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SKETCHES 
 
 AND 
 
 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 BY 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 « THE MAGIC LANTERN." 
 
 Sketches sometimes possess an interest that is often not to 
 be found in more finished performances. 
 
 Critique on the Art of Painting. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR 
 
 LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, 
 
 PATERNOSTER- ROW. 
 
 1823. 
 

 London : 
 Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode, 
 
 New Street. Square. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 When " The Magic Lantern" was 
 laid before the public, it was deemed 
 too trifling to require a preface. The 
 present little volume might for the 
 same reason appear without one, did 
 not the animadversions to which that 
 bagatelle has given rise, render it ne- 
 cessary to disclaim the personal satire 
 attributed to the sketches it contains. 
 Had personality been the author's 
 aim, London offers so many highly 
 a 2 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 coloured pictures, which to be known 
 need only to be seen, that the most 
 unskilful artist might succeed in giving 
 copies, whose resemblance would strike 
 every beholder; but as general, and not 
 personal satire was the object in view, 
 it is a source of regret, that the shadows 
 reflected in " The Magic Lantern" 
 have been considered as likenesses of 
 persons, of whose very existence the 
 author was almost ignorant. 
 
 This proves the truth of the senti- 
 ment ill Gay's song : — 
 
 " When you censure the age, 
 
 Be cautious and sage,* 
 Lest the courtiers offended should be; 
 
 If you mention vice or bribe, 
 
 Tis so pat to all the tribe, 
 Each cries — that was levelled at me." 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 Of the present little volume, the 
 author knows not what to say. Its 
 contents are strictly what its- title de- 
 signates them — Sketches and Frag- 
 ments. Wentworth was commenced 
 while " The Magic Lantern" was in 
 the press, and ere its author was aware 
 of the danger of sketching even ima- 
 ginary characters. But now, fearful 
 of treading on ground where every 
 step may be deemed an encroachment 
 on a neighbour, it is doubtful whether 
 the story will ever be finished, and 
 therefore it takes its place in this 
 volume as a fragment. The author 
 dares scarcely indulge a hope, that the 
 trifles which compose the present work 
 
VI TREFACE. 
 
 will please; but as they do not contain 
 any allusions, that can be considered 
 personal, it may reasonably be hoped 
 that they will not offend. 
 
 \%h June, 1822. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Blighted Hopes .... 
 
 - 
 
 1 
 
 Marriage - - - - 
 
 - 
 
 12 
 
 The Ring 
 
 - 
 
 35 
 
 Journal of a Week of a Lady of Fashion 
 
 - 
 
 52 
 
 An Allegory - 
 
 - 
 
 72 
 
 Fastidiousness of Taste - 
 
 - 
 
 80 
 
 Coquetry - 
 
 - 
 
 85 
 
 Egotism - - 
 
 - 
 
 87 
 
 Reflections - 
 
 - 
 
 95 
 
 Sensibility - 
 
 - 
 
 96 
 
 Friendship - - 
 
 - 
 
 99 
 
 Wentworth - 
 
 - 
 
 102 
 
 True Love - 
 
 - 
 
 127 
 
 The Dying Invalid ... 
 
 - 
 
 159 
 
 Passion and Sentiment, an Allegory 
 
 - 
 
 144 
 
 The Abode of Memory ... 
 
 - 
 
 147 
 
 A Tribute to Friendship 
 
 - 
 
 150 
 
 Fragments - 
 
 - 
 
 154 
 
BLIGHTED HOPES. 
 
 It was on a lovely evening towards the end 
 of July, that we approached the village of 
 Effingham. My friends, Lord and Lady 
 Merton, their lovely invalid daughter, and 
 myself, occupied a large family coach, which 
 was followed by another containing the do- 
 mestics. The sun was setting in all the 
 magnificence of a summer's sky, and every 
 object, even to the pallid cheek of the lan- 
 guid Ellen, was tinged with his golden rays. 
 I saw her close her eyes, and put one hand 
 over them, as if to shut out the cheering 
 
BLIGHTED HOPES. 
 
 beams that so ill accorded with her feelings ; 
 and my heart bled at the conviction, that one 
 so young, so lovely, and so loved, was in- 
 sensible to all emotions but those of grief; — 
 that sorrow had chilled her warm bosom, 
 and nipt the roses of health which had so 
 lately bloomed on her now death-like cheek. 
 We proceeded slowly along, the afflicted 
 parents watching with agonized anxiety the 
 countenance of their only child, who occa- 
 sionally, when gleams of returning conscious- 
 ness rendered her sensible of their anguish, 
 expressed, by a gentle pressure of their hands 
 to her heart or lips, or a look that spoke 
 more eloquently than words, the sense which 
 she felt of their affection. 
 
 We now approached the church-yard, 
 and all our fears were excited, dreading the 
 effect which its appearance might produce 
 
BLIGHTED HOPES. 3 
 
 upon Ellen. A few weeks before, her be- 
 trothed husband was consigned to the silent 
 grave in this very cemetery, and the family 
 mausoleum was close to the road. The dis- 
 consolate parents appeared afraid to breathe, 
 lest they should disturb the mourner from a 
 fit of abstraction into which she had fallen a 
 few minutes before ; when, at the very 
 moment we reached the spot, she bent 
 forward, extended her hands towards the 
 mausoleum, and uttering one heart-piercing 
 shriek, fell back, fainting in the arms of her 
 mother. 
 
 Three short months before, I accompanied 
 the same group to London. The parents 
 were then happy in the prospect of bestow- 
 ing their only child on the object of her long 
 cherished affection, — an object not less their 
 choice than hers. The lovely Ellen was 
 b 2 
 
4 BLIGHTED HOPES. 
 
 then blooming, beautiful, and gay, and ani- 
 mated with joyful anticipations of meeting her 
 future husband. Every mile we travelled 
 brought her nearer to the object of her love : 
 and well do I remember the suffusion of her 
 cheek, when bantered by her doating, happy 
 father, on the visible exhilaration of her spirits. 
 Happy herself, how did she by a thousand 
 nameless graces and kindnesses, endeavour 
 to extend the sunshine of her own pure 
 breast. I looked at her, and beheld her 
 radiant with innocence, and joy, and beauty; 
 and I fancied, that had a Lawrence seen her, 
 he would have immortalized himself and her, 
 by pourtraying her as the personification of 
 Hope ; for never surely had the bright- 
 eyed enchantress a more lovely represent- 
 ative. 
 
 When we arrived in Grosvenor-square, 
 
BLIGHTED HOPES. o 
 
 the lover was at the door, with all a lover's 
 impatience marked in his eager glance and 
 sparkling eyes : while her first look of rap- 
 ture was succeeded by a more chastened and 
 timid, though not less tender manner. 
 
 Days succeeded days, which, though min- 
 gled with the oft-repeated eludings of the im- 
 petuous lover at the " law's delay," were still 
 days of happiness. Tender attentions, bridal 
 preparations, plans for future enjoyments and 
 present amusements, enriched and varied each 
 day, until the long-wished-for one was named 
 that was to unite them. But four days prior to 
 that which was to consummate their happiness, 
 the lover was seized with an illness, which he 
 considered a slight cold, and neglected, being 
 unwilling to absent himself even for a few 
 hours from his mistress : the second day he 
 was unable to leave his bed; and the third 
 
 B 3 
 
6 BLIGHTED HOPES. 
 
 his illness was pronounced past hope — past 
 cure ; — the fourth, — that day for which he 
 had so ardently longed, as the goal of his 
 happiness, — he was a corpse. 
 
 For many days insanity, caused by a violent 
 brain-fever, banished from poor Ellen's mind 
 all sense of her misfortune and sorrow. In 
 all the wanderings of distempered fancy, her 
 lover was never for a moment absent from 
 her thoughts; she called on him in the ten- 
 derest accents, addressed him with all the 
 fervour of affection, and again and again im- 
 plored him not to leave her couch while she 
 slept; for that he alone could shield her from 
 some unknown enemy, that pressed her fore- 
 head with a burning hand. 
 
 By slow degrees Reason resumed her em- 
 pire; but it was visible that Health had for 
 ever fled. Her first request to her sorrow- 
 
BLIGHTED HOPES. 
 
 ing, heart-stricken parents, was to take her to 
 Merton Park. Oh ! what a contrast is there 
 between this melancholy return and our 
 happy journey three short months ago ! 
 Our hearts were then cheered by Hope ; but 
 now, Hope is banished, and Resignation to 
 the will of Him, " who chasteneth whom 
 he loveth can alone enable them to bow to 
 
 His dispensation." 
 
 % % % % % % 
 
 At length the lovely and gentle Ellen is 
 released from her sorrows; and her pure soul 
 has fled to those regions of bliss, where tears 
 are dried and grief endureth no more. 1 this 
 day beheld her pale corse consigned to " the 
 narrow house," and I now see from my 
 window the moon's silver beams reflected on 
 the mausoleum that inurns her. 
 
 For three days after our arrival she lin- 
 b 4 
 
8 BLIGHTED HOPES. 
 
 gered between life and death. A few hours 
 before she breathed her last, she became 
 conscious of her situation, and hailed her ap- 
 proaching death as a release from hopeless, 
 cureless anguish. A faint smile, the first 
 that had appeared since her lover's decease, 
 played on her pallid lips, but was soon chased 
 away by observing the unuttered and unutter- 
 able grief of her parents. For a few minutes 
 she regarded them with looks of fondest, 
 pitying love ; and with all the daughter in 
 her eyes, " the big tears chasing each other 
 down" her pale cheek, as their sorrow and 
 desolation at her loss glanced over her mind, 
 she wept for some time with uncontrollable 
 emotion; and, alternately turning to each, 
 as they jointly supported her, tremulously 
 clasped them in her embrace. But the God 
 of Mercy, " who tempereth the wind to the 
 
BLIGHTED HOPES. 9 
 
 shorn lamb," soon restored a saintly calm to 
 the dying Ellen. 
 
 She seemed inspired with more than mortal 
 eloquence, while addressing her unhappy 
 parents, and soothing their minds into 
 resignation at her approaching fate, she 
 begged to be taken to the window, that she 
 might once more behold the fair face of 
 nature, and view the spot where she was so 
 soon to be laid beside him whom she had so 
 fondly loved. 
 
 We bore her couch to the window, and 
 for a moment the fresh air seemed to revive 
 her. The sun was rising with a splendour 
 that gave the promise of a glorious day, and 
 all nature seemed waking into life and 
 gladness : she looked towards that brilliant 
 luminary for a few moments in silence, and 
 then exclaimed^ " Ah ! long before that 
 
10 BLIGHTED HOPES. 
 
 bright orb sinks in the west, the vital spark 
 that animates this frail form shall become 
 extinct ; never, never again shall those eyes 
 behold the refulgent sun, nor shall I bask 
 beneath his cheering beams. Those woods 
 and hills, on which so oft I have delighted to 
 gaze ; yon river, by whose banks I have so 
 often strayed, that dewy lawn, over which my 
 careless feet have so often wandered, — I 
 shall never again behold. That sun will 
 again rise in all his wonted splendour, and 
 this lovely landscape will still retain its 
 charms, but I — I shall be insensible to 
 all ." Here her sweet countenance be- 
 came clouded with sorrow, and a few natural 
 tears rolled down her cheek : but turning 
 to the point that commanded a view of the 
 village church, whose spire the rays of the 
 sun were now irradiating, she ceased to 
 
BLIGHTED HOPES. 11 
 
 weep ; and raising her almost transparent 
 hand, said, " There, there, by his side let me 
 be laid ; and now, oh my loved parents, pray 
 that your child may meet death with the 
 composure and piety of a Christian." 
 
 She held a hand of each parent ; while with 
 her eyes closed, as if to shut out all earthly 
 objects, she prayed with fervour. She ap- 
 peared exhausted, and her voice became 
 less articulate. A gentle sleep seemed to steal 
 over her : but it was the sleep of death ; for 
 breathing one soft sigh, she resigned her soul 
 into the hands of her Creator. 
 
12 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 Prudence and benevolence are the 
 qualities most likely to promote happiness 
 in the marriage state ; but what can be ex- 
 pected except disappointment and repentance 
 from a choice made in the immaturity of 
 youth — without j udgment — without foresight 
 — without enquiry after conformity of opini- 
 ons — rectitude of principle, or purity of 
 sentiment ?" 
 
 Hymen, thy chain is galling when it binds 
 Unsuited hearts, and ill-assorted minds. 
 
 " Never, never can I give my hand where 
 my whole heart does not accompany it," ex- 
 
MARRIAGE. 13 
 
 claimed the animated and sensitive Louisa 
 to her friend, Mrs. Delamere, who had been 
 advising her to accept, or at least to take 
 into consideration, the proposal of Mr. Beau- 
 mont, made a few days before. 
 
 " If, by that warm expression, you mean 
 that you will never marry any man for whom 
 you do not feel a decided preference, I ap- 
 prove of your determination," said her 
 friend ; " but, my dear Louisa, I fear that it 
 means more, and that you must, as the modern 
 phrase is, fall in love, before you can bring 
 yourself to think of marriage. The very ex- 
 pression denotes a degradation ; as in John- 
 son we find one of the definitions of the 
 verb to fall is, c to enter into any state worse 
 than the former.' Our Hibernian neigh- 
 bours have improved the mode of expression, 
 by calling it c tumbling into love ;' but, to be 
 
14 MARRIAGE. 
 
 serious, how unfit is a person in love lo form 
 a just estimate of the character, principles, 
 pursuits, and tastes, of the object of affec- 
 tion, as it is allowed that no veil is so im- 
 penetrable as that of love ; though, when once 
 removed, every blemish is rendered painfully 
 obvious." 
 
