this, added to his 
 wealth, made him in the eye of the world, a most 
 desirable suitor. My uncle was too much inclined 
 to think on this subject with the rest of mankind. 
 Though warm in his affections for his daughter, 
 he was not quite free from a species of self-deceit, 
 
 C which 
 
^ 34 
 
 which many fathers practice on themselves. They 
 love their children tenderly, but with a sort of 
 abstracted love, that chiefly evaporates in senti- 
 ment and trifles, and is not strong enough to resist 
 a favourite prejudice of their own. Yet his good 
 judgment would not allow him to commend the 
 
 character of Mr. M . He satisfied himself 
 
 however with saying, that if not very excellent, it 
 was as good as the present day required, for esti- 
 mation and respect. It was by no means his 
 intention to use any species of violence with his 
 daughter — far from it — Whenever she peremp- 
 torily expressed her dislike, he yielded to her 
 
 wishes. Mr. M , however, was still invited to 
 
 the house, and it was evident that my uncle was 
 displeased whenever Louisa appeared to repress 
 his more than usual civilities. 
 
 The character of this gentleman was not 
 uncommon. He had some power of mind, with 
 very little judgment to regulate it. Ambitious to 
 shine, he had espoused with avidity the favorite 
 opinions of the day. After affecting for some time 
 the greatest horror for whatever was heterodox in 
 religion, morals, or politics, he had really be- 
 come what he at first only professed. Though he 
 still frequently talked from mere vanity and 
 parade, he had much real intolerance and bigotry. 
 
 He 
 
35 1 
 
 He had not read much, but he had heard of the 
 principal leaders among the free-thinkers, and 
 upon these he perpetually poured forth all the 
 weight of his eloquence. Upon politics, he was 
 more cautious, for living much in the world, he 
 had found this subject less safe than the others. 
 But however religious, or moral, he might be in 
 opinion, no man could be less so in conduct. He 
 was madly fond of play, and sometimes conde- 
 scended to gratify his passion in company far 
 below him. He was esteemed knowing at New 
 Market, and few were more renowned for their 
 attachment to the bottle. Yet in spite of his 
 dissipation, at the age of forty, he was still hand- 
 some. He was remarkable for his " bonnes for- 
 *' tunes," and even Louisa, sometimes called him 
 an agreeable man. But she could not agree with 
 her father, that he would reform if he was 
 married, and shine in the character of a husband. 
 
 Montford, who had never seen such a man, 
 was amused with what he called so singular a 
 mixture of contradictions. He could not avoid 
 throwing out now and then a sarcastic jest against 
 him, the less so, as he perceived it gave some 
 little pleasure to Louisa, but it was always at- 
 tended with so much good nature, as to give no 
 offence even to the object of it. 
 
 est , Mr. 
 
36 
 
 Mr. M. had considerable powers of conver- 
 sation, and delighted in argument. This he fre- 
 quently introduced before women, and seemed 
 to make use of it as a weapon of conquest with 
 them. He found my warm and sanguine friend 
 always ready to meet him, and I do not recollect 
 ever to have perceived, in spite of the fatigues of 
 the field, the least marks of weariness, or ennui, 
 in any of the company during their longest 
 discussions. I was extremely pleased with this 
 warfare. It opened to me the opinions of my 
 friend, upon many important subjects, more fully 
 than I had yet known them. It displayed in its 
 extent, the excellence of his temper. It set in 
 amusing contrast two men who had something 
 similar in a certain warmth of temperament, but 
 who were called, and justly so, the opposites of 
 each other. The one was chiefly actuated by the 
 great over- ruling passion of vanity, which found 
 no place, not the smallest, in the character of the 
 other. I can scarcely refrain from smiling, when 
 I recollect how soon after their first meeting they 
 began the contest. After a slight introduction in 
 the morning, we were scarcely seated at dinner, 
 when Mr. M. began to describe a visit he had made 
 in his way to Mr. Har ley's. " It was to an old col- 
 '^ lege friend," he said—" poor fellow, he has been 
 " bitten by this new mania — upon my soul, in 
 
 " his 
 
37 
 
 " his dress I should never distinguish him from his 
 " servants — yet he is clever, he makes excellent 
 " speeches in the house — he is warm hearted too — 
 " he was going to give me a hearty shake by the 
 " hand, but then my eye happened to catch his 
 " coat, and I could not give my hand very warmly 
 •' to my groom." " Ah!" said Montford, ra- 
 ther sharply, " if he is a warm friend, and a good 
 " patriot, if he is social, and hospitable, and takes 
 " an interest in every important subject, we may 
 " as well overlook his country tailor." " But" 
 said Mr. M. rather disconcerted, " it is not his 
 " dress alone I dislike — he has an unfortunate 
 " eagerness of mind, that makes him embrace 
 " every object that engages his attention with 
 " such a nonsensical ardour — I found him in his 
 " library, covered with the dust of twenty old 
 '' folios, now turning over this, now that, like a 
 " poor author from necessity, who was obliged to 
 *' write a book, and had no materials of his own 
 " for the work — there was a look in his eyes that 
 " would have made him a successful candidate 
 " for Bedlam — then he talks of travelling through 
 " half the world, in search of manuscripts- — 
 " really such a fellow is no better than a lunatic." 
 " Your friend is very much obliged to you," re- 
 turned Montford, " I can scarcely think the tem- 
 " per you describe so contempt ible-^as to my- 
 
 " self, 
 
38 
 
 "self, I would not encourage it I own — to say 
 " nothing of the intervals of pain that beset these 
 " fiery natures, it is better I believe to estimate 
 «' pleasures by their duration, than their inten- 
 " sity, but do not degrade with the name of lu- 
 " nacy, a temper, which, if it sometimes scarcely 
 " escapes our ridicule, seems necessary to support 
 " the highest and most powerful efforts of wis- 
 " dom." Montford spoke this in a manner which 
 shewed a deep and lively interest in what he said. 
 I understood him — he had often been reproached 
 himself for his too great subjection to the impul- 
 ses of the moment, and though his judgment 
 pointed out to him the danger of such a disposi- 
 tion, he had experienced too much pleasure from 
 it, not to engage zealously in its defence, whene- 
 ver it was attacked. The natural warmth with 
 which he now spoke, seemed to electrify the 
 whole party, and Mr. M. was more disconcerted 
 than before. I turned my eyes towards Louisa, 
 and was not surprized to find a deeper glow taking 
 possession of her countenance — Pleasure was pre- 
 dominant, yet there was as much triumph as so 
 gentle a nature could feel, over an enemy, con- 
 founded, but not fallen. Mr. M. who if he was 
 sometimes refuted, was never silenced, rewarded 
 himself for his momentary defeat, with more than 
 usual loquacity. My friend was always prepared 
 
 te 
 
39 
 
 to answer him, and from this time they became 
 acknowledged combatants. 
 
 Not many days afterwards, they happened to 
 dispute upon. the merits of some modern writers 
 upon morality. Mr. M. was loud in their praise, 
 he had scarcely looked into their works, but they 
 were ecclesiastics, and their sacred profession was 
 with him a sufficient security for their excellence. 
 Montford warmly dissented from him — It is al- 
 most impossible to recollect the language of a 
 conversation, but if my friend had spoken with- 
 out interruption, his ideas would have assumed 
 the following form. — I dislike these modern mo- 
 ralists, they write in a dry didactic form, in de- 
 fiance, and apparently in contempt of every 
 species of eloquence. Now surely, if there be 
 any subject, in treating which the fascinations of 
 stile are valuable, it is that of morality. Is there 
 any danger that the desires should be too much 
 raised, or the passions too much inflamed in the 
 cause of virtue? is the moral sentiment of men 
 too quick and refined? is their conscience too much 
 awake? is their horror of vice too severe? their 
 pleasure in virtue too rapturous ? Some dull 
 opiate is surely necessary to allay the keen delica- 
 cy of noble sentiment. Recollect for a moment 
 the general characteristics of the most popular 
 
 moral 
 
40 
 
 moral writings of the day. A gross quarto is pre- 
 sented you, which it requires some discipline in 
 reading to venture to open — you look into it — 
 you perceive a dry and terse rule, followed 
 by the motive, stated in the same unattractive 
 manner. The rest of the book is occupied with 
 the discussion of the question of utility in some 
 difficult cases, which never occur to the generality 
 of men, and to no man more than once or twice in 
 his life. The moral sentiment, that feeling, which 
 is in reality the great ruler and director of every 
 virtuous action, is either entirely overlooked, or 
 slightly mentioned, in a chapter of perhaps half a 
 page. All the attractions of stile are disregarded, 
 and none are able to proceed through the workf 
 for whom books, from long habit, have not a 
 peculiar attraction. Unfortunately, however, it is 
 more necessary that the vulgar should be improv- 
 ed, than that the learned should have new 
 subjects of dispute and argument. The mode of 
 writing on moral subjects, adopted by the anci- 
 ents, was surely infinitely preferable. Look at the 
 Memorabilia of Xenophon, in how engaging a 
 manner are the severest maxims laid down and 
 discussed. A man, venerable for his wisdom and 
 his age, is represented as walking out, mildly 
 rebukiiig folly, restraining the impetuosity of 
 youth, giving an opinion in unaffected and natu- 
 ral 
 
41 
 
 ral language, upon all questions proposed tc^ 
 him. Turn to the offices of Tully — in what an 
 imposing form are they addressed to you — in the 
 very title-page is a lesson of morality — they are a 
 gift from a father to his son — who does not wish 
 to know the result of paternal wisdom and love ? 
 If you carelessly turn the pages over, and cast a 
 glance on the conclusion, you find this adieu. — 
 " Adieu, then, my Cicero, believe me, I love 
 " you with the most tender affection, but that I 
 " shall love you still more, if you take delight 
 " in precepts like these." Is it possible, after 
 having read this, to throw the book aside without 
 further examination? Perhaps the reader will be 
 disappointed — he will however in all probability 
 receive some benefit — he will see the most striking 
 instances of virtue, displayed in their most pro- 
 minent points of view. A strong appeal will be 
 made to the feelings, from which alone we can 
 hope for imitation. 
 
 If the example of Socrates and Tully, afe 
 thought unworthy our regard, we surely shall not 
 turn aside from that of the great founder of our 
 religion. Does he exhaust himself in merely 
 stating rules and motives. He did not assume the 
 human nature to understand it so ill. Almost all 
 his instructions are given by instances, by im- 
 pressive 
 
4S 
 
 press! ve stories. They are appeals to the feeling. 
 Which would have the greatest effect upon an 
 audience? a philosopher, telling us that benevo- 
 lence is a virtue, that we shall be eternally pu- 
 nished in another world if we do not practise it ? 
 or our Saviour, relating the behaviour of the good 
 Samaritan. 
 
 It must be acknowledged however, that of 
 every moral system, part must be dry and 
 didactic. The intercourse of highly civilized life 
 is so perplexed and complicated, that however 
 inclined to virtue a man may be, it is not easy 
 at all times to perceive the means. Here then 
 arises the question of utility. This must be 
 calmly decided by the judgment ; but, the de- 
 cision made, it is still the moral sentiment alone 
 which impels to action. Saying this, I omit for 
 a moment all allusions to the motives arising 
 from a future state of being. I am taking the 
 system of Mr. Hume. Humanly speaking, 
 his system is perfect. He has sufficiently dis- 
 cussed the question of utility — he has endea- 
 voured to prove to the reader, the existence of 
 feelings, which compel him to rejoice in virtue, 
 by bringing before him instances where it is most 
 strongly displayed. He has represented the dy- 
 ing Pericles, disregarding and disparaging all his 
 
 past 
 
43 
 
 past glories and honors, his trophies, his tri- 
 umphs, and dwelling upon this reflection alone, 
 that no citizen ever wore mourning on his ac- 
 count. Whoever can read this anecdote, told 
 with such simple elegance, without some admira- 
 tion, will certainly receive advantage from the 
 impression arising from the hope of rewardt 
 and the fear of punishment. He must have re- 
 course to authors who have displayed these 
 motives in their strongest light. Far be it from 
 me to complain that they have so employed their 
 time — I rejoice most sincerely, that the unfortu- 
 nate natures which have no inclination to virtue 
 for itself, are not left without a director. But I 
 complain of writers, and preachers, who insist 
 upon these motives only, who appear to think it 
 impious to support any other — Impious! they do 
 not find their doctrine in the religion they profess. 
 The great author of nature has not pronounced 
 so sad and melancholy a sentence upon his last 
 and best work. It is man alone who has thus 
 dared to libel man; " Conscience, conscience!" — 
 exclaims the most eloquent, and most fascinating 
 of writers, " instinct divine! immortal and celes- 
 " tial voice, secure guide of a being ignorant and 
 " limited, but intelligent and free, infallible judge 
 *' of good and evil, that renderest man like God, 
 " it is thou that constitutest the excellence of his 
 
 " nature, 
 
44 
 
 ^* liature, and the morality of his actions— -without 
 " thee, I feel nothing in myself that elevates me 
 " above the brutes, but the mournful privilege 
 " of wandering from error to error, by the aid of 
 " an understanding without rule, and a reason 
 " without principle." * Another dispute which 
 Montford conducted with more than his usual 
 warmth, was upon the different political cha- 
 racters of the day ; Mr. M. practised in the hack- 
 neyed sentiments of the world, made success his 
 only criterion of excellence.- — " The long-con- 
 " tinned minister, must be as commanding in 
 " intellect as in power, as rich in virtue as 
 " authority, the sense and feeling of the pub- 
 " lie were so clear and just, that popularity 
 " could only be the well-earned reward of real 
 " and extensive merit ;" Montford repelled these 
 ideas with all his ardour — " Success, he contend- 
 " ed, so far from being the certain stamp of 
 " merit, ought generally to be considered as a 
 " proof of many slippery arts, which morality 
 " must blush to own, of many mean submissions, 
 " from which the pride of talents must turn in 
 " disgust." — " Really," cried he, " when I meet 
 " one of these men, called great, who are so 
 
 " admired 
 
 ^ Rousseau's Emile, vol, ii. 
 
45 
 
 " admired and idolized, I can scarcely refrain 
 " from a sentiment of pity, at the considera- 
 " tion of all the humiliations, the sacrifices of 
 " opinion, the desertion of friends, the contra* 
 " dictions, the tergiversations, the concealments, 
 *' which he must have not only endured, but soli- 
 " cited, to arrive at his envied eminence — Shall 
 " we make success our only measure in estimating 
 " the characters of men — Let us imagine one of 
 " a comprehension of mind equal to the most 
 " extensive subject, who has discussed every to- 
 '* pic in a manner that leaves nothing to be added 
 " either by the politician, or the philosopher, 
 " who, without weakening his arguments, intro- 
 " duces those general principles, those excursive 
 " allusions, those bursts of genius, which will give 
 " his orations life, when the circumstances that oc- 
 *' casioned them shall be buried in oblivion, who 
 " disdaining the least contrivance, or disguise, 
 " and with a certainty of being rewarded for a 
 " contrary conduct, declares what he thinks, 
 *' equally in defiance of the threats of power, and 
 " the hisses of the populace, and this, when his 
 " circumstances do not raise him above the want 
 " of the emoluments of office, and while the 
 " generous softness of his temper renders popu- 
 " larity only less dear than his duty. Let us 
 " imagine this man with a warmth of heart 
 
 " which 
 
46 
 
 " which the desertion of friends has not chilled, 
 " a simplicity of character undiminished by the 
 " dissipation of youth, an ardent patriotism, per- 
 " severing through the long and blind ingrati- 
 " tude of his countrymen, forsaking the retire- 
 " ment he loves, and still standing forth on every 
 " occasion, the grand unmanaging advocate of 
 " liberty and peace. Is it possible, is it possible," 
 cried Montford, " to suppose such a character, 
 " and say that success is the only criterion of 
 " excellence ?'' 
 
 To the older and more experienced, opinions 
 like these may appear hyperbolical and extrava- 
 gant. But Montford was young — he had seen 
 little of men — his knowledge was chiefly the 
 result of self-contemplation. 
 
 While I am displaying the sentiments of my 
 friend, let me not forget her, who, I once fondly 
 thought, would have crowned them with their 
 brightest reward. Louisa, who had already made 
 great advances in all the usual accomplish- 
 ments of her sex, and rank, was now studying 
 Italian. Montford undertook to be in part her 
 instructor. I could perceive that this employ- 
 ment proved sufficiently dangerous to both 
 parties. Was it to shew how justly the Italian 
 
 language 
 
47 
 
 language has been called the language of love, 
 how admirably the variety of its terminations, 
 its lengthened harmony, its frequent adaptation 
 of the sound to the meaning, form it for the exhi- 
 bition of all the vicissitudes of passion. Perhaps 
 the employment of master and pupil on any 
 other subject, would have produced the same 
 effect, nor would I imply, however distantly, and 
 indirectly, that my countrymen must turn to 
 other shores for the expression of a feeling they 
 understand so well. Whatever it might be, Mont- 
 ford lost something of his vivacity. Louisa's 
 seemed to increase, but it was frequently only 
 assumed. This change did not escape the penetra- 
 ting eyes of an affectionate mother, but it was not 
 displeasing to her. Montford, she thought, the 
 man in the world most calculated to render her 
 daughter happy. Wealth was sufficient on one 
 side, and the natural generosity of Mr. Harley's 
 temper, with his great affection for his daughter, 
 would make the conquest, ever a favourite object, 
 not only easy, but pleasing. I was happy in find- 
 ing and encouraging these sentiments, which ex- 
 actly accorded with my own. We by no means 
 concealed from ourselves that Montford's birth 
 and situation were objections, but his character, 
 we thought, more than justified us in overlook- 
 ing them. This appeared to us one of the extra- 
 ' ordinary 
 
4S 
 
 ordinary pases, whieh even Mr. Harley allowed td 
 be eixceptions to His general maxims. 
 
 In the mean ti^e, Montford frequently saw 
 his friend the count. I h^d perceived, that 
 though, like thfe rest of the party, he generally 
 took his gun with him for his morning walks, 
 he seldom brought hack any game. He had 
 either lost his skill, or had found sonle other 
 employment. At last, after some days fruitless 
 search, I perceived him sitting on a bank, talk- 
 ing with the count, who was labouring in the 
 ditch below ; and thus he had passed many of his 
 mornings. On coming up, I found M. de Lian- 
 court asking him to come and dine at the cottage 
 the first vacant day. " Yes, and I shall be glad 
 " to see your friend, Mr. Harley," said he smil- 
 ing, " it will be the first dinner I have given 
 " since I left Paris." The invitation w^is eagerly 
 accepted by us both, and no time or circum- 
 stances will ever efface it from my memory. On 
 the day fixed, we prepared to fulfil our engage- 
 ment. Amongst the various improvements on 
 my uncle's estate, none he more delighted in, 
 than in making the habitations of his tenants 
 not only comfortable, but picturesque. They 
 were generally built by the side of a wood, and 
 surrounded \yith evergreens spreading over the 
 
 walls. 
 
49 
 
 walls. It may be supposed the count would 
 not be placed in the worst of these, and that 
 Louisa would spare neither taste nor expense in 
 its decorations ; it was a most pleasant retire- 
 ment. As we drew nearer, we perceived its 
 illustrious tenant standing upon the threshold of 
 the door, leaning against one of the posts : in- 
 deed it was not possible for him to stand per- 
 fectly upright: on seeing us he came forward, 
 and, saluting us, offered us a seat on a little 
 bench, placed in a garden at a small distance 
 from the cottage — " This shall be our drawing 
 " room," said he, waving his hand in a circle. 
 It was a fine autumnal day, and as fine a pros- 
 pect as ever nature presented lay stretched out 
 before us, varied with all the colours of the 
 season. Montford attempted to make some re- 
 mark, but his words could not find their way; 
 we sat down in silence, which was not inter- 
 rupted 'till a little girl came to tell us that the 
 dinner was ready. The table preparations were 
 all in the lowest stile of our English peasantry, 
 but it is almost superfluous to say, that the count 
 was not in the least confused. On the contra- 
 ry, he expressed great pleasure, and pressing 
 Montford's hand warmly, said, while his 
 words seemed to come from the bottom of his 
 heart, " On my honour I do not think I ever 
 
 D " gave 
 
50 
 
 «« gave the most splendid feast with more satis- 
 " faction." When he had said this, however, a 
 convulsion of pain shot across his countenance, 
 and turning away, he could not forbear stamping 
 his foot against the floor. Perhaps he recollected 
 his wife, who in his better days, presided at his 
 table. 
 
 The world would not have thought our din- 
 ner very amusing, for it passed in silence. It 
 was not 'till some time after it that the count re- 
 covered his composure, and Montford his spi- 
 rits; we then entered into various conversation. 
 The favourite topic of the count seemed to be 
 history, but I perceived in him an anxiety to re* 
 move himself as far as possible from his own 
 times. He seemed to dwell with most delight 
 Upon those of the Roman greatness. Here the 
 principal objects of his attention seemed not to 
 be so much victories and triumphs, and works 
 which depend upon multitudes, as the characters 
 of individuals ; some of these indeed, though 
 probably he had not taken them for his models, 
 appeared to be revived in himself. He derided, 
 more severely than Montford allowed, the con- 
 duct of Tully in his exile, and drew from it the 
 conclusion, that most of his splendid actions 
 arose, rather from the gratification he received 
 
 in 
 
61 
 
 in the incense of a great capital, than from 
 patriotism, or a love of virtue. " The two last,'* 
 he said, " being unconnected with self, do not 
 " actuate us with sufficient violence to render us 
 " miserable ^y hen we ca.n no longer gratify them. 
 ** He who is conscious of having lost no op- 
 " portunity for this purpose, will be content 
 " in the most melancholy exile ; he can dwell 
 " with delight upon the past, he can warm his 
 " imagination with splendid visions, which are 
 " accompanied almost with the pleasures of reali- 
 '^ ty. And as for the mere circumstance of 
 " living alone," he continued, " what wise man 
 " would it oppress? how many recollections of 
 " the follies, and littlenesses, and vices of man- 
 " kind, would relieve the momentary depressions 
 ** of solitude. Who could regret a world where 
 " the noble and generous make continual sacri- 
 " fices, without the chance of return ; where 
 " the inclination to injure is measured only by 
 " the, patience of the sufferer; where affection 
 *' bleeds under the lash of prudence, too cold 
 " to feel, and too timid to reward. Look at 
 *' the. men most remarkable for talents or vii:- 
 " tues. Towards the close of their lives they 
 *' generally retire, if not disgusted with man- 
 " kind, at least preferring solitude. Is it not 
 " then better to anticipate experience, and practice 
 " its lessons before disappointment has soured the 
 
 D 5 " temper 
 
55 
 
 " temper, or disease impaired the powers, or dis- 
 " sipation has disqualified us for moderate plea- 
 " sures, or tranquil enjoyments." " Alas!" said 
 Montford, " I know not whether I should congra- 
 " tulate or pity a man whose mind is so regulated 
 " There surely must be moments," — De Lian- 
 court quickly turned his head, and fixing his 
 eyes upon Montfi)rd — *' right, right," said he, 
 vehemently, " there are moments when the nerves 
 " and sinews fail, when the pride of heroism sinks, 
 " when all the pomp and splendor of this stoic 
 " virtue were cheaply exchanged for one glance 
 " of friendship or one embrace of love ;" then, 
 with a voice half faultering, he continued, " on 
 " my soul you have made a woman of me." We 
 now unavoidably fell upon topics which more 
 nearly interested our feelings, and the count gave 
 us something of his history. 
 
 His father, a man of strong understanding, 
 but not free from caprice in his determinations, 
 had perceived long before the event took place, 
 the probability of a revolution, and resolved to 
 educate his son in the manner he thought most 
 likely to qualify him for whatever changes of 
 fortune might occur. For this purpose, he 
 adopted, as nearly as he found practicable, the 
 system recommended by Rousseau in the Emile. 
 The limbs of his infant son were not bound up 
 
 in 
 
53 
 
 in bandages, but suffered to take the full benefit 
 of nature, at a time when this mode of treat- 
 ment bore the name of cruelty or insanity. A 
 tutor was chosen, not for the solemnity of his 
 deportment, but for the uprightness of his mind; 
 and the gentle pliability of his manners ; these 
 virtues were not deemed incompatible with the 
 age of twenty -five years. Thus situated, the 
 young count de Liancourt became another Emile. 
 Uncorrupted nature was the only rule, reason 
 sometimes regulated, but never contradicted or 
 opposed. At twelve y^ars of age he had scarce- 
 ly opened a book, nor had he charged his me- 
 mory with a number of words, he perhaps would 
 not have been able to understand, but all the 
 knowledge supposed to be really within his reach, 
 had been carefully impressed upon his mind, by 
 strong and lively examples. At fifteen he had 
 read a little, but in light and amusing works, 
 calculated at the same time to display the powers 
 of man in different situations ; he also knew 
 something of natural philosophy, though not 
 by studying in his closet. Between fifteen and 
 twenty, he had made history his principal pur- 
 suit, but this not so much to collect a catalogue 
 of battles and processions, as to discover the 
 character of nations and individuals. In the 
 mean time he had become a practical farmer, 
 
 had 
 
54 
 
 had learne4 to sow, to plough, to dig, and went 
 through the most laborious exercises of agricul- 
 ture, as seriously and diligently as the meanest 
 peasant. But I should weary the reader by pro- 
 ceeding further in the history of the count's edu- 
 cation, as I should but give an analysis of a 
 well-known book, which, with all its faults, can- 
 not be read without the most lively interest, and 
 the most beneficial effects. 
 
 There was one sentiment unknown in the 
 Emile, which the old count de Liancourt en- 
 couraged in his son, that of family pride — not 
 the vulgar pride, which induces a man of noble 
 birth to fancy himself made of different materials 
 from his fellow-creatures, but that by which he 
 considers himself as the representative of the vir- 
 tues of his ancestors, and bound to maintain such 
 a situation by his own, 
 
 For the rest, it is enough to say, that under the 
 direction of his Mentor, the count de Liancourt had 
 resisted the pleasures of the capital, had formed an 
 attachment to a lady, equal to himself in rank, and 
 almost in merit, that after spending two years in 
 travelling, he had married this object of his first 
 and only love. In relating this part of his history, 
 his voice faultered, and his strong and manly 
 
 frame, 
 
55 
 
 frame, I speak without any exaggeration, seemed 
 absolutely to sink under his agitation. 
 
 The father dying, the present count came 
 into possession of his estates in 1791 — he was so 
 disgusted with the profligate manners of the 
 coui t, where even appearances were disregarded, 
 that he resided almost entirely in the country. 
 He rejoiced in the beginning of the revolution, 
 which, he thought, would go little further than 
 to alarm the great personages of the kingdom 
 into some attention to their characters. He had 
 even welcomed with pleasure the constitution of 
 17 93 J but when he perceived the atrocious con- 
 duct of the second assembly, and that the fermen- 
 tation was working downwards to the very dregs 
 of the people, he was alarmed, came to Paris, 
 and endeavoured to form a party which might in 
 some degree counteract the effects of popular 
 frenzy. It was now he found the want of those 
 conciliating manners which alone can hold men 
 together, and which will ever be the great desi- 
 deratum in persons educated like him. He con- 
 jured the nobles by every motive that could be 
 supposed to actuate them, to remain within the 
 kingdom, and rally round the throne* All w;as in 
 vain — the event is well known. He however re- 
 mained 'till the most visionary enthusiast could 
 
56 
 
 no longer have any hope of a prosperous change. 
 Such was the count de Liancourt. 
 
 Returning home, Montford expressed his 
 hopes that the countess de Liancourt was not 
 dead. He thought it possible she might be in 
 England, perhaps in London, and determined to 
 make every inquiry. All other considerations 
 were for the moment forgotten, and he vowed he 
 would leave Essex the next morning. — We were 
 conversing on this subject, when we met Mrs. 
 Harley and Louisa taking their evening walk. 
 We described to them the day we had passed. 
 Louisa regretted it should be thought necessary 
 to exclude the ladies from such scenes. " But 
 '^ perhaps whea you have discovered the coun- 
 " tess, I too shall be invited," " you will be de- 
 " lighted,'' I replied, " with the acquaintance, 
 " you will then have ah opportunity of making,'* 
 " he is indeed a most extraordinary man," said 
 Montford, " see," said I, looking full at him, 
 " the effects of a well regulated mind, in de 
 " Liancourt all the passions are extinct," " all 
 " but one," exclaimed Montford warmly, *' that 
 " shall never leave him ; adversity, you see, 
 " cannot shake it ; aye, when youth is flown, 
 ^' still shall it glimmer with a beautiful, though 
 *\ feeble lustre, even to the grave" — At this mo- 
 ment 
 
57, 
 
 ment Louisa's eyes met his. Immediately after- 
 wards he offered her his arm, she accepted it, 
 Mrs. Harley took mine, and thus we walked on 
 to the house. 
 
 As we drew near, the rest of the party, who 
 had just left the table, sallied forth from the 
 door. Whether it was that Mr. Harley had heard 
 some insinuation unfavorable to Montford, or 
 that there was a confidence in Louisa's manner, 
 as she leaned upon my friend's arm, he treated 
 them both with great asperity during the rest 
 of the evening. Was this wise? by involving 
 them in a common misfortune, did he not in- 
 crease their mutual intrest. Montford was angry, 
 Louisa distressed — the same temper continued the 
 next day ; it seemed to be increased at dinner, 
 and the cloth was scarcely removed, when Mr: 
 Harley indulged himself with a tone not perfect- 
 ly mild, in the following remark. " The news- 
 " paper to-day gives us a fine instance of the 
 " degeneracy of the times ; here is a peer of the 
 '' realm who has married his daughter to an apo- 
 *' thecary." 1 could not help smiling at this 
 singular mode of vengeance ; however, it drew 
 from Mr. M. a long dissertation upon the 
 danger of the degradation of noble families. I 
 was not certain how Montford would conduct 
 
 himself 
 
58 
 
 himself on this occasion ; I knew that his ideas in 
 a great measure accorded with my uncle's, but 
 there were some powerful motives to incline him 
 to the opposite side. However, I was not long at a 
 loss. He followed the impulse of the moment, and 
 poured forth his thoughts with his usual impe- 
 tuosity and sincerity — they were to this purport. 
 " In modern Europe there seem to be two pre- 
 " vailing sentiments or passions, actuating more 
 " or less every state of which it is composed. One 
 " of these takes its rise in a very distant period; 
 " it is a feeling of pride, than which none seems 
 " more natural to the human heart, arising from 
 " illustrious descent ; the other is of later date, 
 " depends upon commerce ; it is also a feeling 
 " of pride, arising from great possessions. It ap- 
 " pears that the due balance of these two sentir 
 " riients is most intimately connected with the 
 " happiness and prosperity of countries. Where 
 " family pride reigns, to the exclusion of the 
 "other, weakness and degradation seem tofol- 
 " low, as in Spain. Where the pride of wealth 
 " has the sam€ excess, we see the same conse- 
 ** quences, as in Holland. England was once 
 '♦ miserably subjugated to its nobles. Commerce 
 ** gave it liberty, happiness, and grandeur. It is 
 <' now, I, think, apparent, that this commerce 
 " requires a check in its turn-^ wealth is increas- 
 ' -r', *' ing 
 
59 
 
 " ing beyond calculation, the nobility is propor- 
 " tion^-bly degraded, almost the only title to 
 " consequence is opulence. 
 
 " In comparing these two passions in their 
 " excess, I do not hesitate to give the prefe- 
 " rence to the former — when the pride of 
 " wealth predominates, our clothes are well 
 " manufactured, our food is luxurious, our 
 " houses are spacious; to balance these ad- 
 " vantages, literature is disregarded, the man- 
 " ners become vulgar, and the morals are not 
 " only vicious, but gross ; the spirits of men grow 
 " dull and heavy; they shrink from exertion, 
 ^' they fall into the worst of slavery, in losing 
 *' even the wish to be free; and may it not be 
 " said of this passion, that while it degrades al- 
 " most to the brutes inferior men, there is none 
 " more dangerous even to the best. 
 
 " On the other hand, the natbral concomi- 
 ** tants of the pride of family, are a spirit of 
 *' honour, refinement of manners, a delicate re- 
 " spect for sex, purity of morals ; it is hostile 
 " to liberty, but it does not render the mind in- 
 " capaible of exertion, or destroy its elasticity; 
 •* it frequently miakes common men ridiculous, 
 "' but, where it meets one of higher bearing, it 
 
 *' discovers 
 
60 
 
 " discovers itself in the patronage of literature, 
 " the relief of distress, hospitality to strangers, 
 " a lofty superiority to fortune ; it is then, as 
 " it were, a second conscience, and feels no 
 " shock but in dishonour." Montford was still 
 continuing in this manner, when Louisa, who 
 was sitting between him and me, involuntarily 
 sighed. I had been endeavouring to defend his 
 interests better than he seemed to be aware of, 
 and now I suddenly lost the most powerful of 
 my adversaries, for my poor friend could not ut- 
 ter a word more on the subject. He sat not only 
 silent, but immovable. He would not for the 
 universe have turned his eyes towards Louisa. 
 She, conscious of the cause of interruption in the 
 conversation, was equally confused — Fortunately 
 however I succeeded in turning the attention of 
 the company to some other circumstance — The 
 rest of the evening Louisa was dejected and out 
 of spirits — her father's displeasure had prepared 
 her for this depression, and the conversation du- 
 ring dinner was not calculated to remove it ; the 
 only persons she seemed to speak to with any 
 pleasure, were her mother and myself With her 
 mother it was affection and love, with me grati- 
 tude for what she considered as an obligation. 
 Montford she treated with coldness and reserve ; 
 he affected cheerfulness, but never was a disguise 
 
 so 
 
61 
 
 so ill-assumed, and if the opinions, he had just 
 discovered, had not reassured Mr. Harley, his 
 manners would now have inevitably disclosed his 
 situation. They disclosed it to me, and in a degree 
 that alarmed me. I began to fear that I had not 
 sufficiently considered the effects of a violent 
 passion, which must at all events meet with 
 many obstacles, upon a temper like his. 
 
 At length, watching an opportunity when 
 Louisa was disengaged, he approached her with 
 timid deference and spoke to her, but in so low 
 a voice, that I had to conjecture his meaning. I 
 could hear scarcely articulated, the word " of- 
 *' fence." Louisa quickly replied, " No, no,'* 
 and turned from him in evident distress — After 
 a slight struggle with herself, she hastened into 
 another room. I ventured to follow her. We 
 walked arm in arm, for some time, and then sat 
 down; " her father's displeasure," I said, 
 " would quickly be at an end, it would be very 
 ^' transient." Though she must have been far from 
 supposing that I did not understand the real 
 cause of her distress, she seemed relieved by the 
 suggestion that 1 was ignorant of it ; she was still 
 however unable to answer me, or at least was 
 fearful of trusting herself with speech. At this 
 moment Mrs. Harley joined us, and sitting down 
 
 by 
 
62 
 
 by her daughter's side, and taking her. hand, 
 spoke to her with the softest and tenderest affec- 
 tion. This was too much for Louisa to bear; she 
 gazed at her for some time, then throwing her 
 arms round her neck, in an instant covered her 
 with tears and kisses. I now left them, but in 
 going out I could just hear interrupted with sobs, 
 the words ; " Yes, yes, yes, my dearest mother, 
 '' I will be all you can wish, all my father can 
 " wish," " you are already, my dearest Louisa ; 
 " all we can wish, our boast, our pride" — Alas I 
 how is this answer verified, by an affliction that 
 seems to increase with time. 
 
