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, whivhich 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 arate till supper. Exeunt, THE END. /. M^Creerp, Printer^ Houghton-Street^ Liverpool. 14 DAY USE fUiTURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. RENEWALS ONLY— TEL. NO. 642^405 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subjea to immediate recall. MAY 9 196917 /-^ mA WW 11-69 -6 PW UOAN DEP'- LD 21A-40m-2,'69 (J6057s10Jl476 — A-32 General Library University of California Berkeley