 " All this may be correct, my dear friend," 
 replied Louisa ; " but there is no reasoning 
 on affairs of the heart." This was said with 
 a tone and emphasis that showed Louisa's 
 wish to end the argument ; and so the subject 
 concluded. Mr. Beaumont was refused the 
 next day ; and in a short time after, Louisa, 
 throwing herself into the arms of her friend, 
 hid her blushing face in her bosom, and told 
 her that she was now the happiest of women, 
 for that Lord Tynedale, who had long been 
 the object of her admiration, had declared 
 
MARRIAGE. 15 
 
 his passion, and was a suitor for her 
 hand. Mrs. Delamere knew little of Lord 
 Tynedale, but that little led her to believe 
 he was unsuited to form the happiness of 
 her friend ; and she therefore pointed out the 
 necessity of caution and length of acquaint- 
 ance, before entering a state that was un- 
 alterable, and on w T hich the comfort or misery 
 of Louisa's life would depend. But Louisa 
 having, as she emphatically expressed it, 
 fallen in love, would hear no arguments that 
 militated against her wishes ; and being her 
 own mistress, she soon became the wife of 
 Lord Tynedale. 
 
 " The happy pair," according to newspaper 
 phraseology, left town immediately after the 
 ceremony was performed, for the Grove, one 
 of the seats of the bridegroom ; and during 
 the honey-moon, Mrs. Delamere heard fre- 
 
16 MARRIAGE. 
 
 quently from her friend, who pronounced her 
 dear Tynedale the most charming of men, and 
 herself the happiest of women. By degrees 
 the wife became much less rapturous in her 
 praises of her husband, and shortly after 
 complained of the dulness of the country, 
 the want of society, and, above all, the want 
 of complaisance in Lord Tynedale, and re- 
 quested that her friend would take compas- 
 sion on her forlorn state, and pay her a visit. 
 Mrs. Delamere, who felt deeply interested in 
 Lady Tynedale's happiness, determined on 
 accepting the invitation, and in a few days 
 after set off for the Grove. She found her 
 friend pale, languid, and dispirited, with 
 scarcely a vestige of her former animation ; 
 and the first moment they were alone, and 
 free from interruption, Lady Tynedale, with 
 a torrent of tears, declared herself the most 
 
MARRIAGE. 17 
 
 deceived and wretched of her sex ; and again 
 and again deplored that she had not attended 
 to her friend's counsels. Lord Tynedale, 
 she said, was cold, unfeeling, and tasteless, 
 and possessed not a single ray of genius, or 
 talent. They had no sentiments or pursuits 
 in common, and his society was irksome to 
 her. He saw that she was tired to death of 
 the Grove, and yet he seemed insensible to 
 all her often reiterated wishes to leave it. 
 
 Mrs. Delamere soothed her with kind words, 
 but declined giving any opinion on so delicate 
 a point until she had an opportunity of judg- 
 ing by Lord Tynedale's conduct, how far the 
 causes of complaint were well-founded. She 
 was grieved, though not surprised, at hearing 
 so lamentable an account, and gently remind- 
 ing her friend of her former observation, that 
 when the veil of love was removed, every 
 c 
 
18 MARRIAGE. 
 
 error was magnified, she asked what was 
 the deception her friend alluded to when 
 she stated herself to be the most deceived of 
 women. This question produced fresh emo- 
 tion in Lady Tynedale, who rejoined, " Did 
 he not appear to sympathize in all my tastes, 
 take an interest in every thing that I said or 
 did, and appear to live only for me ? He was 
 never happy out of my sight, and his sole 
 study was to please me ; while now he seems 
 only intent on pursuing his own gratification, 
 wholly regardless of mine." 
 
 " But are you quite sure," replied Mrs. 
 Delamere, " that there was no deception 
 practised on your side ; no exaggeration of 
 feeling ; no professions of being passionately 
 fond of the country : in short, did you not 
 lead him to believe that his views in life 
 entirely assimilated with your own ?" 
 
MARRIAGE. 19 
 
 The heightened colour on the cheek of 
 Lady Tvnedale betraved a little indignation, 
 as well as consciousness of the truth of this 
 statement : but she would not plead guilty, 
 as she persisted in saying, i5 she would still 
 have preferred the country to town, provided 
 her husband had still continued the lover." 
 
 Lord Tvnedale, though a well-bred man, 
 possessed a naturalness of manner that ren- 
 dered it difficult for him to conceal his senti- 
 ments. It was plain to Mrs.Delamere, that in 
 her he expected a harsh critic of his domestic 
 conduct, and this produced in his deportment a 
 degree of coldness that made him appear in no 
 very favourable point of view. Still the most 
 minute observation could discover nothing 
 more than coldness to find fault with, and it 
 was evident to Mrs. Delamere that this was 
 more assumed than natural: and probably 
 c 2 
 
20 MARRIAGE. 
 
 had its origin in disappointment and pique. 
 He appeared of a serious turn, fond of study 
 and rural occupations, well-informed, but 
 wanting imagination, and that refined tone 
 of high feeling, which, had they been pos- 
 sessed, would have led him to appreciate, 
 or sympathize with his wife's sensibility 
 and warmth of heart. He seemed in- 
 sensible to the dejection which she fre- 
 quently betrayed; and equally so to the 
 brilliant sallies in which she occasionally in- 
 dulged, whenever former scenes and com- 
 panions were the topic of conversation ; and 
 yet Mrs. Delamere soon became convinced 
 that this apparent insensibility was not caused 
 by any want of affection for Lady Tynedale, but 
 was partly produced by dissatisfaction at her 
 visible want of deference to his opinions, and 
 her turn for ridicule. When Lady Tynedale's 
 beautiful face was clouded with an air of 
 
MARRIAGE. 21 
 
 pensive melancholy, that she thought irre- 
 sistible, he studiously avoided looking at her, 
 which provoked her beyond all endurance, 
 and she endeavoured to draw Mrs. Dela- 
 mere's attention to these personal slights 
 whenever they occurred. But when she gave 
 utterance to some stroke of poignant satire that 
 she deemed certain of extracting applause, 
 his face of immovable gravity enraged her 
 beyond the power of controlling her temper ; 
 and on such occasions not all the beseeching 
 looks of her friend could prevent her sarcastic 
 observations on dull people who could not 
 understand a joke, nor discover the point of 
 an epigram. 
 
 Weary of witnessing irritations that ap- 
 peared to increase every day, and finding 
 that advice was quite lost on her friend, 
 Mrs. Delamere bade adieu to the Grove, 
 c 3 
 
22 MARRIAGE. 
 
 much to the regret of its mistress ; and Lord 
 Tynedale, who had lately begun to discover 
 her excellent qualities, cordially pressed her 
 to extend her visit, though he acknowledged, 
 and a sigh escaped him while he did so, 
 that the society at the Grove was so triste, 
 that it had no attractions to induce her to 
 prolong her stay. 
 
 Mrs. Delamere longed to speak to him on 
 the subject next her heart, and to point out 
 how much his coldness offended her friend, 
 but delicacy and a dread of being thought to 
 interfere, closed her lips, and she left the 
 Grove with a painful conviction that its 
 owners had little prospect of happiness, 
 unless a total change took place in their 
 views and conduct, and of this she saw no 
 immediate probability. 
 
 As she pursued her journey to town, her 
 
MARRIAGE. 23 
 
 mind reverted to the scene which she had 
 lately witnessed ; she reflected on the many 
 amiable points in the disposition and character 
 of Lord and Lady Tynedale, the affection 
 she was sure they entertained for each other, 
 the large fortune they possessed, with the 
 enlarged means of doing good which it gave 
 them, and she sighed to think that with so 
 many blessings, they embittered their lives 
 by a want of forbearance to the feelings of 
 each other, and by both forming too high 
 expectations of happiness. Experience had 
 proved to Mrs. Delamere, that perfect hap- 
 piness is not the lot of man, and she 
 felt the truth of those exquisite lines of 
 Sheridan, — 
 
 " True happiness is not the growth of earth, 
 The toil is fruitless if you seek it there, 
 'Tis an exotic of celestial birth. 
 And never blooms but in celestial air. 
 c 4 
 
24 MARRIAGE. 
 
 Sweet flow'r of Paradise — thy seeds are sown 
 In, here and there, a mind of heavenly mould, 
 It rises slow, and buds — but ne'er was known 
 To blossom here. — The climate is too cold." 
 
 Shortly after her return from the Grove, 
 Mrs. Delamere was obliged to leave England 
 with her sister, whose health was in a declin- 
 ing state, and who was ordered to try the effect 
 of the milder clime of the south of France. 
 Prior to her departure, she addressed a 
 long letter to Lady Tynedale, in which 
 she pointed out the errors of her conduct, 
 and forcibly impressed on her the necessity 
 of forbearance ; and begged her not to slight 
 the good within her reach, because it came 
 in a less pleasing shape than she would have 
 chosen. She earnestly recommended Lady 
 Tynedale to abandon the romantic notion, that 
 the husband should continue the devoted lover, 
 
MARRIAGE. 25 
 
 and to consider, that though Lord Tynedale 
 possessed many estimable qualities, he was not 
 formed, either by nature or inclination, to act 
 the hero of a novel. She told her, and she 
 spoke from experience, that the first year of 
 marriage is the trial, and that once over, 
 reason, she hoped, would exert her influence. 
 She reminded her, that the veil which had 
 prevented her from discovering the imperfec- 
 tions of Lord Tynedale in his days of court- 
 ship, being now removed, all his faults were 
 viewed as through a magnifying glass, and 
 no allowance made for them, but that she 
 felt confident, time and reason would correct 
 the errors of youthful romance and inex- 
 perience. 
 
 Mrs. Delamere was absent tw T o years, 
 during which time she occasionally heard 
 from her friend ; but as she had requested 
 
26 MARRIAGE. 
 
 that no matrimonial complaints might be 
 alluded to in their correspondence, she could 
 only give a guess, by the general air of 
 cheerfulness that pervaded the letters, of the 
 state of Lady Tynedale's feelings. 
 
 During the first six months of her absence, 
 the letters from the Grove were brief and 
 moody : they were less gloomy the six fol- 
 lowing; and occasional references were made 
 to Lord Tynedale, that convinced Mrs. Dela- 
 mere a change for the better had taken place 
 in the domestic happiness of the Grove. On 
 Mrs. Delamere's arrival in London, she was 
 glad to find Lord and Lady Tynedale settled 
 in town for the season ; and the visit they paid 
 her the morning after her arrival, afforded 
 her an opportunity of witnessing the good 
 understanding that subsisted between them. 
 Lady Tynedale's sweet countenance was all 
 
MARRIAGE. 27 
 
 sunshine, and the warmth and cordiality that 
 marked his Lordship's manner towards Mrs. 
 Delamere, convinced her that he was a happy 
 man, and that he looked on her as a true 
 friend, and one of the promoters of his 
 felicity. 
 
 When Mrs. Delamere called in Grosvenor 
 Square the next day, Lord Tynedale was from 
 home ; and Lady T., glad of the opportunity 
 of unbosoming herself to her friend, em- 
 braced her again and again, and thanked her 
 for the happiness which her good advice had 
 procured her. " When we parted, my 
 dearest friend," she exclaimed, " you left me 
 the most disconsolate and discontented of 
 women. My vanity mortified at finding my 
 husband did not quite adore me, — and nothing 
 short of adoration would satisfy my self-love, 
 — instead of endeavouring to render myself 
 
28 MARRIAGE. 
 
 more worthy of his affection, I immediately 
 concluded that the fault was his, v ot mine ; 
 and I gave way to peevishness, ill-nature, 
 and satirical observations, taking eveiy means 
 of showing him that I could be as cold and 
 careless as I fancied he was. If he rode out 
 to view any improvements that were going 
 forward on his estate, I felt myself slighted ; 
 if I accompanied him, I was dissatisfied if 
 he thought of any thing but me. His visits 
 to his old acquaintances also offended me ; 
 and his taking up a book, or devoting him- 
 self to his pen for an hour in the evening, 
 gave me the greatest mortification. If I 
 touched my harp or piano-forte, I expected 
 him to fly to me, to lean over me with all 
 the ecstatic delight of a lover, and to breathe 
 nothing but raptures. Each day, each hour, 
 my vanity received fresh wounds; and at 
 
MARRTAGE. 29 
 
 each wound it became still more easily 
 hurt. His commendations appeared to me 
 cold and common -place when- compared, 
 as they constantly were, with the re- 
 membered inflated plaudits of former ad- 
 mirers. In short, when I found that he 
 could amuse himself for hours independently 
 of me, I determined that as I could not be 
 every thing to him, I would be nothing. I 
 put on an air of coldness that was far from 
 my real feelings, but w r hich effectually im- 
 posed on him. I avoided his society; and, 
 when in it, did all in my power to make him 
 feel that I thought it irksome. This conduct 
 fatigued and disgusted him ; and he began to 
 consider me as a selfish, empty woman, who 
 was completely dependent on society and 
 admiration for happiness, and who, having 
 no mental resources, could neither enjoy hap- 
 
30 MARRIAGE. 
 
 piness herself nor contribute to the felicity 
 of her husband. In this state you found us, 
 and in the same unhappy condition you left 
 us. Your letters first opened my eyes to my 
 own folly; but for a long time my vanity 
 struggled against the conviction that / was 
 to blame. 
 