 After some time Mrs. Harley and Louisa 
 rejoined the company, the latter with composure, 
 and even cheerfulness ; Montford too, recovered 
 something of his spirits, and the evening was 
 passed with less ennui than I expected. The 
 next day had been fixed for our departure, and 
 late events did not induce me to alter it. Mont- 
 ford would willingly have prolonged his stay, 
 but Mrs. Harley carefully avoided giving him 
 the least invitation. Early in the morning she 
 took an opportunity of speaking to me upon the 
 mutual passion of her daughter and my friend ; 
 we agreed that aU we had to dread arose from 
 precipitation, that the least rashness, by inflam- 
 ing 
 
63 
 
 ing Mr. Harley's temper, would inevitably 
 destroy the happiness of all parties. I promised 
 to watch over Montford. " I shall have a much 
 i* easier task,'* said she, " in my ward I shall know 
 ** every feeling, inclination, and wish, as soon 
 " as they are known to herself ; yet, this conceal- 
 " ment from my husband is most irksome to me ; 
 " well, well, I can excuse myself, when I think 
 " of the merits of your friend." 
 
 When we took our leave, Louisa had forgiven 
 her delinquent, and, in spite of absence, I never 
 knew him in better spirits than as we rode to- 
 wards London. 
 
 We slept at an inn upon the road, and in 
 the morning continued our journey. I perceived 
 from Montford' s looks, that he had something 
 strongly impressed upon his mind, which he 
 wished to communicate to me. At length, as we 
 were riding leisurely alongi he told me, with an 
 air not perfectly disengaged, that he had deter- 
 mined to leave the university, that the mode of 
 life there no longer suited him, that he was re- 
 solved to enter into some profession, which 
 might lead him to eminence and character. I 
 understood this sudden ambition, and contenting 
 myself with shortly stating some objections, 
 
 changed 
 
64 
 
 changed the subject. The day following how- 
 ever, I found his intentions had taken a more po- 
 sitive form, and that he had really fixed upon 
 the law as his future employment. Casting up 
 my eyes to his, I asked him, if he had forgotten 
 the countess de Liancourt. He was silent for a 
 moment, but it was a moment of deep self-re- 
 proach. The thought of having forgotten his 
 friend, threw him into a state of humiliation and 
 self-abasement, which seemed to bend him to the 
 earth; at length he warmly exclaimed — " I 
 " will think only of my noble friend, and if the 
 " woman he so much loves, is to be found or 
 " heard of in this country, I will discover her.'* 
 We instantly set out upon our search. I rejoiced 
 in this new object of attention, but I grieved to 
 perceive the degree of irritation into which his 
 mind had fallen. 
 
 After three days spent in fruitless inquiries, 
 we for the present relinquished them. Montford 
 was still bent upon his new project of the law, 
 and soon became impatient of contradiction upon 
 the subject. I stated all the objections that 
 suggested themselves to me, both to the pro- 
 fession itself, and to his particular character as 
 applied to it. I reminded him, that no study 
 could be more hostile to all the rules and 
 
 methods 
 
65 
 
 methods of science, that its decisions were 
 founded merely on precedents, that it was pro- 
 verbially dry and unentertaining, that it engaged 
 a man in perpetual noise and tumult, which, if 
 •they invigorated the understanding, destroyed 
 both liberality and dignity, that its constant 
 disputes, and the liberty allowed in them to the 
 contending parties, tended to the utter destruction 
 of whatever was pleasing in the manners, and that 
 in this view, a court of justice was diametrically 
 opposed to a court of honour, that the prizes 
 held out were few, and that the attainment of 
 these depended not upon a man's own merit; 
 that the public life into which it seems to intro- 
 duce its votaries, with its robe, its eloquence, and 
 its specious dignity, were formidably contrastied 
 with the obscure drudgery of a special pleader's 
 office; that it required a temperament laborious, 
 constant, secure from the impulses and tempta- 
 tions of the moment, that with all possible 
 .advantages, success could not be expected, 'till 
 near the decline of life. This last observation 
 alone seemed to have any effect upon Montford. 
 It was not indeed difficult to conjecture, that he 
 had not embraced the profession of the law for 
 itself, or with a view to legal eminence, but had 
 proposed a nearer and dearer reward to his 
 wished-for renown. After a moment's apparent 
 ^^ E consideration, 
 
66 
 
 consideration, however, he expressed his deter- 
 mination to persist, and make the trial; I found, 
 that by opposing him any farther, I should 
 inflame, rather than convince him ; but I deter- 
 mined to follow his example in leaving the 
 university, at least for a term, in order to guard 
 against any obstacles which* so irritable a state of 
 mind might oppose to the desire which now so 
 warmly actuated me. 
 
 At this time it required all my affection and 
 partiality, not to be frequently offended by 
 Montford's want of temper. He was indeed com- 
 pletely changed; his passion for Louisa had takeir 
 full possession of his mind; every thought, every 
 wish, was intimately connected with it ; to force 
 him into any other direction was insupportable 
 tyranny to him. At the same time he was con- 
 scious that prudence and patience were necessary. 
 ■In one of his laborious appeals to his judgment, 
 he allowed the danger of the least precipitation^, 
 and even promised to take no step without first 
 communicating it to me. These intervals of wis- 
 dom were short ; the idea of being compelled to 
 hide, or tamper with a feeling, which he con- 
 sidered as his greatest boast, returned, stimulating 
 almost to madness his frank and independant 
 disposition. Perceiving him, however, anxiously 
 
 employed 
 
employed in searching for a residence in one of 
 the inns of court, I took the opportunity of pay- 
 ing a visit to Cambridge, to make some necessary 
 arrangements there. I passed there little more 
 than a fortnight. On my return, what was my 
 surprize and mortification to find, that my 
 anxious cares were defeated, that all I so much 
 dreaded, had actually taken place. 
 
 A week after my departure, unable to endure 
 in solitude the feverish struggle between hope 
 and fear, he had paid a visit to Mr. HarleyV. 
 My uncle seems to have received him not without 
 surprize, but however, with a degree of cordiality, 
 which could only be accounted for by the recol- 
 lection, that his suspicions had been in great 
 measure allayed, by his discovery of Montford'a 
 opinions on certain points. Mrs. Harley was 
 cold and distant; no doubt she well perceived 
 the state of his temper, and the danger arising 
 from it. What had been his conversation with 
 Louisa, I could scarcely learn from him. Perhaps 
 in a moment of confidence she had confessed, that 
 with him alone she could be happy ; a tear might 
 have followed upon the remembrance of her 
 father's evident disapprobation ; perhaps her filial 
 affection preponderated, and her lover had been 
 treated with what he would call insufferable cold- 
 
 E ^ ness. 
 
6S 
 
 ness. AH I could certainly obtain from him wa», 
 that he had seen Louisa alone. After passing a 
 night at Mr. Ilarley's, he seems to have returned 
 in a state bordering on madness. Certainty either 
 way, was he thought, far preferable to the suspence 
 he suffered. At the same time he could not but 
 recollect the frequent cautions I had given him ; 
 the necessity of patience, of which his judgment 
 had been so often convinced, and the promise he 
 had made of taking no steps without my con- 
 currence. But in all self-discussions the passions 
 are eloquent; of wide and ample range; never 
 wearied in searching for auxiliary arguments ; 
 strengthening the weakest, embellishing the most 
 powerful ; the judgment is a dry, syllogistic 
 reasoner, unassuming, taking up but little room, 
 .speaking with a firm voice, that varying not with 
 the tones of controversy, becomes too low to be 
 heard in the tumult. Mpntford told me how 
 painfully and laboriously he had reasoned with 
 himself, how seriously he had deliberated upon 
 all I had formerly said to him; an indifferent 
 person might have supposed, that the measure 
 he had taken in my absence, which had been 
 nothing less than to write to Mr. Harley a 
 formal proposal of marriage with his daughter, 
 had been the result of the maturest wisdom, and 
 XhQ most profound prudence. 
 
 Calling 
 
6g^ 
 
 Calling upon him immediately after my return,' 
 I found him however in a situation little calculated ■ 
 to provoke my ridicule. Mr. Harley's answer to 
 his letter was lying upon the table. It was a decided, 
 and temperate refusal, without anger, though not 
 without something of a sarcastic taunt upon the 
 contradiction my friend had displayed between 
 his principles and his conduct. He concluded 
 with an acknowledgment of esteem and respect^ 
 and with an expression of hope, that, as his 
 daughter's affections were not seriously engaged, 
 she might not be troubled on the subject — that 
 the offer might thus be confined to the knoAV- 
 ledge of the two correspondents and Mrs. Harley. 
 
 Those alone who are capable of a strong at- 
 tachment, who know how every feeling and ha- 
 bit become associated in men of violent passions 
 with the object of their love, would give credit 
 to a description of the situation, in which I 
 found my friend. He had hoped without reason, 
 but the self-delusion had been cherished so as to 
 bear the appearance of reality. Life had long 
 appeared of no value, but as connected w^ith 
 Louisa, and if he had sought to decorate it with 
 the applauses of his fellow-men, it was because she 
 would partake them at his side. Now all was 
 changed — in the tumult of his mind he had 
 
 deemed 
 
70 
 
 deemed his success certain, at present his loss 
 appeared remediless; but an hour ago how 
 could he have checked his hopes, now what 
 should prevent his despair. I found him sitting 
 before his fire, his arms closely folded, and pres- 
 sed upon his bosom, his eye tearless and hxed, 
 his figure with nothing in it of the appearance of 
 rest. I addressed him in my usual manner, but 
 obtained from him no answer. I approached him, 
 and sat down by his side. — He turned his eyes 
 to me, and pointed to the letter I have menti- 
 oned. He was unable to utter a word. I read the 
 letter, and feeling at the moment no sensation 
 but that of pity for his sufferings, spoke to him 
 with the tenderest affection ; a deep sigh seemed 
 to shake his whole frame ; it was instantly follow- 
 ed by a flood of tears ; he rose from his chair and 
 flung out of the room. The reader, I am sure, 
 will not deride my friend as weak and unmanly, 
 nor is it necessary for me to appeal to the grave 
 to shelter him from ridicule and contumely ; no, 
 no. The affections which actuated him are the true 
 inheritance of the great and noble ; they may some- 
 times stimulate to frenzy, but it is short and transi- 
 ent, they resume their wonted course, to cherish, 
 adorn, delight ; equally fitted to every situation 
 of life, they enliven the country, they soften the 
 town ; they form the sum of our wishes at home 
 
 abroad 
 
n 
 
 abroad they give a higher colouring to new ob- 
 jects ; they are the brightest moment of prospe- 
 rity, the surest solace of adversity; alone they 
 give an uncontested title to esteem and honour, 
 without them the highest qualities sink into no- 
 thing ; wisdom becomes pride, and courage fero- 
 city. 
 
 In about an hour Montford returned, in a 
 state of great composure and tranquillity. I 
 could not avoid expressing my indignation at the 
 conduct he had pursued. He said he had not de- 
 termined upon it, 'till after the deepest convicti^ 
 on of its propriety. I was angry. I told him it 
 seemed folly to encourage his hopes any farther. 
 He agreed with me — his coldness surprized me. 
 I forgot at the moment how generally a strong 
 agitation is succeeded by a dull repose, that only 
 forebodes a violence still more alarming than the 
 first. He now talked much upon the madness 
 of indulging in any degree the passion of love, 
 and argued most severely upon its consequences, 
 as unfitting a man for any of the important duties 
 of life, destroying his interest in whatever was 
 great and valuable, rendering him forgetful of 
 his promises and friends. I expressed my regret 
 that this flood of light should not have burst in 
 upon him, before be had put to hazard the peace 
 
 of 
 
72 
 
 of a whole family, " and has not my peace been: 
 " equally exposed," said he, pettishly, "It 
 " seems pretty well restored at present," I repli- 
 ed, and hastily wishing him good morning, left 
 him. I had never thought ill of him before. I 
 have often regretted my injustice in this instance, 
 yet let me rejoice, that in a long and near inter- 
 course, it is the only offence towards him of 
 which I can accuse myself. 
 
 The next morning before I had risen, Mont- 
 ford called upon me. His looks sufficiently be- 
 spoke the misery of the night he had passed* 
 I was alarmed by them ; he reproached me, not 
 with anger, but sorrow, for having left him so ab- 
 ruptly the day before, I confessed that his lan- 
 guage had really chagrined me, " ah," said he, 
 ** if you know what a paroxysm of pain has fol- 
 " lowed, how I have been torn and lacerated 
 " the whole of this horrid night, you would for- 
 *' give me," "forgive you I" I replied, " for 
 " heaven's sake, Montford, be not thus melan- 
 " choly, perhaps there is as little reason for your 
 " present despair, as there was for your past 
 " confidence," " Nay^ nay, no more of that," said 
 he, " I have no hope left, but do not you for- 
 *'' sake me — bear, l^ear with me, and I shall not 
 " have lost all." We passed the whole day toge- 
 ther, 
 
73 
 
 ther, his melancholy continued without any inter- 
 vals of cheerfulness, but it was calm and placid, 
 and free from the least violence or agitation. He 
 talked upon the mild virtues of Mrs. Harley, the 
 spotless excellence of Louisa. He accused himself 
 of want of delicacy towards the latter, yet he 
 hoped she would pardon him, for his crime had 
 been in loving " too well," to love wisely. He 
 spoke of Mr. Harley in the highest terms, prais- 
 ing his high spirit of honour, his hospitality, his 
 generosity; his answer he said was worthy of 
 him in every point of view, firm and temperate, 
 dignified without pride. He acknowledged, that 
 all the misery he suffered, arose from himself a-f 
 lone; then drew a picture of himself, the out- 
 lines of which were just enough, but in the fi- 
 nishing, he exaggerated his defects, and threw his 
 excellencies into shade. All was humiliation, de- 
 jection, self-abasement. Oh ! that Mr. Harley had 
 heard the discourse of my friend on this day. 
 how would he, who alone could have given it a 
 higher tone, have rejoiced in the exercise of his 
 power I 
 
 Montford did not leave me 'till late at night. 
 When I was alone, the first object of my meditati- 
 on was to discover some plan, which by engag- 
 ing his mind, might distract it from its situation. 
 Nothing appeared tome better calculated for this 
 
 purpose, 
 
74 
 
 purpose, than a tour upon the continent. The 
 time undoubtedly could not be more interesting. 
 It was now the October of 1801. After a violent 
 convulsion, the effects of which had been felt at the 
 extremities of the civilized world, things seemed 
 returning to their natural order. The vestiges of 
 misery would prove an useful lesson ; the mere 
 idea of visiting in confidence and peace a vast 
 continent, whose countries and states had been so 
 long and rancorously divided against each other, 
 was elevating and consoling ; I knew that these 
 motives would have a strong effect upon Mont- 
 ford's mind, and so impatient was I to suggest 
 them to him, that I could hardly wait for the 
 morning. 
 
 When I called upon him, I found him 
 still dejected and melancholy, and my pro- 
 posal seemed to plunge him still deeper, 
 " What!" said he, " is it necessary that the 
 " sea should divide her from me, is hope 
 " so entirely at an end?" " I would revive it," 
 I replied, " by the gentle nourishment of pru- 
 *' dence ; if passion again interferes, it will be 
 *^ torn up by the roots ; leave it to the tender 
 " care of her who wishes for its growth as anx- 
 " iously as yourself, and all may perhaps be sue- 
 ** cessful." Upon hearing this he called loudly 
 for his servant, and in a tone of vexation, ordered 
 
 him 
 
75 
 
 him. to prepare for along journey. The man, not 
 used to such imperious orders, stood some time 
 with the door ajar, his countenance strongly ex- 
 pressing surprize. There was something so ludi- 
 crous in the scene, that forgetting the purport of 
 my visit, I could not refrain from bursting into 
 laughter ; Montford laughed too, and the servant 
 retired, evidently pleased to see his master resto- 
 red to his usual good humour. His mirth how- 
 ever was very transient ; he relapsed into his 
 former state, but not without lamenting the 
 change he felt himself, he sai4, to have under^ 
 gone in his temper. The opportunity seemed fa- 
 vourable to press the scheme of oi^r journey. I 
 urged every argument that suggeste'd itself to me, 
 not forgetting, it may be supposed, the proba- 
 bility of gaining some information at Paris of the 
 countess de Liancourt. This last motive seemed to 
 make the strongest impression upon the present 
 state of his mind. His situation he thought was 
 in some respects similar to that of the count, and 
 keenly feeling his own misery, he was anxious 
 to relieve his friend's. He was going to give me 
 his consent at once, but recollecting in what a 
 light he had just appeared from his precipitation, 
 he checked himself, and promised me an answer 
 the following day. I left him better satisfied 
 
 than 
 
76 
 
 than if he had immediately acceded to my pro- 
 posal. 
 
 On my return to my lodgings, I found a let- 
 ter from Mrs. Harley, informing me that her 
 husband's health was by no means good, and that 
 he had determined to pass the winter with her- 
 self and Louisa at Bath. I well knew that, if 
 Montford should waver in his determination, this 
 letter would greatly tend to confirm him. The 
 idea of putting it out of his power to disturb the 
 peace of a sick man, would be grateful to him, 
 and his delicate aifection for Louisa would com- 
 pel him to acknowledge, that she could not be 
 employed in a manner more worthy of herself, 
 than in attending upon her father. The letter 
 had the effect I expected. Montford was more 
 strongly impressed than before with the necessi- 
 ty of relinquishing for the present any farther at- 
 tempt to gratify his hopes, and from this time 
 gave himself with as much ardor as I could ex- 
 pect, to the preparations for his journey. 
 
 His chief care was to write to De Liancourt, 
 in order to obtain whatever letters or instructions 
 might promote the success of his inquiries for 
 the countess. De Liancourt had been long so- 
 liciting 
 
77 
 
 llciting a permission from the French government 
 to return to France, though not with an intention 
 of residing there. He had however received a 
 peremptory refusal. His attachment to his so- 
 vereign was well known, and his abilities were 
 still perhaps the subject of dread. His answer to 
 Montford's letter was expressive of the deepest 
 gratitude and esteem. He rejoiced in confiding 
 an office on which all his hopes of happiness de- 
 pended, to a friend, whose zeal under any cir- 
 cumstances seemed incapable of abatement. 
 
 At length, when all was settled, I went to 
 Bath, both to see my uncle and inform him of 
 our determination. I found his health much 
 worse than I expected. A disorder, supposed to 
 be the gout, was flying about him, which refused 
 to yield to the usual remedies, or to assume a 
 more regular form. He approved of our inten- 
 tion, and peculiarly commissioned me with a 
 message full of good wishes to Montford ; it was 
 not in his nature to feel resentment long. Mrs. 
 Harley lamented my friend's rashness, which 
 once, she said, had nearly destroyed her hopes. 
 She had even resolved for a moment to break 
 the connexion entirely, but in making the at- 
 tempt, she had found with sorrow how much she 
 hazarded her daughter's happiness. She then 
 
 gave 
 
78 
 
 gave me some information upon the last interview 
 between Montford and Louisa, the circumstances 
 of which had been disclosed to the mother, 
 though they had been too dear and sacred for the 
 friend. When first he saw her, he had excused 
 his sudden visit, by alleging his uncertainty with 
 regard to her forgiveness ; she acknowledged her 
 sorrow, that he should have endeavoured to 
 strengthen the only error into which her father 
 could fall, " and was this the sole causT of your 
 " anger?" replied he, disappointed, " then fol- 
 " lowed," said Mrs. Harley to me with a smile, 
 " a long string of questions arid answers, which 
 '' you will guess far better than I could describe, 
 " but at last Louisa confessed, that with him, and 
 *' him alone, she could be happy." Mrs. Harley 
 then expressed her approbation of our plan, 
 and promised to make every effort, during our 
 absence, to effect what was now, she said, the 
 great object of her life. Louisa, if her delicacy 
 would have permitted her, would have asked me, 
 who proposed the journey, whether it had been 
 embraced with equal pleasure by both of lis, 
 when we meant to return, and a thousand other 
 questions. I endeavoured to anticipate them by 
 telling her much of the truth. When I bid her 
 farewell, she reminded me that I must not bring 
 back a wife from France. " I can answer for my 
 
 " friend," 
 
70 
 
 " friend," I said, " but not so certainly for my- 
 " self." A smile, half-contradicted by her moisten- 
 ed eye, played upon her countenance. I again 
 bade her farewell, and calling upon the count for 
 the promised letters, returned to London. 
 
 CHAP, 
 
81 
 
 CHAP. 11. 
 
 vJN the morning of our departure Montford 
 was unusually dejected; in the evening how- 
 ever, on our arrival at Dover, his spirits rose, and 
 he talked with interest of our intended tour. The 
 next day we embarked for Calais in the first 
 packet which had sailed since the termination of 
 th^ war. The beach was crouded with people who 
 hailed us as we receded from them. Montford' s 
 countenance brightened, and, as we stood toge- 
 ther on the deck, he talked to me with the viva- 
 city, which was in him at all times the parent of 
 pleasant and varied observation. 
 
 When we landed at Calais, it was impossible 
 not to be amused with the motley thrpUg of all 
 nations who croudecl round : us. Montford. pres- 
 
 F sed 
 
sed into the midst of them. Penetrating at once 
 into the character of every one who accosted him, 
 he put questions, and made remarks, which, he 
 knew, were best suited to exhibit it. After passing 
 more than half an hour in this manner, during 
 which I had been extremely entertained, and the 
 more so from the joy I felt in recognizing my 
 friend once more in the bright colouring of his 
 mirth, we went to the inn. But here, towards 
 evening, when the novelty of the scene was a 
 little worn off, he became again melancholy and 
 depressed. I would have encouraged him to 
 hope, but all my endeavours were fruitless. How- 
 ever, he found great consolation in expatiating 
 upon the virtues of her he had left, from whom 
 a narrow channel of only twenty miles, seemed 
 to divide him for ever. 
 
 The following morning we continued our 
 route to Paris. Though Montford's mind was never 
 disengaged, few objects escaped his notice. Still 
 however the impression of melancholy was con- 
 stantly discernible in this, that he dwelt at 
 length, and inexhaustibly upon whatever was cal- 
 culated to produce mournful sensations, while 
 subjects of a lighter cast were almost disregarded 
 by him. The vestiges of revolutionary rage and 
 war^ still visible in untenanted houses, ruined 
 
 churches, 
 
83 
 
 churches, stagnant manufactures and mendicant 
 poverty, afforded him his favorite themes ; from 
 these he would pass to a more general view of 
 things^ and mourn over the shock which the 
 cause of liberty itself had received, from so gla- 
 ring and frightful an instance, aS that which the 
 French revolution exhibited, of popular madness, 
 and still more from the military usurpation which 
 followed. Yet, he would say, I despise from my 
 soul those cold and timid reasoners, who from 
 the abuse of liberty in this instance, seem to argue 
 against the possibility of any rational enjoyment 
 of it. The violences, at which we shudder, were 
 owing, not so much to the attempt at reform, as 
 to that attempt being too long delayed^ and the 
 unfortunate circumstances, totally extrinsic, 
 which attended its progress. The French are, 
 I believe, the people on earth least suited to the 
 experiment of a revolution, yet, perhaps, if the 
 government had been in the first instance sincere, 
 above all, if the surrounding powers had not 
 interfered in a manner as unjust as imprudent; 
 the friends of liberty and humanity would have 
 had little to fear or regret* In all contests 
 between the governor and the people, the former 
 should recollect, that every exertion of patience 
 and forbearance, must originate with him — it 
 cannot be expected from an ignorant and impas-- 
 
 F 2 sianed 
 
S4 
 
 sioned mob.— Acting skilfully, and from reason, 
 he has weapons, of which they do not under- 
 stand the use ; but from the moment he follows 
 the impulse of vexation or anger, he puts himself 
 on a level with his opponents, and the brute 
 force to wjbich he has appealed, can alone decide 
 between them — the lover of rational liberty can 
 surely find nothing in the events of the French 
 revolution to alter his opinions — despotism still 
 undeviatingly tends to fetter industry, to debase 
 the genius, to paralize every species of exertion, 
 to humble — to degrade — to destroy. The arts, the 
 sciences, poetry, eloquence, all that the great 
 admire, or the good love, it chills and annihilates. 
 The most ignorant traveller would be able to 
 conjecture the nature of a government from the 
 appearance of the people he passes through. 
 Gross a mountain or a rivqr, and what an amazing 
 difference between man and man. Declamation 
 has exhausted itself upon the crimes and horrors 
 of the French revolution, and has still been 
 outrun by the facts. Reason will lament as 
 deeply, though perhaps less loudly, the silent 
 degradation, which, under the gloomy shade of 
 the despotic throne, steals along to the remotest 
 parts of its dominion. 
 
 We arrived at Paris the day before the festi-, 
 
 val 
 
S5 
 
 Tal in celebration of the general peace-— the 
 magnificence of the illumination, particularly on 
 the banks of the Seine, would almost defy 
 description: it was a brilliant testimony of na- 
 tional joy, on the termination of a war, mark- 
 ed by singular atrocities and horrors. Mont- 
 ford was exhilarated, and forgot that he had 
 any cause to be unhappy. 
 
 The day after, we hastened to deliver the 
 letters De Liancourt had given us. Of the five 
 persons to whom they were respectively addressed, 
 we only found one at Paris. The rest were either 
 emigrants, or had been still more unfortunate. 
 The gentleman we called upon, by subserviency 
 to the times, had contrived to stand well with 
 the different succeeding governments, and to 
 preserve the greatest part of his property- When 
 we entered the room where he was, he rose to 
 receive us with great politeness, and having read 
 De Liancourt's letter, without making any inqui- 
 ries after him, " Ah," said he, " I am delighted 
 *' to see you — my wife is going to give a party 
 " this evening — how happy will she be in the 
 ** honor of your company." "But, Madame 
 " de Liancourt," said Montford, "Ah!— la 
 " malhureuse!"— returned the Frenchman, with a 
 shrug of his shoulders—" she was thrown into 
 
 " prison 
 
86 
 
 " prison — I believe in the time of Roberspiere — 
 " Oh I my faith I — that was a time of horror I no 
 " man could depend upon personal security for 
 >' an hour — I myself, gentlemen, I assure you,'» 
 "But where is Madame de Liancourt now?" 
 said Montford, impetuously, with a look ill 
 repressed, of mingled contempt and anger. 
 " Ah! it is impossible to say — she was very ill 
 '' treated in prison, I believe — indeed her health 
 *' was very indifferent there, and to make things 
 " worse, she was brou2;ht to bed of a son." — 
 " What, in prison?" said Montford, " yes," he 
 replied, with another shrug more convulsive than 
 the first — -" but you don't know how happy I 
 " shall be to see you this evening — we assemble 
 " about ten o'clock, you must allow me to intro- 
 " duce my wife to you." But, sir," said I " can you 
 '* give us no further intelligence of Madame de 
 *' Liancourt ?*' — " She was surely liberated from 
 " prison at last," — interrupted Montford, warmly. 
 The gentleman, whose name I do not wish to re- 
 call, with frequent digressions of politeness, now 
 gave us to understand, that she had certainly 
 been liberated from prison, and had retired into 
 the country for the re-establishment of her health, 
 but whither she had gone, or where she resided, 
 he was utterly ignorant, and seemed very little 
 anxious to discover. He was equally incapable of 
 
 giving 
 
87 
 
 giving us information concerning those to whom 
 our other letters were addressed. ^' Ah!" said 
 he, as he ran out of the room to call his wife, 
 " all is changed — we are none of us where we 
 "ought to be." "Curses on his politeness," cried 
 Montford, as he shut the door; he immediately 
 returned, introducing his wife. When we rose 
 to leave them, they renewed their invitations for 
 the evening, which, as they afforded the most 
 probable means of pursuing our inquiries, we 
 .accepted^ 
 
 It was one of those parties, the same in 
 all countries, where numbers assemble for the 
 sake of relieving the dull monotony of home, 
 by the glare of light, the display of dress, 
 the noise and bustle of a crowd. Composed of 
 per&ons of all situations and professions, a 
 novice in the world would expect great amuse- 
 ment from such a variety of characters. But 
 unfortunately the conversation is too polite to 
 be interesting ; the only subjects introduced 
 are too unimportant for dissent ; the current 
 of opinion flows smooth and unruffled by a 
 breath of contradiction, and even those who 
 are capable of better things, are content to 
 escape the possibility of offending by rivalling 
 their inferiors in dullness and insipidity. We 
 
 obtained 
 
88 
 
 obtained introductions to all who were likely to 
 give us information upon De Liancourt's family 
 and affairs, but ignorance, or indifference, ever 
 defeated our wishes, Montford, vexed and de- 
 pressed, threw himself into a chair-— in the course 
 of the evening we received numerous invita- 
 tions, which we thought it necessary, for the 
 object we had in view, to accept. Montford, 
 though fond of gaiety, was soon wearied by 
 its continuance — in the present temper of his 
 mind he detested it altogether — I, who knew 
 how insupportably irksome it was to him, ac- 
 knowledged, with joy, the warmth of his attaclr 
 ments and his friendships. 
 
 And here let me join mine to the more 
 pointed censure of my friend, upon those of my 
 youthful countrymen, who, under the specious 
 name of travelling for the sake of studying the 
 characters of foreign nations, devote their whole 
 time to such parties as I have just mentioned, 
 and for a long period, adopt a line of life, of 
 which, in their own country, they would be 
 ashamed — -The consequence is, that they re- 
 turn to England far from being improved— their 
 passion for frivolous amusements is increased, 
 and the originality of their dispositions utterly 
 destroyed. Some, perhaps, may escape unhurt, 
 
 but 
 
' S9 
 
 but the more prudent will surely decline a cohr 
 test, ill which the defeat is attended with lasting 
 shame, and even the victory is without glory. 
 But they frequent thisse assemblies for improve* 
 ment and information— am I in error, when I 
 «ay,rthat the shades of national character are 
 scarcely visible in them; I am surprised when I 
 think how exactly similar a rout at Paris is to a 
 rout in London, if you except the costliness of 
 the furniture, and the luxury of the supper, 
 whi<?l| .^jegenerally superior in the latter; 
 ^jbiirp^ :t?orrf* ?f 1r " — '';^nlHi3moa pr s'lsfli " 
 The following day we walked through the gal- 
 lery of the Louvre. Montford, though a professed 
 connoisseur would not have allowed his know- 
 ledge of pictures, was an admirable critic upon 
 them. As we went through this magnificent 
 collection, the spoils of the south of Europe, he 
 pointed out the defects and beauties of each, 
 with his characteristic ardor. Had events taken a 
 more fortunate direction, how 1 should have 
 smiled at an incident which the mention of the 
 Louvre brings to my recollection— we were pas- 
 sing leisurely on, talking carelessly of the merits 
 of the different pictures, when Montford steadily 
 fixed his eyes upon one near the bottom of the 
 gallery, and seemed on a sudden equally unable 
 either to speak or listen to me — ^my eyes instinc- 
 ;y Mi tively 
 
90 
 
 tively followed his — they were fixed upon a beau- 
 tiful female head, by Carlo Dolci — it was in the 
 attitude of prayer — the mouth gently open — the 
 eyes finely expressive of adoration. I soon dis- 
 covered the cause of my friend's admiration — 
 indeed it was impossible not to perceive, particu- 
 larly in the contour of the forehead^ and the 
 arch of the eye-brows, a strong resemblance to 
 Louisa; — " There is a likeness, Charles," said I, 
 " it is the most beautiful picture in the room,'* 
 he returned--" about the forehead and the eyes 
 '' there is something" — " it is most exquisite,'* 
 said he^— he walked back along the gallery with 
 hurried and interrupted step — when we got to the 
 door, he said he would remain some time longer, 
 and then follow me to the hotel — ^^vell knowing 
 what an intruder I should be, I left him. 
 
 The same evening he sat down with an in- 
 tention of writing to De Liancourt, an account of 
 his ill success in his inquiries — after making a 
 beginning upon three different sheets of paper, 
 without writing one intelligible sentence, he re- 
 linquished the attempt, which I repeated with 
 more success. nadY/ ^gaiuil^ii' 
 
 We had not been above a fortnight at Paris, 
 during which time we had mingled as much as 
 
 possible 
 
9^1 
 
 possible in isociety, though without seeming to 
 advance to the attainment of our wishes, when I 
 received a letter from Mrs. Hadey. Louisa, she 
 told me, had, for some days after our departure, 
 appeared very much dejected, but that at the 
 time she wrote, her whole attention was devoted 
 to her father, whose indisposition evidently in- 
 creased. This misfortune, she added, must pre- 
 vent for the present any attempt to promote the 
 object she had so much at heart, but that, as the 
 physicians assured here there was nothing alarm- 
 ing in her husband's disorder, she considered 
 her intention as only deferred. 
 
 The part of the letter which related to Mr. 
 Harley, I thought it prudent to read to Mont- 
 ford — for the remainder of the day he was to- 
 tally unable to struggle with his depression. 
 Hope had reassumed its sway over him — had 
 painted to him Mrs. Harley's unremitting exer- 
 tions in his favor, and perhaps crowned those 
 exertions with success — the illusion was for this 
 day destroyed. " And is there not a word of 
 " Louisa?" said he, mournfully, as we were 
 going in the evening, very much against his will, 
 to the opera — ** She is constantly attending upon 
 *' her father," I replied — " And has forgotten 
 " me." I reproached him for the injustice of 
 
 this 
 
93 
 
 this last reflection, and reminded him, that from 
 the time he had first known her, she had never 
 given the least alarm to the vanity of his self- 
 love, or inspired in him, though he was not cer- 
 tainly of a phlegmatic temperament, any feeling 
 of jealousy. " True — true," cried he, warmly, 
 " she is all excellence^ — all loveliness — -I will 
 " confide in her without the shadow of a doubt." 
 Pursuing the reflections which these exclama- 
 
 o 
 
 tions of his were calculated to excite, I said, that 
 however he might regret his absence from 
 Louisa, I believed it would not be very injurious 
 to the success of his passion, even if all external 
 obstacles were removed. " You are paradoxical," 
 he returned. "I can easily explain myself, from 
 ** what I have seen of you lately, I am con- 
 •^ vinced, that if you had lived much with the 
 *' object of your love, your impetuous temper 
 *' would have given frequent alarms to the fasti- 
 " dious delicacy of affection; perpetual quarrels 
 *' would have arisen, in which momentary anger 
 " would have prevented you from seeing, that 
 ^* you only was to blame — repentance might 
 " have come too late, and in the midst of all 
 *' these tempests, love, that in the most brilliant 
 ^' part of its course, when fair laughs the morriy 
 " and soft the zephj/r blows^ is beset with so many 
 " dangers, might have sunk for ever." — '' Anger 
 
 « and 
 
9J 
 
 " and quarrels!" exclaimed he, " and from me 
 " who have never presumed to examine her con- 
 *' duct, much less to condemn it-— I should as 
 " soon have thought of questioning the dispen- 
 " sations of Providence." — " And yet, but a. 
 " moment ago," I returned, *' did you not re- 
 " proach her, and in absence, too?" — " You are 
 " a most acute critic," he said — " Yes I and 
 " while you live, Charles, I shall never want 
 •' any other volume." 
 