 " To dispel the weariness of my solitude 
 I took to reading; and having a dislike 
 to novels, I read only the best authors. 
 By degrees I began to find that the hours 
 glided so swiftly by, that I never felt the 
 least portion of that tedium and ennui that 
 had before oppressed me. My mind was so 
 occupied by the studies I was engaged in, that 
 I ceased to remember my own grievances ; 
 and I could now excuse the ardour and con- 
 stancy with which Lord T. devoted him- 
 self to reading. This produced a great 
 
MARRIAGE. 31 
 
 improvement in my temper; and when my 
 husband, as he frequently did, enquired with 
 an air of interest what work I was perusing, 
 I answered him with a kindness and com- 
 placency that induced him to advert to the 
 merits of the author, and I felt gratified by 
 the good taste and discrimination which his 
 observations displayed; and still more so at 
 discovering that his sentiments often accorded 
 with my own. I had sought reading as an 
 avocation that would render me completely 
 independent of Lord TVs society ; but I 
 now found that it formed a new and strong 
 link to draw us together. Our books were 
 frequently laid down in an evening to discuss 
 the beauties of some passage that pleased 
 us ; and improving and rational conversation 
 took the place of moody silence, or peevish 
 remarks. I ceased to desire adulation, and 
 
32 MARRIAGE. 
 
 felt my self-respect increased by the attention 
 which Lord T. evinced to my observations. 
 By degrees confidence was established be- 
 tween us, and affection restored. Your let- 
 ters of advice were now aided by my own 
 feelings ; and happiness, pure, rational, do- 
 mestic happiness, became our portion. How 
 often have I felt the justice and truth of your 
 sentiments on marriage, which experience 
 has proved to me were founded on know- 
 ledge of the world. Had I waited for a 
 perfect acquaintance with Lord Tynedale's 
 character and disposition, many hours of do- 
 mestic discomfort would have been spared 
 to me; but I bless God that those hours 
 have been followed by days of happiness, 
 that are cheaply purchased, even at such a 
 price." 
 
33 
 
 THE RING. 
 
 Walking up St. James's Street a few days 
 ago, I was attracted by some very beautiful 
 specimens of bijouterie, displayed for sale in the 
 window of a shop ; and seeing a very curious 
 antique ring, set in diamonds, labelled for a 
 sum that I fancied beneath its value, I was 
 tempted to purchase it. Examining my bar- 
 gain while sitting in my easy chair after dinner, 
 I dropped asleep, as is my usual custom ; 
 and the ring being the last subject of my 
 thoughts, gave rise to the following dream. 
 I thought that, while in the act of contem- 
 plating my new purchase, it addressed me in 
 the following manner — and, however unna- 
 
 D 
 
34 THE RING. 
 
 tural and improbable it may seem, that an 
 inanimate object should be gifted with the 
 power of speech, yet, with the usual inco- 
 herence of a dream, all appeared to me per- 
 fectly correct. 
 
 " Do not undervalue me because this day I 
 came into your possession for a comparatively 
 trifling sum. Though you see me now with 
 my lustre dimmed by age and want of care, 
 time was that I wore a different aspect. In 
 my fate you will see the lot of all sublunary 
 grandeur, and I shall therefore relate to you 
 my eventful history. 
 
 " I was purchased in Rome, where I was exa- 
 mined and admired by many a virtuoso ; but a 
 young Englishman, on his travels, no sooner 
 saw me than he wished to possess me. Doubt- 
 ful, however, of his own skill as a connoisseur, 
 he determined on consulting a person consi- 
 dered a perfect judge in such matters ; and. 
 
THE RING. 35 
 
 with all the unsuspicious openness of his 
 countrymen, told my owner so. No sooner had 
 he left the house, than my master hastened to 
 the virtuoso that the Englishman had named as 
 the arbiter of my destiny ; and having origi- 
 nally demanded double my value, he now 
 offered a handsome douceur to the antiquary, 
 if he could, by his commendations, ensure 
 my sale to the young amateur. Those two 
 precious Romans soon came to a perfect 
 understanding ; in a day or two the bargain 
 was made, and I was consigned to the care 
 of my new master. Though I disliked the 
 cupidity of my late owner, and wished to 
 leave him, still it was not without a pang that 
 I bade adieu to the lovely cameos and intag- 
 lios that had been so long my neighbours in 
 the same drawer; and the precious antique 
 gems that had been so often in close contact 
 d 2 
 
36 THE RING. 
 
 with me, never appeared to possess so many 
 charms as in the moment in which I was torn 
 from them for ever. My vanity, however, con- 
 soled me for the separation; for it had been 
 cruelly wounded by having overheard my 
 crafty countryman say, that he had two Ioles, 
 one on a beryl, and another on a sardonyx, 
 both far superior to me, who am, as you per- 
 ceive, an agate, and that he heartily wished 
 me off his hands, as no one but an English- 
 man would buy me. 
 
 " My new master having looked at me 
 with a carelessness that bespoke him as 
 little interested as skilled in antiques, con- 
 signed me to his writing-box : where I lay 
 side by side with many other articles of 
 virtu, and surrounded by all the gages 
 d? amour with which he had been favoured 
 since he left college. Here I lay for some 
 time in inglorious obscurity ; for though my 
 
THE RING. 
 
 prison was frequently opened, to draw from 
 it a fresh supply of money, I remained un- 
 noticed. At length, by finding my cage moved 
 about, I guessed that a change in my destiny 
 was taking place, and I soon discovered, 
 by the rumbling motion and rude jolts which 
 I experienced, that I was leaving my native 
 city, the once proud and imperial capital of 
 the world. I shall pass over the grief which 
 this parting caused me ; nor shall I dwell 
 on the desagremens that took place between 
 my fellow-travellers and myself on the jour- 
 ney: our careless master had bestowed so 
 little attention in packing us, that we fre- 
 quently experienced some of the unpleasant 
 rubs of life. The glass that covered a 
 portrait fell a victim to one of the quarrels, 
 and some beautiful Roman shells were 
 shattered into fragments. 
 d 3 
 
38 THE RING. 
 
 M We proceeded to Florence, and thence 
 to Paris, where we took up our abode ; and 
 we had not been long there, when I observed 
 that my prison was never opened that my 
 master did not exhibit certain symptoms of 
 chagrin and impatience which boded something 
 disagreeable. One day he seized my cage with 
 a violence that threatened its annihilation, and 
 flattered me with the hope of liberty : but 
 the lock soon obeyed his hand; and from the 
 frequent exclamations I heard him utter, of 
 " Cursed fool !" " Stupid dupe P " Stingy 
 father !" I guessed that something unusual 
 had occurred, and I found he was writing 
 to solicit from his father fresh supplies. 
 His application failed of success, but brought 
 him a recall. We soon bade adieu to Paris, 
 and set out for England, — that country, of 
 whose wealth I had heard so much, and 
 
THE RING. 39 
 
 whose sons have been considered as the 
 natural prey of the artful and designing. 
 
 " The first gleam of light that visited me in 
 England shone through the dusty panes of 
 a window in the Custom- House at Dover ; 
 where my prison was unceremoniously 
 opened, and my companions and myself ex- 
 posed to the view of a crowd of spectators, 
 amidst a heap of clothes-bags, dressing-cases, 
 portfeuilleS) portmanteaus, china, artiflcia 
 flowers, &c. &c. &c. Never shall I forget the 
 scene that presented itself to me. The looks 
 of inexorable rigidity of the custom-house 
 officers, — the pale faces of the owners of the 
 various properties, which told a piteous tale of 
 sufferings past, and from which they had not 
 yet recovered. The soiled dresses, mis-shaped 
 hats and bonnets, and uncurled ringlets fall- 
 ing over languid cheeks, — showed the ladies 
 d 4 
 
40 THE RING. 
 
 in no very favourable point of view; while 
 the unshorn chins, and rumpled neckcloths 
 of the gentlemen, betrayed that they had not 
 escaped the disasters of the briny element. 
 Each individual stood close to his or her 
 property; and all personal suffering appeared 
 to be forgotten in the anxiety which they felt 
 to recover their possessions from the ruthless 
 fangs of the custom-house officers. One 
 lady was declaring that a piece of fine Meek- 
 lin lace, found in her band-box, was English 
 manufacture ; and another was insisting that 
 a piece of French silk, which was discovered 
 peeping through her pocket-hole, was merely 
 the lining of her dress. Innumerable female 
 voices, all speaking together, were heard 
 around, making confusion doubly confused ; 
 while the gentlemen, who appeared less able 
 to argue with the revenue-officers, contented 
 
THE RING. 41 
 
 themselves with undervaluing their proper- 
 ties, that the duties might be proportionally 
 reduced. I made one reflection on the scene 
 around me, which was, that the female sex 
 are all addicted to dealing in contraband 
 goods, or smuggling, as it was there called ; 
 for out of above fifty ladies present, there 
 was not one who did not endeavour to defraud 
 the revenue. 
 
 " After witnessing several animated con- 
 tests, and countless seizures, it at length came 
 to my turn to be examined; and I felt my 
 dignity not a little offended by being taken 
 up between the soiled finger and thumb of 
 one of the inspectors, who, after viewing me 
 for a moment, pronounced me English, which 
 my master having with rather a disdainful 
 smile tacitly admitted, I was restored to my 
 old abode, and, with my companions, again 
 huddled up in our narrow cell. 
 
42 THE RING. 
 
 " The scene I had witnessed conveyed 
 no favourable impression of England; and 
 I could not help ejaculating to myself, 
 Is this, then, that famed land of freedom 
 of which I have so often heard; and 
 whose laws, and protection of private pro- 
 perty, are so frequently held up to ad- 
 miration ? How prone are mankind to 
 misrepresent, and exaggerate ; and how ill- 
 governed must this same England be, and 
 how defective its laws, when the goods for 
 which an individual has paid his money, and 
 which, of course, have become his property, 
 are taken from him without even the civility 
 of an excuse, and this by the very officers 
 employed to carry their boasted laws into 
 effect ! I made many more wise reflections 
 on laws and governments, but of which, as 
 they do not concern my history, I shall spare 
 
THE RING. 43 
 
 you the recital ; let it suffice to say, that no 
 where had I heard law and justice so vio- 
 lently denounced as in an English custom- 
 house : and there it was I first learned that 
 they are not synonimous terms. 
 
 " The motion of the vehicle, as we rolled 
 along from Dover towards London, was so 
 different from that to which I had hitherto 
 been accustomed, that I concluded the roads 
 in England to be much better, or that some 
 peculiar excellence appertained to English 
 horses or postillions. My travelling-com- 
 panions and I agreed much better ; and 
 during our journey from Dover to the me- 
 tropolis, we maintained our equilibrium with 
 perfect decorum, and had not a single 
 rupture. 
 
 " We arrived in the British capital on a fine 
 evening in May; and I was the next morning 
 
44 THE RING. 
 
 released from the narrow precincts of my 
 prison, and consigned, with some other 
 articles of virtu, to the fair sister of my 
 master. She admired me extremely; but 
 returned me to her brother, with the observ- 
 ation, that he had better reserve me for the 
 finger of a fair female friend of hers, to 
 whom he was to be presented at dinner ; but 
 to all his enquiries as to the name of this fair 
 unknown, she declined giving any information. 
 " I was placed on the dressing-table of 
 my master, and could not help observing, 
 that, when attiring himself for dinner this 
 day, he bestowed more than his accustomed 
 care in arranging his neckcloth, and giving 
 his hair that careless waving flow so much 
 admired by travelled beaus. I had hitherto 
 fancied that the male sex were superior to 
 the minor considerations of personal de- 
 
THE RING. 45 
 
 corations ; but I now discovered that no 
 blooming nymph of seventeen, at her first 
 presentation, could have taken more pains in 
 displaying her charms to the best advantage, 
 than did my master on the present occasion. 
 I felt considerable interest to know the result 
 of his interview with the fair unknown, but 
 had no means of gratifying my curiosity. I 
 remarked, however, that from this eventful 
 day, he appeared more than usually anxious 
 to adorn his person to the best advantage ; 
 and, at the end of a few weeks, I observed 
 him draw a small turquoise ring from his 
 finger, which he kissed with a rapture that 
 excited my astonishment, mingled with in- 
 dignation, that an ornament so inferior to 
 myself could be so valued, while I was left 
 whole weeks unnoticed on his dressing-table, 
 or only casually touched by the housemaid 
 
46 THE RING. 
 
 when arranging the room. At length I was 
 one day taken up, and conveyed by my 
 master to a celebrated jeweller, to whose care 
 he consigned me, with particular injunctions 
 to have me reset, encircled with diamonds, 
 and made to the size of a very small gold 
 ring which he left as a pattern. He gave 
 innumerable directions, expressive of his 
 anxiety to have me completed ; all of which 
 convinced me that I was designed for the 
 finger of some fair lady, and the unknown 
 immediately occurred to my memory. The 
 jeweller, whose only object was to incur as 
 much expense to his employer as possible, 
 encircled me with a row of brilliants, so large 
 as nearly to hide my diminished head ; 
 and having now all the appearance of a 
 modern antique, I was restored to my 
 master, and the next day was placed bv 
 
THE RING. 47 
 
 him on one of the most snowy, taper fingers, 
 in the world, as a guard to a plain gold ring 
 that he had put on the same finger at 
 St. George's church half an hour before, as 
 I discovered by the conversation that fol- 
 lowed the action. 
 
 " My mistress seemed excessively pleased 
 with me, and frequently raised her hand to 
 arrange her hair or dress, and as frequently 
 expressed her admiration of me, which not 
 a little excited my vanity ; but my self-com- 
 placency was much abated by discovering 
 that she admired the diamonds that sur- 
 rounded me more than myself, and my 
 respect for her was much decreased by ascer- 
 taining, from her observations, that she was 
 totally unskilled in antiques. 
 
 " For about a year I retained the post of 
 honour with my new mistress ; but towards 
 
48 THE RING. 
 
 the close of that period, I discovered a 
 visible alteration in her : of which, as it 
 affected her treatment of me, I took par- 
 ticular notice. The first symptom I observed 
 was a want of cordiality between her and my 
 ci-devant master. Occasional differences took 
 place between them, conducted on both sides 
 with much warmth ; and I noticed that a 
 male visitor, who was very assiduous in his 
 attention, seemed to have taken a great 
 fancy either to my mistress's hand or myself, 
 for he frequently pressed both between his, 
 and as frequently raised them to his lips, 
 though gently reprimanded for it by the 
 lady. At length, one day he removed 
 me from the fair finger I had so long en- 
 circled ; and then drawing off the plain gold 
 ring that I had so faithfully guarded, replaced 
 it by one of nearly a similar kind, and then 
 
THE RING, 49 
 
 restored me to my former station, having 
 consigned my old companion to his pocket. 
 
 " I felt, or fancied that 1 felt, my mistress's 
 hand agitated by a tremulous emotion, and 
 a drop that, save from its warmth, I should 
 have taken for crystal, at that moment fell on 
 me, and was hastily brushed away by the 
 lips of the gentleman. I felt indignant at 
 being robbed of this liquid pearl, which to 
 my prophetic soul appeared like the last 
 memorial of departing purity, nor could I be 
 reconciled to the new companion who had 
 usurped the place of my old one, to which, 
 habit, and its unobtrusive qualities, had en- 
 deared me. The next day my mistress took 
 advantage of the absence of her husband to 
 elope with her lover, and though pressed by 
 him to remove me for a ring of great beauty 
 and value that he had provided as a sub- 
 
50 THE RING. 
 
 stitutes, she expressed such a desire still to 
 retain me, that, though with a visible degree 
 of chagrin, he consented to permit me to 
 occupy my old station, and placed his gift on 
 a finger of the right hand. 
 
 " I soon observed many symptoms of un- 
 happiness in my mistress ; I was frequently 
 bedewed with the tears that trickled down her 
 pale cheek, as the hand to which I belonged 
 supported it ; and the same hand was often 
 pressed to her burning forehead, as if to still 
 the throbbing pulse that agonized her there. 
 By degrees the once snowy hand lost its fair- 
 ness, and assumed a sickly yellow hue ; the 
 once finely rounded taper finger which I had 
 so closely encircled, shrunk from my embrace. 
 Yet still my unhappy mistress seemed to wish 
 to retain me, and by twisting several silken 
 threads round me, she again secured me ; 
 
THE RING. 51 
 
 but alas ! in a few days I felt an unusual 
 coldness steal over the attenuated finger, 
 which was succeeded by a rigidity that 
 gave it the feel and semblance of marble." 
 * * # # At this moment 
 
 my servant, entering the room, awoke me, 
 and interrupted a dream, the impression of 
 which was so vivid, as to leave the traces of 
 tears on my cheek. 
 
 e 2 
 
52 
 
 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 
 
 OF A 
 
 LADY OF FASHION. 
 
 Monday. — Awoke with a head-ach, the 
 certain effect of being bored all the evening 
 before, by the never-dying strain at the 
 Countess of Leyden's. Nothing ever was 
 half so tiresome as musical parties : no one 
 gives them except those who can exhibit 
 themselves, and fancy they excel. If you 
 speak, during the performance of one of their 
 endless pieces, they look cross and affronted : 
 except that all the world of fashion are there, 
 
JOURNAL OF A WEEK. &C 53 
 
 I never would go to another; for, positively, 
 it is ten times more fatiguing than staying at 
 home. To be compelled to look charmed, 
 and to applaud when you are half dead from 
 suppressing yawns, and to see half-a-dozen 
 very tolerable men, with whom one could 
 have had a very pleasant chat, except for the 
 stupid music, is really too bad. Let me see, 
 what have I done this day? oh! I remember 
 every thing went wrong, as it always does 
 when I have a head-ach. Flounce, more 
 than usually stupid, tortured my hair, and I 
 flushed my face by scolding her. I wish 
 people could scold without getting red, for it 
 disfigures one for the whole day; and the 
 consciousness of this always makes me more 
 angry, as I think it doubly provoking in 
 Flounce to discompose me, when she must 
 know it spoils my looks. 
 e 3 
 
54 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 
 
 Dressing from twelve to three. Madame 
 Tornure* sent me a most unbecoming cap : 
 mem. I shall leave her off when I have paid 
 her bill. — Heigh-ho, — when will that be? — 
 Tormented by duns, jewellers, mercers, milli- 
 ners: — I think they always fix on Mondays 
 for dunning: I suppose it is because they 
 know one is sure to be horribly vapoured after 
 a Sunday-evening's party, and they like to 
 increase one's miseries. 
 
 Just as I was stepping into my carriage, 
 fancying that I had got over the desagremens 
 of the day, a letter arrives to say, that my 
 mother is very ill, and wants to see me: drove 
 to Grosvenor Square in no very good humour 
 for nursing, and, as I expected, found that 
 Madame Ma Mere fancies herself much worse 
 than she really is. Advised her to have dear 
 Dr. Emulsion, who always tells people they 
 
OF A LADY OF FASHION. o5 
 
 are not in danger, and who never disturbs his 
 patient's mind with the idea of death until 
 the moment of its arrival: found my sister 
 supporting mamma's head on her bosom, and 
 heard that she had sat up all night with her : 
 by-the-bye, she did not look half so fatigued 
 and ennuied as I did. They seemed both a 
 little surprised at my leaving them so soon; 
 but really there is no standing a sick room in 
 May. My sister begged of me to come soon 
 again, and cast a look of alarm (meant only 
 for my eye) at my mother : I really think she 
 helps to make her hyppish, for she is always 
 fancying her in danger. Made two or three 
 calls : drove in the Park : saw Belmont, who 
 looked as if he expected to see me, and who 
 asked if I was to be at the Duchess of Winter- 
 ton's to-night. I promised to go — he seemed 
 delighted. What would Lady Allendale say, 
 e 4 
 
56 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 
 
 if she saw the pleasure which the assurance 
 of my going gave him ? I long to let her see 
 my triumph. Dined tete-a-tete — my lord 
 very sulky — abused my friend Lady Win- 
 stanley, purposely to pique me, — he wished 
 me not to go out ; said it was shameful, and 
 mamma so ill; just as if my staying at home 
 would make her any better. Found a letter 
 from Madame, the governess, saying that the 
 children want frocks and stockings: — they 
 are always wanting : — I do really believe 
 thev w r ear out their things purposely to 
 plague me. Dressed for the Duchess of 
 Winterton's : wore my new Parisian robe of 
 blonde lace, trimmed in the most divine way, 
 with lilies of the valley. Flounce said I 
 looked myself, and I believe there was some 
 truth in it ; for the little discussion with my 
 Caro had given an animation and lustre to 
 
OF A LADY OF FASHION. 57 
 
 my eyes. I gave Flounce my puce-coloured 
 satin pelisse as a peace-offering for the morn- 
 ing scold. — The party literally full almost to 
 suffocation. Belmont was hovering near the 
 door of the anti-room, as if waiting my ap- 
 proach : he said, I never looked so resplend- 
 ent : — Lady Allendale appeared ready to die 
 with envy — very few handsome women in the 
 room — and still fewer well dressed. Looked 
 in at Lady Calderwood's, and Mrs. Burnet's. 
 Belmont followed me to each. Came home at 
 half past three o'clock, tired to death, and had 
 my lovely dress torn past all chance of repair, 
 by coming in contact with the button of one of 
 the footmen in Mrs. B.'s hall. This is very 
 provoking, for I dare say Madame Tornure 
 will charge abominably high for it. 
 
 Tuesday. — Awoke in good spirits, having 
 had delightful dreams : — sent to know how 
 
58 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 
 
 mamma felt, and heard she had a bad night : 
 — must call there, if I can : — wrote Madame 
 a lecture, for letting the children w r ear out 
 their clothes so fast : Flounce says, they wear 
 out twice as many things as Lady Wood- 
 land's children. Read a few pages of Amelia 
 Mansfield : very affecting : put it by for fear 
 of making my eyes red. Lady Mortimer 
 came to see me, and told me a great deal 
 of scandal chit-chat: she is very amusing. — 
 I did not get out until past five : too late then 
 to go and see mamma. Drove in the Park, 
 and saw Lady Litchfield walking : got out 
 and joined her : the people stared a good 
 deal. Belmont left his horse and came to us; 
 he admired my walking dress very much. — 
 Dined alone, and so escaped a lecture : — had 
 not nerves sufficient to see the children : — 
 they make such a noise, and spoil one's 
 
OF A LADY OF FASHION. 59 
 
 clothes. Went to the Opera : wore my 
 tissue turban, which has a good effect. Bel- 
 mont came to my box, and sat every other 
 visitor out. My lord came in, and looked, as 
 usual, sulky. Wanted me to go away without 
 waiting for the dear delightful squeeze of the 
 round room. My lord scolded the whole 
 way home, and said I should have been by 
 the sick bed of my mother, instead of being 
 at the Opera. I hummed a tune, which I 
 find is the best mode of silencing him, and 
 he muttered something about my being un- 
 feeling and incorrigible. 
 
 Wednesday. — Did not rise till past one 
 o'clock, and from three to five was occupied 
 in trying on dresses and examining new 
 trimmings. Determined on not calling to 
 see mamma this day, because if I found her 
 much worse, I might be prevented from 
 
60 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 
 
 going to Almack's, which I have set my 
 heart on : - — drove out shopping, and bought 
 some lovely things : — met Belmont, who gave 
 me a note w T hich he begged me to read at 
 my leisure : — had half a mind to refuse 
 taking it, but felt confused, and he w T ent 
 away before I recovered my self-possession : 
 
 — almost determined on returning it without 
 breaking the seal, and put it into my reticule 
 with this intention ; but somehow or other my 
 curiosity prevailed, and I opened it. — Found it 
 filled with hearts, and darts, and declarations : 
 
 — felt very angry at first; for really it is 
 very provoking that one can't have a comfort- 
 able little flirtation half-a-dozen times with 
 a man, but that he fancies he may declare his 
 passion, and so bring on a denouement ; for 
 one must either cut the creature, which, if 
 he is amusing, is disagreeable, or else he 
 
OF A LADY OF FASHION. 6 1 
 
 thinks himself privileged to repeat his love 
 on every occasion. How very silly men are 
 in acting thus ; for if they continued their 
 assiduities without a positive declaration, one 
 might affect to misunderstand their atten- 
 tions, however marked : but those decided de- 
 larations leave nothing to the imagination ; 
 and offended modesty, with all the guards of 
 female propriety, are indispensably up in arms. 
 I remember reading in some book that " a 
 man has seldom an offer of kindness to make 
 to a woman that she has not a presentiment of 
 it some moments before ;" and I think it was in 
 the same book that I read that a continuation 
 of quiet attentions, leaving their meaning to 
 the imagination, is the best mode of gaining 
 a female heart. My own experience has 
 proved the truth of this. — I wish Belmont 
 had not written to me : — I don't know 
 
62 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 
 
 what to do : — how shocked my mother 
 and sister would be if they knew it : — I have 
 promised to dance with him at Almack's 
 too : — how disagreeable. I shall take the 
 note and return it to him, and desire that he 
 will not address me again in that style. I 
 have read the note again, and I really believe 
 he loves me very much : — poor fellow, I 
 pity him : — how vexed Lady Winstanley 
 would be if she knew it : — I must not be 
 very angry with him : I'll look grave and dig- 
 nified, and so awe him, but not be too severe. 
 I have looked over the billet again, and don't 
 find it so presumptuous as I first thought it : — 
 after all, there is nothing to be angry about, 
 for fifty women of rank have had the same 
 sort of thing happen to them without any 
 mischief following it. Belmont says I am a 
 great prude, and I believe I am ; for I fre- 
 
OF A LADY OF FASHION. 63 
 
 quently find myself recurring to the sage 
 maxims of mamma and my sister, and asking 
 myself what would they think of so and so. 
 Lady Winstanley laughs at them, and calls 
 them a couple of precise quizzes; but still 
 I have remarked how much more lenient 
 they are to a fault than she is. Heigh-ho, 
 I am afraid they have been too lenient to 
 mine: — but I must banish melancholy re- 
 flections, and dress for Almack's. Flounce 
 told me, on finishing my toilette, that I was 
 armed for conquest ; and that I never looked 
 so beautiful. Mamma would not much ap- 
 prove of Flounce's familiar mode of express- 
 ing her admiration ; but, poor soul, she only 
 says what she thinks. — I have observed that 
 my lord dislikes Flounce very much : but so 
 he does every one that I like. 
 
64 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 
 
 Never was there such a delightful ball : — 
 
 though I am fatigued beyond measure, I must 
 
 note down this night's adventures : — I found 
 
 the rooms quite filled, and narrowly escaped 
 
 being locked out by the inexorable regula- 
 rs »/ o 
 
 tions of the Lady Patronesses, for it only 
 wanted a quarter to twelve when I entered. 
 By-the-bye, I have often wondered w T hy 
 people submit to the haughty sway of those 
 ladies ; but I suppose it is that most persons 
 dislike trouble, and so prefer yielding to their 
 imperious dictates, to incurring a displeasure, 
 which would be too warmly and too loudly 
 expressed, not to alarm the generality of 
 quiet people. There is a quackery in fashion, 
 as in all other things, and any one who has 
 courage enough (I was going to w r rite im- 
 pudence), rank enough, and wealth enough, 
 
OF A LADY OF FASHION. 65 
 
 may be a leader. But here am I moralizing 
 on the requisites of a leader of fashion, when 
 I should be noting down the delicious scene 
 of this night in her favourite and favoured 
 temple. I tried to look very grave at poor 
 Belmont; but the lights, the music, and 
 the gaiety of the scene around me, with 
 the consciousness of my looking more than 
 usually well, gave such an exhilaration to 
 my spirits, that I could not contract my 
 brows into anv thing like a frown : and with- 
 out a frown, or something approaching it, it 
 is impossible to look grave. Belmont took 
 advantage of my good spirits to claim my 
 hand, and pressed it very much. I deter- 
 mined to postpone my lecture to him until 
 the next good opportunity, for a ball-room 
 is the worst place in the world to act the 
 moral or sentimental. A-jpropos of Belmont, 
 
66 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 
 
 what have I done with his note ? — My God, 
 what a scrape have I got into ! — I left my 
 reticule, into which I had put the note, on 
 my sofa, and the note bears the evident 
 marks of having been opened by some one 
 who could not fold it again : it must have 
 been Flounce. — I have often observed her 
 curiosity — and now am I completely in her 
 power. — What shall I do ? — After serious 
 consideration, I think it the wisest plan to 
 appear not to suspect her, and part with her 
 the first good opportunity. I feel all over in 
 a tremor, and can write no more. 
 