 - Not long after the receipt of Mrs. Harley's 
 letter, as we were sitting one morning in our 
 hbtel, a gentleman called upon us, who had 
 lately come from the south. He introduced him- 
 self by telling us of his connexion with a family 
 from whom we had received great civilities. " But 
 *' what induced him," he said, " to call upon us, 
 " was to give us some information upon the resi- 
 " dence of Madame de Liancourt, whom he had 
 " lately seen." Montford started from his chair,; 
 and with a look of impatience, begged him to 
 proceed. He then told us, " that Madame de Li- 
 " ancourt was living with her infant son in the 
 " neighbourhood of Avignon, in tranquillity 
 " and retirement, where her health, which had 
 " received a violent shock from the sufferings she 
 *^ had undergone, was much improved, and that 
 
 " she 
 
94 
 
 •' she omy waited for the time, when the com- 
 *' munication between the two countries should be 
 " opened, to follow her husband to England." — 
 We now made more particular inquiries into her 
 situation, but could obtain little satisfaction. Our 
 informant had been introduced to her accidental- 
 ly, without any previous acquaintance, and had 
 he not heard, on his arrival in Paris, of our 
 repeated and anxious inquiries, would probably 
 have thought no more of her. 
 
 It was now Montford's wish to set out imme* 
 diately for Avignon — I had nothing to oppose, 
 and we prepared for our journey. 
 
 Before I mention our departure, the reader 
 will, I hope, excuse me, if I make some extracts 
 from a letter written at this period by Montford 
 to his father. They will shew the impression 
 which his stay in this astonishing and amusing 
 city made upon the mind of my friend. — " Since 
 " my arrival here, I have been a good deal in the 
 " world, though, indeed, had not particular cir- 
 " cumstances decided otherw^ise for me, I am 
 " afraid I should have contented myself with the 
 " various exhibitions and occupations the public 
 *' supply — these are so magnificent, upon so large 
 *"' a scale, and relating to so many important sub- 
 
 " jects, 
 
** jects, that no stranger can want amusement or 
 " employment. You have often laughed at the 
 " desultory way in which I have obtained the 
 *' little knowledge I possess. Paris is just suited 
 *' to me in this respect — with very little trouble, 
 *' but that of walking from place to place, I 
 " might have acquired a little chemistry, a little 
 " botany, a little history, a little music, a slight 
 *' acquaintance with pictures and statues, some- 
 " thing of medicine, something of metaphysics, 
 " something of theology — in short, the only two 
 " subjects on which a Parisian can be supposed 
 •' entirely ignorant, are morality and politics — 
 *' the former he dislikes, and from the latter, he 
 " is deterred by his fears. As for society, at 
 " present it certainly is not agreeable — the perpe- 
 ^ tual warfare between the ancient nobility and the 
 " present favorites of fortune, render it both un- 
 " pleasant and dangerous — the vanquished party 
 " still pretend, and I dare say, justly, to supe- 
 *' riority in taste and manners — the latter are per- 
 " fectly satisfied with the enjoyment of their 
 '' newly acquired power. The government, you 
 " know, is purely military, and being composed 
 *' of new men, and only just established, it is 
 *' marked by considerable ferocity — this of course 
 " extends to the manners— hereafter the spirit of 
 *' honor and gallantry, natural to this mode of 
 
 " government, 
 
96, 
 
 " government, may find place, accompanied with 
 " the refinement and repose, which generally 
 " attend the hereditary and habitual enjoyment 
 "of splendid fortune — but this is far from being 
 " the case at present. The national character of the 
 " French it is difficult to appreciate — so volatile, 
 " I know not on what point to fix — it escapes me 
 " even while I am writing of it — the prominent 
 " characteristic seems to be, an amazing flow of 
 " animal spirits — this enables them to bear af- 
 *' fliction, I will not say with patience, for they 
 " really do not suffer — the conduct of a French- 
 " man under calamity, convinces me, not, that 
 " he is more of a philosopher than an English- 
 " man, but that he has less feeling — follow him 
 " to the dungeon where he is deprived of his 
 " family and friends, and surrounded by fellow- 
 " prisoners, whose number is daily diminished 
 " by public executions. Do you perceive any 
 " effort to resist melancholy and depression ? 
 " any noble struggle to throw off the burthen 
 " that weighs upon him? — On the contrary, he 
 " is still perfectly at his ease, enjoys the song 
 " and the dance, and so far from labouring under 
 " dejection of mind, it really would be more 
 " becoming, if he affected it in some degree. 
 " These animal spirits are only lost by being 
 " exhausted — then follows a lassitude of the 
 
 body, 
 
97 
 
 " body, rather thaii of the mind, easily repaii^ed 
 " by momentary repose. I do not accuse the 
 " French of insincerity. They make numerous 
 " and extravagant professions, but in such a 
 " manner, that it is impossible to be deceived by 
 " them — the lips of course partake of the general 
 " animation of the frame, and frequent compli- 
 " ments answer frequent bows— this extraordina- 
 " ry vivacity makes the Frenchman unfit for soli- 
 " tude — in society his spirits are employed — every 
 " thing he does is for society — if he thinks, it is 
 " with a view of conversing on the popular sub- 
 " ject of the day — his actions, his slightest ges- 
 " tures, are for society. His knoAvledge is all 
 " producible, and as he is little anxious for the 
 " prevalence of any opinion, he seldom expres- 
 " ses it farther than his audience are pleased with 
 ^' it. He pities without sympathy, weeps without 
 " sorrow, laughs without mirth — if you asked 
 " him why he pitied, wept, or laughed? his 
 " answer would be, because he had nothing else 
 " to do. In common life he is polite, well-bred, 
 " pleasing. In extraordinary circumstances he is 
 " to be feared extremely, because his spirits may 
 '' lead him into error, while he has not feeling 
 " to tremble at ks consequences. He cannot be 
 u ygj,y virtuous, but he may be tremendously 
 *' criminal. The women have all the vivacity 
 
 G "I have 
 
a 
 
 98 
 
 " I have described in the men, while fortunately, 
 
 " few situations can occur, in which this vivacity 
 
 '• is to be dreaded. It is impossible not to be 
 
 " amused with them. Their never varying light- 
 
 '^ ness of heart, might suit either the man of the 
 
 " world, or the misanthrope. The former would 
 
 " laugh with them from gaiety ; the latter, be- 
 
 '' cause he would think with them, that there 
 
 " is no subject important enough for sorrow, or 
 ''' even seriousness. 
 
 " Since my stay here, I have of course been 
 at the levee of the chief consul. I was anxious 
 '' to see what sort of man he was, of whom we are 
 " all accustomed to read in history and ro- 
 " mances, as rising from obscurity to the most 
 " brilliant fortune — from humble rank to a 
 " throne. You will not expect me to give any 
 " opinion of him from seeing him in a situation 
 '• in which all men must be nearly the same. I 
 " hear him on all .sides compared to Caesar. 
 " However, there appear to me but few points 
 " of similarity. Bonaparte, from his childhood, 
 " seems to have had no enjoyment but in com- 
 *^ mand, and those pursuits, which might lead 
 " him to the attainment of his favourite object — • 
 *' Caesar was a man of universal passion, as dis- 
 " sipated as he was ambitious; as ardent in plea- 
 
 '^ sure 
 
99 
 
 " sure as In battle — ^\^^arm in his friendships, and 
 '* contending for the affections of a woman with 
 " as much anxiety, as for the empire of the 
 " world. Bonaparte has no friends, and no at- 
 " tachments. The latter obtained the sovereign 
 '^ power in a country torn by factions, and sigh- 
 " ing for the gift of peace from any hand. The 
 " rulers he had to overthrow, were marked by 
 " the grossest corruption at home, and the most 
 " disgraceful reverse of fortune abroad. Caesar 
 '* created the divisions on which he founded his 
 '* empire, and his antagonists were Cicero, 
 " Pompey, and Cato. Caesar was eloquent, a 
 " finished scholar, and the best bred man of his 
 '' age. Bonaparte is slow in his utterance, a 
 " man of science, but of little taste ; in his man- 
 " ner cold, stiff and inflexible. When Caesar 
 " fell, even the authors of his death, though 
 " they rejoiced for Rome, wept for their friend ; 
 " in losing Bonaparte, we might tremble for 
 " France, but the man surely would be unla- 
 " mented. Caesar was the victim of his bold and 
 " generous confidence in all around him — Bona- 
 " parte, as he has nothing of his feelings, will 
 " probably escape his fate. 
 
 " I have been much delighted with the 
 
 " theatre. There is a chastity both in the drama 
 
 G^ " and 
 
100 
 
 " and the acting, which is peculiarly pleasing. 
 " The sublime pathos of Racine is conveyed to 
 " the audience as the author himself would have 
 " wished — without ranting — without bombast — 
 " in tones at once various and musical. All is 
 " smooth, elegant, elevated, and, according to 
 " its stile, faultless. However, it must be owned, 
 " that a French play is but a feeble representa- 
 ^' tion of real life. Long speeches are more cal- 
 " culated to set off the author or actor, than to 
 '' express natural feeling. Titus talks so much 
 " and so well, that he seems to prefer the repu- 
 " tation of eloquence to his beloved Berenice. 
 " Andromache weeps over the infant image of 
 " her Hector, but her tears seem intended for 
 '' the public applause. The rhime increases this 
 " impression, and, in the midst of the finest 
 " passages, I am still thinking of the polished 
 '* mind of the author, or the pleasing tones of 
 " the actor. Mr. Marivaux, in his Paysan Par- 
 '' venu, praises a favourite actress, by saying, 
 " that when she is upon the stage, you admire 
 '• her more than the character she represents — 
 " you forget Monimia, and think only of Ma- 
 
 " demoiselle . How differently has our in- 
 
 " imitable Fielding panegerized Garrick. 
 
 " As to the city of Paris, I was very much 
 
 *' disappointed. 
 
101 
 
 " disappointed. It is generally incommodious, 
 " confined, and dirty — the streets are narrow, and 
 '' the houses extremely high — the public build- 
 " ings, and the environs of the palace, are cer- 
 " tainly very magnificent, and the river flowing 
 *' through this part of the town, sets it off" with 
 *' great beauty; but all this has been described 
 '' to you again and again. I was very much struck 
 '• with the Champ de Mars, an immense area, sur- 
 " rounded by artificial declivities of earth, on 
 *' which France assembled to behold its newly 
 " limited monarch swear fidelity to liberty and 
 " the laws. As I was walking here, I happened 
 " to meet General Kosciusko, who is now at 
 " Paris — it was Marius amidst the ruins of Car- 
 " thage — I had been introduced to him some 
 " days before. He is a simple, unaffected man, 
 " silent from indolence, and with the air of one 
 " who thinks he has done enough for fame, and 
 " too much for a blind and ungrateful country." 
 I return to my narrative. Having obtained a 
 more exact direction to the residence of Madame 
 de Liancourt, and procured the necessary pass- 
 ports, in a few days we left Paris. How often do 
 I retrace in memory the successive days of this 
 journey, in which my friend seemed almost 
 hourly to prove some new claim to my esteem 
 and admiration. Under an impression of the se- 
 verest 
 
102 
 
 verest disappointment, he scarcely ever lost the 
 [generous friendliness of his disposition, and if, 
 ibr a moment, a sally of chagrin or vexation 
 broke from him, how quickly was it compen- 
 sated by repentance. The day we arrived at 
 Fontainbleau, (I well remember it) was cold and 
 rainy. We left the inn to take a view of the pa- 
 lace. Nothing could be more desolate — the court- 
 yard was overgrown with weeds, and not a per- 
 son was to be seen in it— a half-withered acacia, 
 the tree of liberty, shot forth its puny branches 
 in the center — in the interior of the palace the 
 ornaments were torn down and mutilated, but 
 the remains of them were sufficient proofs of the 
 magnificence and grandeur of a family, a few 
 years ago the most prosperous in the world. In 
 the evening, as we sat at the inn, over a wretched 
 fire, which we could not improve, on account of 
 the smoke which ever followed our attempts, 
 Montford, I perceived, had fallen into one of those 
 depressions, perhaps natural to him, but which 
 now had an evident cause. I was ill-judged 
 enough to expostulate with him — at first he paid 
 me no attention — I began a second time. — " For 
 " heaven s sake," said he, " leave me to myself; 
 " it is true, I am not happy, but my misery is 
 *' too sacred to be violated, I ask but a poor pri- 
 ^* vilege, you refuse it me; you forget, that tha 
 
 •* sphere 
 
103 
 
 " sphere nearest a man's heart must be a sphere 
 " of repulsion." I was silent and hurt, he soon 
 perceived it, and entreated my forgiveness. Then 
 he roused himself, and became cheerful and en- 
 tertaining, and in this manner amply redeemed 
 his momentary harshness. 
 
 At Lyons we embarked on the Rhone. It is 
 worthy of remark, how soon the apparent ef- 
 fects of revolutionary violence were removed in 
 France. This town had sustained a regular siege, 
 and suffered more than any other, yet its past 
 misfortunes could now scarcely be recognized, 
 but by recurring to memory, and the information 
 of our guide. This observation I have heard is 
 applicable to Italy, and other countries to which 
 the consequences of the French revolution have 
 extended. The scenery on the banks of the river 
 disappointed us, though certainly in some places 
 extremely beautiful and picturesque. The Saone 
 and the Rhone meet at some distance from the 
 town; and travellers, who have formed a magni- 
 ficent idea of a large city, seated at the junction of 
 two mighty rivers, will not find their expecta- 
 tions answered. On the third day from our em- 
 barkation, we arrived at Avignon. 
 
 The rapidity of our journey was so great, that 
 
 we 
 
104 
 
 wc could form but a poor judgment of the situa- 
 tion or character of the French peasantry. Mont- 
 ford was frequently much amused with the appa- 
 rent indolence of the husband-men, though the 
 land had all the appearance of high cultivation. 
 The roads were frequently dangerous, but numbers 
 were employed in repairing them. The villages 
 ^ere crouded with beggars — when we inquired 
 into the state of the inhabitants of these wretched 
 places, their loudest complaints seemed to arise 
 from religious differences. The non-juring priests, 
 and those who had conformed to the tenets of the 
 revolution, had each a powerful party — " when 
 '^ I look at the rags of these poor people," said 
 Montford, " I wish them a better employment." 
 However, there is one general remark to be made 
 on the consequences of the revolution as they 
 affect the peasantry- — the destruction of the op- 
 pressive parts of the game laws, with the mano- 
 rial rights and privileges, is certainly a vast ad- 
 vantage. — On inquiring after Madame de Lian- 
 court, we found that she had already availed 
 herself of the signature of the preliminaries of 
 peace, and had absolutely set out for Paris, with 
 the hope of procuring passports for England 
 before the definitive treaty. We knew she would 
 find this a very difficult task, yet we could not 
 regret our loss. We now heard her history more 
 at large. The 
 
105 
 
 The fate of this lady had been singularly un- 
 fortunate, if indeed such a phrase is applicable to 
 to a period, when the most dreadful fufferings 
 were the common occurrences of the day. Not 
 long after Mr. de Liancourt's escape, she had 
 been thrown into prison, where she was exposed 
 to the unfeeling insults of the lowest and most 
 degraded instruments- of the worst and most 
 ferocious of tyrants. The companions of her 
 misery were hourly taken from her and hurried 
 to execution — age and sex seemed additional in- 
 citements to brutality. In the midst of this 
 accumulated pressure of misfortune, unattended, 
 but in the midst of a croud, on a bed of straw, 
 without relief or assistance, she was delivered of 
 a son. The child could only partake of the clothes 
 which covered his mother, but her bosom gave 
 him at once nourishment and warmth — Under 
 these circumstances, the health of Madame de 
 Liancourt declined, and it was probable, that 
 death would prevent the more tardy cruelty of 
 her persecutors. At this juncture, however, the 
 tyrant fell a victim to the just indignation of the 
 people, and a milder government succeeded. She 
 was liberated from prison, and restored to the only 
 friend who had escaped the general destruction. 
 
 This was a Madame de R . Weak and infirm 
 
 ^s she. was, she determined, if possible, to follow 
 
 her 
 
106 
 
 her husband, that with her dying breath, she 
 said, she might bequeath to him her son, the 
 lovely pledge of their mutual affection. It was 
 impossible however to procure passports, and if 
 she contrived her escape by secret means, under 
 the title of emigrant, she would lose the little 
 property which remained to her, and which in 
 better times might serve for her own support and 
 that of her family. For these reasons, and for 
 the sake of the repose her health so much re- 
 quired, she had at length consented to retire to a 
 small estate which she possessed in the south, 
 where, under the influence of the climate, em- 
 ployed in the care of her son, believing that 
 her husband was secure, and hoping that she 
 should see him again, she gradually recovered 
 her health, and almost her spirits. She had 
 frequently written, at hazard, to emigrants in 
 England, and to De Liancourt himself, but all 
 her letters had been returned, and she had more 
 than once received peremptory injunctions to 
 desist. At length she relinquished all farther 
 attempts, waiting with as much patience as she 
 could command, for the termination of the war. 
 She had set out for Paris with her friend Madame 
 de R. about a week before our arrival at Avignon. 
 
 We determined to return to Paris immediate- 
 
107 
 
 ly, as we thought we might be able to assist 
 Madame de Liancourt in procuring passports, by 
 an application to the English ambassador there. 
 As we were debating upon our route, I received 
 a letter from England informing me of Mr. 
 Harley's death. It was written by a confidential 
 servant, a circumstance that proved the affliction 
 of those more nearly connected with him. It gave 
 a simple account of the nature of his disorder, 
 which had been the gout, and which falling upon 
 the stomach, had at length proved fatal — it con- 
 cluded with intreating me to return immediately. 
 Such an entreaty was indeed unnecessary. 
 
 I can say with truth, that the first emotion 
 of Montford upon hearing of this melancholy 
 event was, unmixed sorrow. His subsequent sen- 
 sations were no doubt more blended — alas! how 
 little justified by what followed. 
 
 At this moment, when the entreaties of those 
 I loved, conspired with my most ardent inclina- 
 tions to return to England, I unfortunately 
 caught a cold, which terminated in a violent 
 fever. During a tedious illness of six weeks, 
 Montford scarcely ever left my room. From 
 hour to hour he would " listen to my tale of 
 " symptoms," devoting the time which was not 
 
 occupied 
 
108 
 
 occupied in personal attendance, to a most accu- 
 rate journal of the state of my health, which, on 
 every opportunity, he sent to Mrs. Harley. How 
 weak are my powers of language when I would 
 describe his tender and delicate assiduity, his 
 constant watchfulness over the slightest variation 
 even in my appearance, the manner in which he 
 momentarily adapted his conversation, or what- 
 ever mode he found of amusing me, to the 
 fastidiousness of a sick man, his anxiety during 
 my confinement to my bed, his returning spirits, 
 in proportion as health restored to me the vigor 
 of my constitution, and the capacity of estimating 
 and enjoying such a friend. Sometimes, when I 
 was recovering, we conversed upon Mr. Harley' s 
 death. Montford lamented his loss with a sincere 
 and manly sorrow, as of a man, eminently formed 
 for the high rank to which he was born, diffusing 
 the blessings of an ample fortune with liberality 
 and judgment, capable of attracting wise and 
 excellent friends, and above all, of attaching and 
 fixing the affections of his family and nearer con* 
 nexions. He would glance at the grief of Mrs. 
 Harley and Louisa, and a faultering voice would 
 put an end to the conversation. 
 
 After much impatience on my part, my 
 physicians allowed me to fix a day for our 
 
 journey. 
 
109 
 
 journey. Though every moment's delay was tor- 
 ture to Montford, with what anxiety did he 
 guard against the least precipitation, which might 
 have endangered my health. Yet, with the in- 
 consistency of the affections, he began to dislike 
 extremely, those gentlemen of the faculty, who 
 were inclined to recommend a longer stay. At 
 length we set out — we were obliged to travel 
 slowly, and were a month on the road between 
 Avignon and Paris. On our arrival, we found 
 that Madame de Liancourt had been more fortu- 
 nate than we expected. She had obtained the 
 necessary passports, and was still a week before 
 us. We followed her, and landed in England 
 about three months after Mr. Harley's death. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
ill 
 
 CHAP. Ill 
 
 I UNDERTOOK thre little history chiefly as a 
 consolation under the most insupportable of all 
 afflictions, but as I approach its melancholy ter- 
 mination, all feelings of such a nature vanish. 
 I proceed in it from other motives, remembering 
 the injunction of my friend, to preserve and jus- 
 tify his name. 
 
 On the of February we landed at Dover. 
 
 Our first object was to examine the custom-house 
 register, for the name of Madame de Liancourt — 
 it was there — she had disembarked only two days 
 before us, so that it could not be difficult to trace 
 her to whatever place she might have chosen for 
 her residence. We were able to reach Rochester 
 the same evening. Here I expressed to Montford 
 
 my 
 
112 
 
 my intention of proceeding immediately to Mrs. 
 Harley's. After an ill-concealed struggle with 
 himself, he said he would continue his journey 
 to London, and meet me in Essex, in two or 
 three days; that, in the mean time, he should be 
 sufficiently employed in pursuing his inquiries 
 for the countess. I looked at him — I saw ex- 
 pressed in his countenance the tranquil pride of 
 a delicate mind, conscious of its refinement and 
 its taste. When I bade him farewell, he gave me 
 a thousand messages full of respect for Mrs. 
 Harley, but he said not a word of her daughter. 
 
 On my arrival at Mrs. Harley's, I found that 
 both herself and Louisa were absent on a visit to 
 a relation about ten miles distant. I immediately 
 got into my carriage to follow them. I rejoiced, 
 indeed, in leaving a house, to me forlorn and de- 
 solate, for ever deprived of its master. The ser- 
 vants had crowded round me, they felt a real 
 pleasure, I could perceive, in addressing one of 
 the name of Harley — Not many paces from th6 
 door, my carriage stopped, and an old servant, 
 who, though worn out with age and infirmity, 
 still continued part of the household, came hob- 
 bling up to the window. " Pardon me, pardon 
 " me," cried he, " I must have another look at 
 " you — you are so like my poor master, when he 
 
 " came 
 
113 
 
 ** came from his travels. Ah I how well I re^ 
 " member the day when all the tenants were 
 *' seated to a plentiful feast, under the great oak 
 " in the lawn — he told us he had seen nothing 
 '' like old England — no where a country so 
 " beautiful and faces so honest." Here the posti- 
 lion, more impatient than me, drove off. I 
 stopped him as soon as possible, but not before 
 the good old man was directing his tottering 
 steps towards the hall. I waved my hand as a 
 mark of assent to the postilion, and we pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 When 1 came to the place of my destination, 
 Mrs. Harley I found was at her toilette. Louisa 
 was alone in the parlour. She received me, if 
 possible, with more than her usual affection. She 
 gazed at me, as if she, as well as the old servant, 
 perceived in me a strong resemblance to her fa- 
 ther. When we were seated, we were for some 
 time silent. Louisa wished to talk to me of her 
 father, but knew not how to begin — at length I 
 mentioned him in the manner I thought least 
 likely to wound her feelings — in the instant, she 
 seemed relieved from an oppressive weight — she 
 gave me the most minute account of his sickness 
 and death. She was melancholy, often in tears, 
 but they were tears not unattended with delight, 
 
 H Mr. 
 
114 
 
 Mr. Harley had endured long and severe suffer- 
 ings, with a fortitude worthy of him; when he 
 approached more nearly his dissolution, his 
 daughter seemed his only consolation — from her 
 hand alone would he receive the prescribed me- 
 dicines — she alone could smooth his pillow, so 
 as to give him momentary ease. Sometimes her 
 occupation was of a higher nature — ^when she 
 knelt by his bed-side, and offered up her prayers 
 to the great disposer of all earthly things — -pray- 
 ers, alas I which prevailed not at the throne of 
 mercy, yet siich as the sick man heard with his 
 confidence increased, and his hopes revived. 
 
 While we were employed In this conversa- 
 tion, I could examine more leisurely the looks of 
 the lovely, though mournful narrator. She cer- 
 tainly Avas not less interesting than formerly, but 
 her health was visibly impaired; she was much 
 thinner, and the ready blush was not unattended 
 with the glow of fever; above all, her eyes had 
 assumed a languor, entirely foreign to their na- 
 ture. I endeavoured to indulge myself with the 
 hope, that her mourning dress occasioned this 
 apparent change, but when I looked again, I 
 could no longer deceive myself Once or twice 
 she €eemed to perceive what was passing in my 
 mind, and then she slgjied painfully and deeply. 
 
 When^ 
 
1J5 
 
 When she had nearly exhausted herself, rather 
 than her subject, we were again silent — she 
 turned her eyes accidentally, perhaps, to the 
 door, as if she expected another visitor. *' I am 
 " alone, Louisa," said I, " but I shall be quickly 
 " followed" — a languid smile was instantly suc- 
 ceeded by a burning flush — her eyes fell on the 
 ground, and she scarcely articulated — " we shall 
 " return home in a day or two, and then per- 
 " haps"— ^* I understand you," I cried, eager to 
 relieve her from her embarrassment — " I will 
 " write to him instantly, desiring him to defer 
 " his visit till that time." We were now inter- 
 rupted by Mrs. Harley, who entered the room 
 with our other friends. 
 
 She took the first opportunity of speaking to 
 me aside — " You have had a long tcte-a-tfite 
 " with poor Louisa," said she — ^then pressing my 
 hand, while the tears streamed from her eyes — 
 " Ah! is it not most unfortunate, most melan- 
 " choly — ^but I expect every thing from you.'* 
 I interpreted these words in their most obvious 
 meaning, and had no time to reply before we 
 Were disturbed. In the course of the evening, 
 however, I was able to learn the precise day on 
 >vhich she meant to return home, and immedi- 
 ately wyote to Montford, requesting him to defei* 
 
 H 5 his 
 
116 
 
 his visit till the following one — it was a delay of 
 three days only, of an age to my impatient 
 friend. I received from him by express the fol- 
 lowing answer : 
 
 " Three days delay, my dear Harley I well, 
 
 " I consent, for I am sure you would not have 
 
 " proposed it, if it had not been necessary ; and 
 
 " yet, how can it be so ? In what house would 
 
 *' my arrival, with such an object in view, be a 
 
 " disgrace? Louisa you say looks ill, not very 
 
 " ill, or you would say more of her — not very 
 
 " ill, or you would not have desired me to delay. 
 
 " I will not however, disobey you — you may 
 
 " have an authority which I will never dispute, 
 
 " I send this by express, and let me receive an 
 
 " answer by the same conveyance — tell me more 
 
 " than in a short note of ten lines, and if you 
 
 ** can, recall your mandate.'* 
 
 The post a few hours afterwards brought me 
 another letter from the same hand. 
 
 " 1 am ashamed of what I wrote to you just 
 V now, and on my soul! would give worlds to 
 " recall it. How many thousand delicate reasons, 
 " which I cannot understand, may have dictated 
 " the request of which I complained; but you 
 
 " know 
 
117 
 
 " know me too well to be surprized that I should 
 " err and repent. No more of this — I will try 
 " to write to you on another subject — at all events, 
 " I shall see you on Friday. I must indeed 
 " write to you, that though at a distance, I may 
 *« seem to make one of your party. When we 
 " separated at Rochester, I was still as fortunate 
 -*' as before in tracing Madame de Liancourt. 
 ^' Whether it was her beauty that made so lively 
 '*' an impression, or the interest an unprotected 
 =*' woman, ignorant of our language, would na- 
 ^' turally inspire, there was not an innkeeper or 
 " postilion who did not give me some informa- 
 ^' tion. After staying one night in London, she 
 *' had retired to Hampstead, where she had 
 " taken lodgings; I found her there with her 
 " friend Madame de R. for whom I first in- 
 " quired; this lady is very old and infirm, at 
 " the period of life when the feelings .are almost 
 " lost. I told her the purpose of my visit — she 
 " crossed herself, and returned thanks to heaven 
 " audibly. I said I would leave it to her to dis- 
 " close the happy event to her friend, in the 
 '< manner she thought best, and promised to 
 " return in half an hour to enter more fully into 
 " particulars. She insisted upon introducino- me 
 ^* to Madame de Liancourt before I left the 
 " house. Never but once was I so pleased with 
 
 " any 
 
lis 
 
 " any woman on the first interview. If I could 
 " have avoided a comparison, she would have 
 " seemed perfect. She is indeed most beautiful — 
 " once perhaps she had something too much of 
 " of the female philosopher in her manner and 
 " conversation, but severe adversity has given 
 " her a softness, which her education, and per- 
 *' haps the habits of the man she has chosen 
 *' for her husband, were calculated to banish. 
 " While we were talking, I sometimes cast my 
 " eyes to her little son, who was playing in one 
 " corner of the room; he had just looked at me 
 " as I entered, but not seeming to expect any 
 " notice or observation, had returned to his 
 " amusements. I recognized the precepts of the 
 " count in this part of his education, but soon 
 '* afterwards was still more amused by a trait 
 " that brought him fully to my recollection — the 
 " child was playing with a wooden horse which 
 " he was training with the greatest zeal; as he 
 "was pulling the bridle, now this way, now 
 " that, the wood broke, and the head fell to the 
 " ground— he could hardly refrain from tears, 
 *' but he struggled violently with himself to 
 " prevent them — he succeeded — then biting his 
 *' lips, and stamping his little foot against the 
 " floor — ' I don't care,' said he, and ran off to 
 '^ some other employment. You who are fond 
 
119 
 
 " of children, will be delighted with this boy. 
 ** Never was there a face, on which the careless 
 " mirth of infancy was more strongly impressed, 
 '*' while at the same time it is free from those 
 ^' sickly smiles which arise from too great indul- 
 ** gence, and unseasonable caresses. When I 
 ** returned, Madame de Liancourt rushed for- 
 ** ward to meet me, and asked me reproachfully 
 *' how I had formed so ill an opinion of her, as 
 *' to suppose she would not endure any shock, 
 *' rather than a delay, however short. I was 
 " going to answer her — she would not hear me, 
 *' but inquired how she might procure a carriage. 
 *' I said, there was one at the door — ' let us be- 
 " gone then,' said she, 'instantly' — as she was 
 " going out of the room, the child seized her 
 " gown saying — ' and wont you take me with 
 ^* you to my father, you have often said I 
 " am very like him.' She, bending over him, 
 " said anxiously, 'does he indeed resemble his 
 " father — ' so evidently,' I replied, ' that every 
 one must perceive it.' — ' I thank thee, heaven,' 
 " she exclaimed, raising him in her arms — 'then 
 " all my wishes are accomplished' — the child 
 '' seemed to feel the force of the eulogy, for 
 " turning his beautiful face towards her, he 
 " gazed at her for some time, threw his arms 
 " round her, and kissed her; then, half from 
 
 ^'* affectioA; 
 
 ^i 
 
150 
 
 " affection, half from playfulness, his head sank 
 " on her bosom, and thus we hastened to the 
 " carriage. We had been seated some time 
 " before Madame de Liancourt was calm enough 
 " to make more particular inquiries into her 
 " husband's situation. I described to her his 
 " dignified retirement, his lofty resignation, his 
 " philosophic tranquillity, only interrupted by 
 ^* his attachment to her. Tears of delight and 
 " affection rolled down her cheeks, which her 
 *' child, almost weeping too, was amusing him- 
 " self with kissing away. When we got to 
 " London, I instantly procured other horses, 
 " and gave Madame de Liancourt a direction to 
 ^' Mrs. Harley's, where the servants, I said, as 
 " the family were from home, would point out 
 " the way to the count's cottage; for many 
 " reasons I refused myself the pleasure of accora- 
 ^' panying her. 
 
 '^ Perhaps with great expedition you may 
 " have time to prepare De Liancourt for his 
 " wife's arrival-^with great expedition — the en- 
 " treaties of so much beauty will give wings to 
 " the horses, and night will cause no delay. 
 
 *^ How you will rejoice in this event! how 
 '* she will rejoice, whose pure and spotless mind, 
 
 ^' every 
 
121 
 
 ** every excellent affection has chosen for its seat. 
 '* My imagination is busying itself in tracing 
 '' her countenance, when first she hears of it. 
 " Ah! — if for a moment she should cast a thought 
 *' upon him w^ has been fortunate enough to 
 " contribute to it, tell her, tell her, Harley^ 
 *' she is my pride, my only boast — that she alone 
 ^^ exalts me from insignificance, from nothing, to 
 ^' to importance — to every thing 1" 
 
 I received this letter early in the morning, 
 when I was still in bed — I immediately rose, and 
 ordering my horse, prepared myself for a visit 
 to the count. Before 1 set out, I left the letter 
 with Louisa's servant, with orders, that it might 
 be given her as soon as she was up. I was in 
 hopes it might gild her morning with joy. 
 On coming to De Liancourt's cottage, I found he 
 was already gone to his usual labour. The little 
 girl, however, his only servant, pointed him out 
 to me in an adjoining field; he was some time 
 before he perceived my approach, and I was very 
 near him before he threw aside his spade to bid 
 me welcome. After the usual compliments — 
 " you come, Mr. Harley," said he, " to a me- 
 " lancholy neighbourhood — see our common 
 ^' doom — the great — the good — the wise — are 
 '* exempt from it no more than the vain and 
 
 " the 
 
155 
 
 ** the frivolous. But Where is Montford — he is 
 •* surely returned— why did he not write to me 
 " more frequently in his absence?" " More 
 " frequently? have you not received his letter 
 " from Avignon?" "not a line — nothing since 
 '* you left Paris." " Then you know not" — 
 " Know not what? come, come, do not trifle 
 " with me — my nerves have been braced by 
 " affliction — I shall not sink under it — answer 
 " me — she is not dead?" " Well then! away 
 " with these prudent cautions, your wife, De 
 " Liancourt, is alive." " Almighty God I" — 
 "and in England."— " Where? where?" "You 
 " may suppose Montford would not have delay- 
 " ed his visit to you so long, if he had not been 
 " employed more essentially for your happiness. 
 " He has discovered the place of her residence — 
 " I received a letter from him this morning with 
 " an account of his success. Madame de Lian- 
 ** court is in excellent health, with her child, an 
 " offspring worthy of you — nay, nay — you must 
 " listen to me — ^you must not leave your cot- 
 " tage — they are now upon the road to it" — 
 " Is it possible? — and is it to Montford and you 
 " Mr. Harley — but how soon may they be ex- 
 " pected?" " I would tell you more explicitly 
 " if you would listen to me with more tran- 
 " quillity." " Well, now I am as dodle as a 
 
 " child. 
 
123 
 
 **^ child, answer me — ^but did you not hear a 
 " carriage," continued he, running to a small 
 elevation of ground near us. " No, no," said I, 
 smiling. I was wrong, however, for a carriage 
 was now in sight. De Liancourt sprang over the 
 hedge that was between him and the road, and 
 ran along swifter than lightning — I followed, but 
 at an unequal pace — soon I perceived a lady in 
 the carriage, and another head, now and then 
 appeared above the window. De Liancourt com- 
 manded the postilion to stop, and in an instant 
 his wife was in his arms. While they were 
 mutually lost in a fond embrace, the child had 
 contrived to creep from the carriage and was 
 clinging to his father's knees. De Liancourt 
 raised him up, and gazing, first at him, then at 
 his wife, scarcely articulated, " and this treasure 
 *' too, Sophia!" The child alone spoke — his 
 head, with infantine carelessness, lay on his 
 fathers shoulder, so that his face was opposite 
 his mother's — he lisped out — '* this is very odd, 
 '' Mamma — you used to cry because my father was 
 •' away from you, and now you cry because he is 
 " with you." De Liancourt pressed him more 
 closely in his arms — exclaiming fervently — ** May 
 " you too, my dearest boy, in the course of a 
 " long and honourable life, sometimes weep for 
 '* joy." — During the whole of this scene, I had 
 
 remained 
 
124 
 
 refnained in a state little short of stupefaction — it 
 now suggested itself to me, that my presence 
 must be a most unwelcome intrusion, and I walk- 
 ed silently away. When I turned my eyes round, 
 De Liancourt, with his wife, leaning on his left 
 arm, and his child carried on his right, was pro- 
 ceeding to his cottage. 
 