 Thursday. — Could not close my eyes for 
 three hours after I got to bed ; and when I 
 did, dreamt of nothing but detections, duels, 
 and exposures : — awoke terrified : — I feel 
 nervous and wretched : — Flounce looks 
 more than usually important and familiar — 
 
of a lady of fashion, 67 
 
 or is it conscience that alarms me ? — Would 
 to Heaven I had never received that horrid 
 note — or that I had recollected to take it to 
 Almack's, and give it back to him. I really feel 
 quite ill. Madame requested an audience, 
 and has told me she can no longer remain in 
 my family, as she finds it impossible to do 
 my children justice unassisted by me. I tried 
 to persuade her to stay another quarter, which 
 she firmly, but civilly, declined. This is very 
 provoking, for the children are fond of, and 
 obedient to Madame, and I have had no 
 trouble since she has been with them ; be- 
 sides my mother recommended her, and will 
 be annoyed at her going. I must write to 
 Madame, and offer to double her salarv ; 
 all governesses, at least all that I have tried, 
 like money. I must lie down, I feel so 
 fatigued and languid : — mamma is worse, 
 f 2 
 
68 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 
 
 and I really am unable to go to her ; for I 
 am so nervous that I could be of no use. 
 
 Friday. — I am summoned to my mother, 
 and my Lord says she is in the utmost 
 danger. Madame, to add to my discomforts, 
 has declined my offers : — I feel a strong 
 presentiment of evil, and dread I know not 
 what 
 
 Good Heavens ! what a scene have I 
 witnessed — my dear and excellent mother 
 was insensible when I got to her, and died 
 without seeing or blessing me. Oh ! what 
 would I not give to recal the past, or to 
 bring back even the last fleeting week 
 that I might atone, in some degree, for my 
 folly, my worse than folly — my selfish and 
 cruel neglect of the best of mothers ! Never 
 shall I cease to abhor myself for it. — Never 
 till I saw that sainted form for ever insen- 
 
OF A LADY OF FASHION. 69 
 
 sible did I feel my guilt From day to day 
 I have deceived myself with the idea that her 
 illness was not dangerous, and silenced all 
 the whispers of affection and duty, to pursue 
 my selfish and heartless pleasures. How 
 different are the resignation and fortitude of 
 my sister, from my frantic grief ! — she has 
 nothing to accuse herself of. and knows that 
 her care and attention soothed the bed of 
 death. But how differently was I employed ! 
 — distraction is in the thought ; I can write 
 no more, for my tears efface the words. 
 
 Saturday, — My dear and estimable sister 
 has been with me, and has spoken comfort to 
 my afflicted soul. She conveyed to me a 
 letter from my sainted parent, written a few 
 hours before her death, which possibly this 
 exertion accelerated. The veil which has so 
 long shrouded my reason is for ever re- 
 f 3 
 
70 JOURNAL OF A WEEK, 
 
 moved, and all my selfishness and mis- 
 conduct are laid bare to my view. Oh ! my 
 mother — you whose pure counsel and bright 
 example in life could not preserve your un- 
 worthy child, from the bed of death your last 
 effort has been to save her. As a daughter, 
 a wife, and a mother, how have I blighted 
 your hopes and w r ounded your affections ! 
 
 My sister says, that my mother blessed me 
 with her last words, and expressed her hopes 
 that her dying advice would snatch me from 
 the paths of error. Those dying hopes, and 
 that last blessing shall be my preservatives. 
 I will from this hour devote myself to the 
 performance of those duties that I have so 
 shamefully, so cruelly neglected. My hus- 
 band, my children, — with you I will retire 
 from those scenes of dissipation and folly, so 
 fatal to my repose and virtue ; and in retire- 
 
OF A LADY OF FASHION. 71 
 
 ment commune with my own heart, correct 
 its faults, and endeavour to emulate the ex- 
 cellencies of my lamented mother. 
 
 Oh ! may my future conduct atone for the 
 past, but never, never let the remembrance 
 of my errors be effaced from my mind. 
 
 f 4 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 Pleasure was the daughter of Virtue and 
 Happiness, and the sister of Innocence and 
 Modesty ; these three lovely sisters, like the 
 Graces, were seldom asunder, and their 
 parents were delighted with their union and 
 harmony ; but, alas ! on a luckless day, while 
 roaming o'er a verdant mead, Pleasure, tired 
 with plucking every flowret that pleased her, 
 was attracted by the brilliant hues of a beau- 
 tiful butterfly that floated in air like a winged 
 flower, and proposed to her sisters to chace 
 it. Innocence was occupied in admiring the 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 effect of the dew-drops, which, glittering be- 
 neath the beams of the rising sun, shone like 
 orient gems on the tender petals of the flowers, 
 and Modesty was contemplating her own 
 sweet emblem, the snowy lily of the valley, 
 whose spotless purity vied with the veil that 
 shaded her lovely bosom. They advised 
 Pleasure to pause and enjoy the smiling 
 scene around her, and not to abandon it for 
 a pursuit that might end in disappointment, 
 and incur the anger of their parents. Plea- 
 sure, heedless and self-willed, regarded not 
 the advice, but sprung forward in the pur- 
 suit, and was soon out of sight. With eager 
 eyes, out-stretched arms, and rapid steps, she 
 chaced the gaudy insect from blossom to 
 blossom, until it lighted, nearly exhausted, 
 on a passion-flower : when Pleasure, spring- 
 ing forward to seize it, crushed both the in- 
 
74 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 sect and flower in her ruthless grasp. Dis- 
 appointed of the anticipated gratification, she 
 flung the mutilated fragments from her hand, 
 and her beautiful countenance was for a 
 moment clouded by anger; but another 
 gaudy butterfly hovering near, attracted 
 her attention, and she was about to re- 
 new the chace, when Virtue appeared be- 
 fore her, with a severity of aspect that she 
 had never before seen him wear. Awed by 
 his grave looks, Pleasure at first hung her 
 head, and then assuming one of her most 
 winning smiles, she attempted to approach 
 him ; but Virtue retreating from her touch, 
 thus addressed her: — " While pursuing your 
 own amusement, I forbade your giving pain 
 to any thing that had life, or destroying the 
 bounteous gifts of nature, scattered to adorn 
 the paths of duty. You have deprived an 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 75 
 
 insect of existence, in the moment that, after 
 a life of usefulness, it was enjoying the fruits 
 of past industry, by basking in the rays of 
 the sun, and inhaling the fragrance of each 
 tempting bud ; and the flowers that have 
 been crushed beneath your heedless feet, and 
 scattered by your lavish hands, might still 
 have retained their beauty and perfume to 
 gratify others. When Pleasure ceases to 
 respect the commands of Virtue, she is no 
 longer worthy to be considered the offspring 
 of Happiness, or the companion of Inno- 
 cence and Modesty. Henceforth you are 
 banished from our presence, and condemned 
 to wander through the mazes of error, and 
 you will be valued only by the least estimable 
 of mankind. The haunts of Dissipation, Idle- 
 ness, and Folly, are the temples in which you 
 will be worshipped ; and your votaries, in 
 
76 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 pursuing you, will cease to regard the ap- 
 proval of Virtue, the rewards of Happiness, 
 and the smiles of Innocence and Modesty." 
 
 Having thus spoken, Pleasure was instantly 
 transported far from the presence of her 
 parents and sisters, and found herself irre- 
 sistibly impelled forward, without the power 
 of suspending her course, for more than a 
 few minutes. She first paused in a splendid 
 saloon, brilliantly illuminated, and decorated 
 in a style of great magnificence. It was 
 crowded with gay visitors, who seemed in- 
 tent only on receiving Pleasure, who felt 
 flattered by their homage, and was approach- 
 ing to reward them with her sweetest smiles, 
 when she was forced from them, and found 
 herself hurried away. She turned to regard 
 their movements, and found that Disappoint- 
 ment, Envy, and Detraction now occupied her 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 77 
 
 place, and attracted all their attention. Dis- 
 gusted with their conduct, and mortified by 
 their fickleness, Pleasure vowed never more 
 to attend a route, the dullest of all amuse- 
 ments, and flew off to a ball, where Youth 
 and Beauty hailed her presence with spark- 
 ling eyes and sweetest smiles. " Here, ex- 
 claimed Pleasure, " I hope I may remain 
 and enjoy myself; but even should I be com- 
 pelled to fly from this scene of gaiety, I shall 
 not have the mortification of having my 
 place occupied by unworthy successors, for 
 those amiable mortals seem too much devoted 
 to me not to retain a lively remembrance of 
 me, though deprived of my presence. 5 ' But, 
 alas ! while making this reflection, she was 
 again hurried awav, and saw with regret 
 that Ennui was struggling with Vanity, which 
 should usurp the place of Pleasure. She 
 
78 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 hurried from opera to concert, and from 
 theatre to masquerade ; but after showing 
 herself for a few minutes, found herself 
 banished from each, for her empire was at- 
 tacked by all the evil passions, headed by 
 Ennui, leagued against her ; and her votaries, 
 though professing to worship her alone, had 
 too long submitted to the control of the 
 Passions to resist their baleful influence, even 
 to enjoy the smiles of the goddess of their 
 idolatry. It was now, for the first time, that 
 Pleasure became sensible of the miserable 
 change in her destiny; and regretted, with 
 fond, but bitter remembrance, her separa- 
 tion from Virtue, Happiness, Innocence, and 
 Modesty. Filled with contrition, she implored 
 the forgiveness of her offended parents, and 
 begged to be once more restored to their 
 presence. Innocence and Modesty pleaded 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 79 
 
 for her, and Virtue, won by their entreaties, 
 consented to remove her from earth, where 
 she no more appears ; but, linked between 
 her sisters, and attending to the dictates of 
 Virtue, she is again united to Happiness, 
 from whose presence she never wanders. 
 
 Her place on earth is supplied by a nymph 
 who assumes her name and attributes, but 
 who is of earthly birth, being the offspring of 
 Extravagance and Idleness, and who leads 
 her votaries from folly to ruin. 
 
80 
 
 FASTIDIOUSNESS OF TASTE. 
 
 After being accustomed to excellence in 
 art and science, it requires great merit to 
 stimulate the languid attention, and satisfy 
 the increasing fastidiousness of taste. This is 
 a cruel deduction from the pleasure which is 
 expected to be derived from familiarity with 
 excellence and improvement in knowledge ; 
 so that after all it may be doubted, whether 
 we grow happier as we grow wiser ; and per- 
 haps those who are at the most pains, — to 
 see the best that is to be seen, — to read the 
 best that is to be read — and to hear the 
 best that is to be heard, are only labouring 
 
FASTIDIOUSNESS OF TASTE. 81 
 
 to exhaust the sources of innocent oratifi- 
 cation, and incapacitating themselves from 
 future enjoyment, by approaching nearer to 
 that state which has been so truly described 
 as a state of 
 
 " Painful pre-eminence ourselves to view, 
 Above life's pleasures, and its comforts too." 
 
 Diary of an Invalid. 
 
 I believe it may be doubted, whether too 
 great an improvement or refinement of the 
 mental powers does not produce a fastidious- 
 ness injurious to happiness. When we are 
 accustomed to view fine pictures and statues, 
 we cannot behold inferior ones with pleasure ; 
 and as the latter are more frequently brought 
 before us, we lose the gratification winch w r e 
 might derive from them if our tastes were less 
 refined. The frequent perusal of the best 
 authors is apt to unfit us for society ; for it is 
 
 G 
 
82 FASTIDIOUSNESS OF TASTE. 
 
 difficult to find companions whose conversa- 
 tion can make amends for the books which we 
 have quitted. A mind thus refined is like the 
 fabled bird of the East, that stores her nest 
 with sweets with which she consumes herself. 
 
 
83 
 
 COQUETRY. 
 
 I:s£5?o. 198. of the Spectator there is a re- 
 markably good paper by Addison, on the 
 dangers of coquetry and levity. He com- 
 mences by saying, " There is a species of 
 women whom I shall distinguish by the 
 name of Salamanders. Now, a Salamander 
 is a kind of heroine in chastity, that treads 
 upon fire, and lives in the midst of flames 
 without being hurt. A Salamander knows 
 no distinction of sex in those she converses 
 with, grows familiar with a stranger at first 
 sight, and is not so narrow-spirited as to 
 observe whether the person she talks to be in 
 g 2 
 
84 COQUETRY. 
 
 male or female attire. She plays a whole 
 evening at picquet with a gentleman, walks 
 with him two or three hours by moonlight, 
 and is extremely scandalized at the unreason- 
 ableness of a husband, or the severity of a 
 parent, that would debar the sex from such 
 innocent liberties." .*• 
 
 There is no character more prevalent in 
 the present day than that of the Salamander, 
 though it is perhaps now better known as the 
 coquette, and there is none more injurious to 
 society. It may be questioned whether the 
 woman who, in private, sacrifices her honour, 
 but in public wears the semblance of virtue, 
 is not less dangerous to society ; and whether 
 there be not greater hope of her amendment. 
 Her sin, enormous as it is, being concealed 
 from the world, and accompanied by all the 
 outward appearances of propriety, has not 
 
COQUETRY, 85 
 
 the same pernicious effect of bad example. 
 Conscious of her own crimes, she pays the 
 deference to Virtue of assuming its mask ; and 
 it is to be hoped that she may see the error 
 of her ways and amend : but the Salamander 
 goes on priding herself on the consciousness 
 of preserving her chastity; while her conduct 
 is so full of levity, that the generality of 
 mankind believe that so much public impro- 
 priety must be accompanied by actual guilt ; 
 and her example cannot fail of being injurious 
 to the young and thoughtless. There is but 
 little prospect of her amendment ; for though 
 suffering under a loss of character, she is 
 unconscious of her faults, and fancies herself 
 the victim of unjust slander. She is insen- 
 sible of the necessity of appearing virtuous, 
 as well as of being so ; and this blindness to 
 her own errors engenders an angry feeling at 
 g 3 
 
86 COOUETRY. 
 
 what she considers the injustice of the world, 
 which leaves the mind ill prepared for reflec- 
 tion and repentance. Another danger at- 
 tached to the Salamander is, that by her 
 levity she encourages freedoms which often 
 so far exceed the bounds of propriety, that 
 even she feels indignant ; and, instead of 
 reflecting on her own want of conduct, which 
 led to such liberties, and resolving never 
 again to betray the same levity, she resents 
 the insult with all the warmth and astonish- 
 ment of outraged modesty and decorum; 
 like a person who has thrown down the 
 fence which guards his property, and is then 
 surprised that people trespass on it. 
 
87 
 
 EGOTISM. 
 
 There are few characters more offensive to 
 society than that of the egotist, and none for 
 which we find less excuse ; and yet this very 
 failing may in some instances proceed from a 
 goodness of heart, and from a want of know- 
 ledge of mankind, w T hich lead the undiscern- 
 ing into a belief that all their actions are as 
 interesting to others as to themselves. An 
 acquaintance with general society ought to 
 cure this propensity ; for an accurate observer 
 will soon discover, that with the exception of 
 his own family, there are few individuals to 
 whom his actions are not uninteresting, and 
 g 4 
 
88 EGOTISM. 
 
 to whom the recapitulation of them is not 
 tedious and disgusting. 
 
 I met with an amusing didactic poem, 
 entitled " Conversation/' written by William 
 Cook, Esq., which contains some good ad- 
 vice on this subject, and which I shall sub- 
 join : but good as the advice is, I fear it will 
 be of little use, for egotists are seldom aware 
 of their own defects ; and even the disagree- 
 able hints of averted looks, and gaping yawns 
 of the listeners, do not always bring convic- 
 tion that the subject is tiresome. 
 
 " The several letters which grammarians spread, 
 Alike before the grave or thoughtless head, 
 In conversation you may freely choose, 
 As suit the range of philosophic views ; 
 Save one — which well-bred modesty puts by 
 On most occasions, — called the mighty I. 
 Let not this braggart vaunt what I have done, 
 The long illustrious line from whence I sprung ; 
 
EGOTISM. 89 
 
 The jokes I told, the fortune I possess, 
 
 The skill I boast in science and address, 
 
 The plans I schemed at college, or at school, 
 
 With all my wondrous powers to play the fool. 
 
 Nor shift your course, and cant in humble tone, 
 
 O'er all the faults peculiarly your own ; 
 
 As how too blunt, your manners will prevail, 
 
 Or how deceived by some concerted tale, 
 
 Madly good-natured, though your friends betray, 
 
 But 'tis your failing, and you must obey. 
 
 Ah, would the Egotist but fairly state, 
 
 How he participates another's fate, 
 
 How much he heeds another's joys and cares 
 
 When not commingling with his own affairs, — 
 
 From kindred feelings, he'd confess with shame, 
 
 The unavailing boasts of selfish fame ! " 
 
 The same poem contains some good ob- 
 servations on a love of argument in convers- 
 ation, and a desire of shining, as also of 
 vaunting. 
 
 It is difficult to decide whether the egotist 
 or the arguer be the more disagreeable to 
 society. The first thinks only of himself; 
 
90 EGOTISM. 
 
 the second is generally not content with 
 thinking highly of his own powers, but seems 
 anxious to display them at the expense of 
 those with whom he happens to engage in 
 conversation, and not only often displays as 
 much selfishness as the egotist, but the self- 
 ishness is of a more offensive kind, as it is 
 generally mixed with ill humour : it being 
 allowed that those who are fond of argument 
 seldom carry it on either with good humour 
 or with good breeding. 
 
 The very act of engaging in a discussion 
 displays a consciousness of superiority that 
 can seldom fail to wound the self-love of 
 some one of the company; and few, if any, 
 are ever induced to change their opinions by 
 the force of argument. 
 
 " He that's convinced against his will 
 Is of the same opinion still." 
 
EGOTISM. 91 
 
 The same reasons, modestly adduced, 
 without any of the heat or superciliousness 
 so generally assumed by arguers, and above 
 all, without any apparent desire to make 
 converts, or display one's own abilities, would 
 have much greater weight in convincing 
 people of their errors, if convincing them 
 were the object in view; but it is to be 
 feared that the desire of display, or the plea- 
 sure taken by a peevish temper, in contra- 
 diction, is too generally the cause of argu- 
 ments. Whatever may be the cause, the 
 effect is destructive to the harmony of 
 society. 
 
 " Again, when argument, disposed to play, 
 Turns with commanding grace from grave to gay, 
 Its sprightly humour, fanciful yet true, 
 Arrays the subject in its happiest hue. 
 But sprung from pride, and nursed by learning's spleen. 
 Aspiring only to be heard and seen, 
 
92 EGOTISM. 
 
 When, as the bully of the mind, 'tis found 
 Thund'ring its dogmas with imperious sound, 
 We turn aside, with indignation stung 
 And loathe this rude monopoly of tongue. 
 All met to please — consign this wordy war 
 To wrangling sophs, or witlings at the bar, — 
 All met for mutual happiness and ease, 
 'Tis fitting each should have his turn to please : 
 This cast of parts unites colloquial charms, 
 Gives wit its point, and wisdom all its arms. 
 
 " In reasoning, likewise, shun the vaunting line, 
 And sometimes wave the privilege to shine ; 
 Why press a yielding foe, and let him see 
 How you excel him, and in what degree ? 
 Praise when you can with genuine warmth of heart, 
 And even when forced to censure spare the smart. 
 Nay, should some rustic of the forest birth, 
 Who proves his near affinity to earth, 
 Should he come forward with his clumsy skill, 
 His talent force, his reasoning headstrong will — 
 By silence ward the blow, — or help to find 
 A quagmire bottom for his floundering mind; 
 Fast in his native mud, — his brawl's soon o'er, 
 And wisdom gains a respite from his roar." 
 
93 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 " The coward calls himself a wary man, and the 
 miser says he is frugal." Bacon. 
 
 It is thus that we all endeavour to gloss over 
 our own failings ; but we seldom succeed in 
 deceiving others, and never ourselves. No ! 
 however plausibly we may give to our vices 
 the names of the prudent qualities from 
 which they have degenerated, a latent feel- 
 ing exists in our own hearts, that tells us how 
 wide is the distinction between frugality and 
 avarice, prudence and cowardice, caution and 
 suspicion. 
 
94 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 SUCCESS NOT ALWAYS A TEST OF MERIT. 
 
 Success is the criterion by which actions 
 are too generally judged, and often consti- 
 tutes the difference between a rash effort and 
 a glorious enterprise. 
 
 INGRATITUDE. 
 
 Ingratitude is the most baleful weed that 
 can spring up in the human heart ; its growth 
 destroys every plant of virtue, and bears 
 down every blossom of affection. So noxious 
 is its influence, that it taints every seed of 
 goodness with which it comes in contact, and 
 for ever injures the soil where it takes root. 
 
 Ingratitude ! thy poisoned sting I feel 
 With inward bitterness I can't reveal ; 
 Such deadly venom doth thy touch impart, 
 It falls like mildew, withering up the heart. 
 
REFLECTIONS. 95 
 
 PAST HAPPINESS. 
 
 The memory of past happiness is like the 
 essence of the rose, which, though robbed of 
 its brilliant hue and graceful form, still re- 
 tains its original sweetness, 
 
96 
 
 SENSIBILITY. 
 
 This virtue, which, when kept within due 
 bounds, contributes so much to the hap- 
 piness of mankind, is, if permitted to degene- 
 rate into excess, productive of much evil. 
 
 Hume, in speaking of Rousseau to Blair, 
 remarks, that his excessive sensibility is a 
 source of perpetual pain to him ; and com- 
 pares him to " a man stript, not only of his 
 clothes, but of his skin, and turned out in 
 that situation, to combat with the rude and 
 boisterous elements, such as perpetually dis- 
 turb this lower world." 
 
SENSIBILITY. 97 
 
 This sensitive being was fully aware of 
 the pernicious tendency of an excess, or a 
 misapplication of that quality by which he 
 was so remarkably distinguished; for Rous- 
 seau, I think it is, w T ho observes, that " The 
 tears which we shed for fictitious sorrow are 
 admirably adapted to make us proud of all 
 the virtues we do not possess." The follow- 
 ing lines are a true picture of that false sen- 
 sibility which we too often see practised : 
 
 " Awake to each fictitious feeling grown, 
 And moved by ills to real life unknown ; 
 The mind with scenes of fabled woe possessed 
 Will shut to homely ^rief the senseless breast, 
 And turn from want and pain the offended ear, 
 To pour for feigned distress the barren tear." 
 
 In guarding against the morbid, sickly sen- 
 sibility into which this amiable feeling may 
 degenerate, let us be careful that in plucking 
 
 H 
 
98 SENSIBILITY. 
 
 out the weeds, we do not injure the root of 
 this virtue. — Let us cherish it as a precious 
 plant, that only requires to be trained and 
 pruned to reach perfection. 
 
99 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 - I call the man my friend who is inclined 
 to treat me, when present, with candour ; 
 when absent, with consideration." This was 
 Marmontel's idea of the requisites essential 
 in a friend ; but how few, how very few, de- 
 serve that appellation, which is so indis- 
 criminately bestowed by the unthinking on 
 any companion whom chance or circum- 
 stances have thrown in their way, or with 
 whom, by some similarity of pursuit or of 
 taste, they have formed an intimacy ; which, 
 though it brings them often together, still 
 leaves them devoid of any sentiment of real 
 regard or esteem ! 
 
 h 2 
 
100 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Friendship, in the modern acceptation of 
 the word, is merely an association produced 
 by habit or convenience, and dissolved as 
 easily as it is formed. Happy, thrice happy, 
 are they who in this " weary pilgrimage" 
 meet with that most inestimable of all bless- 
 ings — a true friend ; feelingly alive to their 
 good qualities, and correcting the bad with 
 the mild and patient voice of truth, kindness, 
 and sincerity, which only wishes to raise the 
 object of its censure. 
 
 Rousseau has said, and with great delicacy 
 of feeling, that we may repulse blows aimed 
 at us by our enemies ; but when we behold 
 among the assassins our friend, sword in 
 hand, nothing remains but to hide our head. 
 How strongly did the " Et tu Brute !" of 
 Julius Caesar express his sentiment, when, 
 folding his robe over his head, he resigned 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 101 
 
 himself to his fate ! It is from friends, or at 
 least nominal ones, that we frequently receive 
 the deepest wounds ; and bitter experience 
 daily inculcates the sage advice, from which 
 the generous youthful mind turns with dis- 
 dain, — " Live with your friends as though 
 they may one day become your enemies." 
 
 h 3 
 
102 
 
 WENTWORTH. 
 
 Oh, man ! without fair woman's smile, 
 Vain were thy efforts to beguile 
 The weary hours that oft intrude 
 In life's gay scenes or solitude. 
 
 THE DECISION. 
 
 " I must have change of scene/' I ex- 
 claimed, as lounging in my easy chair by 
 the fire-side in my library, I indulged in the 
 luxurious indolence of a hearty yawn and 
 stretch of limbs, that solitude alone could 
 excuse; and closing the second ponderous 
 volume of Walpole's Memoirs, I gave way 
 to drowsy ruminations. 
 