 On my return, I related to Louisa the scene 1 
 had witnessed. Her expressive eyes once more 
 sparkled with delight, and tjie languor of disease 
 disappeared. Her own woes, whatever they 
 might be, were forgotten, and her spirits recover- 
 ed their former vivacity — I hoped to raise them 
 still higher, by bringing Montford to her re- 
 collection. '• And did you read the letter, 
 " Louisa, I sent you this morning?" — in an 
 instant her aoritation discovered to me how much 
 I had deceived myself—'' Good God," I said, 
 ** what is the meanino- of this?" she took the 
 letter from her bosom, and gave it to me, saying 
 faintly, " how proud you must be of such a 
 " friend" — " And you, Louisa I" — I was going to 
 reproach her for caprice and inconstancy, but on 
 looking at her, there was an expression in her 
 countenance, seeming so much to implore my 
 compassion, that 1 was entirely disarmed. I did 
 not wish to draw from her a reluctant confidence, 
 
 and 
 
U5 
 
 and left her, perplexing myself almost to mad- 
 ness, in endeavouring to account for her conduci; 
 
 The day now came that had been fixed for 
 our return to Mrs. Harley's. We arrived just 
 at the dinner hour — the servants, expecting me, 
 had placed at the table the chair Mr. Harley 
 used to occupy, in the place where it formerly 
 stood when he was alive — when we entered the 
 room, I perceived Louisa draw back convulsively — 
 indeed, at this time, her nerves were so much 
 weakened, that an incident far less calculated to 
 excite mournful recollections, would have pro- 
 duced almost the same effect. I could no longer 
 disguise from myself, that her state of health was 
 really alarming. Naturally superior to trifles, 
 she was now agitated by the most trivial circum- 
 stance ; her complexion varied almost momenta- 
 rily ; she had a cough, that seemed every day to 
 increase — her complaint, however, seemed be- 
 yond the reach of medicine, and indeed this was 
 the opinion of all the physicians who had been 
 consulted upon it. Under these circumstances, 
 I looked forward with anxiety to the arrival of 
 Montford, on the following day; the cause of her 
 melancholy was no doubt connected with him — 
 some groundless report perhaps, some unex- 
 plained offence-*- in his presence every difficulty 
 
 would 
 
U6 
 
 would disappear. During the whole of the 
 evening, Louisa was evidently more depressed 
 than usual— when she retired to rest (alas I 
 how misapplied is that w^ord) there was a de- 
 sponding expression in her countenance, that 
 even now I cannot think of without shuddering. 
 
 The next morning, when we met at break- 
 fast, her fatigued and harrassed looks, shewed 
 the misery of the night she had passed. She an- 
 swered to our inquiries, that she was very well, 
 but her languid smile spoke more faithfully — in 
 a few minutes we heard the sound of a carriage 
 stopping at the door. She instantly began a ra- 
 pid, and almost unintelligible conversation, as if 
 to distract her attention — she trembled vio- 
 lently^ — ^her colour came and went a thousand 
 times in a minute. I rushed madly out of the 
 room, though with no distinct intention- — I wished 
 that Montford might return without seeing her— 
 I wished to prepare him for his disappointment, 
 I found him already in the hall — he flew by me, 
 only stretching out his hand to me. Hope 
 brightened his countenance, joy quickened his 
 step — Louisa rose to receive him, but wearied 
 nature could sustain no more,^nd without the 
 assistance of her mother, she would have sunk 
 upon the floor. Mrs. Harley carried her lifeless 
 
 out 
 
157 
 
 out of the room. The full extent of his misfor- 
 tune did not immediately occur to Montford; 
 the idea most natural to him was, that the agita- 
 tion of Louisa was ascribable, in part at least, to 
 her joy at his arrival — ^yet he was extremely 
 alarmed, <* Harley," said he, " I fear you have 
 " deceived me — Louisa is worse than you have 
 " given me reason to suppose." — " She is in- 
 " deed very ill," I replied — never had I felt 
 such a dejection of spirits as at this moment — 
 I scarcely knew what I answered. Montford 
 rushed out, I followed him, and we waited with 
 trembling impatience at the door of Louisa's 
 room, for some information concerning her — 
 when we heard that she was recovering, we re- 
 turned to the parlour. " Montford," said I, 
 " you will find her looking very ill, and her vi- 
 ** vacity almost gone." — " Gracious heaven!" 
 cried he, in agony, " is this my promised joy ?" 
 " Now, tell me candidly," I continued, " can 
 " you recollect having given her any cause of 
 " offence or vexation?" — Oh, no!" exclaimed 
 he, " yet I am so unworthy of her, that even my 
 " best actions may appear insignificant to her.'* 
 I attempted to prepare him a& much as possible 
 for any coldness with which Louisa might re- 
 ceive him, in a conversation, (it was indeed the 
 
 only 
 
158 
 
 only consolation to either of us) which lasted the 
 whole morning. 
 
 In the evening Louisa returned to us. Though 
 faint and weak, she was tolerably composed^ 
 Montford, though ill-disguising his anguish, en- 
 deavoured to entertain her, as in her happier 
 days — sometimes he succeeded, but in these mo^ 
 ments, she evidently considered herself as desert- 
 ing some severer duty. When we were sepa- 
 rating for the night, in an agony almost as great 
 as that of lily afflicted friend, I drew Mrs. Harley 
 aside, and entreated her to explain to me, if she 
 could, her daughter's conduct. She was ex- 
 tremely surprized at my request, but on my 
 again declaring how inexplicable it was to me, 
 she said, " Has not Louisa told you? Have you 
 " not heard of Mr. Harley's last wish?" — " Good 
 " God!" I exclaimed, " No"— and at that in- 
 stant a flash of dreadful light broke in upon me, 
 which shewed me, in its full extent, the sur- 
 rounding gloom. 
 
 Upon a nearer inquiry, however, I found 
 that Montford had not been directly named, and 
 that the promise Mr. Harley had exacted from 
 his daughter, had been expressed in these gene- 
 ral 
 
129 
 
 ral terms : " That she would never marry any 
 " man of whom he would have disapproved 
 " had he lived." Though these words evidently 
 pointed to Montford, in some degree, yet, upon 
 a full consideration of all the circumstances, it 
 seemed to me, that the severest and most rigid 
 moralist, the coldest reasoner, could not enjoin 
 an adherence to them on the part of Louisa. — 
 The promise had been exacted in ignorance and 
 weakness, and given by affection, stimulated al- 
 most to frenzy. Mrs. Harley perfectly agreed 
 with me; indeed she had supposed that, in all 
 my late conversations with Louisa, this had been 
 our principal topic. I determined, however, to 
 make it so on the following day, and never did I 
 rejoice more, than on this occasion, in the influ- 
 ence which early affection had given me over her 
 mind. 
 
 After a restless night, I rose early, and in- 
 quired if Louisa was up. I was answered in the 
 negative. I walked out. In a wood not far from 
 the house I met Montford ; he looked paler than 
 usual, and his head was sunk on his breast. I 
 had determined, as far as it was in my power, to 
 prevent all mystery or concealment. Where the 
 responsibility was so dreadful, I could not en- 
 dure the thought of management or disguise. I 
 
 I told 
 
130 
 
 told him what I had learnt from Mrs. Harley, 
 the last evening — for a moment he was relieved, 
 and his spirits rose. The insupportable thought 
 that Louisa no longer loved him disappeared — 
 immediately, however, his depression returned 
 with tenfold force; he talked rapidly of Louisas 
 ill state of health, arising from her noble strug- 
 gles between the purest sentiments of virtue, de- 
 licacy, and honor, and — he would have said, her 
 attachment to him. I said I had still hopes o-f 
 persuading her that her promise could not be 
 considered as binding; he appeared to reflect 
 for a moment — '' She will be but a poor casuist, 
 " Harley, in this affair," he replied — " No, no, 
 " she will not be persuaded — disaster and disap- 
 " pointment still pursue me, such happiness 
 " cannot be in store for me, but you are going 
 " to the house — farewell, I will walk longer.'* 
 He now left me, and turned into a different 
 path, but running back to me, " Harley," said 
 he, *' if you find Louisa more than usually de- 
 " pressed, if she looks ill, defer these persua- 
 " sions of yours — I will bear even suspence." 
 Then he flung from me. 
 
 When I came to the house, Louisa was up, 
 and having heard I had inquired for her, was 
 waiting for me in her dressing-room. I found 
 
 her 
 
131 
 
 her seated, her h€ad supported by her arm, 
 which rested on the elbow of her chair, her eyes 
 mournfully fixed on the ground. " Louisa," 
 said I, after a silence of some minutes. '* you 
 *' have withheld from me your confidence, on a 
 *' subject indissolubly connected with your hap- 
 " piness ; now, however" — she raised her eyes, 
 and, with an air of firmness I had seldom seen in 
 her, said, " I had determined — ^I had made up 
 my mind, and did not wish to hear your per- 
 suasions, only to resist them." — " But if the 
 reasons that led to your determination are 
 false." — " It is impossible, I made a solemn 
 promise to my poor father, and surely, surely, 
 I ought to keep it." — " Think you he would 
 liave exacted it had he known the conse- 
 quences to which it would lead."—" Perhaps 
 not." — " If you could imagine, that, though 
 released from earth, he still regards you, who 
 was once the object of his strongest affection, 
 would not your present conduct distress him— 
 this you must surely confess — and will you 
 then attend to mere words, without any regard 
 to the meaning with which they were ut- 
 tered." — " Ah 1 I am little able to reason 
 with you, but a solemn promise made to him 
 who loved me more dearly than himself — 
 when, when he was dying too — the thought 
 I 2 '' that 
 
13^ 
 
 " that I should obey him — his complete confi- 
 " dence in me, seemed to soften the agonies of 
 ** death— and if, as you say, I could imagine 
 ** that he still watches over me, could I suppose 
 " it grateful to him that I should disobey him — 
 " that I should betray that confidence. No, no — 
 " I know well the consequences of the resolu- 
 " tion I have formed — they will soon cease to 
 «' act — but my name shall be as spotless as that of 
 *' him I am following." — " My dearest Louisa — 
 " my sister, alas!— these sentiments are too 
 " excellent, too sublime for this world. Your 
 *' father was a father to me, we have grown up 
 "together, if you can recollect any instance in 
 " which I have been deficient in esteem or grati- 
 " tude to him, I will allow you to conclude, 
 " that my advice on this occasion is unworthy of 
 i* you."—" Oh, no!"— " Then you will listen 
 '" to me with patience ; and try, if it is only for 
 " my sake, to distinguish the dictates of truth 
 " and reason, as they are divested of the glitter- 
 " ing robe of sentiment, with which noble 
 " minds too often clothe them, to their own de-^ 
 " struction."— " Be not too severe with me — if I 
 " have erred." — " Erred! while I disapprove, 
 " I but admire you the more; if I seem more 
 "positive than usual; it is because I was never 
 " §0 perfectly convinced that I was right." 
 ' Louisa 
 
133 
 
 Louisa looked at me, and smiled, but did not in- 
 terrupt me. I proceeded — " Again, I must re- 
 " peat, that nothing could be so opposite to your 
 " father's intention, as such a promise, had he 
 " known the circumstances under which he ex- 
 " acted it." — " And why did he not know 
 " them ? the concealment was mine, I must sub- 
 " mit to its consequences." — "No, the conceal- 
 " ment was not yours, it arose from your father's 
 " ill state of health — from miserable necessity — 
 "but even though this fatal promise had been 
 " made with a full knowledge of all the circum- 
 " stances relating to it. Is one parent only to be 
 " regarded by you ? I would not distress you, 
 " Louisa, but you must forgive me, if I speak 
 " plainly to you on such a subject. Your pre- 
 " sent conduct must embitter, if not shor- 
 " ten the life of your mother, whose affection 
 " for you is equal to your father's. Is your ve- 
 " neration for the dead to banish your regard 
 " for the living ? Your own health is decaying — 
 " your mother's afflictions are almost insupport- 
 " able to her." — " It is very true," said Louisa, 
 " faintly, " And all this complicated misery,'* 
 I continued, " is owing to a promise, which, he 
 " v/ho exacted it, would have been the first to 
 *' avoid, had he understood its force. 1 know 
 " well the necessity of adhering to general rules, 
 
 " but 
 
134 
 
 " but here is an exception so evidently marked 
 ^' out, that the most severe would not only jus- 
 *' tify, but enforce your deviation from them in 
 " this instance — Louisa, you are agitated — I will 
 " leave you, I do not wi^h to surprize you into an 
 *' assent — let me only remind you of him whose 
 " every thought is directed to you ; he is not 
 " like other men, whose feelings and hopes wan^ 
 " der from object to pbjec^, fixing steadily upon 
 " none. I am sure he would not survive the 
 '^ loss of you; yet he alone seemed to wish the 
 " conversation I have just held with you, de- 
 '' ferred."— "Didhe? Did Mont ford?" she ex- 
 claimed, thrown off her guard; she recollected 
 herself, and her words were followed by a deep 
 blush. " Farewell, Louisa," said I, " you will 
 *' consider" — " I will, I will" — " how many you 
 " will be able to restore to happiness," said I, as^ 
 I left the room. 
 
 We did not meet till the dinner hour — 
 Louisa I could perceive was in that state, than 
 which none could be more distressing or painful 
 to a person of her sensibility, when opposite 
 motives contend with almost equal force, and 
 decision is impossible. Montford was more than 
 usually respectful in his behaviour to her. His at- 
 tentions could not be more assiduous than before, 
 
 but 
 
135 
 
 but they were characterized by a singular degree 
 of distance and humility. Louisa understood 
 him, and I saw with pleasure how much this de- 
 licacy of my friend, a characteristic indeed which 
 never forsook him, enforced the reasoning I had 
 employed in the morning. 
 
 The next day Madame de Liancourt, at my 
 request, called upon Louisa. Lwas alone w4th 
 her Avhen she entered the room ; sitting down by 
 her, and taking her hand, after some time, she 
 said, " You must allow me to add my per- 
 " suasions to Mr. Harley's. They must be un- 
 " necessary, I am sure, yet I cannot refuse my- 
 " self even the pretence of contributing to the 
 ** happiness of him who is the sole author of 
 " mine." Tears filled Louisa's eyes, as she heard 
 this. I now left the room, at the door I met 
 Mrs. Harley, -who took my vacant chair. 
 
 Montford walked out with me — ^he took the 
 tone of my spirits — melancholy fled — all was joy 
 and happiness^ — ^we went in search of the count — 
 he joined us — v/e rambled many miles without 
 care, and without an object. With what pleasure 
 could I describe the trifling incidents of this 
 morning — they are engraven on my memory, in- 
 disputable and indelible marks of the characters 
 
 of 
 
1S6 
 
 of men, whose excellence my experience daily 
 shews to be unrivalled. 
 
 In the evening Louisa met Montford without 
 embarrassment or restraint ; quickly he perceived 
 the change in her conduct, and understood its 
 cause. Her spirits were high, and though the 
 rosy traces of health had not returned, it was 
 impossible to think she was seriously unwell. 
 Montford flew from topic to topic, throwing out 
 the careless jest, the delicate sentiment, the 
 finely-pointed remark, while his eyes sparkled, 
 and his countenance glowed with happiness. 
 The next morning Louisa's looks shewed how 
 little she could bear a violent emotion, whether 
 of joy or sorrow ; her fever was high, and her 
 cough seemed more than usually oppressive — 
 her spirits alone were above the power of disease. 
 Montford was alarmed, and the high hopes with 
 which his mornins salutations had been accom- 
 panied, sunk into despair. In the course of the 
 day, however, Louisa was evidently better, and 
 we passed an evening like the last ; for many 
 days her health seemed to improve, and every 
 hour increased our happiness. Monsieur and 
 Madame de Liancourt lived with us almost en- 
 tirely, and I now felt the full value of the plea- 
 sures of social and domestic life. 
 
 Severe 
 
137 
 
 Severe misfortune has given a gloomy shade 
 to my thoughts, but it is consoling to me to re- 
 flect, that these pleasures, so great, so inestima- 
 ble, are more or less within the reach of all 
 men — they are a rich inheritance, and it should 
 be the great object of education to shew their im- 
 portance. Ambition may present a more gay and 
 glittering prize, but even the most successful will 
 allow, that the pursuit has been too feverish for 
 enjoyment, and that the gnawings of envy have 
 almost outweighed the elevations of hope, and 
 the acquisition of power. Even he, whom in- 
 dulgent nature has blessed with the poet's fire, 
 where imagination can soar above the things of 
 earth, to happier worlds and serener regions, he 
 falls the more precipitately and dangerously, in 
 proportion to the height he has attained, the 
 rapturous glow is succeeded by a desponding 
 chill; there are moments when his lyre is all- 
 unstrung, when his visions are acknowledged to 
 be but air, and his peopled universe a blank. 
 The pleasures of social life are equal and unfail- 
 ing, unostentatious, holding forth no promises, 
 subject to no disappointments — to those only, I 
 must add, which human power can neither fore- 
 see nor prevent. 
 
 Though, since the change in her resolution, 
 
 Louisa's 
 
138 
 
 Louisa's spirits were generally good, and only 
 accidentally shaded by a transient gloom, which 
 the joy and approbation of her mother quickly 
 removed, her health certainly was but little im- 
 proved. Yet, we still continued to flatter our- 
 selves, that a favourable change would follow 
 the happiness she now enjoyed. We were soon 
 dreadfully undeceived ; an accidental cold con- 
 fined her to her room, and increased all the 
 symptoms which before had alarmed us so 
 much ; in a few days she was permitted again to 
 make one of our party, but her emaciated looks, 
 shewed what a deceit she practised both upon 
 herself and us, in appearing to enjoy it. Fear- 
 inof to distress her mother, she would affect all 
 the gaiety of health, but her smiles were too fre- 
 quently checked by a languor, which no ef- 
 forts could resist. Her nights were feverish, and 
 disturbed by dreams, which rendered her sleep 
 short and unrefreshing. Her father would ap- 
 pear before her, and denounce everlasting ven- 
 geance on her intended marriage. At other 
 times he seemed to attend her to the altar, and 
 with the affectionate smile, which, during his life 
 was ever ready for his beloved daughter, give 
 her to him who alone deserved her — then, on a 
 sudden, the whole scene would vanish, and she 
 was carried through vast deserts, amongst over- 
 
 hansiinix 
 
130 
 
 hanging rocks and gloomy caves — till at length, 
 struck with horror, she would start into wakeful- 
 ness. She now became rapidly worse — for three 
 weeks every day seemed to bring with it an in- 
 crease of her disorder, and at the end of this pe- 
 riod, she was confined to her bed. 
 
 A deep melancholy now reigned through the 
 whole house; there was not a servant or depen- 
 dent, who was not depressed by the sickness of 
 Louisa. She was of a temper to feel soothed 
 by the affectionate solicitude so widely displayed, 
 and no one ever enjoyed this consolation in a 
 greater extent. Yet, with what inexpressible 
 agony did she sometimes gaze upon her mother, 
 who could no longer disguise her despair. Hope 
 was lost, and in the presence of her daughter, 
 her spirits were too evidently assumed, to pro- 
 duce the effect she desired. Madame de Lian- 
 court, accustomed to misfortune, and not so 
 nearly interested, was scarcely more able to 
 restrain her tears; they never left the bed of 
 Louisa, who exhibited a patience worthy of the 
 spotless life it was to crown. Montford remained 
 day and night in the adjoining room, avoiding 
 all conversation, even with his nearest friends — 
 the only one whose presence he could endure, 
 was the little boy^ the child of De Liancourt, 
 
 who 
 
140 
 
 "who sometimes, by his endearing caresses, could 
 draw from him a reluctant smile. He sat alone, 
 hour after hour, and day after day, with no 
 object but that of searching in the countenances 
 ©f those who had just left Louisa, for intelligence 
 concerning her. When he was questioned, he 
 madly replied, that he had given up all hopes, 
 but his perpetual and anxious inquiries, shewed 
 that this had been too hard a task. De Lian court 
 and I were much together, he had relinquished 
 all occupation, he was frequently lost in absence 
 and abstraction, and sometimes tears, which he 
 vainly attempted to suppress, would steal down 
 his manly cheeks. 
 
 Things were in this situation, when I per- 
 ceived in Montford a wish to speak to me alone, 
 though, when I gave him an opportunity for this 
 purpose, his embarrassment prevented a disclosure 
 of his sentiments — after several long and painful 
 interviews with him, during which some desire 
 seemed ever on his lips, without daring to assume 
 a positive form, I conjured him to speak boldly 
 to me, as to one who knew him entirely, and 
 whom he could not offend. " I would wish," 
 said he — and his voice faultered — " yet if my 
 " request should appear unreasonable, if it should 
 " harass or be the cause of the least distress — 
 
 « yet 
 
141 
 
 " yet, if It is so, you will refuse, and your in- 
 " dulgence will forgive me — I would wish you 
 " to ask Louisa if she would allow me to see 
 " her?" " For heaven's sake, Charles, I replied, 
 " be calm — I will give you an answer imme- 
 *' diately.'* As I was leaving him he called me 
 back-^" yet perhaps I am wrong" — " If it be an 
 " error," answered I, " we shall all learn to forgive 
 *' it." I consulted the physician in the presence 
 of Mrs. Harley, upon the danger which might 
 arise to Louisa from any new agitation — ^in a 
 whisper, he said, " that as all hopes of recovery 
 " were vain, it would be unreasonable to refuse 
 " whatever might be a source of pleasure to her." 
 " Then you have no objections," said I, aloud, 
 " None," he replied. " And Louisa, Mrs. Har^ 
 ^' ley," said I, " will she object." " No, no, I 
 *' can answer for her, I well know she wishes to 
 *' see Mr. Montford, but, bear, bear the message 
 *' to her yourself — I cannot — Madame de Li- 
 *' ancourt only is with her, you could not 
 " have a more convenient time." I instantly 
 went to Louisa's room, and told her of my 
 friend's request — a faint beam of pleasure once 
 more shot from her eyes, and she warmly ex- 
 pressed her assent. Then, with a smile which 
 still partook of its former beauty, she added, 
 " Let it be this evening — candle-light best be- 
 
 ** comes 
 
142 
 
 " comes me now." At six o'clock, Madame de 
 Liancourt entered the room, leaning upon Mont- 
 ford's arm — Louisa had taken particular pains in 
 adjusting her head-dress— a slight flush, that 
 could scarcely tarry there, gently played upon 
 her cheek — her smooth and white forehead was 
 seen beneath her cap — her eyes, at the sight of 
 Montford, received a new animation — affliction, 
 pain, death itself, seemed to have no power — she 
 was still beautiful— still most lovely — as she sat 
 up in her bed, supported by pillows — nothing 
 but the perpetual remembrance of her danger, 
 could have checked the expressions of admiration 
 from all around her. 
 
 Louisa fixed her eyes upon Montford as he 
 drew near her — they met his^ — Madame de Lian- 
 court, I saw, supported him with difficulty — he 
 stood in dumb melancholy by the bed side; 
 Louisa attempted to speak — ^but in vain — she 
 turned her head to the other side, endeavouring 
 to collect firmness— again she would have spoken, 
 but still her voice refused to obey ; at length she 
 gave up the struggle, and in the midst of sobs 
 and tears, stretched out her hand to him — he 
 caught it eagerly in his, and falling upon his 
 knees, pressed it convulsively to his lips. — I 
 rushed towards him, and would have hurried 
 
 him 
 
143 
 
 him away, Louisa exclaimed — " No, no," then 
 turning to Montford said, while her. hand was 
 still locked in his—" Will you make one of our 
 " party this evening?" " We will return imme- 
 " diately," said I. Montford sprang up, and 
 hurried with me out of the room. I now re- 
 proached him for his want of fortitude, and 
 conjured him, for Louisa's sake, to collect him- 
 self. He drew his hand quickly aqross his brow, 
 answering, " You may depend upon me, come, 
 " let us return." I detained him as long as it 
 was possible — we then returned. 
 
 Thi^ evening Louisa's cough was less oppres- 
 sive than it had been for some days. The 
 physicians, however, drew from it no favourable 
 omen. Montford was less skilful and more 
 sanguine, he was able to converse with some de- 
 gree of tranquillity; whenever he spoke, Louisa 
 fixed her eyes upon him, and sometimes, I 
 believe, nodded assent to his opinions — she evi^ 
 dently felt a pleasure in hearing him, and he, 
 perceiving this, endeavoured, as far as his de- 
 pression would allow him, to talk upon subjects 
 in which he knew she most delighted. We did 
 not separate 'till late in the evening. Louisa 
 again gave him her hand — the effort he had so 
 long made, now failed him— Louisa caught the 
 
 tone 
 
144 
 
 tone of his mind ; as I forced him from the room, 
 they exchanged a look of mingled affection and 
 despair, which would have brought tears into the 
 eyes of the most indifferent spectator, however 
 prosperous his state, however high his spirits. 
 
 About five o'clock the following morning, 
 with a gentle sigh, Avhich exhausted nature 
 seemed scarcely able to supply, Louisa died. 
 
 I am fully aware, that to do justice to my 
 friend, in relating his subsequent conduct, I 
 should describe the grief which now oppres- 
 sed him — this, however, is impossible — even the 
 language of romance would be weak, and in- 
 sufficient. I leave it to the reader to feel for 
 him, bereft as he was of her who had long been 
 the object of every hope, every wish, every 
 serious thought, whose charms, and whose ex- 
 cellence were acknowledged by all who had ever 
 seen her, whose attachment to him had been 
 evinced, alas ! how strongly, to whose death he 
 supposed himself to have contributed. For two 
 days he was in a state of stupefaction, which left 
 but a faint distinction between the mourner and 
 the dead. . De Liancourt led him to the cottage, 
 as his presence at the hall would have been an 
 additional distress to Mrs. Harley. I frequently 
 
 visited 
 
145 
 
 visited him — when his faculties in some measure 
 returned, he would talk upon general and ab- 
 stract subjects, upon the unimportance of life, 
 upon the folly of hope, upon the instability of 
 all earthly things — not as formerly, with careless 
 ease, when his words escaped him, as it were, in 
 spite of himself Now his conversation resembled 
 an harangue, and seemed the result of a violent 
 effort; still, however, did it partake of that 
 genius which threw such a lustre round him in 
 every situation, which death only could repress. 
 
 In discoursing upon the most serious subjects, 
 he shewed how indifferent they were to him. 
 Objects, which once filled his mind with delight 
 and admiration, he now treated as unworthy of 
 his attention. This levity was more distressing ta 
 me than his more sedate melancholy, for it only 
 shewed what a blank the world had become 
 to him; trivial things he no longer noticed, 
 the most weighty excited in him no interest. 
 " Charles" — said I, one morning, looking sted- 
 fastly at him after hearing him some time — 
 " there is still something to be made of this life." 
 " I have considered it well," replied he serious- 
 ly, " and to me it is an utter void." " Oh say 
 ** not so, I conjure you, you have friends — one 
 *' friend, Charles, who will follow you through 
 
 K " the 
 
146 
 
 " the world — ^who will console you in your sor- 
 " rows, bear with your weaknesses." " I know 
 " him well," exclaimed he madly, "I love him, 
 " I adore him — but great and glorious as he is, 
 " he cannot fill this vacancy." Saying this he 
 burst from me. 
 
 One of his favorite subjects was that of 
 
 friendship. When De Liancourt and myself 
 
 only were with him, he would perpetually recur 
 
 to it, and with a solemnity which surprized us, 
 
 he seemed anxious to ascertain our opinion upon 
 
 this point, how far a man would be justified in 
 
 co-operating, for the sake of his friend, in an 
 
 action which itself was not strictly moral. " The 
 
 " discussion of such questions," I said, " was 
 
 " always dangerous — that if there were situations 
 
 " in which error might be excused, in con- 
 
 ** sideration that it arose from some of the best 
 
 " feelings of our nature, at least they ought not 
 
 ** to be anticipated by reasoning, but be left to 
 
 *' the guidance of those feelings." De Liancourt 
 
 assumed a sterner tone— he denied that any such 
 
 situations could occur, and said, " that a friend- 
 
 ^V ship without virtue should bear an inferior 
 
 " name — that it might be called a league, acom- 
 
 '* pact— -but not a friendship." " And are there 
 
 " JXQ circumstances," said Montford, " in which, 
 
 "if 
 
147 
 
 I " if a friend could not applaud, he would at 
 " least defend and protect?" " None." replied 
 De Liancourt, with firmness. 
 
 When I inquired from De Liancourt how 
 Montford passed his nights, he described him, as 
 hour after hour, walking up and down his room 
 with irregular step — and sometimes, an exclama- 
 tion would escape him that betrayed his agony — - 
 His looks indeed proved a total want of sleep— 
 the light of youth was gone, and the only 
 characteristic of his countenance was a dark 
 despondency. 
 
 Montford's manner had given De Liancourt 
 serious alarm. I confess I did not partake of his 
 apprehensions — I knew the extent of my poor 
 friend's sufferings, but I recollected his manly 
 understanding, and still more the flexibility of 
 his disposition, which I hoped would in process 
 of time adapt itself to its situation. Perhaps I 
 was too much occupied with my own loss, to 
 attend with sufficient accuracy to the state of his 
 mind. One evening, as we were sitting together, 
 and Montford, after a violent effort to converse, 
 had sunk into a gloomy dejection, that no faint 
 glimmering seemed to irradiate, the count in^ 
 troduced, with great skill, and with all the 
 K2 appearance 
 
148 
 
 appearance of accident, the subject of suicide, 
 ** The misfortunes of life," said he loftily, " how- 
 " ever severe, however heavy, it should be the 
 " first business of education to learn to endure — 
 " there have been moments, when the loss of 
 " friends, of property, and of her, how much 
 " dearer than either, almost impelled me to 
 " seek shelter in the grave." Montford suddenly 
 fixed his eyes upon I)e Liancourt — for the first 
 time since Louisa's death they were filled with 
 tears. " Of her?" he faintly repeated — " she 
 " lived — you was not the cause of her death." 
 " But," continued De Liancourt, " I was soon 
 " deterred from an act so atrocious and coward- 
 " ly" — " cowardly," said I — " I can scarcely 
 " agree with you on the justice of that term — 
 '' much as I shudder at the act of suicide, and 
 " though most certainly it cannot be marked by 
 " language too opprobrious, I must maintain the 
 *' truth of the Roman adage — he knows not how to 
 *^ fear who dares to die,'" " And yet," replied 
 De Liancourt, " from what feeling can such an 
 " act arise, but a desire to fly from present ills, 
 *f which alarm the sufferer so much as to render 
 *' him regardless of those to come." — Montford 
 started as if he awoke from sleep. " No, no," 
 exclaimed he, " it is not cowardice — it is not a 
 " comparison between present and future ills — it, 
 
149 
 
 " is reason overthrown — it is the force of in- 
 " tolerable agony — it is the insanity of despair 1" 
 Here tears came to his relief, and his head falling 
 on his breast, he wept and sobbed aloud — then 
 turning to De Liancourt, he said — " De Lian- 
 " court, forgive me, forgive me — I will live — be 
 " assured I will live — if it is only to convince 
 " you I deserve your friendship." 
 
 I must entreat the reader to dwell upon this 
 conversation, as an undeniable proof, that my 
 estimate of Montford's character was not entirely 
 erroneous ; that he was incapable of a settled re- 
 solution to commit an act so full of horror, that 
 it could only arise, to use his own expressions, 
 from *' reason overthrown — from the force of 
 *' intolerable agony — from the insanity of de- 
 " spair." 
 
 It was a great object with me to prevent him, 
 if possible, from attending the funeral. I first 
 endeavoured to conceal from him the day on 
 which it was appointed to take place — but this, 
 upon an occasion that so nearly interested the 
 whole neighbourhood, was impossible. I tried 
 persuasions, but obtained from him only a vague 
 and unsatisfactory answer. 
 
 The 
 
150 
 
 The hour now arrived, which must consign 
 to the dust, all that remained of her whom na- 
 ture had formed to shew how well perfect beauty 
 became all moral excellence. — During the service, 
 as I stood upon the brink of the grave, and ac- 
 cidentally cast up my eyes, I perceived Mont- 
 ford standing opposite to me, on the other side — 
 his hat had fallen to the ground, so that no part 
 of his face was concealed from me. I cannot — I . 
 dare not attempt to describe the expression of his 
 countenance — his glazed and rayless eyes were 
 fixed immovably upon the coffin. When all 
 was over, and the croud, which was very great, 
 was already beginning to separate, I sprang for- 
 ward, and seizing him by the arm, hurried him 
 ^way, though I hardly knew whither. I looked 
 at him — his countenance still struck me with 
 horror. As we passed through the village in 
 which the church was situated, I hastened with 
 him into an inn by the road side, and demanded 
 a room. We had scarcely entered, when Mont- 
 ford, with a laugh of horror, exclaimed — " This 
 '* is a glorious day! — ^yet, the marriage was a 
 " a little too public! — but, who can wonder! — 
 " so brilliant a star must be beheld with rapture 
 *< by all the world! — did you mark how beau- 
 *' tiful she looked! — how the fellow stammered 
 ^* as he read the service — and all were clothed in 
 
 " whiter 
 
151 
 
 " white ! — Oh I how well suited to such a bride ! 
 " Yet! yet!" — and he wiped away a tear that 
 started from his eyes — " when I touched her 
 " hand, it was as cold, as cold, Harley, as death!" 
 He now sunk into a chair, and for a few minutes 
 was deprived of sense. When he awoke, his 
 consciousness seemed to return, and he had a 
 full conception of the horror of his situation. 
 After a short pause, he rushed forwards, and 
 seizing a knife, which happened to be on the 
 table, plunged it with extreme violence twice 
 into his breast — my cries brought together the 
 inhabitants of the house we were in — I loudly 
 called for assistance. Montford, supporting 
 himself against the wall, and putting one hand 
 on my shoulder, while with the other he held 
 his handkerchief to the wound — " Good God!" 
 said he, faintly, as life ebbed away — " what have 
 ** I done? Harley, it is too late — you have been 
 ♦' my most excellent and my dearest friend. I 
 " have known you long, Harley; you have 
 " born with my caprices and my captiousness ; 
 " you alone knew to what cause they were to be 
 " ascribed — be still my friend — perhaps the 
 " time will come, when my name shall be torn 
 " in pieces by men who cannot feel — they will 
 '* sneer at me and ridicule me — he, whom 
 "Louisa loved, shall be a subject of mockery 
 
 '' and 
 
15i 
 
 *' and insult — but you will not suffer it — you 
 *' will be my defender — you will preserve and 
 *' justify my name. — Oh I let me be buried by 
 *' her side, and" Here his words became in- 
 audible — I shall not be expected to proceed — 
 Montford expired in my arms! 
 