 I have now been eight months in the 
 
WENTWOBTH. 103 
 
 country; and though they have flown swiftly 
 and agreeably by, still the last few days have 
 passed rather heavily, and it is time to for- 
 sake the joys of sylvan groves and rural 
 shades for London and its dear delights 
 (dear in more senses than one) ; and yet my 
 home is endeared to me by so many recol- 
 lections and associations, that I can hardly 
 bring myself to leave it, even for a short 
 time. The venerable trees that ornament my 
 park appear like old friends; and I never 
 pass the oak in front of the dining-room, 
 beneath whose umbrageous shades I have so 
 often frolicked in childhood's happy days, 
 without recalling some faint shadow of the 
 fleeting joys which I then experienced. Every 
 spot in this favourite abode of my ancestors is 
 rendered sacred by tender reminiscences; 
 and when I look on the benevolent counte- 
 h 4 
 
104 WENTWORTH. 
 
 nances of my father and mother, that, even 
 from the canvass, appear to beam on me with 
 their wonted affection, I fancy the pleasure 
 they would feel at seeing me residing here, 
 and carrying on all the plans of improvement 
 which they suggested. How many hours of 
 unmixed and rational amusement have I en- 
 joyed in this room ! The volumes that 
 surround me are all like tried and valued 
 friends, who have administered to my happi- 
 ness. The pictures, and even the furniture, 
 possess an interest for me; and I cannot 
 fancy myself so comfortable any where as in 
 the easy chair in which I am now seated : but 
 perhaps this latter feeling partakes a little of 
 the united force of bachelorship and habit, and 
 before it becomes fixed I ought to mingle 
 more with general society. It is not good 
 for man to be alone ; and, even in Paradise, 
 
WENTWORTH. 105 
 
 Adam was unblest until Eve was given to 
 him. Unlike our first parent, I must leave 
 my Paradise, to search for a partner in that 
 vast wilderness, the world; too happy if I can 
 transport hither some fair companion, whose 
 virtues may emulate those of its late mistress, 
 and whose smiles and converse may soothe 
 my future life. At thirty it is time to marry ; 
 and I must shake off the rust and indolence 
 of selfish indulgence that, in solitude, so 
 soon acquire the force of habit. London is 
 the grand theatre of England: my fortune 
 and connexions are a passport to the best 
 exhibitions it can furnish ; and there I may 
 meet what no foreign clime has discovered to 
 me, — the woman I would select as a partner 
 for life. Allons then to London ; and, for a 
 few months, adieu to home and all its de- 
 lights, to vernal gales and smiling landscapes, 
 
106 WENTWORTH. 
 
 to evenings of tranquil enjoyment and nights 
 of healthful and unbroken slumber, — which 
 are ill exchanged for a dense atmosphere, 
 crowded streets, days of idleness, and nights 
 of heartless, vapid amusement, finished by 
 feverish and unrefreshing sleep. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 Adieu, adieu ! ye peaceful shades 
 That oft have charmed your master's view ; 
 Dear native woods, and russet glades, 
 And winding streams, adieu, adieu ! 
 
 It was on a brilliant morning in the early 
 part of May that I left Wentworth Hall for 
 London ; and never did that charming spot 
 appear in greater beauty. The trees, clothed 
 in the delicate vivid green of early spring, 
 and begemmed with the glittering dew T -drops, 
 which sparkled beneath the rays of the sun, 
 
WENTWORTH, 107 
 
 possessed all the attractions for the lover 
 of rural scenery that the foliage of that 
 vernal season always boasts; an attraction 
 that is heightened by the contrast it affords 
 to the gloomy, sterile prospects, recently wit- 
 nessed. The aspins, with their light and 
 graceful branches agitated by the breeze, 
 and overtopped by the venerable oaks, whose 
 brown and withered leaves were scattered 
 around by each undulation of the air, ap- 
 peared like the fresh and blooming creatures 
 of infancy, frolicking around their great grand- 
 sires, and furnished a striking contrast between 
 joyous youth and hoary age. Woods, rising 
 over woods, were intersected by lawns whose 
 emerald hue broke their continuity, and over 
 which were scattered flocks of sheep, whose 
 snowy fleeces, seen in the distance, shone 
 like pearls. The blue hills, fading into air, 
 
108 WENTWORTH. 
 
 bounded the scene; while the broad and 
 rapid river, winding gracefully through the 
 park, reflected the giant limbs of the vener- 
 able trees that overhung its banks, or, broken 
 into ripples by the breath of morn, showed 
 its crystal transparency. Herds of deer were 
 seen scattered around, giving, by their gam- 
 bols, an air of life and animation to the scene. 
 The birds sent forth a thousand notes of joy, 
 as perched on the spray, or fluttering from 
 bough to bough, they united in a universal 
 chorus. The hum of bees, the lowing of 
 cattle heard from a distance, — all attuned the 
 mind to harmony and peace, and forcibly 
 brought to my recollection Beattie's ex- 
 quisite description of a morning scene; the 
 truth and felicity of which now impressed 
 itself on me so forcibly, that I was ready, 
 with him, to exclaim — 
 
WENTWORTH. 109 
 
 a O how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
 Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
 The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, 
 The pomp of groves and garniture of fields; 
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 
 And all that echoes to the song of even ; 
 All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven ; 
 O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be for- 
 given \" 
 
 I applied this appeal to myself; and, gazing 
 around to take in the whole beauty of the 
 picture, felt more than half tempted to send 
 away my carriage, and remain yet a few days 
 longer in the country : but at that moment 
 my servant's announcing that " every thing 
 was ready," decided my wavering inclinations; 
 and, casting many a longing, lingering look 
 behind, I entered the vestibule. Here were, 
 formally marshalled, the old domestics, who 
 had grown grey in the service of my family, 
 
110 WENTWORTH. 
 
 and who, claiming the privilege of age and 
 length of services, were waiting to wish me 
 " a good journey, and safe and speedy return 
 to the Hall." Regret was visible in all their 
 countenances; but the housekeeper, who, from 
 having been a favourite of my mother, and 
 having (as she frequently reminds me) often 
 dandled me on her knee, thinks herself en- 
 titled to take greater liberties, with a voice 
 faltering from emotion, and feeble from age 
 hoped I would take care of my health ; and 
 hoped, and hoped again, while a tear stole 
 down her venerable cheek, that I would soon 
 come back ; for that, at her time of life, if I 
 staid very long, she might never see me again. 
 I soothed her with promises of soon re- 
 turning ; and, pressing her trembling hand, 
 into which I slipped a note, to enable her to 
 extend her charitable benefactions during my 
 
WENTWORTH. 1 1 1 
 
 absence, I hurried into my carriage, and soon 
 lost sight of the venerable towers of my an- 
 cestors. Those only who have left a loved 
 home can enter into the feelings with which 
 I gazed from the carriage, as winding round 
 the last hill that commanded a view of the 
 Hall, I saw its grey turrets rising through 
 the stately avenues that surround it : I was 
 glad that there was no witness to the emotion 
 I betrayed ; for I felt that mauvaise Jionte we 
 are so apt to experience when we give way 
 to our feelings, as if they were a weakness 
 which we should be ashamed to indulge. 
 
 My vanity was soothed and gratified by 
 the respectful attention which I received from 
 the obsequious landlords at every inn where I 
 changed horses for the first fifty miles of my 
 journey. The owner of Wentworth Hall 
 appeared, in their eyes, a person of no ordi- 
 
112 WENTWORTH. 
 
 nary consequence; and I was flattered at 
 finding that I was so well known, though so 
 lately a resident on my estate. But as I 
 approached nearer to the metropolis, my 
 identity was lost ; and I entered it with the 
 consciousness of my self-importance consi- 
 derably abated. 
 
 ARRIVAL. 
 
 Fashion ! to Nature still untrue, 
 Thy votaries veil her from their view ; 
 And all her vernal sweets resign, 
 Amid thy heartless throng to shine. 
 
 It was on a lovely evening that I was 
 whirled into this gay emporium of luxury. 
 The postillions entered Hyde Park through 
 Cumberland Gate, and proceeded as rapidly 
 as a long-extended line of equipages would 
 permit. I w T as perfectly astonished at the 
 number and elegance of the carriages, and 
 
WENTWORTH. 113 
 
 the handsome faces and gaily-decorated heads 
 that peeped from them were not passed by 
 unnoticed. Every thing and every body 
 seemed to wear the appearance of a festival, 
 and I concluded that some unusual excite- 
 ment had drawn this crowd of visitors to the 
 Park; but, on passing thence through the 
 fashionable streets and squares, I discovered 
 them almost equally thronged with carriages 
 of every description, and equestrians and 
 pedestrians of as various kinds. I was 
 stunned and confused by the complication 
 of sounds, and the noise, din, dust, and heat, 
 that assailed me on all sides. I drove to 
 Thomas's Hotel, in Berkeley Square, but found 
 that every room was full ; and thence went to 
 the Pulteney, where my servant was told by 
 a bowing dandy, waiter that the house was 
 filled ; and he remarked, with rather a super- 
 
114 WENTWORTH. 
 
 cilious simper, that the apartments in the 
 Pulteney were always ordered a month before. 
 From the Pulteney I was driven to the Cla- 
 rendon, where I was equally unfortunate ; 
 and I now regretted that I had not taken the 
 precaution of writing to bespeak a suite of 
 rooms. My travelling-carriage, laden with 
 imperials, and covered with dust, rattled by 
 jaded post-horses and sulky postillion over 
 the stones, from street to street, both fatigued 
 and annoyed me ; but, at length, I found ac- 
 commodation at Hotel, where I was 
 
 heartily glad to find myself in apartments 
 that, an hour before, I should have thought 
 very unsuited to the owner of Wentworth 
 Hall. A certain air about my servants and 
 carriage, impressed the waiters with some 
 idea of my importance, and procured me 
 much attention, with many expressions of 
 
WENTWORTH. 115 
 
 regret, that the house being so full did not 
 permit them to give me better rooms. I 
 looked round, and could not help contrasting 
 the small paltry apartment I was now in, with 
 the spacious well-proportioned ones at home; 
 and, as I made the comparison, I gave a sigh 
 to the quiet comforts of the Hall. 
 
 The first few days after arriving any where 
 are apt to be disagreeable, but are particu- 
 larly so in London ; and I know no situation 
 more cheerless, than that of a stranger on 
 the day of arrival at a London Hotel, in 
 the fashionable season : the noise and con- 
 fusion within doors and without, the general 
 air of gaiety and bustle that prevails, in 
 which a stranger cannot sympathize, the 
 consciousness of being ill dressed and out 
 of the fashion, as well as out of the routine 
 
 of daily amusement that is going on, though 
 2 i 
 
116 WENTWORTH. 
 
 in themselves trifling annoyances, and which 
 in other moments, when supported by soli- 
 tude and reflection, would only excite a smile, 
 are now viewed in a more serious light, 
 and jar on the feelings. Ten times, during 
 the first evening of my arrival, did I regret 
 having come to London, and wish myself 
 back in the quiet shades of Wentworth Hall ; 
 and the bustle in the house, and perpetual 
 roll of carriages in the street passing and 
 repassing, appeared unbearable, after the 
 tranquil repose of the country. 
 
 I retired early to bed, and while undress- 
 ing made many wise reflections on the folly 
 of a life of dissipation, and determined not to 
 adopt the late hours of fashionable life, and 
 to be more a spectator than an actor in its 
 amusements. How I have kept this deter- 
 mination, the sequel will prove. 
 
 The sun shone bright through the dusty 
 
WENTWORTH. 117 
 
 panes of my window, when my servant 
 opened the curtain, and reminded me that it 
 was time to rise ; and his bright beams were 
 reflected on a dingy wall, and glittered on 
 some glazed earthen chimney-pots that fronted 
 my window. I turned from the sight; and im- 
 agination flew back to the different beautiful 
 and picturesque objects, which the same bright 
 luminary was now lighting up at home. A 
 train of thoughts, little suited to London or 
 its pleasures, now took possession of my mind; 
 from which I was disturbed, by my servant 
 informing me that Mr. Stultz, the tailor, 
 waited for me. I wished Mr. Stultz and 
 his fripperies away ; but though I had the 
 philosophy to form and express this wish, 
 I was not stoic enough to send him away ; as 
 candour compels me to state, that I felt a 
 strong inclination to profit by his taste and 
 i 3 
 
1 18 WENTWORTH. 
 
 experience, and to be made to look a little 
 like other people. 
 
 During the time that I was dressing, Mr. 
 Stultz reminded me more than once, through 
 my servant, that he was in an extreme hurry, 
 though I suspect that a wish of showing his 
 importance was the chief motive of this haste ; 
 for I found him by no means impatient to 
 end our interview, as he descanted most dif- 
 fusely on the merits of each colour and 
 pattern that he displayed ; and begged leave 
 to recommend each article, with a reference 
 to its becoming effect on my person, which 
 was done with a degree of tact that shewed 
 him to possess much discrimination of cha- 
 racter. 
 
 Having given Mr. S. a carte blanche for 
 my wardrobe, merely stipulating that I wished 
 to look like a gentleman and not a dandy, 
 
WENTWORTH. 119 
 
 lie took his leave with many bows, promising 
 that I should have two suits sent home next 
 morning; at the same time protesting that, 
 (but he begged pardon,) really I was not fit 
 to be seen in my present coats, they were so 
 very old-fashioned, though he had made them 
 only four months before ; and the waistcoats 
 were now worn with quite a different sort of 
 collar : — in short, he discovered that my 
 whole wardrobe must be discarded ; which 
 discovery seemed to afford peculiar satisfac- 
 tion to my French valet, if I might judge by 
 the smiles of complacency with which he as- 
 sented to it. Hatters, hosiers, boot-makers, 
 &c. &c. followed in succession, and occupied 
 a considerable portion of the morning ; and 
 this momentous business being got rid of, 
 I drove to my solicitor's, to ask his assist- 
 ance in finding me a furnished house for the 
 i 4 
 
120 WENTWORTH. 
 
 season : this he promised to do forthwith ; 
 and I then proceeded to my bankers, to 
 arrange my pecuniary concerns. I found 
 
 Messrs. all civility and attention ; 
 
 and remarked the difference between their 
 respectful assiduity to me, and their negli- 
 gent indifference to some titled acquaintances 
 of mine that came in, — a difference, perhaps, 
 proportioned to the state of our cash-account. 
 I reflected all the way back to my hotel on 
 riches, and their attending consequences ; and 
 decided in my own mind, that the philoso- 
 pher, who considered money as dross, had 
 never known the comforts of having ten 
 thousand pounds above his actual wants in 
 his banker's hands, and had never expe- 
 rienced the respectful attention it produces. 
 
WENTWORTH. 121 
 
 FORMING AN ESTABLISHMENT. 
 