 In the repose of evening I sometimes visit 
 the tomb of my friend, and reflect upon the 
 character, which, in all probability, he would 
 have sustained, had his life been prolonged. 
 When I think of his fine imagination, chastened 
 as it was by taste, I fancy him pouring forth the 
 numbers of poetry wildly, but not incorrectly. 
 When I remember the singular flexibility of his 
 disposition, and with what ease, according to the 
 circumstances in which he was placed, he by 
 turns assumed all characters, and excelled in 
 all, not artificially or affectedly, but from the 
 irresistible impulse of his nature, I trace his 
 pen in the drama, sometimes, perhaps, slightly 
 erring, to exhibit men in too fair a light. If, 
 from a humble situation, fortune had called 
 him to the senate, I know with what power he 
 would have supported the cause of humanity, in 
 whatever form, and through whatever details the 
 great questions of political morality had come to 
 be discussed. Where he could not have en- 
 forced 
 
153 
 
 forced conviction by his reasoning, he would 
 have stolen it by his wit. Such a man has lived, 
 is still living ; and, when the malice of party 
 and prejudice shall have sunk with him in the 
 grave, the world will unite with his mourning 
 friends in doing him justice ; such, or nearly 
 such, would have been my friend. Let me turn 
 for a moment more to what he was, and then for 
 ever lay down my pen. Merely to call him 
 amiable, would be to give but a very imperfect 
 idea of him — this term is often applied to the 
 weakness, rather than to the strength, of the af- 
 fections. In affairs of no consequence, such men 
 display an excess of sensibility, but are com- 
 pletely ignorant of the bolder and more manly 
 feelino:s. Montford was amiable without weak- 
 ness, simple without childishness, independent 
 without harshness, enthusiastic without restless- 
 ness. For his manners, natural taste had given 
 them that polish, which is sometimes acquired 
 in the crowded intercourse of life. I have not 
 attempted to disguise his failings — the last fatal 
 act of his despair I have not dared even to pal- 
 liate; it at least proves how fervently he could 
 love. His long attachment to me as a friend, 
 my chief pleasure while he was living, is now 
 my proudest boast. I sincerely acknowledge, 
 that to him I owe whatever is valuable in my 
 
 temper 
 
154 
 
 temper or character. How Tainly do I wish to 
 discharge the obligation, and from what hopes 
 am I fallen! Yet may it be a consolation to me 
 in my old age, that I have left a record of his 
 character, and paid to his sacred memory the 
 only tribute in my power* 
 
 One word more and I conclude — Having per- 
 formed my promise to my friend, with as much 
 pleasure as I can now receive on this side the 
 orrave, let me entreat the reader to drive far from 
 him the thought, that I do not most sincerely 
 condemn the dreadful act which caused his death. 
 I propose not Montford as the object of imita- 
 tion — it would not, however, I hope, have been 
 better for morality, if his character had never 
 been brought before the public eye, and if I had 
 refused to obey his injunctions, and what I have 
 conceived to be a duty to his name. The unfor- 
 tunate manner of his death, has rendered him a 
 more general subject of discussion, than usually 
 happens on the decease of a private individual. 
 If I have exhibited some of his virtues, I have 
 concealed none of his errors— they are both be- 
 fore the world, who, I doubt not, will be led by 
 compassion for his misfortunes, to exercise their 
 judgment in mercy ! 
 
 THE EN©, 
 
I J\* examining the papers of my departed friend y 
 I found the following Play ; it was written dur- 
 ing the first months of his residence at college, 
 and before any of the events^ related in the pre- 
 ceding pages, took place; it is marked^ I confess, 
 with the usual faults of a young and inexperi- 
 enced writer ; the incidents are too bold and ex- 
 travagant, and the characters are not distin- 
 guished by traits sufficiently delicate. Had the 
 author lived, he would have asserted a clearer 
 right to approbation and applause. JYow, alas ! 
 though the following Drama has been to me 
 very amusing and interesting ; with others who 
 have not the same motives to indulgence, I must 
 appeal to considerations drawn from a more me- 
 lancholy source ; these will blunt the edge of 
 justice, and soothe the sei^eriiy of criticism. 
 
-'m^sss^msssssssss^: 
 
LOVE IN MARRIAGE. 
 
 A COMEDY, 
 
 IJf FIVE ACTS. 
 
PERSONS IN THE PLAY. 
 
 MELVILLE, 
 
 LOVECHILD, 
 
 DAZZLE, 
 
 MELLEFONT, 
 
 SETTLE, 
 
 LOVELL, 
 
 GIUSEPPE. 
 
 MRS. MELVILLE, 
 
 LAURA, 
 
 SOPHIA, 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Scene lies in Melville s country house. 
 
ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 A room in Melville s house. 
 
 Enter Lucy arid Giuseppe, meeting. : 
 
 Giuseppe, 
 
 xjLH! mia carissima! ma chere Lucy, how glad 
 I am to see you once again. Ma foi, you look 
 as beautiful as paradise ; give me a kiss you little 
 charmer. 
 
 Lucy. Lord I Mr. Giuseppe, you are so 
 hoist' rous, and before breakfast too! La, I de- 
 clare, you've put me into such a flutter I shall 
 not be able to pin my mistresses gown, 
 
 Gius. Perdonate, mia anima. (sings) But, 
 ma foi, your mistress reminds me of my master, 
 he is waiting for me to dress his hair — one more 
 kiss, my dear girl, and then 
 
 Luci/, La ! This is monstrous shocking, you 
 shall not take such liberties with me I promise 
 you ; it may be the custom in those foreign parts 
 you come from, but English flesh and blood 
 can't bear it. 
 
 Gius. Then English flesh and blood must 
 L not 
 
not look so tempting, (kisses her) sacre ! my mas- 
 ter s bell ! I know it by its violence — he's grown 
 so ill-temper'd of late, ahi Lucy, this love — 
 my poor master now never sleeps at night, and 
 looks as pale as spermaceti. 
 
 LucT/. I am sure if paleness is a proof of 
 love, I know whose complexion tells a very dif- 
 ferent story, that I do. 
 
 Gius, But what made us leave Bath do you 
 think, as soon as you left it ? What made us fol- 
 low you to Melville house ? Sacre nom de ton- 
 nere, my master's bell again 1 
 
 Lucy, And I must go to my mistress — going, 
 
 Gius, Signora Lucy ! 
 
 Lucy, But your master's bell ! 
 
 Gius. Ah I ma foi, don't mind him. I would 
 do any thing to serve him, when my own plea- 
 sure is not in the way. Come here, I have some 
 questions to ask you — I am sure I must tell 
 him something of his mistress, or else. 
 
 Lucy, Indeed I shall not be bid to come 
 here, and go there, just as you please — ^well, 
 what do you want ? 
 
 Gius, Tell me, is your mistress, Signora 
 Laura, seriously in love with my master or not. 
 
 Lucy, Oh Lord no I I am sure she is not. . 
 
 Gius, And what makes you so sure my? 
 ^car. 
 
 Lucy, 
 
Lucy, Your dear indeed ! marry come up — 
 well, in the first place, if I mention him a thou- 
 sand times, she never sighs once ; then she does 
 not look pale and red at the same time, and 
 when I call her in the morning, she's as light 
 and airy as if she had slept all night long. 
 
 Gins. And what does she say of Bath ? Does 
 she call it the most charming place in the whole 
 world, as I do, where I first saw these lips. 
 (kisses her,) 
 
 Lucy, No indeed, she abuses it night and 
 morning, and says its a horrid dull, idle, gos- 
 siping place, only fit for children at a dancing 
 school. Then she vows there was not a single 
 person there she ever wishes to see again. 
 
 Gins, Oh, my poor master I now I must tell 
 him the exact contrary of all this. 
 
 Lucy, No, no, consider. Gentlemen very 
 often suffer cruelly from love. 
 
 Gius, That they do, indeed, Lucy. 
 
 Lucy, And if you encourage him, who 
 knows if it may not break his heart at last. 
 
 Gius, But if I don t encourage him, he'll 
 break my head at present. 
 
 Lucy, Good Lord ! How I stand idling here ! 
 Good by, Mr. Giuseppe. 
 
 Gius, Bon jour, my angel. 
 
 L 2 Lucy. 
 
10 
 
 Lucy, You won't see me again all day, I pro- 
 mise you. 
 
 Gius. Sancta Maria I you frighten me out of 
 my senses. 
 
 LucT/, Well, I don't wish to encourage you, 
 but, perhaps — perhaps, you have no need to 
 despair. Exit, 
 
 Gius. The dear sweet little coquette I Fort 
 bien, very well, very well. I have a wife in 
 Italy, and a wife in France, and now I am likely 
 to provide one for myself in England. Ma foi, 
 they are to be had every where. — (sings) Com- 
 patiso le donne — compatisco le donne. Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. — Lo yell's dressing-room, 
 
 LovELL in his dressing-room, 
 
 Lov, This woman's in my head, my heart — 
 she occupies every thought — sleep never comes 
 near me, and if I had been at the gaming table 
 all night, I could not feel more jaded and wea- 
 ried this morning. What's worst of all, this 
 Italian puppy perceives my folly. 
 
 Enter 
 
u 
 
 Enter Giuseppe. 
 
 Where have you been loitering sirrah? Am I 
 to pull my arms off at the bell-rope to rouse you 
 from your lethargy. 
 
 Gius, Oh I mon signore — non voglio offen- 
 dirvil — ^but the bells in this house do not ring I 
 suppose. 
 
 Lov, No more of these excuses, I have been 
 making noise enough to raise the dead. 
 
 Gius. (Aside) Or to kill the living — ma foi — 
 ah monsieur ! I did think you would not wish to 
 see me 'till I had made some inquiries. 
 
 Lov, Inquiries — what inquiries? 
 
 Gius, You must remember, sir, Mademoiselle 
 Lucy. 
 
 Lov, No, not I — some vulgar baggage I sup- 
 pose, some high spirited trollop I'll answer for her. 
 
 Gius. (Aside) Ah! ah! je vous salue — you 
 shall remember her — as charming a young thing 
 as is to be found I assure you, sir, upon my 
 honor. 
 
 Lov. Don't poison me with your lovesick 
 praise, don't you see my hair is not dressed. 
 
 Gius. I thought, sir, you would not take it 
 amiss if I made some inquiries from her after her 
 mistress. Oh! qu 'elle est char mantc — monsieur. 
 
 Lov. Who gave you liberty to mention that 
 
 lady, 
 
15 
 
 lady, am I for ever to be tormented by this 
 unintelligible chatter — why, you rascal, youVe 
 reversed the order of providence, and made a 
 mixture of all the languages, which, from the 
 building of Babel, were decreed to be kept sepa- 
 rate. Was there ever heard such a jargon, well, 
 this shall decide me — I've told you a thousand 
 times I'm tir'd of you — do you mind me — take 
 this for a warning — quit my service — you inatten- 
 tive, idle, lanthorn-jaw'd blockhead. 
 
 Gius. It grieves me very much to have of- 
 fended you, sir, upon my honor, very much. 
 But I thought it no harm just to ask how Miss 
 Laura had been since we left Bath. 
 
 Lov, You are an impertinent, interfering, 
 busy jackanapes for your pains, and what did the 
 woman say? 
 
 Gius. Ah, sir, ma foi, you have made terrible 
 work there. Miss Laura has never looked up 
 since — she never sleeps at night — changes colour 
 a thousand times in a minute — calls Bath the most 
 charming place in the world, and says she shall 
 always think of it with the deepest gratitude. 
 La pauvre petite I 
 
 Lov. And who told you this Joseph? 
 
 Gius, Mon dieul I've been talking with 
 Mademoiselle Lucy this last half hour, and about 
 nothing else. 
 
 Lov. 
 
13 
 
 Lov, What! that pretty little girl I used to 
 see you walking with up Milsom-street — eh! 
 Joseph? 
 
 Gius. And when her mistress first heard you 
 had followed her here, she was so happy — she 
 laughed, and danced, and her eyes did so sparkle. 
 
 Lov, Why, you did not see her, Joseph. 
 
 Gius. Oh, no, sir, this is all my little Lucy's 
 description. 
 
 Lov, Well, come and dress my hair, Joseph — 
 this Lucy of your' s is a pretty girl i' faith — ^by the 
 bye, there's that brown coat of mine — it's almost 
 new, but I don t like it, so you may take it. 
 
 Gius, And there is the coat you had made 
 for the last birth-day — the silver is tarnished 
 terriblement. 
 
 Lov. Take it, take it, only dress my hair, and 
 take my whole wardrobe. Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IIL—^roow. 
 
 Mrs. Melville and Laura. 
 
 Mrs. Mel You have heard who arrived last 
 night after we were all in bed. 
 
 Laura. 
 
14 
 
 Laura, Mr. Lovell — indeed I am very sorry 
 for it. 
 
 Mrs. Mel, I was sure he would accept Mel- 
 ville's invitation — ^you'll torment him in spite of 
 yourself — but we'll talk no more of him — he's 
 one of the men that give us poor women the 
 character of coquettes, by construing distant civi- 
 lities into proofs of love — how did Mellefont take 
 your delay of your marriage. 
 
 Laura. With the saucy arrogance of a man 
 who thinks himself secure of me. 
 
 Mrs, Mel. And with a grave ill-natured 
 speech upon the impropriety of your conduct. 
 
 Laura. No, no, now you wrong him, though 
 satirical he is never ill-natured. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Well, upon my word I think he 
 has some right to be offended. 
 
 Laura. You quite frighten me with that grave 
 look, but you remember, sister, how positively I 
 declared, not three months ago, that I would 
 keep these men at a distance. When you was 
 talking of domestic happiness and congenial sen- 
 timents. Alas ! how little have your hopes been 
 realized I 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Pray, Laura, don't be personal. 
 
 Laura. I used to laugh at you, and call the 
 whole race cruel, perfidious, ungenerous; of the 
 
 tiger 
 
15 
 
 tiger species — that ought to be caged as such; 
 very well to look at from a distance, but terrible 
 to approach. 
 
 Mrs, MeL And then, Mr. Mellefont con- 
 vinced you I was right. 
 
 Laura, I don't know of what he has convinced 
 me, but really ever since I knew him I have been 
 so near the clouds! — in such an indescribable 
 state of heavenly confusion! But, my dear 
 Louisa, how can you imagine I should be very 
 anxious to marry, when I see you unhappy with 
 a man whom we all know to be more affectionate 
 than the rest of his sex taken together. How 
 can I venture, when hope, seemingly so well 
 founded, has been so delusive — you remember 
 the song — 
 
 Hope o'er the bridal bed 
 Suspends his radiant flight. 
 
 And whispers joy to come. 
 Ah, me ! how soon he's fled I 
 How fades his purple light, 
 'Till all around is gloom. 
 Mrs, Mel, I own there are moments, when 
 my spirits, great as they are, hardly support me, 
 but it is the report of his ill-usage, so current in 
 the world, that wounds me most ; however, the 
 time will come — I know the time will come, 
 when they will envy me as much as now they 
 
 affect 
 
16 
 
 affect to pity me; in the interval they shall not 
 be gratified with my mournful looks, I am deter- 
 mined my father ! 
 
 Enter Lovechild. 
 
 Lovec. What, in tears, Louisa! — always in 
 tears I this is not to be born ; the world says 
 true, I perceive — Melville treats you shamefully. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Its a pity your informers can find 
 no better amusement than to pry into family 
 concerns that don't relate to them. 
 
 Lovec. The world is censorious enough, hea- 
 ven knows ; but general reports are seldom with- 
 out foundation; to me they have always been 
 favourable 'till now^, and I am too old to bear 
 the change with patience. I don't like to have 
 it said that my daughter suffers from the tyranny 
 or oppression of any man, while I stand by, 
 afraid to interfere. No — I don't like it, and I 
 won't bear it. Now tell me, own to me, are not 
 you a most miserable woman? Laura, is not she 
 a most miserable woman, I say? 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Miserable with Melville ? 
 
 Lovec. I shall separate you from this worth- 
 less husband of yours. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. I am happier with him, faulty as 
 he sometimes is, than in any other situation you 
 could describe. 
 
 Lovec. 
 
17 
 
 Lovec, There's a self-willed piece of romance 
 for you — come, come, this is nonsense, rank 
 stuff, he's rich, and can make you a handsome 
 allowance. 
 
 Mrs, Mel. I can hear no more on this sub- 
 ject, even from you. 
 
 Lovec, What think you of a thousand a-year, 
 your carriage, your jewels, and a service of 
 plate. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. I have no ambition to be buried 
 splendidly. 
 
 Lovec. Buried, do you call it — 'sdeath, Louisa,, 
 you know he drinks, hard. 
 
 Mrs. MeL That I deny. 
 
 Lovec. Plays deep. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Go on as you please. 
 
 Lovec. Stays out all night ; nay. Miss Allost 
 declared the other evening, just at the time too, 
 when a sans-prendre-vole had put her into toler- 
 able humour, she knew he beat you. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Its slander, slander all! and the 
 falsehood of the report is only equalled by its 
 malice. 
 
 Lovec. Well, well, I see there's nothing to be 
 done with you in this temper, but I will not 
 suffer you to be ill used, to be made a laughing- 
 stock, a by-word; a subject of jest over the 
 bottle, pity at quadrille — heavens ! when I think 
 
 what 
 
IS 
 
 what a pride and comfort you were to me— but 
 I have done I I have done I Exit, 
 
 Mrs. Mel. And did he really mean to sepa- 
 rate us — how Melville will laugh when he hears 
 of it. 
 
 Laura. Indeed, Louisa, you're a most excel- 
 lent creature, practising all your life what wiser 
 man can only teach. I protest here's Mr. Mel- 
 lefontj and with such a frown on his counte- 
 nance, I would not meet him for the universe. 
 Let us fly. Exeunt, 
 
 Enter Mellefont. 
 
 Mellef. I perceive she is afraid of encounter- 
 ing me. Well, well, let me not imitate poor 
 Melville, and make myself the hero of a tragedy. 
 
 Enter Dazzle, 
 
 Ah! Dazzle — I wanted such a good hu- 
 moured fellow as you. I see you've not lost the 
 spring of your walk. 
 
 Z>az. There's life in it — there's elegance — 
 youth and vigour in it — eh ? 
 
 Mellef, You stay a day with us, I suppose 
 you have brought back from your travels a store 
 of information. 
 
 JDaz, 
 
19 
 
 Daz, Its well you spoke in time, for I see 
 the Morning Post has announced my arrival, 
 and engagements will be pouring in upon me 
 from all quarters. 
 
 Mellef. Your old temper — I see, affecting fol« 
 lies you despise. 
 
 Daz, And playing the fool for want of 2 
 better employment — exactly so, Mellefont — I 
 wish you had been with me in Lincolnshire last 
 week, for of course I paid my first visit to my 
 father — you've no notion how I'm adored there. 
 
 Mellef. Why, indeed, it would have been 
 hard upon you, if, after all the pains you have 
 taken to get a little popularity, you had not suc- 
 ceeded upon your father's estate. 
 
 Daz, I knew how it would be — so, on Sun- 
 day, that I might not attract too much attention, 
 I placed myself peaceably in the family pew be- 
 fore the service began — but my care was of no 
 avail — the eyes of the congregation never wan- 
 dered a moment, so that I was absolutely put out 
 of countenance. I am not sure the parson did 
 not stammer — and as for the clerk, I could com- 
 pare him to nobody but Macbeth, "the amen 
 " stuck in his throat ! 
 
 Mellef, And not being able to bear so much 
 eclat, you are come to repose with your friends 
 here ? 
 
 J Daz. 
 
50 
 
 Daz, I was obliged to go to Bath, and ais 
 Melville lived only four miles off. 
 
 Mellef, Bath I and who did you find there ? 
 
 Daz, Not a soul but Fightwell. 
 
 Mellef. I wish you would teach him to be as 
 harmless in his whims as you are, we met him 
 at lady Ruinall's ball last night. I hate these 
 country parties — i'faith, sir, he contrived a quar- 
 rel with Melville. 
 
 Daz, So he told me, any thing to divert 
 ennui. I travel for employment. I play the 
 fop for employment. Fightwell calls a man out 
 and shoots him for employment. In this pro- 
 jecting age, its a wonder there's no workhouse 
 established in the region of Bond-street. How 
 many good-tempered fellows would be saved 
 from doing mischief — ^but now you speak of 
 Melville, he is married I find, i'faith, he has put 
 his follies to a violent death. 
 
 Mellef. No, 'tis still the same with him, 
 start a petticoat, and he's off, off, immediately • 
 when he was unmarried, the women drove him 
 mad, and now he's married, he's vexed to death 
 because they don't drive him mad enough. 
 
 Daz, So the marriage between him and Mrs. 
 Melville, was what they call a love-match, and 
 now of course he is distractedly jealous. 
 
 Mellef. No, no, his conduct to her cannot 
 
 be 
 
51 
 
 be ascribed to jealousy, I don't know what to call 
 it — I believes he likes to quarrel with her for the 
 pleasure of a reconciliation ; or rather, like most 
 men of his temperament, he has his hot and his 
 cold fits ; sometimes he loves her to distraction, 
 but as extremes never last, a moment of indif- 
 ference succeeds, when he fancies an injury from 
 her who is incapable of offering it, and alas ! too 
 often avenges himself by a real one. 
 
 Daz. Still, still, for want of employment — 
 yet, on my life for it, he is jealous — did she ever 
 give him cause. Fightwell talks much of her. 
 
 Mellef, Fightwell I a vain coxcomb, don't 
 trust him. No, no, as to any infidelity to Mel- 
 ville, she is as guiltless as a vestal, and she loves 
 him with her whole soul ; yet, when he is in one 
 of his whimsical moods, he's never at a loss for 
 an accusation. 
 
 Daz, He must be ingenious, how does he 
 manage it. 
 
 Mellef. It is hard to describe a conduct to 
 which no common language will apply — if you 
 asked me to mention Mrs. Melville's defects, I 
 should profess to you I knew none, she has an 
 unobtrusive gentleness of nature, which it seems 
 you must seek to know, and at the same time a 
 warmth of affection equal to that of her irregu- 
 lar husband. 
 
 Daz, 
 
2Z 
 
 Daz. Upon my soul I came over to England 
 intending to make some sweet creature happy 
 before I had been here a month — ^but I fancy 
 Melville's example will cool the ardor of my be- 
 nevolence. 
 
 Mellef. You can draw no conclusion from 
 him. He is an unique, a composition where na- 
 ture seems jealous of her own work ; where yet, 
 not choosing to intermingle any positive vice, 
 she answers her malignant purpose by means of 
 the virtues themselves, making the excess of the 
 latter almost as destructive as the moderate ex- 
 ercise of the former would be. A genius, per- 
 petually rushing into errors, which, at the same 
 time he arrays so gorgeously, that we know nol^ 
 whether to lament or admire them. Gifted by 
 heaven with every imaginable resource, whether 
 for ornament or utility, yet throwing such a 
 dangerous force into each, that you would 
 imagine his existence to depend upon one alone — 
 like the madman in the play, whose madness is 
 superior to the sobriety of the remaining charac- 
 ters. 
 
 Daz. Heavens I Mellefont, I never knew you 
 so talkative before — ^we shall never be friends 
 again- — the earth cannot bear two suns you know. 
 
 Mellef. Nay, nay, I'll never contest the mattei 
 with you again, but I like Melville, do you re- 
 
 membei 
 
53 
 
 member the comedy he wrote to amuse himself 
 in his illness. 
 
 Da%* Oh, aye, what became of it ? 
 
 Mellef. The manager of Drury-lane received 
 it with every mark of approbation, but Melville, 
 at the rehearsal, thought that one passage bore hard 
 upon this friend, another upon that, and so on, 
 egad, sir, the fellow gutted his own child, and 
 the lifeless carcase was returned upon his hands. 
 
 Daz. Hah I hah I hah I and he's married! 
 well, come, let us go in search of this husband. 
 I am very anxious to condole with him. Exeunt i 
 
 Enter Mrs. Melville. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Where can Melville be? He was 
 not with Mellefont and Mr. Dazzle. Where can 
 he have hid himself? 
 
 Enter Melville. 
 
 Ah, I was just thinking of you. 
 
 Mel. So you must be with the old set last 
 night — ^what, can't you be content with them in 
 town, must you follow them into the country ? 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Follow them? You knew they 
 were at Bath, and accepted lady Ruinall's invita- 
 tion, how could I avoid meetino- them. 
 
 Mel. And you must have that pnppy Fight- 
 M well 
 
24 
 
 well for your beau too, the very man you know 
 I dislike above all others. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. I never heard you express your 
 dislike. 
 
 Mel. And can my meaning be discovered by 
 words alone — there was a time when you^.antici- 
 pated my wishes, and even my thoughts. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Alas I how can I anticipate your 
 wishes when I scarcely ever see you, and on 
 whose arm shall I lean for support in crouds, if 
 you refuse me yours — you know in your absence 
 all my pleasure is but affected. 
 
 Mel. Really? 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Can you doubt it? 
 
 Mel. Ahl you women are so skilful in en- 
 snaring our affections, and when you once have 
 us in your toils, you tear and mangle us so un- 
 mercifully ; to believe you, to trust you, to con- 
 fide in you, is to take the transient blaze of the 
 meteor for the steady warmth and radiance of the 
 sun, we follow you as if your steps led to eternal 
 life, and light, and joy — then on a sudden we 
 find ourselves tost about by inexplicable caprices, 
 and — 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Stop, Melville, stop, let me save 
 you from remorse, let me do you a real service, 
 at least in one instance, by depriving you of the 
 opportunity of insulting me. Exit. 
 
 MeL 
 
^5 
 
 Mel. There's a flight of pride! there's your 
 pomp of passion, there's your magnificence of 
 anger, there's your parade and formality of 
 married authority; yet, ah! what a look was 
 that! No, no, my dearest love, I am not quite a 
 monster, (following) 
 
 Enter Mellefont and Dazzle. 
 
 Mellef, Where in such a hurry, Melville? 
 here's your old friend Dazzle. 
 
 Mel, Ah! I am heartily glad to see him, most 
 heartily, (shaking him hy the hand,) 
 
 Mellef. So, Melville, you had a quarrel with 
 Fightwell last night. 
 
 Daz. I assure you I was very near being the 
 bearer of a challenge, this morning, and indeed 
 I am afraid it will follow close upon my heels. 
 
 MeL (Aside) Ah! she is gone — could not 
 wait another moment for me, true woman after 
 all. 
 
 Mellef What are you thinking of 
 
 Mel. Oh, yes, you were speaking of Fight' 
 well, yes— I met him in the croud at the ball, 
 where, after we had been pushing against each 
 other for some time, he gave me a kick on the 
 leg, so without ceremony I pulled him by the 
 nose. 
 
 '-' '^ M ^ Enter 
 
a6 
 
 jEn^^r Servant with a note ^o Dazzle. 
 
 Da%. As I expected, here's a note for you, 
 Melville, enclosed. 
 
 Mellef. But you wo'nt meet him ? 
 
 MeL Why not? 
 
 Mellef. Do you know what sort of a fellow 
 he is? 
 
 MeL Who does not know him? one with 
 high spirits, supported by the idea of his skill in 
 the art of duelling, which in his imagination 
 makes all the world afraid of him — rude and im- 
 pertinent by disposition, and encouraged by long 
 impunity. 
 
 Daz, Yet, upon my soul, he is not ill- 
 natured. 
 
 Mellef. Oh, no, he would not shed the blood 
 of any man, except from mere vanity — ^but are 
 not you afraid of him Charles ? 
 
 MeL Afraid? not I, I am too young to 
 despise the opinion of the world, and as for my 
 life, it is so clouded, where I expected nothing 
 but sunshine — 
 
 Mellef Pshaw ! — pshaw ! — man. 
 
 MeL Poisoned so near its source, that no ac- 
 cidental stream can purify it — and how muddy 
 and thick it will be when it has run on for some 
 years more, I tremble to think. 
 
57^ 
 
 Daz, What answer shall I give to Fightwell, 
 he is now at the village, at your park gate. 
 
 MeL Why tell him I'll meet him an hour 
 hence, under the old ruin. 
 
 Mellef. Melville, let me conclude your mes- 
 sage, I know your antagonist perfectly. 
 
 Mel. As you please, I have no great skill in 
 these affairs. 
 
 Mellef, Then, Dazzle, tell your friend we 
 must have none of his long shots, Charles shall 
 have an equal chance, by the conditions of the 
 combat, they must fight across a handker- 
 chief 
 
 Daz. Are you serious? 
 
 Mellef, Perfectly, I am not surprized at this 
 challenge, and I have long considered the 
 measures which ought to be taken with such a 
 man. 
 
 Daz, But what say you Melville? 
 
 Mel, I leave the whole business to Mellefont — - 
 I would not disappoint him in his wishes to de- 
 scribe me on my tomb-stone. 
 
 Daz, Well— then I'll go and inform Fight- 
 well of your determination. 
 
 Mellef Do'nt forget the handkerchief 
 
 Daz, Oh no, depend upon me. Exit, 
 
 Mellef I'll be your second, Charles. 
 
 Mel 
 
Mel. No, no, your life is too valuable to be 
 sported with, think of poor Laura. I'll go in 
 search of Settle; his cursed coolness fits him for 
 the office exactly. Exeunt, 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT, 
 
 ACT 
 
59 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 
 
 The Park, 
 Enter Mellefont and Settle. 
 
 Sett, Its true, I assure you. 
 
 Mellef, Impossible. 
 
 Sett, Its too much trouble to contradict you. 
 
 Mellef. Well, well, how was it? 
 
 Sett, He was speaking to me about his duel, 
 but he had not finished his story, before the girl 
 I told you of came tripping up to him — just as 
 she was going to open her lips, he sealed them 
 with a kiss, and after a little of his nonsensical 
 love eloquence, led her by the hand to the cot' 
 tage by the side of the water. 
 
 Mellef. But did not she resist? 
 
 Sett, No, indeed, she was as collected as I 
 should have been, if instead of being ravished, 
 she had attempted to ravish me; she seemed too 
 proud to oppose him, but pray ask me no more, 
 here he is himself, let him answer. 
 
 Enter Melvili^e. 
 
 Mel, This was a most fortunate accident. Settle. 
 
 Mellef 
 
Mellef. Considering the use you -are going to 
 make of it, I caui't agree with you. 
 
 MeL What, to have a fine girl thrown into 
 your arms without the trouble of searching for 
 her — just to step from your door and be wel- 
 comed by such beauty — our inimitable dramatist 
 himself could hardly do her justice — " cheeks 
 " deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell- 
 " tale eyes — lips smiling at their own discretion, 
 " or if not smiling, more sweetly pouting" — 
 you remember it. Settle!? 
 
 Selt. Not I, I never attend to such inflamma- 
 tory descriptions. 
 
 Mellef. Really, Melville, just at this moment 
 1 should think you might find another employ- 
 pient for your thoughts. 
 
 Mel. I can never run on in any path, if a fine 
 woman happens to cross it — I must follow her, 
 though my life depends upon my speed in the 
 other direction. 
 
 Mellef. But, Mrs. Melville. 
 
 Mel. She has offended me, she knows she has 
 offended me, and if this dear little unknown had 
 fi skin the colour of mahogany. 
 
 Sett. And teeth of ebony. 
 
 Mel. If she ha4 but one eye, and that seemed 
 to be always taking measure of an enormous 
 hunch upon her back— -by my soyl I'd make love 
 
 to 
 
31 
 to her, if it was only for the pleasure of re- 
 
 >veno;e. 
 
 Mellef. But what will old Lovechild say ; con- 
 sider his attachment to his daughter, and his in- 
 flexible honor. 
 
 Mel. Yes, I must manage to conceal my prize 
 from him, I am very much obliged to my an- 
 cestor, Sir Roger, for his cottage, its a glorious 
 hiding place for contraband commodities. 
 
 Mellef. But still Mrs. Melville? 
 
 MeL Take care, Mellefont. It has been a fa- 
 vourite maxim with all wise men, from Solomon 
 down to Rochefoucault, never to interfere be- 
 tween a man and his wife. 
 
 Mellef. Well, but if no other considerations 
 will move you, to tyrannize over a poor girl who 
 has put herself under your protection. 
 
 Mel. Under my protection I ridiculous, why, 
 surely you're not such a novice in the world as 
 to be deceived by such an artifice as this. What I 
 I suppose, this peerless damsel has just escaped 
 from the magic spells of some black enchanter, 
 and now trusts to that worthy and chaste knight, 
 Charles Melville, to carry her back in safety to 
 her castle — no, no, these arms shall be her castle. 
 
 Sett, Its easy to see from her manner, she is of 
 a rank superior to what her dress indicates. 
 
 MeL 
 
32 
 
 Mel. Oh, no doubt, some noble lady in dis- 
 guise. 
 
 SetL I see you are incorrigible. 
 
 Enter Lovechild. 
 
 Mel, But hush! here's my father-in-law — not 
 a word on your life. 
 
 Lovec, Charles I I left Louisa in the library, 
 (aside) I wish he'd just go and speak to her, she 
 is so unhappy at the thought of having offended 
 him. 
 
 Mel. Its a fine morning for fishing, sir — Settle 
 and I have been amusing ourselves. 
 
 Lovec. As I said, I left my daughter in the 
 library. 
 
 Mel. (Aside) I suppose she has been complain- 
 ing to her father — I fancy, sir, my company is 
 not wished for, and I detest unwelcome intru- 
 sions. 
 
 Lovec. He's in a fine passion, I see ; perhaps 
 not — perhaps not sir. 
 
 Mel. Well, sir, its all very well, and how is 
 my friend Lovell, I hear he arrived last night. 
 
 Lovec. I hardly know how he is, egad I be- 
 lieve he could not answer that question himself. 
 
 Mellef. What, still in love with Laura? 
 
 Sett, 
 
33 
 
 Sett. Who is this Mr. Lovell, Melville ? 
 
 MeL Oh, an old acquaintance of mine, I knew 
 him at college, and there is not an honester fel- 
 low breathing — but in love he's a complete mad- 
 man ; I must introduce you, Settle, and if you 
 can but sprinkle a few drops of your calmness 
 upon his fire, you'll improve him greatly. 
 
 Sett, What a fellow of tinder, I suppose — con- 
 sumed a thousand times, yet still capable of 
 fresh burning. 
 
 Mellef. Yes, and poor Laura, who has really 
 a respect for him, is more perplexed than you 
 can imagine ; he construes the smallest civility 
 into a violent demonstration of love — if she at- 
 tends to him, when he speaks, if she gives him 
 her hand, as she steps into her carriage, he fancies 
 himself secure of her for a wife — if to undeceive 
 him, she treats him with coldness and distance, 
 he complains, that whatever are her feelings 
 towards him, he at least deserves politeness. 
 Sett, What a vain coxcomb he must be I 
 MeL No, not so, no man was ever more free 
 from vanity ; he has a thousand excellent quali- 
 ties, which he could not enumerate, and if you 
 asked him for a picture of himself, his humility 
 would prevent a resemblance. 
 
 Sett, He must be a whimsical fellow. I shall 
 be glad to make his acquaintance. 
 
 Mellef. 
 
34 
 
 Mellef, Oh ! you'll be an excellent sedative to 
 his evaporating spirit. 
 
 Sett, But, tell me, is he constant in his at- 
 tachments ? 
 
 Mellef. No, in good faith, no, for this last- 
 year I had heard no name from him but Sophia, 
 and he has repeated it so often, that he seems to 
 have taught it the very echo, for I can never stir 
 without fancying I hear it — but what is most lu- 
 dicrous of all is, this Sophia is a school acquain- 
 tance of Mrs. Melville and her sister, so that 
 while he is dying for Laura, she detests him as - 
 a traitor to her friend. 
 
 Mel. Nay, nay, laughs at, rather than de- 
 tests, and almost pities while she laughs. 
 
 Sett. And are you, Melville, acquainted with 
 this Sophia. 
 
 Mel. No, I've never seen her, but I hear she ' 
 is very beautiful, and still more romantic than 
 pretty. 
 
 Lovec. Very well, very well, gentlemen — 
 I'faith, Charles, when you and Mellefont get 
 together, you are excellent painters — nothing 
 escapes you, eh? if the one is a little too harsh, 
 the other softens the colours, and all is right 
 again. ^ 
 
 Mel, I am just now in the humour — Settle, 
 Tve a great mind to draw you at full length. 
 
 Sett, 
 
35 
 
 Sett, Well, out with it, you wo*nt disturb me. 
 
 Mel. No, nothing ever disturbs you, but you 
 are more in Mellefont's stile. 
 
 Mellef. To say the truth, I am at a loss to 
 begin, you neither love nor hate, hope nor fear, 
 esteem nor dislike, scorn nor admire. 
 
 Sett. Its very true. 
 
 Mellef. You are a combination of negatives. 
 
 Sett. I am vastly obliged to you. 
 
 Mellef. If you was asked to give a descrip- 
 tion of your character, I am a bundle of nothings, 
 you must say. 
 
 Sett. No, no, let the drawing be your own, 
 I've no inclination to suicide. 
 
 Mellef. I am in truth nothing. 
 
 Sett. Flattering upon my word, 
 
 Mellef. I go for a man because I walk erect, 
 have the shape of a man, the legs, arms, nose, 
 mouth, eyes, ears of a man, but as to appetites, 
 affections, passions, which generally are added 
 to the definition — the good dame nature has 
 saved me the trouble of maintaining such a 
 costly retinue. 
 
 Lovec. And now I suppose my character 
 comes next — well, don't be too hard upon me. 
 
 Mel. Ah I by my soul, it would be a por- 
 trait, for which, if the best man in the world 
 
 should 
 
36 
 
 should blush to sit, the fault would lie in the 
 execution, not the design. 
 
 Lovec. I believe so, I believe so, Charles, 
 you'll make my dear girl happy, I know you 
 will — and when I die, when I die, I'll leave 
 both her and my character with confidence in 
 your hands. 
 
 MeL Well, come, let us go and see Louisa. 
 
 Lovec. Aye, let us go. Exeunt. 
 
 Re-enter Melville. 
 
 MeL No, by heaven, I won't go, I under- 
 stand this, she has employed her father as her 
 ambassador, she means to frighten me by the 
 frown of authority — then my little incognita with 
 her ruby lips and sparkling eyes, she'll be ex- 
 pecting me ; no — I'll not go. Exit. 
 
 Enter hoy ECHihD, Settle, Mellefont. 
 
 Sett. I was afraid his good intentions would 
 not carry him many yards. 
 
 Mellef. This is too much, I'll bring him 
 back. Exit, 
 
 Lovec, I did not expect this from him I 
 own — I'll venture to say he has no right to com- 
 plain — Pshaw I he should have married some 
 wrinkled dowager, past the grand climacteric, who, 
 
 instead 
 
31 
 
 instead of shewing any caprices of her own, 
 would have watched his with the eyes of a lynx, 
 only for the purpose of indulging them. 
 
 Sett, You see, Mr. Lovechild, the evil of 
 these impetuous tempers. 
 
 Love. Aye ; they are dreadfully unmanagea- 
 ble, to be sure. 
 
 Sett, Now, with me it was exactly the con- 
 trary ; on my first entrance into life, my father 
 placed me in the army, all my brother officers I 
 found getting into constant scrapes. 
 
 Lovec, The heat of youth, I fancy — egad — 
 I was once in the army myself — and, as you say, 
 was always in some cursed difficulty or other. 
 
 Sett, And now, no doubt, you see .your 
 error. 
 
 Lovec, Not I, on my life — I am still a strong 
 old fellow — and as for my youthful frolics, 
 i' faith, old time, as he passes, prunes away so 
 much, that if he has not something superfluous 
 to begin with, he seizes the proudest branches of 
 the tree, and leaves nothing but its wasted trunk, 
 almost before it is come to its maturity. 
 
 Sett, With me prudence was beforehand 
 with time — my passions were never very warm. 
 
 Lovec, So I suppose. 
 
 Sett, And now, thank heaven 1 I am fairly 
 rid of them all. 
 
 Lovec, 
 
3S 
 
 Lovec* Cast off, like misbegotten children^ 
 too puny to thrive in so cold a climate. — - 
 Well, perhaps you are right — but, to say the 
 truth, I would not have such a fellow for a son-in^ 
 law — egad I might as well marry my daughter 
 to a barber's block. 
 
 SCENE III. — Outside of an ornamented cottage 
 in the park. 
 
 Enter Melville and Mellefont. 
 
 MeL Here, here, Mellefont — that's the room 
 — I led her by the hand civilly enough — I believe 
 she did not know where she was going — safe 
 under lock and key, my boy I 
 
 Mellef. I have no patience with you. 
 
 Enter Lovechild. 
 
 MeL Lovechild again! 1 wish the window 
 was not open, if she should take it into her head 
 to look out — 
 
 Lovec. Mr. Melville, I am too old to be made 
 a subject of ridicule. 
 
 MeL Surely he has heard nothing, (aside) I 
 should resent such an affront upon you sooner 
 tlian yourself (aside) this affair does not quite 
 suit me, I find — come, Lovechild, come. 
 
 Lovec. 
 
39 
 
 Lovec. Nay, nay, I won't accompany yoii—^ 
 but you'll find Louisa in the library as I told 
 you, and if she is inclined to a walk, tell her the 
 air here is very pleasant. 
 
 Melville. (Aside) Now should my little mas- 
 querader hear us — No, I won't stir a step without 
 you. 
 
 Lovec. What! you want a mediator, do you? 
 oh! you are a cunning rogue — no — Charles — 
 I won't indulge you — but ah — what was that — 
 
 Mel. What do you mean? 
 
 Lovec. I thought — didn't I hear music from 
 that window? 
 
 Mel. Only the chambermaid knocking the 
 brooms about I suppose. 
 
 Lovec. Well, go to Louisa, Charles. 
 
 Mel. Not without you, I protest. 
 
 Lovec. Come, then — but oh I what? I did 
 hear music — what? does your chambermaid 
 play on the harp, too ? 
 
 Mel. There is no knowing, sir, for the 
 kitchen has long been more accomplished than 
 the parlour ; and now I recollect, there is an old 
 harp of Louisa's in that room; but let us go — 
 pshaw I you won't stay and hear that vulgar jig, 
 will you? 
 
 Lovec. Vulgar jig, do you call it? — egad, I 
 
 never 
 N 
 
40 
 
 never heard a sweeter, more plaintive air in my 
 life. But hush I — her voice. 
 
 Mel. Why, surely, the old wrinkled hag 
 can't sing. 
 
 (Song from the window.) 
 Oh sound, my lyre, a softer strain. 
 To thee alone I'll tell my pain, 
 
 To thee pour out my woe ; 
 Let every chord's vibration prove 
 Its sympathy to hopeless love. 
 And murmur soft and low. 
 
 Lovec. Beautiful, egad, beautiful — but, husht 
 MeL Another verse I by all that's horrible I 
 
 Again I that plaintive ling' ring tone 
 Is but the echo of my moan, 
 
 Answering the tale I tell; 
 Nor wilt thou speak away from me 
 The sorrow thus entrusted thee, 
 
 Which now thou soothest so well. 
 
 Mel Well done, old Kitty — she sings tole- 
 rably. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Melville, and Laura. 
 
 Laura, and I swear, my wife — w^ould to hea- 
 ven I I had never seen this pretty nightingale. 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Lovec. 
 
41 
 
 Lovec, Ah Louisa I i'faith, I'm glad to see 
 you — and you too, Latiral^ — we have had such 
 music! ^ 
 
 MeL Droll enough— Mr. Lovechild is taking 
 my old, wither'd Kate, who, you know, has de- 
 scended in the family like an heir-loom, from 
 generation to generation, for a Lesbia* 
 
 Lovec. Upon my soul I never heard a more 
 melodious voice in my life. 
 
 MeL (To Mrs, Mel.) Louisa — I — I— what! 
 so contemptuous ! well, be it so, I shall be better 
 received within, perhaps. Exit. 
 
 Mrs, MeL Is he gone ? 
 
 Lovec. I grow old, perhaps my ears deceive 
 me — ^what, he is off — this is not to be borne — 
 how I hate what they call a genius. I shall 
 never look any man in the face again who; has 
 the least particle of a soul in his whole composi- 
 tion — if he has enough to keep his body from 
 putrefaction, its all I care for* Curse on his 
 Will-o'the-wisp vagaries. A genius — I believe 
 in my soul, if your geniuses were to publish their 
 confessions, the records of Tyburn would be 
 spotless in comparison with them — friendship in- 
 sulted! love outraged! all common duties de- 
 spised. No, no, Mr. Settle was right, give me 
 a w^ll-built fellow, with a good digestion — Laura, 
 you are lucky, my girl. Mr. Mellefont is a sober, 
 N 2, serious, 
 
42 
 
 serious, sensible, matter-of-fact-person, with none 
 of this mysterious nonsense. 
 
 Laura. Yes, look at him now, his counte- 
 nance is the picture of good humour, and as for 
 
 words. 
 
 Mellef. A fine day. Miss Lovechild. . 
 
 Laura. I don't perceive it — its very likely to 
 rain J think. 
 
 Mellef, Isn't it more pleasant for being over- 
 clouded, the morning was intolerably oppres- 
 sive. 
 
 Laura. Well, I declare, I thought the air 
 was a little frosty. 
 
 Mellef. As you please, madam — I see the 
 weather, as well as every thing else, must be sub- 
 ject to your caprices. 
 
 Lovec. This is pleasant, vastly pleasant, upon 
 my soul. 
 
 Laura. I should not wish to have any power 
 over what is so irregular and inconstant. 
 
 Lovec. Take off my neck-cloth, I shall be 
 choaked else. 
 
 Mellef Its very true indeed, that power to be 
 enjoyed, must be exercised in reason— it must not 
 depend upon mere whim-^it must be raised 
 above the power of chance — but if we speak of 
 Jthe pOAver which one person has over another 
 
 from 
 
43 
 
 from the influence of the affections, here a fault 
 is more dangerous. 
 
 Laura. And more disgusting, for it must 
 come from the heart, and as it lies deeper, is 
 more difficult to eradicate. 
 
 Mellef, Here. a caprice is a fault to be resented. 
 
 Laura. It would shew a nobler nature to for- 
 give it. 
 
 Lovec, Death and Damnation! this is in- 
 tolerable — what cursed star shone at my nativity, 
 that I should get nothing but daughters. Here's 
 one married to a fellow that makes her wretched, 
 and the other is so afraid of not foUowino- her 
 
 o 
 
 example, that, egad, she is beginning before 
 marriage — and you, sir — you sir— Who the devil 
 are you, sir? that give yourself these airs. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Leave them to themselves, I en- 
 treat you — come — pray let us leave them. 
 
 Lovec. Well — ^well — ^be it so — I never was 
 so vexed in my life. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Laura, you'll find us in the ches- 
 nut walk. 
 
 Laura. Nay, stay — I am coming with you. 
 
 Exeunt* 
 
 Mellef. And will you go, Laura. 
 
 Laura. Certainly, for as every little caprice in 
 me is a fault to be resented, indeed I hardly 
 know if I am safe in your company. Exit. 
 
 Mellef. 
 
44 
 
 Mellef. There is something in this house 
 perfectly infectious. I am a quiet temperate fel- 
 low with a moderate pulse, but in this house 
 I'm as ridiculoiis as its owner. 
 
 Enter Dazzle. 
 
 Daz. Give me breath — for heaven's sake let 
 jne laugh — -don't interrupt me, or I shall perish. 
 
 Mellef, What now ? Dazzle. 
 
 Daz. Oh, its too much to bear-^too much I 
 protest — let me laugh out, Mellefont — pray, 
 pray, let me laugh out. 
 
 Mellef, With all my heart — only let me know 
 the jest. 
 
 Daz, We shall have no fighting to day-— I 
 have seen Fightwell, Hah I hah ! hah ! I've seen 
 him — if we have any fighting — 
 
 Mellef I am glad of it with all my soul^ — but 
 I see no occasion for this violent mirth. 
 
 Daz, I wish I could imitate him for you — 
 you'd die with laughing — he rushes forward to 
 the threshold of the door — " what, and he'll 
 meet me ?" says he — " an hour hence, eh ? was 
 he backward ? was he frightened ? — " Not i^ the 
 least I assure you." — " Where shall I hit him — 
 '• eh. Bob?— I don't mean to kill him— shall I 
 " wing him? A rap on the shoulder?" " He is 
 
 " in 
 
45 
 
 " in no liumour for trifling, I promise you," 
 " What! in a passion, is he? The fellow bliis- 
 " ters, does he? If he stand sideways, suppose 
 " I shave him — take the tip of his chin — dislo- 
 " cate his lower jaw, and spoil his chattering — 
 " no I'll take off his ear — aye — the chin if he 
 " stand sideways, and the right ear for a full 
 '' front." 
 
 Mellef. An agreeable pastime he would have 
 made of it. 
 
 Daz, Well — I let him go on in this way for 
 some time — 'till at last, with some diflBiculty, I 
 took advantage of a short silence, to tell him Mel- 
 ville's terms — upon my soul no miser at the loss 
 of his treasure was ever so chop-fallen — " why," 
 says he, affecting a laugh, " it would be better to 
 " bring a cannon to the ground and tie us both 
 " together to the mouth." " No, no," said I, 
 " Melville's mode will do as well." 
 
 Mellef. Excellent!— excellent I 
 
 Daz, Then I left him, bidding him adieu, 'till 
 we met under the old ruin. 
 
 Enter Melville. 
 
 Mellef. Ah — here's Melville — ^we must change 
 the subject — well, Dazzle, 1 fancy you are come 
 back from Italy an amazing amateur of the arts. 
 
 Daz. 
 
46 
 
 Daz. Like the rest of my fellow-travellers — 
 the progress of taste is the same with us all — 
 when first we go into Italy, nothing strikes us 
 but magnificent ruins; I remember strutting 
 through the forum, you talk of the spring in 
 my walk — aye — aye — you should have seen me 
 at Rome — there, sir, leaning against a pillar at 
 the foot of the capitoline hill, I began to pour 
 out one of Cicero's orations — I made such a 
 noise, that I collected a croud about me — but 
 here the illusion vanished, for it was impossible 
 to take such a pale, languid, enervated, half- 
 starved gang, for the conquerors of the world. 
 What a passion I was in — why, you miserable 
 varlets, said I, and so you don't comprehend me — 
 are not you ashamed, you rascals, of ever having 
 had a Tully among you, and not understanding 
 the language in which he spoke? What I you 
 could not be contented wnth it — eh^ you must 
 mend it with your inis^ and your ones^ and your 
 ellis^ and your accios. 
 
 Mel. You gave them good old English at 
 last, 
 
 Mellef. Well — but you forget — you were tel- 
 ling us the progress of taste with you gentlemen 
 of virtu. 
 
 Daz. Oh! yes, true, for the first year, as I 
 8aid, ruins are our sole delight — a perpendicular 
 
 is 
 
47 
 
 is the devil. Well then — for the next six 
 months, we admire nothing but statues. But, 
 mark me, they must be all imbrowned with the 
 venerable hue of antiquity. The transition is 
 easy from these to pictures — but still ancient — 
 none of your modern daubs — only your Michael 
 Angelos, your Raphaels, and your Titians — 
 then, sir, for the third year, our minds relax 
 from their severe exertions, and trifle with your 
 stuccos, your entablatures, and your vases — or 
 condescend to flirt with a Cleopatra at Pisani's — 
 and now give me a little Engli-sh intelligence — 
 how goes the world at home? 
 
 Mellef, Just as when you left us — the mer- 
 chants, every thing — the nobility nothing but at 
 Westminster — the tongues of the lawyers gain 
 upon their wigs, and a new curl is a sure forerun- 
 ner of more than one new argument — the excel- 
 lence of a speech is in proportion to its length 
 and the rule of criticism is the watch — our coflee- 
 houses are full of politicians, and every man, like 
 poor Sancho, thinks himself able to govern his 
 island were it ever so great. 
 
 Mel. You must not take the picture from 
 Mellefont, for something I see has vexed him 
 this morning. 
 
 Mellef, Sure enough. 
 
 Daz. And now for the literati. 
 
 MeHef 
 
4S 
 
 Mellef. As usual, men of wit too indolent to 
 write, and authors too dull to write well. Abun- 
 dance of poets, who, too weak to stand by them- 
 selves, never come out but in parties ; hence your 
 Collections, Miscellanies, Anthologies, Poetical 
 Farragos, Fugitive Pieces, Sprigs of Parnassus. 
 We have tours without end, over the ground al- 
 ready described by a Gray or an Addison. We 
 have wonders from Egypt, and are taught to ad- 
 mire the majesty of a bust without expression^ 
 and the simplicity of a form without shape. 
 
 Daz, And what do you say of the stage? 
 
 Mellef. The stage is improving — nature, to 
 be sure, has sustained two tedious attacks— the 
 first was from a sickly band of sentiments, so en- 
 cumbered with women and children, and house- 
 hold baggage, that they were at last defeated — 
 but then came a most terrific array of giants and 
 monsters, armed cap-a-pee, with pendent skele- 
 tons for their banners, and Death for their 
 watch-ward, backed by all the artillery of the in- 
 fernal regions — nature fled at first, but it was 
 more from fear than real want of strength, so I 
 fancy she'll gain the victory after all. 
 
 Daz, And, now, Melville, I see you're long- 
 ing to contradict all this. 
 
 Mel. No, not I, though, of our authors, I 
 could name one at least, who in the midst of se- 
 vere 
 
49 
 
 vere professional labours, is ever awake to the 
 more general interests of his country, which he 
 has discussed with feeling, and liberality, and 
 dignity — his friends may give him a higher and 
 warmer panegyric. 
 
 Daz, His name — his name, Charles. 
 
 MeL And, in spite of ill-natured descriptions, 
 we have still honesty in our statesmen, eloquence 
 in our orators, honor in our nobles, generosity in 
 our merchants — our men have foibles, but few 
 vices; and as for our women, Mellefont, how soft 
 are they without indolence, how affectionate 
 without jealousy, how beautiful without coquetry, 
 how gay without indiscretion I 
 
 Mellef. I knew where his panegyric would 
 dwell longest, though he takes all possible pains 
 to contradict it in the whole of his conduct. 
 
 Daz, Right, right, my good- fellow — and if a 
 man is not happy in such a country 
 
 Mel. (Sighs) The fault must be with himself 
 
 Daz. And now for my return to Fightwell — 
 we shall meet by and by. Exit. 
 
 Mdlef. (Aside) He seems in an excellent 
 humour for a lecture just now, and as my little 
 Laura's consent depends upon his reform — Mel- 
 ville you have got me into a scrape. 
 
 MeL What do ypu mean? 
 
 Mellef. 
 
50 
 
 Melkf, Laura declares she wo'nt marry me 
 'till you make a better husband. 
 
 Mel. Nonsense. 
 
 Mellef, Its true as I live. 
 
 Mel. Pray don't torment me. 
 
 Mellef, Now upon my soul I should deem it 
 a great personal obligation if you would make 
 yourself happy by treating your wife as other 
 men do. 
 
 Mel. What — what have you seen in me that 
 you take such a liberty as this with me — what 
 right have you to interfere between me and Mrs. 
 Melville. I am sure she did not employ you as 
 her advocate, and if she had, I should not have 
 listened to you the more. 
 
 Mellef, Nay, nay, I did not mean to offend 
 you. 
 
 Mel. But you have offended me — you rudely 
 break into feelings which are, and ever shall be, 
 exclusively my own— -the only propriety I care 
 about. 
 
 Mellef Well. I'll leave you. Exit. 
 
 Mel, I detest this tyranny of friendship — 
 yet he meant it well, aye, and the poor fellow 
 was vexed by Laura's caprice. Mellefont — Mel- 
 lefont. Exit, 
 
 ENP OF THE SECOND ACT. 
 
 ACT 
 
51 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 
 
 An apartment, 
 
 Melville. 
 
 Mel, I can trifle no longer, this affair will 
 probably terminate seriously, and the thought of 
 dying without asking her forgiveness, stings me 
 to the heart. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Melville. 
 
 Are you going out, Louisa? 
 
 Mrs, MeL Yes, don't interrupt me — I have 
 got visits to pay that will quite tire the poor 
 horses — I must first go to lady Ruinalfs — more 
 than four miles, you know — to ask how she bore 
 the fatigues of her ball — then I think I shall take 
 the opportunity of paying a visit to old Mrs. 
 Wrinkle, to inquire after her grand-daughter, 
 who is just recovering from the measles — then, 
 after all, I must leave a card for Mrs. Tythe, at 
 the parsonage — and another for Mrs. Sly, the 
 attorney's wife. 
 
 Mel. Farewell — then. 
 
 Mrs, 
 
Mrs, MeL I am full of employment, am I 
 not? 
 
 Mel. I would not interrupt you — may God 
 bless you, wherever you go. [throwing himself 
 in a chair) 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Are you not well? 
 
 Mel. Oh — perfectly. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Why so melancholy, my dear 
 Charles? 
 
 Mel. Come, sit down by me for a minute or 
 two, I shall not trouble you long. 
 
 Mrs, Mel. Yes — for an hour, if you like- 
 only don't look so sorrowful. 
 
 MeL Louisa, have you forgiven me. 
 
 Mrs. MeL Forgiven you? When was I angry 
 with you? 
 
 Mel. Never— never — to my everlasting shame — 
 never — your kind affectionate nature I have 
 trampled upon without remorse, I have seen 
 you overwhelmed with sorrow, and by him who 
 should have shielded you almost from the vicissi- 
 tudes of fortune — ^^ hen I die, Louisa, will you 
 still think of me without indignation. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Indignation I oh heavens! 
 
 Mel. When this poor frame shall be moulder- 
 ing in the grave, beyond the efforts of skill or 
 even your love, will you respect rny memory? 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Why, why torture me thus? 
 
 MeL 
 
53 
 
 Mel, Oh! when the sneering croud shall 
 point at my tomb, with the harsh reproach, the 
 vulgar jest, shall a sigh from you check the slan- 
 der and defeat the malice^ 
 
 Mrs. MeL How can I answer you? 
 
 MeL When all shall be dissolved, all perish'd, 
 when " life's idle business shall be past," — 
 " when you, you shall be belov'd no more" — 
 shall one soft remembrance escape the world's 
 poison, and dwell in that bosom, sainted, for 
 ever sainted by its place of refuge. 
 
 Mrs, Mel, Tell me, tell me, I entreat you, 
 without reserve, all you wish. 
 
 Mel. I have no wish on earth but to be con- 
 vinced that you love me. 
 
 Mrs. Mel, Come — come — why this melancholy 
 tone — we have had our quarrels its true — but 
 perhaps they are inseparable from real affection- 
 it is indifference only that is uniform — don't be 
 alarmed — put me to the trial— would you have 
 me give up my acquaintance — I have heard you 
 express your dislike of some of them. 
 
 Mel. No, no. 
 
 Mrs. MeL Would you live in the country 
 altogether — you know it has long been my de- 
 sire — only, for heaven's sake, my dearest Charles 
 — don't conceal any thing from me — I cannot 
 bear disguise, 
 
 Mel. 
 
54 
 
 Mel, (Aside) If I stay any longer I shall grow 
 so fond of life, that I shall not dare to meet that 
 blustering coxcomb. No — its nothing, Louisa-— 
 yet, yet, when I think of the past, I would wish 
 to express my gratitude to you; when I merited 
 your anger, your only reproach has been a sigh — 
 when others would have been inflamed with 
 revenge and scorn, you have been melted into 
 tears — (By heaven I must leave her — its too 
 much — Aside) only remember this, in spite of 
 my faults, of all my wrongs to you, I have ever 
 loved you with the truest affection, and if ever I 
 should fall a victim to some unhappy accident, 
 my chief and last regret will be, that I shall see 
 you no more. Exit, 
 
 Mrs, Mel, What can he mean — I knew — I 
 knew, he loved me — I did not require these 
 protestations. 
 
 Enter Laura. 
 
 Oh — my dearest Laura — such an interview 
 with Melville. 
 
 Laura, What I suing for pardon at your feet, 
 I suppose. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. We really must defer our visits 'till 
 to-morrow — I can think of nobody but him. 
 
 Laura. Well — I declare— I wonder you arc 
 
 not grown quite callous to his whims. 
 
 Mrs, 
 
55 
 
 Mrs. Mel. But there was something in his 
 manner, so solemnly affectionate^ so deliberately 
 tender. 
 
 Laura. That you imagine he will never play 
 the truant again. Well, if we are not to pay our 
 visits, let us take a walk and we'll talk of Mel- 
 ville all the way. Mr. Mellefont is waiting for 
 tls. I assure you we have had as pretty a little 
 quarrel, followed by as pathetic a reconciliation, 
 as you and Melville could have wished. I hope 
 we shall keep out of Mr. Lovell's way — I met 
 him just now, and he looked so melancholy, I 
 could not help bestowing a smile upon him, and 
 in the instant his spirits were so boistrous, that 
 he quite alarmed me. Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II.— Another room. 
 Melville and a ServatTt. 
 
 MeL (Sealing a letter) You have lived a long 
 time in my family — twenty years is it not — you 
 shall be taken care of my good fellow. I think I 
 can depend upon you, eh? 
 
 Ser, 1 hope so, sir. 
 
 Mel. This letter, you see, is directed to Mrs. 
 Melville— my wish is, and mind me, you must 
 
 O be 
 
56 
 
 be exact — that you give it to her some time this 
 evening unless I ask you for it again. (Aside) 
 There is Fightwell's challenge, to shew her that 
 I did not voluntarily run into this danger — my 
 will, in which I have left her my sole heir — and 
 and a few words to bid her farewell — pshaw I I 
 am going to play the child again. Exit, 
 
 Ser. Lived long in the family ? depend upon 
 me ? for that matter, there is not a servant, whe- 
 ther he has lived long or short with you — no, 
 nor a Christian soul within ten miles of the 
 house, that would not go round the world for 
 you — but something is amiss, that I am sure of — 
 he had tears in his eyes all the time he spoke to 
 me — and he is not a man that whimpers for no- 
 thing — egad — my mistress shall have the letter 
 before evening or I am a Frenchman. Exit. 
 
 SCENE III— The Park, 
 Enter Lucy and Giuseppe. 
 
 Gius, Every where — every where — in the 
 east — the west — the north — the south— -I do 
 speak five different languages. 
 
 Lucy, Lord bless me ! 
 
 Gius, 
 
57 
 
 Gius, German — French — English — Italian — 
 Turkish — you have no idea how I used to make 
 those young Turks, with their turbans and their 
 pipes. I soon taught them how to brush a coat 
 and wait at table in the English stile. 
 
 Lucy. Well, Mr. Giuseppe, I am afraid I 
 did give — I don't know what to call it — but I 
 — I did give a sort of a promise just now, but 
 you know its necessary just to inquire what we 
 are to live upon. 
 
 Gius. The first year we will live upon love, 
 you charmer, and then we'll think of the money 
 the second. 
 
 Luc2/, It was my mistress desired me to ask 
 you that question — or indeed I should not have 
 thought of it — but she insists upon knowing, and 
 wont give her consent without it. 
 
 Gius. You know I have forty pounds a year 
 from my master — these, with my perquisites, 
 such as clothes and travelling — but prenez garde 
 — what I am telling you now is only for your pri- 
 vate ear — voyez-vous ? ma foi — not for your mis- 
 tress. 
 
 Lucy. Travelling? you don't call that a per- 
 quisite — I am sure it almost ruins me. 
 
 Gius. That's because you don't understand it 
 
 — I have made three of the grand tours, as tutor 
 
 and courier to young English gentlemen — the 
 
 O 2 last 
 
58 
 
 last was the least profitable, but however I made 
 a hundred pounds by it. 
 
 Lucy, How do you mean ? 
 
 Gius, Nothing so easy — I always arrive at the 
 inn before the carriage, I call the landlord aside — 
 charge enough — mon ami — my good friend, only 
 charge enough — my master is heir to the sixth 
 part of all England — only charge enough — and if 
 you will but give me half your profits, I won't 
 say one word — I'll be as secret as the grave. 
 
 Lucy, But, Lord ! is this quite honest ? 
 Gius, Oh, mon Dieu I its what we all do — its 
 ai part of our profession — mei fratelli, mes frereSy 
 my brothers would not acknowledge me, if I 
 had any scruples about it — then to say the truth, 
 our masters get a great deal by us. 
 
 Lucy, How so ? 
 Gius, Oh I they are stared at like little gods^ — 
 the master of the post shrugs up his shoulders 
 thirty times in one minute — his wife drops curt- 
 sies as thick as hail — the boys and the girls — 
 some gape, some huzza ! all wonder at the great 
 mi lord. Sancta Maria ! here is my master — 
 now, Lucy, now is the time for you to make 
 your fortune. 
 
 Say something that he may think your mis- 
 tress is in love with him. Lov. 
 
59 
 
 Lov, (Aside) This surely is love — oh ! with 
 what ararice will I treasure up that heavenly 
 smile. 
 
 Luci/, But, Lord! Mr. Giuseppe, she does 
 not care. 
 
 Gius, Hush — hush — you'll ruin us for ever — 
 well, only say, yes, to the questions I shall ask 
 you — but speak loud enough for him to over- 
 hear you. 
 
 Lucy, Now for it then. 
 
 Gius. And so your mistress came into her 
 own room this morning, and said with the tears 
 in her eyes, she only feared she was not worthy 
 of him. 
 
 LucT/. Yes. 
 
 Lov. Wliat do I hear ? 
 
 Gifus. And then she did get up and walk 
 about the room, and call herself the happiest 
 woman in the world. 
 
 Lucy, Yes I poor lady. 
 
 Gius, And then she went to the window, and 
 looked out, as if she expected to see somebody 
 walking in the park. 
 
 Lucy, Yes, and then she began to peel an 
 orange, and threw the rind over her left 
 shoulder, and, as I hope to be saved, it came 
 exactly into the form of an L. 
 
 Gius, (Aside) Well done, my little scholar \ 
 
 And 
 
60 
 
 And she looked on it as it lay on the ground — 
 ah I said she, there is magic in every thing that 
 belongs to that man. 
 
 Lov. (Coming forward) What ! Giuseppe, eh I 
 
 Gius, My master 1 oh ! I am so surprized. 
 
 Lov. So so, and this is your sovereign lady, 
 is it Joe — what, you are Miss Lovechild's waiting 
 woman, are you ? 
 
 LucT/, Yes, sir. 
 
 Lov. What do you shake your head so for ? 
 
 Lucy. Oh sir I my poor mistress. 
 
 Lov. r faith — I like your choice, Joseph, 
 and you'll come to me for your dowry, will 
 you. (to Lucy) 
 
 Gius. To be sure ; the wedding clothes arc 
 very expensive. 
 
 Lov. Weill come to me this evening, and 
 we*ll consider what can be done for you both. 
 Let me see, I have but two or three guineas in 
 my pocket at present — what is your name ? 
 
 Lucy. Lucy, sir. 
 
 Lov. There, take them, Lucy ; they are but 
 an earnest of my future favours. 
 
 Lucy. Thank you, sir. 
 
 Gius. Come Lucy — never tempt fortune too 
 far, (aside) we are much obliged to you indeed, 
 sir. Exeunt. 
 
 Lov. I dare say my dear Laura will like to 
 
 see 
 
61 
 
 see her servant well provided for ; we shall have 
 many pensioners of this sort ; her disposition seems 
 to desert its nature, when she is not employed in 
 some benevolent scheme or other. Oh I what un- 
 speakable rapture to meet with such a woman. 
 I breathe a new atmosphere — I am all gossamer — 
 the things of earth are infinitely below me — the 
 world seems made a ball for me to kick it. 
 
 Enter Settle. 
 
 Sett. Who is this ? Oh ! the mad lover be- 
 yond a doubt — and as mad as I could wish. I'll 
 speak to him — he'll be entertaining — Mr. Lovell 
 — I presume. 
 
 Lov. The same, sir — Mr. Settle — one of 
 Melville's most intimate friends. 
 
 Sett. Yes, sir — my name is Settle — but as to 
 your other appellation, indeed Mr. Melville has 
 so many intimate friends, it has almost ceased to 
 be a distinction — but, you, Mr. Lovel, are in th« 
 service of the ladies. 
 
 Lov, Aye, he has heard of it. (aside) 
 
 Sett, Miss Lovechild is indeed a most fasci- 
 nating young lady. . 
 
 Lov, What perfection is there with which 
 
 she is not blessed. 
 
 Sett, Her easy gaiety, so tempered by the 
 
 sobriety of her judgment. 
 
 Lov. 
 
62 
 
 Lov, Judgment, sir? the ruling power is 
 taste, ever on the watch when the judgment 
 might slumber. 
 
 Sett. Well then — she has no judgment. 
 
 Lov. No judgment. Sir? what do you mean? 
 I say she is all judgment — it is not merely the 
 beauty of her person I admire, though in this 
 she is superior to all other women — nor the grace 
 with which she moves, exquisite as it is — it is her 
 mind, expressing itself by these organs — the 
 human figure seems given her merely in bounty 
 to us to make celestial excellence for once intel- 
 ligible. 
 
 Sett, How this love sharpens the wits — then 
 her hand, Mr. Lovell, how delicately soft. 
 
 Lov. I'll be sworn you never touched it, but 
 through her glove — you laugh— sir — 'sdeath — • 
 sir — you dont mean to blaspheme, 
 
 Sett. Blaspheme ? 
 
 Lov. Yes, sir, calumny against Miss Love- 
 child is downright blasphemy. 
 
 Sett. And do you really think it calumny. 
 
 Lov. Yes, sir, if you assert that Miss Love- 
 child has ever shewn you any particular favour — 
 you speak falsely — sir, you are guilty of a 
 damn'd infernal — 
 
 Sett. Take care, Mr. Lovell — though much 
 licence is to be allowed to you gentlemen — and 
 
 though 
 
63 
 
 though my laugh was as innocent and unmean- 
 ing as at one of Sir Frank Falsewit's jokes — 
 
 Lov, Unmeaning ? — I knew it was unmeaning, 
 give me your hand — Mr. Settle — I beg you a 
 thousand pardons — I knew it was unmeaning — 
 I knew Miss Lovechild must hate you with the 
 most sovereign contempt imaginable — I knew. 
 
 Enter Mellefont. 
 
 Sett, Mellefont^ — you are just come in time — 
 we are in some danger. 
 
 Mellef, Surely you and Lovell have not been 
 quarrelling ; nature has put you at such a dis- 
 tance from each other, that I should think you 
 might go through life without jostling. 
 
 Sett, That's true — but lovers are always jea- 
 lous— are not they, Mr. Lovell? 
 
 Lov, Jealous — no, no. (Laughs) 
 
 Enter a Servant, who gives a letter to Settle. 
 
 A strange fellow this, Mr. Settle. I wonder 
 what the devil makes Mellefont so fond of him. 
 
 (Aside) 
 Mellef. Any news from the north, Settle ? I 
 suppose not, from the carelessness with which 
 you read your letter. 
 
 Sett, 
 
64 
 
 Sett. No — not much, as you say — there, read 
 it yourself. 
 
 Mellef. (Reading) Why, your house is burnt. 
 
 Sett. So it appears. 
 
 Mellef. And a bond for 5000^. to be paid 
 you on delivery, burnt too. 
 
 Sett. Unfortunate enough — for the man who 
 owes me the money is too much a rascal to pay a 
 debt of honor. 
 
 Mellef. (Reading) " The fire is still raging, 
 " and defeats every effort to stifle it. I am 
 " afraid the stables and out-houses of every de- 
 " scription will be involved in one blaze." 
 
 Sett. Oh — they are all burnt before this time 
 most certainly, well, I shall set off, as I intended, 
 to-morrow — I have two or three places to call at 
 in my way — but I shall be in time to give di- 
 rections about carrying away the rubbish. 
 
 Mellef. If you can bear this patiently, I can- 
 not — (tears the letter.) 
 
 Sett. Well — its hard indeed, if a man may 
 not be as indifferent as he pleases to his own mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 Mellef You should be struck out from the 
 muster-roll of human kind. 
 
 Sett. Yet when my name is called over, I 
 kno^' none that is heard with more attention — am 
 I not well received in all societies. 
 
 Mellef 
 
€5 
 
 Mellef, That's true — and I have often been 
 surprized at it. 
 
 Sett, Surprized at it, with your knowledge of 
 the world — depend, upon it, Mellefont, I am 
 right, I had not been long out, before I per- 
 ceived that your open-hearted, good-natured fel- 
 lows, seldom succeeded. By some, they were 
 thought officious, others pushed them so far, 
 that a refusal was necessary at last — in this case 
 the refusal was remembered — all past favours 
 forgotten. 
 
 Mellef, An agreeable picture of life I 
 
 Sett. I took a different course — my maxim 
 has been not to endeavour to please, but to avoid 
 giving offence. 
 
 Mellef, And this you fancy has succeeded. 
 
 Sett. Admirably — there is not a house where 
 I am not a welcome guest. 
 
 Mellef. Yes, you are treated as a part of the 
 furniture — and when you die, you will be re- 
 gretted, because, like a broken, discarded chair, 
 you'll leave in the rooms a vacant space. 
 
 Sett, So much the better — I shall die, as I 
 lived, giving no pain. 
 
 Mellef I wish Melville was here to answer 
 
 you. 
 
 Sett, Oh — aye, I've heard him often — he 
 
 talks of the regret of our country, the sighs of 
 
 friends. 
 
66 
 
 friends, the tears of widowed beauty; for my 
 part, if I can but live comfortably, I little care 
 how soon I am forgotten. 
 
 Mellef. Well, its fortunate, we're not all of 
 us so easily contented. 
 
 Sett. And yet its true, that all our miseries 
 arise from having too many actors, and too little 
 audience. 
 
 Mellef, What an equalizing Jacobinical sys- 
 tem you would make of it. Where would be 
 our heroes, our philosophers, our poets ? 
 
 Sett, Yes — here we have a hero, there a plun- 
 derer — here a naturalist, there an astrologer and 
 alchymist — here a poet, there a Bavius and a 
 Maevius — Melville doats upon his wife and keeps 
 a . 
 
 Lov, But, sir, would you do nothing? Would 
 you do nothing, but eat, drink, sleep, and die ? 
 Wouldn't you love? 
 
 Sett. Love I I can't say I ever asked myself 
 the question. But a man that loves, is not he 
 very apt to marry ^ 
 
 Lov. Well, sir, he may love still, I suppose. 
 
 Sett. I fancy not, sir. 
 
 Lov. Why not ? such I know is the language 
 of men who 
 
 Sett. He's off again — I had better make my 
 retreat^ — I must beg your pardon for interrupt- 
 ing 
 
67 
 
 mg you, but I have an engagement just at this 
 hour— not, I assure you, with a lady, Mr. Lo- 
 vell. (to Mellef.) Take care of him, Mellefont, 
 (he going out). 
 
 Enter Melville. 
 
 MeL (To Settle) Its about the time, Settle, I 
 believe — I'll follow you immediately. (Exit Settle) 
 Mellefont, a word with you — this duel hangs 
 upon me most heavily — not that I am afraid of 
 dying— but, my wife, Mellefont — 
 
 Mellef, Nay, she will surely be the last per- 
 son to lament the loss of a man who has been a 
 perpetual torment to her. 
 
 Mel, At this time you might have spared 
 such a remark. 
 
 Mellef. I speak as I think. 
 
 Mel, Yes, it is too true — the world will re- 
 ceive her with congratulations, upon having 
 escaped from a tyrant — from a capricious mon- 
 ster, who sported with every feeling good men 
 deem most valuable ; and she, she herself, must 
 acknowledge the happiness of her fortune. Oh, 
 no, I wrong her, deeply wrong her. Did she 
 not assure me this moment how entirely she had 
 forgiven me, and shall I dare to disbelieve her ? 
 Mellefont, you will marry her sister — oh I take 
 ^ care 
 
68 
 
 care of my poor Louisa — cherish her, prevent 
 her fears, anticipate her wishes ; and if, in defi- 
 ance of all your care, she should still drop a 
 tear to the memory of such a wretch as I am — 
 tell her I loved her — I adored her — that my 
 heart owned no feeling but its affection for her, 
 that its last beat was her's. Exit, 
 
 Mellef, As for the duel, I find Fightwell has 
 already taken his departure — so of that there is 
 no danger ; if Melville would but spread these 
 fits of fondness over a wider surface, how infi- 
 nitely happier we should all be ; but, Lovell, 
 you were quarrelling with my friend Settle. 
 
 Lov, Why, he had the impudence to boast of 
 Miss Lovechild's partiality for him. 
 
 Mellef, And was it the expression, or the 
 falsehood, you chose to resent. 
 
 Lov. Oh, as for the expression, though in- 
 deed Miss Lovechild should not be mentioned 
 lightly ; yet, when the whole soul is occupied 
 with her image, and no other object dare intrude, 
 as into a temple made sacred by her presence; 
 then, if in the midst of praise and eulogy, her 
 adored name should involuntarily escape the 
 lips — no, no, it was the falsehood I condemned. 
 
 Mellef. Hah! hah! hah!— really this is the 
 most extraordinary self-delusion I ever wit- 
 nessed. 
 
 Lov. 
 
69 
 
 Lov. Self-delusion — what do you mean? 
 
 Mellef, You deem yourself called upon by 
 the obligations of a lover, to defend Miss Love- 
 child's reputation — now are you aware that these 
 obligations are imposed by yourself alone? 
 
 Lov, I don't understand you. 
 
 Mellef, For heaven's sake consider for a mo- 
 ment — ^what proofs did she ever give of an at- 
 tachment to you? 
 
 Lov. A singular question ! 
 
 Mellef. What! I suppose, when she came in- 
 to a room full of company, and the chair next 
 yours was the only vacant one, she has sat down 
 upon it. 
 
 Lov. (Aside) He's jealous, half-mad with 
 jealousy, upon my soul. 
 
 Mellef. I observed indeed, the other day, 
 when you told the story of the poor widow who 
 was burnt to death, leaving seven friendless chil- 
 dren, a tear started into her eye. 
 
 Lov. And when I proposed a subscription, 
 was not she the first to give me a guinea ? 
 
 Mellef. That was meant for the widow. 
 
 Lov. What do you laugh at ? I'll plague 
 him — (aside) I grant, sir, there has been no ex- 
 plicit declaration ; you imagine that the tongue 
 alone has the powers of expression — let me tell 
 you, sir, that when feeling souls are inspired 
 
 with 
 
70 
 
 with a mutual flame, there is not a feature silent ; 
 the eye, the complexion, the dimple of the 
 cheekj the smile that plays round the mouth, 
 are all gifted with a matchless eloquence, which, 
 though heard and understood by one alone, 
 are a thousand times more powerful than the 
 language of the tongue. 
 
 Mellef, But not so clear, I am afraid, for to 
 reward your piece of intelligence by another, 
 Miss Lovechild is already engaged. 
 Lov» Engaged! engaged I 
 Mellef, I know it. 
 Lov. She never told me so. 
 Mellef, Because she supposed that all the 
 organs of speech you just now enumerated, would 
 have been sufficiently explicit. 
 Lov. Engaged, sir, to whom ? 
 Mellef Upon my soul to no greater a person 
 than Tom Mellefont. 
 
 Lov. Engaged ? to you ? to you ? 
 Mellef What! that word engaged sounds 
 oddly in your ear. 
 
 Lov. Sir, I'm not to be catechized like a 
 school-boy. Exit, 
 
 Mellef The insanity of the Melville atmo- 
 sphere. Exit, 
 
 SCENE 
 
71 
 
 SCENE lY.— The Park— an old Ruin. 
 Melville and Settle. 
 
 MeL Its strange Figlitwell does not make his 
 appearance. Its a good deal beyond the time we 
 fixed. 
 
 Sett, I suppose this new mode of combat re- 
 quires some preparation. 
 
 MeL Oh, he'll be here presently, no doubt ; 
 well, you'll remember your promise — if I fall, 
 you'll wait till the dusk of the evening, and then 
 remove this girl with as little eclat as possible — 
 if I live, I will take the trouble off your hands. 
 
 Sett, I would hardly trust you. 
 
 Mel. I declare I had quite forgotten her. 
 Settle, we have known each other long, and 
 though we think differently, and feel still more 
 so, on most subjects — 
 
 Sett. Come, come, Charles, a truce with these 
 deep tones. 
 
 Mel. Bear with me this once, you know I 
 shall leave behind me many enemies — though I 
 am very young, I have gone through various 
 scenes ; in most of them I foolishly set the world 
 at defiance, they pitied me for my ignorance, 
 though I knew more than I could suhmit to 
 practise — yet. it was always a whimsical contra- 
 P diction 
 
75 
 
 diction in me, that in the midst of this self-eleva- 
 tion, there was no man so low that I did not de- 
 sire his applause. 
 
 Sett. No, there was not a beggar in the streets 
 that had not you in his power. 
 
 MeL And even now, when perhaps I have 
 not time for such considerations, the thought 
 that abuse and obloquy — but. Settle, as for this 
 affair of the duel, surely you would not have 
 had me a mere mark for his never failing skill to 
 aim at. 
 
 Sett. What made you pull him by the nose? 
 
 MeL A very hard kick which he gave me on 
 the leg. 
 
 Sett. Are you sure it was designed. 
 
 Mel. It came with all the weight of mature 
 deliberation I promise you. 
 
 Enter Dazzle. 
 
 Daz. What! you are waiting for Fightwell, 
 then by my soul you might have waited till 
 doomsday, for he'll not make his appearance 
 where there is such a blood-thirsty fellow as you, 
 Melville. 
 
 Mel, Why, where is he? 
 
 Daz. That's more than I can tell you, for 
 he is as far off" as four horses, and double fee'd 
 
 postilions 
 
73 
 
 postilions can carry him in a quarter of an hour, 
 so I leave you to calculate. 
 
 MeL Hah! hah I hah! he's panic-struck, I 
 did not expect this, but I'm glad of it, I think I 
 should not have shrunk from him. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Melville and Lovechild. 
 
 But who would not be afraid of dying, when 
 
 here, here, there is so much worth living for* 
 
 (Embracing Mrs. Melville^ 
 
 Mrs. MeL Are you safe. (Mr. and Mrs. 
 Melville talk apart J 
 
 Lovec. Is that scoundrel Fightwell gone? 
 
 Daz. Aye, to the antipodes, and if Melville 
 has set his heart upon fighting ; he must be con- 
 tent with one of us for his antagonist. 
 
 Lovec, Why, Charles, you did not suppose 
 old John would keep such a letter as you gave 
 him till the evening, did you, Charles? I've 
 read it, I promise you, we made the best of our 
 way ; egad, my knees tremble. Louisa you have 
 tired your old father — Charles, you are a brave 
 fellow, and a generous fellow, and an affectionate 
 fellow. 
 
 Daz, I wish, Melville, every man would act 
 as you have done ; cowards would find their 
 
 P 2 places 
 
74 
 
 places in society, for there would not be such <i 
 thing as a bully in the country. 
 
 Sett. I thought Mr. Fightwell was your friend, 
 Mr. Dazzle. 
 
 Daz. No, no, I used to be amused with him, 
 because to signalize himself he chose a different 
 mode from the rest of us ; it was his maxim to 
 make duelling subservient to the purposes of 
 morality, so that he should have taken a parson, 
 as well as a surgeon, to the field with him ; a 
 beau, sir, he would take off his curl — a glutton 
 he would shoot through the stomach — a lawyer 
 through the jaw — a politician through the palm 
 of the hand — a courtier through the knee, and 
 so on. 
 
 Lovec, And I suppose for this son-in-law 
 of mine he would have loaded his pistol with 
 snipe-shot, for if he had gone farther than skin 
 deep, there wguld have been an end of his mo- 
 rality, the sententious villain I — but come, let us 
 leave this gloomy old ruin. 
 
 Daz. Aye, let us begone, it reminds us of 
 what we came for. Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
75 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE L— ^ Room. 
 Melville, Settle, Mellefont, 
 
 Dazzle, drinking wine, 
 
 Mel. Well, Settle, you know my toast, how 
 shall I call her ? — the wanderer — eh ? 
 
 Sett. No, No, that's too romantic for me. 
 
 Mellef. How is this, Melville? just before 
 dinner you swore you only waited for the dusk 
 of the evening to dismiss this w^oman. 
 
 Mel. Dismiss I — who the devil can think of 
 dismissing, as you call it — of dismissing a fine 
 girl, with a bottle of burgundy before him ? 
 
 Daz. No, no, a man can say any thing with a 
 dry lip, but as soon as ever its moistened with 
 the juice of the grape, the eloquence of love 
 slips over it so naturally, that you are irresistible 
 at the very moment you hardly know what you 
 are talking about. 
 
 MeL Where's Lovell? — he's grown a sad 
 companion of late — as to Lovechild, its excusable 
 at his age. 
 
 Sett. I assure you, Mr. Lovell was very enter- 
 taining this morning. 
 
 MeL 
 
76 
 
 Mel. Well, let us fill a bumper to his Sophia 
 in his absence ; pray, Mellefont, unfold that fore- 
 head of yours- — what, I suppose you think Laura 
 should have had the precedence. 
 
 Mellef. And then we'll drink Mrs. Melville. 
 
 Daz. Aye, Mrs. Melville, by heaven she 
 should go before them all. I shall never forget 
 her on the ground this morning That gloomy 
 old ruin exactly suited the purpose for which wc 
 were assembled — all was dissatisfaction, misery, 
 and darkness ; then, like a conciliating cherub, 
 just descended from the brightest part of heaven, 
 she restored us all to light, harmony, and peace. 
 The agitation she was in would have made any 
 other woman awkward and ungraceful, but in her 
 it gave new dignity to the outline, while it took 
 nothing from the softness of the colouring. 
 
 Sett. You are a poet, Mr. Dazzle, I presume. 
 
 Mel. Dazzle, give us a song. 
 
 Daz. A song! 
 
 Mel. Aye, but let it be something gay. 
 
 Sett. Yes, give us a song, Mr. Dazzle, or we 
 shall have Melville in tears. 
 
 Mel. But first we'll drink Mellefont's toast, 
 though its rather a singular one. (aside) The 
 Irvine almost choke me — Come, Dazzle, a song. 
 
 Dazzle 
 
77 
 
 Dazzle sings. 
 
 The god of wine 1 the wise insist, 
 
 His cradle was the tomb of love, 
 Poor Semele could not resist 
 
 The thund'rer from above, 
 With all his heaven the monarch flies, 
 The charming mortal shrinks and dies. 
 
 Soon as he trod the earth, 
 
 Bacchus redeem'd his birth. 
 
 Who with his presence fir'd, 
 
 Is not with love inspir'd ; 
 
 The purple glass goes round 
 With glowing beauty ever, ever crown'd. 
 
 Mellef. That song's your own, Dazzle. 
 
 Daz. What if I confess. 
 
 Mellef, There's a coxcomical unintelligible 
 originality about it, that would have marked out 
 its author in any part of the world. 
 
 Mel, This room is uncomfortably hot, we'll 
 change it. 
 
 Sett. Pshaw, we are very well here. 
 
 ^el. No, no, it's a bad aspect for a summer 
 evening. (Rings a bell) 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Put a table in the next room, and let the 
 
 wine 
 
78 
 
 wine be cool ; come, gentlemen, I'll shew you 
 the way. 
 
 Sett. We shall return in five minutes 1 sup- 
 pose. Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE II. — The outside of the Cottage, 
 
 Enter Lovell. 
 
 Lav. Melville is in a most whimsical tem- 
 per, though I have but little right to say so, for 
 I hardly know what to make of myself this even- 
 ing — the wine I could not bear — what an ideot 
 I've been ; even that dull fellow, Settle, allows 
 us some licence, but I've out-ranted a German 
 lover on the stage; then to forget that dear girl 
 to whom I have so often sworn everlasting love ; 
 if I remember right, she was expected at Bath 
 yesterday, my horses did pretty well last night, 
 I'll put them to the proof again — I can be there 
 in ten minutes. 
 
 Sophia from the window. 
 
 Soph, I certainly heard some one speaking, 
 pray heaven it may not be my persecutor. 
 Lov. I'll go, by my soul I'll go. 
 
 Soph. 
 
79 
 
 Soph. Sir, sir — my spirits are in such alarm I 
 can hardly speak. (Aside) 
 
 Lov. Did not some one call me? ah, what 
 pretty little bird is chirping there ? 
 
 Soph, 1 conjure you, sir, by every object 
 most dear to you, to assist me in making my 
 escape from this place. 
 
 Lov. What! a prisoner of Melville's — -no, 
 really, madam, you must excuse me, there are 
 laws of gallantry which I would not break to be 
 «ure, but then they must not interfere with those 
 of friendship. 
 
 Soph. You mistake me entirely, I've been 
 used most shamefully. 
 
 Lov. Used most shamefully, i'faith, Melville 
 has been rather hard upon me sometimes — I've a 
 great mind to take my revenge. 
 
 Soph. But carry me to Mrs. Melville, and my 
 obligations to you will be unbounded. 
 
 Lov. Mrs. Melville? Why, who are you? this 
 cursed twilight won't give me a peep at you. 
 
 Soph, Oh, there is no time for confidence. 
 
 Lov. Then really there can be no time for 
 assistance — yet, stop — Mrs. Melville I — well, if 
 you kre really in distress, and don't deserve it ; 
 if you are unfortunate, and the tones of your 
 voice, I own, plead most powerfully for you, I 
 will assist you. 
 
 Soph. 
 
80 
 
 Soph. Ten thousand*, thousand thanks. 
 
 Lov. Well, then, run down stairs and meet 
 me at the door here, and if any one dares to at- 
 tempt a rescue — 
 
 Soph. But the door is barred, and I believe 
 guarded. 
 
 Lov. Barred and guarded! — what a pretty- 
 voice, and it is so like that I used to hang upon 
 for hours together ; well, but how can you get 
 down? — your window is too high for a jump, I 
 fear. 
 
 Soph. Oh! much too high. But are there no 
 other means ? 
 
 Lov. Now I recollect — I saw some workmen 
 "this morning mending the ropf, on the right, 
 perhaps they may have left a ladder. 
 
 Soph. Pray heaven he be successful, for I 
 would rather perish here, than owe my deliver- 
 ance to the mercy of my persecutor. 
 
 Re-enter Lov ell with a ladder. 
 
 Lov. (fixing the ladder) Yes, yes, Melville, 
 you deserve this from me. 
 
 Soph. Oh, how shall I repay you? 
 
 Lov. Come, be quick, and I will put you un- 
 der the guardianship of Mrs. Melville, in a mo- 
 ment. ^QvniPL descends. 
 
 Lov. 
 
81 
 
 Lov. Good God I what do I see ? do my 
 senses deceive me? — Sophia I 
 
 Soph. Is it possible ? — Mr. Lovell. 
 Lov. Your protector — naturally your pro- 
 tector. Am I awake? 
 
 Soph, Yes, I am really flesh and blood — 
 (giving him her hand). 
 
 Lav. Why, I was just going to meet you at 
 Bath — oh ! how I rejoice to see you ; but, Mel- 
 ville ! with what intolerable insolence has he 
 dared — 
 
 Soph. Alas! alas I what thoughts must you 
 entertain of me from meeting me thus. 
 
 Lov. Not one unworthy of you, not one — I 
 Jcnow your spotless purity; it would be treason 
 to doubt it — but come. 
 
 Soph. Yet stay, \ will tell you how I came 
 here. 
 
 Lov. No, no, not now — save the relation for 
 Mrs. Melville. 
 
 Soph, But soft, I heard a voice — heavens ! I 
 would not meet him. Can this be the Mr. Mel- 
 ville of whom every one speaks so highly — but, 
 Mr. Lovell, you'll promise me to be temperate in 
 your explanation with him. 
 
 Lov, We have no time to make promises 
 now — but be not alarmed — he and his friends are 
 too busily employed to be watching here. 
 
 Enter 
 
82 
 
 Enter Giuseppe. 
 
 Gius. My little Lucy promised to meet me 
 here at this hour; what a charming evening! ma 
 foi ! I could almost fancy I was out of this vulgar 
 climate of the John Bull's. 
 
 Soph. Let us retire for a moment. 
 
 Lov. Its only my servant. 
 
 Soph. But he may inform Mr. Melville, let 
 us retire. 
 
 Lov.. As you please^ — C^hey retire behind a 
 corner of the house) 
 
 Enter Lucy. 
 
 Gius. What! you are come at last— ah, ma 
 chere Lucy, if you loved me but half as well as 
 I love you, you would not have kept me an hour 
 in this way. 
 
 Luci/. An hour! signore! 
 
 Gius. By my watch, upon my honor. 
 
 Lucy. Why, the truth is, I should have been 
 here before — but lord ! I could not help telling 
 my mistress and Miss Laura what I heard from 
 you this morning about my master's concubine. 
 
 Gius. The holy virgin! you have not surely? 
 
 Lucy. But I have though — Lord! if you had 
 seen how my poor mistress took on — she almost 
 went into fits — as arrant a harlot as any in the 
 
 land. 
 
83 
 
 land, said I, then Miss Laura bid me stop, but 
 my mistress cried out, no, let me know the 
 worst — Yes, that you shall, my lady, says I, and 
 its a great pity, so it is, that such dirty trollops 
 should be suffered in a christian country. 
 
 Gins, And what was the answer of madame 
 Melville? 
 
 Lucy, She could not answer at all, but went 
 out of the room with such a look. Miss Laura 
 followed her, and then I began to think of you, 
 Mr. Giuseppe. 
 
 Gius. Ma foi — ^how twilight becomes you, 
 and when shall we have the parson to make us 
 happy, my dear girl. 
 
 Lucy. But the money, Mr. Giuseppe. 
 
 Gius, Oh! mon Dieu! I thought we had 
 settled that point. There is your forty pounds 
 you know — we will set off with that — added to 
 the contributions I shall from time to time levy 
 on my master's folly. 
 
 Lov, A precious rascal this ! 
 
 Gius. It will carry us through the first year. 
 
 Lucy. Yes, to be sure, we had a pretty good 
 specimen of your poor master this morning. 
 
 Lov. Highly amusing, indeed ! 
 
 Gius. Sancta Maria bless you I it was but two 
 months ago, when we were leaving — what was 
 her name? — it began with a W, I remember; 
 
 before 
 
84 
 
 before we set off, I just told him I saw a tear in 
 Mademoiselle's eye — no such thing to be sure. 
 Sacre Dieu — he gave me in a moment a coat he 
 had hardly worn, two pair of breeches, three 
 pair of silk stockings, a hat almost new; and, to 
 crown all, a five-guinea note, calling me the best 
 servant in the world. 
 
 Lov. What a dupe I have been I its well, I 
 know you, villain ! 
 
 Gius. But, come — don't you see the moon is 
 rising, let us walk into the wood. 
 
 Luc^, Lord I how pleasant it will be I Exeunt. 
 
 Lov. They are gone; come, come, Sophia^ 
 confide in me, there is no danger. 
 
 Soph. Footsteps again ! 
 
 Enter Melville and Settle. 
 
 Lov, This corner will conceal us. (They retire) 
 
 Mel. That burgundy was sour, Settle. 
 
 Sett. I never drank better. 
 
 Mel. Then I suppose my taste is out of order, 
 for I thought it detestable. 
 
 Sett. Why really, Melville, nothing goes well 
 with you to-day — you have been a wretched 
 companion ; you, whom wine used to exhilarate 
 almost to madness, who have always laughed at 
 me for being so calm over my glass, you hated a 
 
 fellow 
 
^5 
 
 fellow who could get drunk in silence — ^this you 
 called sottishness. 
 
 MeL I could not talk this evening, I made a 
 struggle at first, but it was ineffectual — that beau- 
 tiful creature, Settle. 
 
 Sett. Whom do you mean, Melville? 
 
 MeL Whom do I mean ? my incognita to be 
 sure. 
 
 Sett. Not one momentary thought on any 
 other. 
 
 Mel. Not one, not one. 
 
 Sett. What I you are perfectly easy on her 
 account. 
 
 Mel. Can't you believe my positive assertion. 
 
 Sett. Oh, certainly, yet I own I did suppose I 
 saw a little wavering in you, a little perplexity, a 
 sort of balancing, which you tried to decide by 
 bumper after bumper — hah I hah I hah! who 
 has the advantage now ? the calm captain Settle, 
 or the susceptible Charles Melville; the one 
 master of himself, able to enjoy and entertain, 
 (these are foolish words to be sure, but they are 
 common, and I must use them) to enjoy and en- 
 tertain the company ; the other absent, lost, the 
 only dull fellow at his own table. 
 
 MeL Such men as you, are stupid in your 
 best moments. 
 
 Sett. But then we make no pretensions. 
 
 MeL 
 
86 
 
 MeL Well, well, I know I am but a rascal — \ 
 I know I treat the best woman in the world scan- 
 dalously—but after this one frolic, I swear I'll 
 be the most affectionate, dutiful husband living; 
 and if I take such an oath in my cups, what shall 
 I do when I am sober^ — eh. Settle ? 
 
 Sett, But why not take the present opportu- 
 nity of making something like a sacrifice. 
 
 MeL No, no, that would be too much, too 
 much to expect. I am unusually elevated. Settle, 
 that burgundy was good wine, after all— it be- 
 gins to mount. I wish I was a sailor — what a 
 pleasure there must be in a storm, from the very 
 buoyancy of your motion. 
 
 SetL It may be so, but I had rather sail with 
 a clear sky, and where the anchorage is firm. 
 
 MeL Now imagine me, Settle, at my fair one's 
 feet, swearing she shall be mine — mine, without 
 any vulgar ties, that bind estates — not hearts; 
 that fix our interests, but destroy our love; that 
 by making the connexion sure, remove all fear of 
 displeasure, and all wish to serve — pshaw! 
 pshaw ! I know I am talking nonsense. 
 
 Seti. I won't contradict you. 
 
 MeL Swearing this, I rise, and clasping her 
 in my arms — 
 
 Sett. She, with a frown of indignation darts 
 from you, and you become the animal in the 
 
 fable^ 
 
87 
 
 fable, not content with one precieux morceau, 
 and losing all. 
 
 Lov. There is no bearing this. 
 
 Soph. Be calm, I entreat you — for my sake be 
 calm. 
 
 Lov. If I forgive him I 
 
 Sett. What, lost in thought, Melville! if she 
 is the character you represent her to be. 
 
 Mel. Its very true, but I can't talk to her — 
 my tongue is tied in her presence, there is some- 
 thing in her that awes me into respect and dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Lov. Aye, there it is, such virtue forces a re- 
 luctant homage. 
 
 Mel. Yet her disguise, her silence I her wan- 
 dering about my grounds, I can't be mistaken — 
 impossible — no, no, every body tells me I am 
 the victim of romance ; another bottle, and then 
 Settle, I shall be so divinely eloquent. 
 
 Sett. I have my doubts. 
 
 Mel. What doubts — innocence would have 
 no need of all this artifice, but to-morrow, Settle. 
 
 Sett. What of to-morrow? 
 
 Mel. To-morrow I'll send you to her calmly 
 to persuade her to explain herself 
 
 Sett. And what then? 
 
 Mel. Why, then, I'll step in myself, and 
 shew her the difference between a man and an 
 automaton. 
 
 Q, Sett. 
 
88 
 
 Sett, You surely won't detain her still. 
 
 Mel. I'll answer all your questions to-morrow — 
 no more wine, farewell, Settle, farewell icicle — 
 
 Exit^ 
 
 Sett, We shall have this fiery Hotspur on the 
 earth before nio;ht. Exit, 
 
 Soph, Oh! I am very faint, I can scarcely 
 walk. 
 
 Lov. Think of the insults you have escaped, 
 how near you are to a place of refuge, and take 
 courage. 
 
 Soph. I must rest a moment, what language 
 did I hear? how many hours awaited me, oh! 
 my noble, my generous protector! 
 
 Lov. Come, come, bear up. 
 
 Soph. My head turns round, I know nothing 
 distinctly. 
 
 Lov. Rest, rest on me. Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Sophia's apartments. 
 
 Enter Melville. 
 
 Mel. The door is safely locked, I find. This is 
 a singular adventure of mine, my fair one is most 
 agreeably inaccessible — but I fancy fifty guineas 
 will have more effect than all my rhetoric — now 
 for her room. . Exit, 
 
 Re-enter 
 
89 
 
 Re-enter Melville. 
 
 MeL She's not there, she's gone, who waits? 
 William! Thomas! 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Where's the man I ordered not to leave the 
 door of this room, send him to me, do not 
 return without him. 
 
 Ser, Sir, I'll do all I can to find him. 
 
 MeL Where are you going, fool, come back — 
 send all my servants to me, every one, don't let 
 one be missing, away, be quick. (Exit Servant) 
 To have lived to the age of three and twenty, 
 
 and after all to be tricked by a oh! its 
 
 monstrous ! 
 
 Enter two or three Servants. 
 
 Away, away, be quick, seek her throughout 
 the country, bring her back, I charge you. I'll 
 have her proclaimed at the church doors — I'll — 
 
 Enter Settle. 
 
 Sett, Melville, positively you make such a 
 noise, you have disturbed a sweet doze that was 
 just stealing upon me under the old oak. 
 
 CI 2, Mel. 
 
90 
 
 Mel. (Seizing Settle by the collar) You^ Settle, 
 are engaged in this plot against me; you told me 
 you had your doubts. 
 
 Sett. Nay, Melville, take your hand from my 
 throat, for though I doubt of the propriety of 
 duelling, I know of nothing so calculated to re- 
 move my doubts as attempting to strangle me. 
 
 Mel. I had forgot, its your way of thinking ; 
 (to the servants) why are you not gone ? 
 
 Ser. Sir, you have given us no orders. 
 
 MeL Did I not? Hear me then, and obey 
 me strictly; if you fail, you forfeit my favour 
 for ever ; take your stations in different parts of 
 the park — if you meet the prettiest girl you ever 
 saw in your lives, just five feet four in height, 
 dressed like a chambermaid, but in air and man- 
 ner equal to any dignity ; with a complexion 
 that seems to evade your glance by its sweet 
 variety; a blue eye, armed with the two-fold 
 lightning of love and anger, and a lip that vainly 
 attempts to cheat its nature in efforts of scorn ; 
 brown hair, rather dishevelled, and playing on a 
 neck whiter — Exeunt Servants. 
 
 Sett, But as its almost dark, how are they to 
 see all this? 
 
 Mel, Go, go, bring her back; but observe 
 ipe, use no violence, keep a strict guard over 
 your hands. 
 
 Sett. 
 
91 
 
 SeiL Yes, give Mr. Melville's compliments, 
 and request the honor of her company in her 
 prison. 
 
 Mel, Away, if you but bring her back — - 
 
 Enter Lovechild. 
 
 Heaven and earth I Lovechild ! 
 
 Sett, The prologue to the tragedy. Aside. 
 
 Lovec. You are, no doubt, surprized, Mr. 
 Melville — my appearance, I can well believe, is 
 unseasonable enough. What! sir — did you ima- 
 gine that because my daughter had no brother 
 whose quicker blood would boil at this injury. 
 
 Mel. Injury? 
 
 Lovec. For heaven's sake, don't irritate me by 
 attempting an apology; you are married to my 
 daughter, sir, and now I find all your servants 
 employed in searching for your woman, sir — I 
 can't take my evening walk by the side of the 
 water here, in your grounds, sir, yes, sir, my 
 daughter's grounds, without having a thousand 
 impertinent questions put to me. What, am I to 
 be made a pimp in my old age, and to my own 
 son-in-law ? 
 
 Mel. How have I been infatuated! 
 
 Lovec. Had the affair been managed with the 
 least secrecy, perhaps I might have forgiven you, 
 
 though 
 
92 
 
 though I hope to God Louisa never would have 
 so demeaned herself, but now the whole country 
 will hear of it, and I am at least an equal sufferer 
 with her — my vengeance, however, shall be 
 bolder. 
 
 Mel. Sir, I shall not shrink from it, this im« 
 perious language has roused me. Aside, 
 
 Lovec. Now, too, I understand all those 
 mean and paltry subterfuges you practised on 
 me this morning — I own I had no suspicions, 
 because I thought I had to do with a man of 
 honor. 
 
 Mel. You speak boldly, sir. 
 
 Lovec. Not more boldly than I shall be ready 
 to justify, 
 
 Mel, Its very well, sir, another time then. 
 
 Lovec. I understand you — and I assure you I 
 rejoice in leaving you — another time. 
 
 Mel. For heaven's sake don't mistake me, I 
 meant no insult, no provocation, 
 
 Lovec. Yes, sir, perhaps on this occasion 
 you'll find my arm as vigorous as a younger 
 inan's. Exit. 
 
 Sett. Truly this is a most unfortunate affair. 
 
 Mel. You won't be called upon to bear a 
 share in it. 
 
 Sett. Melville, what a pleasure there must be 
 in a storm, from the mere buoyancy of the 
 motion. Mel. 
 
93f 
 
 Mel. No, no, its false, its false, oh! should 
 he persuade her to leave me — should I lose her I 
 
 Sett. Lose whom? 
 
 Mel. This is no time for raillery. 
 
 Sett, Oh! these pleasurable passions of hope 
 and love. It can't be denied there was an 
 astonishing air of resolution in the old gentle- 
 man's look. 
 
 Mel. What, did he seem resolutely fixed. 
 
 Sett. I never saw a more unforgiving aspect in 
 my life. 
 
 Mel. It is so — I've lost her for ever — I know 
 he never will forgive me — oh! by heaven — I 
 would give up my whole fortune to recall this 
 cursed day. ' Exit, 
 
 Sett. I must follow him — in this frenzy he 
 may commit some violent act upon himself. Exit, 
 
 SCENE IV. — An apartment in the house. 
 
 Mrs. Melville and Laura. 
 
 Laura. How can you possibly put such con- 
 fidence in Lucy's report — there is no story too 
 preposterous for her credulity. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. I know not what to think — some- 
 times I fondly flatter myself he cannot be so 
 
 degraded 
 
94 
 
 degraded— but then his dependants love him so 
 entirely, they would spread no groundless re- 
 ports to his disadvantage. 
 
 Laura. Wait with patience, I entreat you. 
 
 Mrs, Mel. Patience — its impossible — oh! this 
 suspence is worse than certainty on any terms. 
 
 Enter Lovell and Sophia. 
 
 Soph. My dear Mrs. Melville. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Sophia I 
 
 Soph. Don't interrupt me — don't ask me a 
 single question — don't say one word to me — I am 
 dying till I tell you what brought me here. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. I am very glad to see you at all 
 events. 
 
 Soph. My mother-in-law — ah, you may laugh 
 at me, if you will but hear me — my mother-in- 
 law, you know, since my father's death, has 
 always treated me with the greatest austerity — of 
 late she has been peculiarly severe — the other 
 day she told me she meant to pay a visit to 
 Bath — I rejoiced at her determination, as it was 
 likely to give me an opportunity of seeing you — 
 I said so to her, but she threatened to deprive 
 me of that pleasure — well, she teazed, and tor- 
 mented me more than ever, all the journey — a 
 long two-hundred miles — however, when I got 
 
 to 
 
95 
 
 to Bath, I resolved to bear her persecutions no 
 longer, so early this morning I borrowed this 
 disguise, slipped out of the house, threw myself 
 into the first public conveyance I could find, 
 which set me down at your park gate. 
 
 Lov. Then Mr. Melville, instead of receiving 
 you, as you had reason to expect, offered you 
 the most atrocious insult. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Is it possible I 
 
 Lov. And absolutely confined you — imprison- 
 ed you — infected the air you breathed with his 
 poisonous addresses. 
 
 Laura, But I am sure Mr. Melville did not 
 know you. 
 
 Soph. No, indeed, he did not. 
 
 Laura. Oh why did you not tell him your 
 name. 
 
 Lov, What, condescend to throw herself 
 upon his mercy! confide in him when he had so 
 grossly offended her. 
 
 Laura, You are severe, Mr. Lovell — yet if 
 inconstancy were my brother's only fault, you 
 are surely the last man to condemn him. 
 
 Lov. (Aside) I was not quite prepared for 
 that rebuke. 
 
 Laura. Well, sir, only judge Mr. Melville 
 by whatever maxims you propose for yourself, 
 and I shall be satisfied. 
 
 Mrs^ 
 
96 
 
 Mrs, Mel. How ungenerous! how unmanly! 
 I can never look upon him again with any feel- 
 ings but those of indignation — my former life 
 was one continued scene of joy and cheerfulness — 
 of late a warmer glow brightened and varied its 
 colours — sometimes disappearing for a moment, 
 but never totally lost — alas! what a miserable 
 future did not the changing gleam forbode. Exit. 
 
 Laura. My dearest Louisa. (Exit, following J 
 
 Soph. I did not foresee this distress — I begin 
 to repent of my mysterious silence. 
 
 Lov. You were right — perfectly right — had 
 you acted otherwise, your conduct would have 
 been inconsistent with your character — as for 
 Mrs. Melville, she ought to be obliged to you for 
 shewing her the character of the man she has to 
 live with. 
 
 Soph. That should have been done before 
 marriage. 
 
 Enter Lovechild, followed by <2 Servant. 
 
 Lovec. Order my carriage directly — I won't 
 stay another moment in the house — no not 
 
 another moment — (Exit servant) What, Mr. 
 
 Lovell ! and who is this ? 
 
 Lov. This, sir, is Miss Woodville, whom I 
 have the honor to intro — 
 
 Lovec, 
 
97 
 
 Lovec. Miss Woodville, is it — egad, I did 
 not know who or what she might be — Mr. Mel- 
 ville may have a thousand for any thing I know — 
 Where is my daughter ? Exit, 
 
 Lov. Are these insults never to cease? if I 
 forgive him. (Aside going out) 
 
 Soph. Nay — take me with you, and don't put 
 on that frowning countenance — really its a hide- 
 ous mask. Exeunt, 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT, 
 
m 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. AnapartmenL 
 
 Melville, with a letter, 
 
 Mel. Have I then lost her? How insup- 
 portably wretched have I made myself. Well, 
 well, let me read her letter once more, though 
 every syllable is a dagger to me. " You will not 
 " be surprized at my father's wish, or rather 
 " commands, that I should return home with 
 " him. Why indeed should I disobey him? — to 
 " him and him alone, I must devote the remain- 
 " der of a life, which, in all probability, will not 
 " be much longer than his. Farewell, I do not 
 '^ mean to reproach you; on the contrary, if you 
 " should ever regret the loss of her who loved 
 " you, as she hopes, most sincerely, let this be a 
 ^^ consolation to you, that from the bottom of 
 '• her soul she herself forgave you. You will 
 " not, I am sure, insist upon a personal inter- 
 " view — it could answer no purpose but to in- 
 " crease the anguish which already I can scarcely 
 '^ bear. 
 
 " Louisa Melville." 
 
 My excellent Louisa! 
 
 Enter 
 
99 
 
 Enter Mellefont and Laura. 
 
 Mel Would to God, Mellefont, I had 
 taken your advice, it would have saved me from 
 the most abominable folly ever man was guilty 
 of— folly, do I call it? 
 
 Laura, I am sorry, my old school-fellow. 
 
 Mel. There again, that I should have insulted 
 your friend, Laura — my wife's friend, an inno- 
 cent, artless girl. 
 
 Mellef, My dear fellow, as far as she is con- 
 cerned, your conduct admits of too many ex- 
 cuses to deserve a serious reproof — her preposte- 
 rous silence acquits you — it is your wife who has 
 most cause to complain 
 
 MeL Yes, yes, she must detest and abhor 
 me — are you not surprized, Laura, that I should 
 dare to appear before you who know her so well, 
 and how I have offended her. Well, farewell to 
 you both; may you enjoy that happiness which 
 insanity only like mine could have deprived 
 me of. 
 
 Laura. Nay, stay, Melville, I am sure there 
 can be no cause for this despair. 
 
 Mel. Read that letter — see with what a de- 
 vilish power I have banished the gaiety of inno- 
 cence from a bosom whose pure and delicate af- 
 fection 
 
100 
 
 fectlon should have been reflected back from 
 mine. Exit, 
 
 Laura, Really there is an air of determination 
 in this letter which surprizes me. 
 
 Mel, Yet it is free from anger. 
 
 Laura, For that reason it shocks me the more. 
 
 Mellef, I own 1 have my fears. 
 
 Laura, Good heavens ! say not so ; but come, 
 let us exert our utmost endeavours to procure a 
 reconciliation; it is necessary, I am sure, for the 
 happiness of all parties. You have some weight 
 with my father, I know he has the highest opi- 
 nion of you — go to him. I depend greatly upon 
 my entreaties with Louisa. 
 
 Mellef. Ever the same, my love. 
 
 Laura, We must be expeditious ; my father, 
 I find, has determined to return home with my 
 sister and myself this very evening. 
 
 Mellef, At so late an hour I 
 
 Laura, I never saw him more resolved — and 
 my sister, in her anger, has promised to obey 
 him implicitly in every thing. Exit Laura. 
 
 Enter Lovechild meeting Mellefont. 
 
 Mellef, The very man I desired to see. 
 Lovec, I am sorry I can't return the compli 
 
 ment — 
 
101 
 
 ment— I never \vish to see the face of any man 
 again. I am disgraced — dishonoured — I don't 
 suppose any man will like to see my face again, 
 except it is to laugh at me. 
 
 Mellef. Be moderate, my good Sir. 
 
 Lovec. What, you mean to defend such a con- 
 duct, that you may practise it in your turn, but 
 I'll take care of that; poor Louisa's gone, but 
 Laura, I'm determined, shall never marry at all. 
 
 Mellef, Really I hardly understand you. 
 
 Lovec. Why, sir, do you affect to be sur- 
 prized at the anger of a man who sees his daugh- 
 ter's husband keeping a woman under her very 
 nose. 
 
 Mellef, Keeping a woman I you astonish me. 
 
 Lovec, And this too when the father is in 
 the house with him. Its hard to say whether 
 the blow is harder upon my daughter or me — - 
 her affections are wounded — my honour is 
 equally so. 
 
 Mellef, Will you allow me to ask you a 
 question. 
 
 Lovec, As many as you please — I am per- 
 fectly cool — I see what I am doing; I am not 
 talking from passion, like one of you, boys ; I 
 see what I am doing, I know where I am — would 
 to God I was any where else. I am not in my 
 
 dotage 
 
105 
 
 dotage, my young spark; ask away, and I will 
 answer you if I think proper. 
 
 Mellef. Weil then, can you seriously imagine 
 that Melville designed to keep a woman, as you 
 call it ? 
 
 Lovec. Then pray, sir, \^hat the devil did he 
 mean? 
 
 Mellef, If he really had such a design, he 
 must be the greatest fool under heaven, for con- 
 certing his measures so as to be sure of detection ; 
 might he not have waited till you had left his 
 house, and could none of his tenant's cottages 
 have afforded him a more secure retreat than that 
 he chose. 
 
 Lovec. And so the matchless impudence of 
 his conduct is in his favour. 
 
 Mellef. In judging of one particular action 
 of any man, are you to leave his general charac- 
 ter entirely out of the question ? 
 
 Lovec. None of this abstruse nonsense to me, 
 sir, I was bred in the army — none of your col- 
 lege-bred fantasies, your cursed cob-web reason- 
 ings — I am too old a fly to be caught in them. 
 
 Mellef You must excuse me for saying, that 
 your interpretation of Melville's conduct is as 
 unworthy of yourself as of him. 
 
 Lovec. Aye, indeed? how so, Sir? 
 
 Mellef 
 
103 
 
 Mellef, Because a moment's reflection will 
 shew you its injustice. 
 
 Lovec. And now, most worthy, gentle, candid 
 sir, will you shew me what you make of it. 
 
 Mellef. I know enough of him to be assured 
 that this woman, whom you fancy he would have 
 kept, had she been what he supposed, would 
 not have interrupted his fidelity to your daughter 
 a single day, and I believe in my conscience he 
 would have confessed his fault to Mrs. Melville, 
 and implored her pardon. 
 
 Lovec. Yes, he is always prodigal enough of 
 his confessions and his repentance, but what ad- 
 vantage are we to derive from these, if they do 
 not save him from fresh errors ; upon my soul 
 I believe he repents, not so much in sorrow 
 for past faults, as by way of apology for future 
 ones. % 
 
 Mellef. Really, if you make a good use of 
 this affair, it may be the means of his entire re- 
 form ; consider for a moment, he is easily un- 
 riddled, in the midst of one of his unfortunate 
 caprices, which, as Mrs. Melville forgives them, 
 I don't see who else has a right to complain of 
 them. 
 
 Lovec. Yes, sir, a father has. 
 
 Mellef. A circumstance occurs, which, if he 
 
 lives a hundred years, will never happen again — 
 
 R partly 
 
104 
 
 partly from a nonsensical resentment, partly from 
 the gaiety of his disposition. 
 
 Lovec, So the Lady's beauty had nothing to 
 do with it. 
 
 Mellef, And partly, as you say, from the at- 
 traction of the girl herself 
 
 Lovec. I understand what you would say, this 
 was one of your momentary errors, one of your 
 damned venial amiable faults. I don't know 
 what I might think as an indifferent person, but 
 I am determined, positively determined — I don't 
 take it well in you, that you palliate this behavi- 
 our before me — but thank God Laura is not mar- 
 ried, they shall both go home with me this very 
 evening, they were once happy enough with me. 
 
 Enter Dazzle. 
 
 Daz, Ah, Mr. Lovechild, what, inexorable ? 
 I know what you are talking about, I have heard 
 all from Miss Lovechild. Let me tell you, sir, 
 a woman with so many charms as Mrs. Melville, 
 should have a clever fellow to know how to esti- 
 mate them, and a brave fellow to dare to defend 
 them — what — separate Mr. and Mrs. Melville ? 
 a pair that seem brought from the ends of the 
 world purposely for each other — she, gentle, af- 
 fectionate, sensible — he, with all the bolder ex- 
 cellencies 
 
105 
 
 cellencies of the man to support her ; he has his 
 faults, but when he has gone through a little 
 more of the world's discipline (and he is a sort 
 of man that crouds into a day the experience of 
 a year) he will be most admirable — he is the soul 
 of generosity — the child of honor — I hate a fel- 
 low who was never young — he is like a dull 
 Italian year, where the trees are always in leaf, 
 and where the only way of knowing the diffe- 
 rence of the seasons, is by referring to the alma- 
 nack. The inconstancy of the spring may surely 
 be excused, for the steady warmth of summer, 
 and the rich plenty of autumn — then comes the 
 hoar of winter, old Gentleman, and closes the 
 scene not ungracefully. 
 
 Mellef, (Aside) Thank you, thank you, Dazzle. 
 
 Lovec. Well, Gentlemen, I am not a stock — - 
 I am not made of flint. I used to think of him 
 as you do, and if it were not for the publicity 
 of his conduct. 
 
 Mellef. Its publicity ? Does the world de- 
 serve such a sacrifice as you would make to it. 
 
 Lovec, I don't know, but I should not like to 
 have it said, that the man who married my 
 daughter, insulted her before her father's eyes, 
 without any resentment on his part ; my name is 
 ancient, gentlemen — it has never yet been tar- 
 nished, it has past through many generations 
 R 5 without 
 
106 
 
 without a stain, and it is hard, very hard, that 
 having triumphed so long, infamy should over- 
 take it at last — when, if it was suffered to escape 
 a few years longer, it would be beyond the reach, 
 whether of shame or glory — you must excuse me 
 for leaving you, this subject grows painful to me. 
 
 Exit, 
 
 Mellef. You almost overthrew him. Dazzle. 
 
 Daz. Aye, if the fear of the world's censure 
 had not parried my blow. 
 
 Mellef. There it is, this is the feeling, which 
 follows us almost from our cradles, and sticks to 
 our last sand. 
 
 Daz. However, let us make another attempt. 
 
 Mellef. Oh, surely. Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — An apartment. 
 Mrs. Melville and Laura. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Why will you persist in entreaties 
 which I cannot listen to. 
 
 Laura. How can I be silent on a subject so 
 interesting to me, believe me you carry your re- 
 sentment much too far. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. You forget, Laura, what is due to 
 our sex; what must I think of a man whose con- 
 duct 
 
107 
 
 duct is now as indelicate, as it has frequently 
 been unjust. Must I meet him with the smile of 
 a hypocrite, and profess to love, where I cannot 
 even esteem ? If I could condescend so low, Mel- 
 ville would be ten times more wretched, than in 
 losing me entirely. And pray Laura, if Mr. Mel- 
 lefont had acted as Charles has done, would you 
 have pardoned him. 
 
 Laura, I don't think my anger would have 
 been so persevering. 
 
 Mrs, Mel, Anger I you know me too well 
 seriously to impute my conduct to such a cause, 
 and, let me say, I should have expected in a 
 sister a kinder and more indulgent friend. 
 
 Laura, I may perhaps be too urgent, but I 
 cannot bear to see you sacrifice Melville's happi- 
 ness — your own too, Louisa. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. My happiness I alas ! 
 
 Laura. Then let me be the messenger of your 
 forgiveness to Charles, and thus restore it ; never 
 should I be so proud as of such an office. 
 
 Mrs, Mel. No, do not mistake me, Laura, 
 I know you are astonished at my firmness — I am 
 generally thought light, and trifling, and frivo- 
 lous, perhaps justly so, yet I think I shall not 
 change the resolution I have made — when you 
 marry, my poor father will be left alone and 
 
 desolate 
 
108 
 
 desolate — he, I believe, will set some value upon 
 my attentions. 
 
 Laura, I declare Melville has taught you to 
 talk so exactly like him. 
 
 Mrs. Mel, Am I, am I like him ? 
 
 Enter Sophia. 
 
 Soph. I am so alarmed, for heaven's sake, 
 Miss Lovechild, go to Mr. Mellefont, he can 
 persuade Mr. Lovell to any thing 
 
 Laura. But what frightens you ? 
 
 Soph, Some expressions that Mr. Lovell in- 
 advertently dropped just now. 
 
 Laura. I understand you — but I can't let 
 you leave him. 
 
 Soph, This moment he passed me in the hall, 
 and his countenance was so changed, he could 
 hardly afford me a smile. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Good heavens ! 
 
 ^n/^r Settle. 
 
 Sett. Three women, I protest, if I can but 
 make my escape. (g^^f^g) 
 
 Laura. Mr. Settle, Mr. Settle. 
 
 Sett. Ah, I was afraid the attempt would be 
 in vain, (aside) 
 
 Laura. 
 
109 
 
 Laura. Do you know where Mr. Lovell is ? 
 
 Soph. Where is Mr. Mellefont ? 
 
 Sett. Now whiph shall I answer first ? 
 
 Laura. Yes, c^n you tell me where Mr. Mel- 
 lefont is. 
 
 Sett. If you'll step out of the room, you'll 
 hear him in the opposite parlour, for he and 
 Mr. Lovechild have been engaged for this half 
 hour in such a noisy dispute, that I will answer 
 for it there is not a servant in the house, who 
 does not know the subject of it. 
 
 Laura. Then come, Sophia, tet us go to him. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Laura, for heaven's sake, return 
 to me. 
 
 Laura. Depend upon me. 
 
 Exeunt Sophia and Laura. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Oh! Charles I Charles!— to how 
 much misery have you exposed me ! Exit, 
 
 Sett. On my conscience this house is a perfect 
 Bedlam ; — here is Melville mad from Despair — 
 old Lovechild mad from anger — Dazzle was 
 stung by a tarantula in Italy, and has never re- 
 covered it — as to Lovell and the women, they 
 are always mad — Mellefont' s wits seem to be on 
 the balance, and if I were not going away to- 
 morrow morning I should have some alarms for 
 myself. As I live, here comes one of the unfor- 
 tunate creatures without either chains or keeper. 
 
 Enter 
 
no 
 
 Enter Lovell. 
 
 Lov, Mr. Settle, I hope you will excuse the 
 liberty I am going to take. 
 
 Sett. Oh, the paroxysm seems passed — he is 
 pretty temperate I see. 
 
 Lov, If you will be kind enough to deliver 
 this note to Mr. Melville. 
 
 Sett. It is of an amicable nature, Mr. Lovell. 
 
 Lov, It is to demand satisfaction for an injury 
 which cannot be easily repaired — if on so short 
 an acquaintance I may venture. 
 
 Sett. One duel in four and twenty hours is 
 enough for any man. 
 
 Lov, Well, but, Mr. Settle, there is no one — 
 
 Sett, It is not very surprizing, if in a gentle- 
 man's own house, his guests are too polite to 
 request him to run the hazard of his life. But 
 here's Mr. Mellefont — apply to him. 
 
 Enter Mellefont. 
 
 Mellef, So, Lovell, you think it necessary to 
 send Melville a challen2:e. 
 
 Sett, I am completely disengaged from this 
 affair Mr Lovell. Exit. 
 
 Lov, 1 don't see how I could possibly act 
 otherwise. 
 
 Mellef. 
 
Ill 
 
 Mellef. Yet I think there are some pretty 
 strong reasons for keeping the peace. 
 
 Lov. This is not the first time to day I have 
 been the subject of your ridicule. 
 
 Mellef, Well, then, to be serious, when Mel- 
 ville is oppressed with affliction, when he is al- 
 ready suffering as much as any reasonable enemy 
 could wish, would you add to the weight that 
 presses upon him. 
 
 Lov. But do I owe nothing to Sophia. 
 
 Mellef. Why, upon my soul, on considering 
 Melville's conduct to her, I find there are so 
 many contrary claims to settle, so much to blame 
 on both sides, that silence and oblivion are our 
 only resources. 
 
 Lov, What I did she deserve to be treated 
 like a 
 
 Mellef Pray,* be calm, I have made myself 
 hoarse with endeavouring to persuade Lovechild 
 to consult his own happiness, though without 
 success; I don't blame Miss Montford for leaving 
 a severe mother-in-law, and seeking for refuge 
 with Mrs. Melville, but why did she not imme- 
 diately declare hev name; you well know Mel- 
 ville would have been her most ardent friend. 
 
 Lov. That is true, but her pride was justly 
 excited by the rudeness of his first address. 
 
 Mellef 
 
11^ 
 
 Mellef. I must observe, that pride hardly be- 
 came her in the situation in which she stood. 
 
 Lov. And was it so difficult a matter to per- 
 ceive the purity of hel- character — is it not mark- 
 ed in every feature, in every 2;esture ; who could 
 mistake the glance of virtuous indignation, from 
 such eyes as her's, for artifice and coquetry ? 
 
 Mellef. And from this you would insinuate, 
 that Melville's mistake was wilful — that he knew 
 her character, and perhaps her name, you surely 
 cannot be in earnest, and now, consider the con- 
 sequences of the conduct you wish to adopt, how 
 completely you will break up our society. 
 
 Lov. Well, I'll not fight him. 
 
 Mellef. Otherwise, when Mrs. Melville is 
 reconciled to Charles, which yet I don't despair 
 of, when you have married Sophia her friend. 
 
 Lov. I tell you again, I would not fight him, 
 though he should beg it as a favour — poor fel- 
 low — where is he — fight him? fight Charles 
 Melville ? Oh, my dear Mellefont I let me thank 
 you a thousand times for having saved me from 
 an action^ which would have embittered all the 
 days of my life. 
 
 Mellef Now let us go and remove the fears 
 of the ladies. 
 
 As 
 
113 
 
 As hoy ELL follows-^-Enter Giuseppe. 
 
 Gius. I come, sir, in obedience to your com- 
 mands. 
 
 Lov. Oh, yes, I have something to say to 
 you. 
 
 Gius, Miss Lucy will be here presently, sir. 
 Your most kind offers of assistance will make us 
 grateful to you for ever. 
 
 Lov, You come in good time, for if you 
 were twice as great a villain as you are, which, 
 to be sure, I believe is impossible, I could not 
 find fault with you now. 
 
 Gius, Ma foi, monsieur. 
 
 Lov. What ! you are puzzled a little ? all I 
 beg of you is, that you will be pleased to re- 
 move that hypocritical countenance as soon as 
 you can. 
 
 Gius. But, indeed, sir. 
 
 Lov. I tell you, I know you, you are an ac- 
 tive, bustling fellow, and have been of some use 
 to me in travelling, but you have your faults — 
 you cheat confoundedly, and lie infernally. 
 
 Gius. May I presume, sir, to entreat you to 
 speak a little lower, for, though you know me, 
 it is not necessary that all the world should have 
 the same information. 
 
 Lov, Go, go, and let me see no more of you, 
 
 as 
 
114 
 
 as for Miss Lovechild's woman, I shall take care 
 
 she is not the dupe of your artifices. Exit. 
 
 Gius. She certainly knows me. Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. — Another apartment, 
 
 Melville alone. 
 
 Mel. So, by Settle's account, Lovell, as well 
 as old Lovechild, means to challenge me — well, 
 be it so, one of them will surely take good aim, 
 and then this dreadful misery will be over. 
 
 Enter Lovechild. 
 
 Lovec. Aye, there he is — egad he is the pic- 
 ture of woe — the colonel did not deceive me — 
 delightfully miserable — charmingly oppressed, 
 as I live — on my conscience, if he would but 
 make an apology, and submissively ask my for- 
 giveness, I think I should pardon him after all. 
 Mr. Melville, while the horses are getting ready, 
 I am come just to bid you farewell. 
 
 Mel. Its a favour, which, after the imperious 
 language you used just now, 1 own I did not 
 expect. 
 
 Lovec, 
 
115 
 
 Lovec, (Aside) as proud as ever I perceive. 
 Well, Mr. Melville, as to the mode of vengeance 
 my anger first suggested to me, as I am growing 
 old, and as I don t wish to carry resentment 
 with me to my grave, I willingly relinquish it. 
 
 Mel. As you please, sir. 
 
 Lovec, As you please, sir ? Zounds I don't 
 you think yourself obliged to me ? 
 
 Mel, Oh, infinitely, for kindly condescending 
 to spare a life you have rendered a burthen to me. 
 
 Lovec. I faith — I must forgive him, poor fel- 
 low — though not immediately — he shall have one 
 sleepless night, I am determined. (Aside) And 
 now, Mr. Melville, having accomplished one 
 purpose of my visit, which was to inform you of 
 the alteration in my intention as to calling you 
 out — I have only to bid you farewell. 
 
 Mel. Sir, your most obedient. 
 
 Lovec. And won't — won't you give me your 
 hand, Charles ? Egad I shall go too far — I must 
 be gone. Mr. Melville, Farewell. Exit, 
 
 Mel. By my soul I'll see Louisa before she 
 leaves me, though all the fathers on earth oppose 
 nie. (Rings the bell,) 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Is Mr. Lovechild's carriage ready? 
 
 Ser. It will be at the door immediately, sir. 
 
 Mellef. 
 
116 
 Mellef. Do you know where Miss Lovechild 
 
 IS? 
 
 Ser, Sir, I have just seen her leave the draw- 
 ing room, where she had been sitting with my 
 mistress. 
 
 Mel, Who else was in the drawing room? 
 
 Ser. No one. 
 
 Mel. You may go (Exit Servant,) oh! if 
 my lips are but faithful to my feelings I may still 
 perhaps be happy. Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Another apartment, 
 
 Mrs. Melville. 
 
 Mrs, Mel. I wish I were gone — every thing 
 in this house makes me so dreadfully nervous — 
 and if I meet Melville, I shall sink into the 
 earth. 
 
 Enter Melville. 
 
 Mel. What! Louisa, do you start at seeing 
 me? 
 
 Mrs. Mel. I own I am a little surprized, after 
 my letter. 
 
 Mel. 
 
117 
 
 Met, Do not measure my conduct by the cold 
 rules of politeness and decorum — I am come to 
 you with a mind agonized almost to madness — 
 yet, perhaps, in entreating your pardon for one 
 offence, I but commit a new one — oh I Louisa I 
 the principal characteristic of this unfortunate 
 nature is pride — yet I am humbled — humbled to 
 the earth by your anger. 
 
 Mrs. Mel, Anger — never were the feelings of 
 resentment so far from me as at this instant; but 
 why did not this same pride defend you from a 
 conduct every way beneath you, and which could 
 lead to such a humiliation. 
 
 MeL It was a monstrous error — a crime — you 
 cannot paint it in darker colours than those in 
 which I view it myself— but surely the distress I 
 have felt at the thought of losing you, may prove 
 that my love for you has never changed. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. And yet if you had hated me, you 
 could not have chosen a more effectual mode of 
 shewing your dislike. 
 
 Mel. Dislike I — good God I would you accuse 
 me of dissembling, and dissembling with you. 
 Oh! if this dreadful day had passed without a 
 discovery of my fault — if my better fortune had 
 covered my conduct with the obscurity to which 
 only it belongs, tomorrow, I am sure, I should 
 have confessed all to you, and entreated your 
 forgiveness, as I do now, 
 
 Mrs, 
 
118 
 
 Mrs. Mel. And would not your cooler judg- 
 ment have despised me, if I had granted your 
 request ? 
 
 MeL I should have recollected innumerable 
 instances of that proud delicacy, your best and 
 most brilliant ornament ; but I should have re- 
 collected too, your generous affection, your con- 
 stant love, confiding in itself, proudly disregard- 
 ing the censure of those who are too faulty 
 themselves, to trust in the repentance of others. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Really you 11 make me think just 
 now that I am the offender, and you my judge. 
 
 MeL Impossible I — before you, Louisa, I am 
 nothing, my affection for you is so rootedly 
 fixed, it is so mingled with all my feelings, all 
 my thoughts, that by leaving me you seem to 
 tear me from myself; when I think of what I 
 was before my marriage, the perpetual victim of 
 extravagant hopes and ill-executed schemes, from 
 my own sex expecting acts of friendship which 
 we only read of in romance — from yours a 
 warmth of attachment — 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Which also we only read of in 
 romance. 
 
 Mel. No, no, you realized all my fondest 
 hopes, my gaudiest dreams. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Do you think I believe all this. 
 
 Mel. You must believe it — that tear tells mc 
 
 you believe it. 
 
 Mrs. Mel. 
 
119 
 
 Mrs. Mel. Indeed I cannot refrain from 
 weeping when I think how formed you are to 
 make me happy, and how much I suffer with 
 you. When we married, I laughed at the gloomy 
 prophecies of my friends — they talked of your 
 irregularities, your caprices — I thought they only 
 envied me. I had perceived, Indeed, that your 
 affection, though ardent, was variable, but I 
 ascribed its inconstancy more to your uncertainty 
 with regard to my love, than to your disposition. 
 Since our marriage I have hardly dared to own, 
 even to myself, that I was deceived ; and, heaven 
 knows with what triumph I have waited till your 
 conviction of my everlasting attachment to you, 
 should have rendered your affection as durable 
 as it was warm — but now all is past, and I have 
 only to lament, in solitude, the weakness of my 
 efforts, so inadequate in arresting the regard of 
 him I could have loved for ever. 
 
 Mel. Have mercy, mercy! — 1 entreat you! — 
 Oh! put me to the trial once more — covered as I 
 am with all the weaknesses and infirmities of our 
 nature, I will not dare to make protestations, but 
 surely my love can never vary, strengthened as 
 it must be with feelings of esteem, encreasing 
 every moment, and the sincerest and deepest 
 2;ratitude. 
 
 Mrs. MeL But what will my father say? 
 
 S Mel. 
 
120 
 
 Met, You know he has no object but your 
 happiness, and no will but yours. 
 
 Mrs, Mel. Oh I Charles! Charles! how well 
 did you know the resolution, of your Louisa? 
 
 Mel, Have you then forgiven me: — yet still, 
 still— 
 
 Mrs, Mel, Are you afraid I should retract. 
 
 Mel. No, no. 
 
 Mrs, Mel, What then — rafter all, I am an im- 
 prudent creature. 
 
 Enter LovECHitD. 
 
 Lovec, Come, Louisa, the coach is at the 
 do©r — come, come along. 
 
 Mrs, Mel, But Melville declares I sha'nt go. 
 
 Lovec. Sha'nt go, but I say you shall go, 
 what right has he to prevent you from coming to 
 your father's house, when he makes your own 
 worse than a dungeon to you; not a husband's, 
 I am sure — he has forfeited that title long — I was 
 in hopes you never would have seen him again, 
 you have been miserable enough already with 
 him, come, come along Louisa. 
 
 Mrs, Mel. I have forgiven him. 
 
 Lovec, Forgiven him! 
 
 Mel. Your confidence, my dear sir, is more 
 than I can expect, yet with all this excellence, as 
 my security — 
 
 Lovec. 
 
151 
 
 Lovu. Forgiven him — its impossible, Louisa-^ 
 he'll break your heart — you know he'll break 
 your heart — and so, Charles, you think a few 
 fine speeches a compensation for your conduct. 
 
 Mel. No, no, indeed — if you had been strictly 
 just, I should have been lost for ever. 
 
 Lovic, There again — why, Louisa — look at 
 him — can you trust that stern, rigid, inflexible 
 countenance of his — did you ever see such a 
 wintry aspect as the rogue has — but if you have 
 forgiven him, to be sure there is no more to be 
 said — so, there's my hand Charles — and there's 
 my daughter, my boy — and if you quarrel again, 
 why egad, you must contrive a reconciliation as 
 well as you can. 
 
 £w/^r Laura «wc/ Mellefont. 
 
 All's right again, my dear Mellefont, here 
 they are. 
 
 Enter Settle. 
 
 Sett, What does Mellefont mean by. collect- 
 ing us all together in this room? 
 
 Lovec. All's right, gentlemen-— strew the 
 ground with flowers — let the bells ring till the 
 steeple totters — I'll have you married to-morrow, 
 
 Laura, 
 
122 
 
 Laura, if the parson is able to get through the 
 service, if he does not stammer out every line, so 
 as to be perfectly unintelligible from mere joy, 
 I'll never speak to him again. 
 
 Sett. Well done, old gentleman. 
 
 Enter Lovell, Sophia, and Dazzle. 
 
 Mel. I had forgotten. 
 
 Lov. Come, Melville, do not turn away, here 
 is one, who remembers an offence but to for- 
 give it. 
 
 Sophia. Mr. Melville, I am sure, will not pay 
 me so poor a compliment as to imagine I can re- 
 sent a conduct, of which I myself was the prin- 
 cipal occasion. 
 
 Mel. (Aside) I never was so oppressed in my 
 life. 1 shall study to deserve your good opinion. 
 (hows) 
 
 Daz. (To Settle) Mr. Settle, we are oddly 
 left out here. 
 
 Sett. I don't understand it, but I am going 
 away to-morrow. 
 
 Daz. And I this very evening — for I see, in 
 this house a single man's a monster that nobody 
 comprehends. I'll be with you in a month again, 
 properly qualified. Upon my soul we're all got 
 together here like actors at the end of a play ; 
 
 and 
 
123 
 
 and indeed, if the scenes of Melville-house were 
 in the hands of a fellow who could write, they 
 would not be amiss on the stage. Farewell, till I 
 introduce some happy creature to you, under the 
 name of Mrs. Dazzle. Mr. Lovell, I congratu- 
 late you — the mistakes of love are forgotten in 
 its rewards — and you, Mr. Lovechild, who see 
 your best hopes and wishes accomplished in the 
 happiness of your children — and you, Mellefont, 
 " in whom the elements are so mixed," that with 
 all possible happiness, you have the best security 
 for its continuance. And now, Melville, shall I 
 congratulate or condole with you — you, who soar 
 so near the sun, like the poor boy, with waxen 
 wings. Learn, learn, my good fellow, to expect 
 less, that you may enjoy more ; prefer a pre- 
 sent good, to mere speculations on the future, 
 yet shun the current of impulse, even when it 
 attracts you with the dazzling brilliancy of ro- 
 mance. The torrent is admired at a distance — it 
 is grand, awful, and sublime — but in a home 
 view, we love a stream at once deep, and smooth, 
 and clear — uninterrupted in its course — full, but 
 not over-flowing — or if you would rather hear 
 the admonitions of the softer sex, remember the 
 words of the proud and tender Julia, that beauti- 
 ful creation of a resplendent genius, whose name is 
 sacred alike to freedom and the muse. " When 
 
 " hearts, 
 
124 
 
 " hearts, deserving happiness, would unite their 
 " fortune, virtue would crown them with an un- 
 " fading garland of modest, hurtkss flowers ; 
 " but ill-judging passion will force the gaudier 
 '' rose into the wreath, whose thorn offends 
 '' them, when its leaves are dropt." — And now- 
 having made my speech — farewell. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Mellef, And in truth, it is a speech, which 
 
 as we are not likely to equal, we will sej>arate 
 
 till supper. Exeunt, 
 
 THE END. 
 
 /. M^Creerp, Printer^ Houghton-Street^ Liverpool. 
 

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