 " In Fashion's circle if you'd shine, 
 First, let your riches well be known, 
 Give frequent dinners, costly wine; 
 Your merit then the town will own." 
 
 The Adviser. 
 
 The first thing necessary to any one who 
 wishes to be a somebody in London, is to 
 have a good house, and to give good dinners : 
 this is the surest road to a niche in the 
 temple of fashion, and certainly an easy one 
 to those who neither value their time nor 
 their money. To accomplish this deside- 
 ratum, the first step to be taken is to form 
 a good establishment ; and I therefore lost 
 no time in looking out for servants suitable 
 to each department in a first-rate menage. 
 Le Moine, my valet, offered his services 
 
122 WENTWOIITH. 
 
 to procure the best chef de cuisine that his 
 
 friend Monsieur could recommend ; and 
 
 my solicitor found me a maitre d'hotel, groom 
 of the chambers, butler, under-butler, foot- 
 men, and a porter; which, with a first and 
 second coachman, grooms, and helpers, 
 formed the male part of my establishment. 
 The female part were procured by the wife 
 of my linen-draper ; and the whole were to 
 hold themselves in readiness to enter my 
 service, the moment a suitable house was 
 found for me. My next object was to get 
 a chariot and a curricle, and I was fortunate 
 enough to find both at Windser's. They 
 were but just completed in the very newest 
 fashion, for a gentleman, whose taste far 
 exceeded his fortune, and who was unable 
 to pay for either ; so that they only required 
 to have his arms erased and mine put on, 
 
WENTWORTH, 123 
 
 which was done with all possible expedition. 
 My solicitor found an excellent house in 
 Hanover Square, into which I removed the 
 moment it was ready for my reception ; and 
 I was now installed in my town-residence 
 in a style befitting my fortune and family. 
 The only thing wanting was a set of horses, 
 and those I determined to purchase at 
 TattersalPs the ensuing Monday. I had kept 
 myself retired since my arrival, not wishing 
 to be seen until I could make my appear- 
 ance with some degree of eclat. Vanity was 
 the latent cause of this, and I blushed at 
 the conviction ; but short as my stay in 
 London had been, I had discovered that 
 the Wentworth of the Hall and of London 
 w T ere very different beings ; and that the 
 sage reflections and prudent resolutions of 
 the former, seemed to have faded from the 
 
124< WENTWORTH. 
 
 recollection of the latter. When I walked 
 out, I detected myself criticising the car- 
 riages, horses, and servants that I saw, and 
 with inward complacency prided myself with 
 the idea that mine would surpass them. A 
 few days before I should have despised 
 such considerations, but now they were no 
 longer trifling. 
 
 On Monday I went to TattersalFs, and 
 here a new scene awaited me. I had hitherto 
 imagined that gentlemen attended this place 
 for the sole purpose of buying or selling 
 horses, and that one or two visits in the 
 season sufficed ; but I now discovered, that it 
 was considered absolutely necessary to ap- 
 pear at this fashionable lounge regularly 
 once or twice a week; and I saw some of 
 the grave nobles and senators of the land, 
 deeply engaged in familiar conversation with 
 
WENTWORTH. 1 25 
 
 horse-dealers and grooms, who appeared 
 quite at their ease, and by no means im- 
 pressed with any feelings of respectful defer- 
 ence for their noble or distinguished ac- 
 quaintances. My aristocratic notions were a 
 little outraged at the system of perfect equality 
 I beheld : and I thought that the levelling 
 system, so much dreaded and decried in the 
 present day, must have first commenced at 
 TattersalPs. 
 
 I met several of my Eton and college 
 acquaintances, with whom I renewed my 
 intimacy. Having discovered my wants, they 
 assisted me in the choice of horses ; and as 
 many of them had gone to TattersalPs merely 
 as a lounge, without having any precise 
 object in view, they appeared glad to be 
 employed. Others were so busy in making 
 matches, and booking their bets for the 
 
126 WENTWORTH. 
 
 Derby and Oaks, that they had scarcely 
 time to give me a nod en passant. In 
 London, where money is the primum mobile, 
 every thing can be had by those who are 
 possessed of that necessary evil ; and I left 
 Tattersall's master of two sets of fine car- 
 riage-horses, and four saddle-horses, on 
 which desirable acquisition I was congratu- 
 lated by all my friends. 
 
127 
 
 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 " The course of true love never did run smooth : 
 
 But, either it was different in blood ; — 
 
 Or if there were a sympathy in choice, 
 
 War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it ; 
 
 Making it momentary as a sound, 
 
 Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ; 
 
 Brief as the lightning in the collied night, 
 
 That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, 
 
 And ere a man hath power to say, — Behold! 
 
 The jaws of darkness do devour it up : 
 
 So quick bright things come to confusion." 
 
 Mids ummer-Nigh fs Dream . 
 
 During a visit that I paid last autumn to 
 my friend, Lord Grandison, at his beautiful 
 seat in the south of Ireland, I frequently 
 
128 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 amused myself with strolling round its ro- 
 mantic environs ; and one day was tempted 
 to extend my rambles by an inviting path 
 that opened through a copse, and was ter- 
 minated by a little wicker gate. I sauntered 
 through the winding path, and found that 
 the gate led into the village church-yard, 
 and I was about to enter it, when my atten- 
 tion was arrested by a person, who was so 
 intently ruminating, that he appeared un- 
 conscious of my approach. An air of deep 
 dejection marked the handsome, though 
 pallid countenance of the person before me, 
 and his figure, though somewhat bent by 
 a languor that bespoke ill health, was still 
 graceful and highly interesting. He stood 
 in front of a simple but elegant tomb, in the 
 form of an urn, composed of white marble, 
 and appeared to be reading the characters 
 
TRUE LOVE. 129 
 
 inscribed on it. A weeping willow waved 
 its light branches over the urn, and its ver- 
 dant foliage formed a pretty contrast to the 
 pure white of the marble. On examining 
 more closely, I found that the mourner, for 
 such he appeared to be, held a gold locket 
 in his hand, which was attached to his neck 
 by a chain ; and as he occasionally pressed 
 it to his lips, a tear stood in his eyes, which 
 dimmed their almost unearthly lustre. I 
 paused a considerable time, observing the 
 movements of the stranger, while I was 
 screened from his notice by the trees that 
 shaded my path : but a consciousness that I 
 was breaking in upon the sacred privacy of 
 grief, induced me to turn from the spot ; and 
 I retraced my steps homeward, with feelings 
 of deep interest and sympathy for the 
 mourner. A few days after, curiosity, or 
 
 K 
 
130 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 perhaps a better motive, led me to the rustic 
 church-yard, and again I saw the same in- 
 dividual, with a still more languid and de- 
 jected face, while his figure appeared almost 
 like a shadow ; so attenuated had it become, 
 even in the brief interval that had elapsed 
 since I had before seen him. I mentioned 
 the meeting to my friend Lord Grandison, 
 and expressed the interest which the stranger 
 had excited in my mind, when he gave me 
 the following little history of him. 
 
 " The person you allude to is named 
 Robert Fitzgibbon, and is descended from a 
 very ancient family, who, for centuries past, 
 have resided in my neighbourhood. Unfore- 
 seen misfortunes plunged the father of this 
 young man into difficulties ; and it was 
 thought expedient to send Robert to Oporto, 
 to seek the protection of a wealthy relation 
 
TRUE LOVE, 131 
 
 settled there. Poor Robert had formed an 
 attachment which had grown with his growth, 
 and strengthened with his years ; and Ellen 
 Desmond, the object of it, was handsome 
 and amiable enough to render even its ex- 
 cess pardonable. Poverty, for she too was 
 portionless, was the only bar to their union ; 
 and after many struggles, that wrung the 
 hearts of those fond lovers, they consented 
 to part, and look forward to his return at 
 some distant period, when, having earned a 
 competence, they might be enabled to marry, 
 I have heard their parting described as one 
 of the most affecting scenes that could be 
 imagined : the families to which both be- 
 longed, and indeed the individuals them- 
 selves, were such favourites in the neigh- 
 bourhood, that every one felt interested for 
 them ; and there were, I believe, but few dry 
 k 2 
 
132 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 eyes in the village on the day of his depar- 
 ture. 
 
 " For a time, poor Ellen endeavoured to 
 support her spirits, and hope, delusive hope, 
 showed her many a sunny picture of happiness 
 to come; but ' hope deferred maketh the heart 
 sick,' and Ellen's soon drooped. The father 
 of Robert was killed by a fall from his horse; 
 and this sudden blow so affected his wife, 
 that she soon followed her beloved partner 
 to the grave. Ellen, who had tried to 
 forget her own griefs to administer comfort 
 to the parents of her Robert, was, by their 
 death, deprived of the stimulus to exertion 
 that had hitherto animated her. The bloom 
 faded from her cheek, her lip lost its freshness, 
 and her form its roundness. Each week, 
 each day, marked the progress of decline; 
 yet still she lingered on, an object of love 
 
TRUE LOVE. 133 
 
 and pity to all around her. At this period, 
 a letter arrived from Robert, containing a 
 large remittance, and stating that by the 
 death of his relation, who had died childless, 
 and made him his heir, he was now in pos- 
 session of a large fortune, and that the next 
 vessel should bear him to his native shore 
 to claim the hand of his Ellen. 
 
 " The joy of this sudden and unhoped-for 
 intelligence was too powerful for her weak 
 frame, and she sunk under it. Before she 
 breathed her last sigh, she requested to be 
 interred beneath the willow that now shades 
 her grave. It had been a favourite seat with 
 Robert and her, from their infancy ; and it 
 was there that he had wept with, and soothed 
 her, when mourning for the parents whom 
 she had lost in childhood. By my desire, 
 the simple tomb you saw was erected ; and it 
 k 3 
 
134 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 is never seen by any of her neighbours without 
 a sigh to her memory. 
 
 " Robert returned here some months ago, 
 high in hope and health. All my anxiety to 
 have the melancholy intelligence that awaited 
 him gently broken, before he could reach 
 home, was unavailing: his impatient haste de- 
 feated my care. He missed the letter, and the 
 friend I sent to meet him, and arrived at the 
 goal of his hopes, to find himself a bankrupt 
 in happiness. His appearance tells the rest 
 of his story. He came here ten months ago 
 in perfect health; he is now, as you perceived, 
 in the last stage of a rapid consumption. I 
 have endeavoured to comfort him, and used 
 every argument that reason afforded me, to 
 induce him to remove from this neighbour- 
 hood, but in vain ; he only answered me by 
 a melancholy shake of his head, or else told 
 
TRUE LOVE. 135 
 
 me, that the hour of his arrival here struck 
 a death-blow to his heart, and that it was 
 useless to struggle against it. Though aban- 
 doned to a grief that is fast consuming his 
 life, he still takes an interest in the happiness 
 of others ; he seeks out the indigent and un- 
 fortunate, and is as judicious as liberal in his 
 benefactions. He has caused many a heart 
 to rejoice since his return, though his own is 
 blighted ; and has dried many a tear, though 
 his own so oft overflow." 
 
 In a few days after this conversation, Lord 
 Grandison was summoned to bid an ever- 
 lasting farewel to poor Robert, whose last 
 hours were cheered by the hope of meeting 
 his Ellen in realms of bliss. Lord Grandi- 
 son, who has a heart full of the milk of 
 human kindness, and a sensibility rarely to 
 be met with in a person of his time of life, 
 
 K 4* 
 
136 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 appeared much affected by the death-bed 
 scene which he had witnessed ; though, as he 
 expressed himself, it was marked with a sense 
 of religious faith and hope, that was truly 
 edifying, and gave proof how strong was the 
 reliance of the dying Christian on his mer- 
 ciful Father. In arranging poor Robert's 
 papers, my friend found many scraps of 
 poetry, and among the rest the following 
 copy of verses, which appear to have been 
 written very soon after his return; and which, 
 though possessing but little poetic merit, 
 have an interest from being descriptive of his 
 feelings. 
 
 Peace be to his gentle spirit ! And, reader, 
 when in life's gay scenes you hear the ex- 
 istence of true love doubted, and the frailty 
 of affection commented upon, — think of 
 Ellen Desmond and Robert Fitzgibbon. 
 
TRUE LOVE. 137 
 
 (AIR.) COOLUN. 
 
 Once more, my loved country, I visit thy shore, 
 And again the dear haunts of my childhood explore : 
 The scene is unchanged, but with sorrow I find 
 What bitter reflections it brings to my mind. 
 
 Ah ! where are the friends, and companions so gay, 
 Whose smiles and endearments gave wings to the day ! 
 Alas ! those dear faces no more beam for me, 
 And those friends so beloved ne'er again shall I see. 
 
 Where now are the parents who cherished my youth, 
 And taught me to honor religion and truth ! 
 Oh ! where' s my betrothed, the pulse of my heart, 
 My Ellen, from whom 'twas such anguish to part ! 
 
 How often sad memory recals to my view, 
 The deep tearful sorrow that mark'd our adieu ! 
 She hung on my shoulders in speechless despair, 
 While I cut from her tresses this lock of fair hair. 
 
 How oft have I gazed on this ringlet of gold, 
 When on far-distant oceans my vessel has rolled i 
 In regions remote, to my lips it was prest, 
 x\nd at night when in slumber 'twas laid on my breast. 
 
138 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 Oh ! I thought not the head whence it gracefully 
 
 flowed 
 Was for ever at rest, in its gloomy abode : 
 Not all my affection my Ellen could save, 
 And I only return to behold her cold grave. 
 
139 
 
 THE DYING INVALID. 
 
 The chace ends here, for I find that it is in 
 vain, Hygeia, I pursue thee. I have toiled 
 after thee, over the mountains of Switzerland, 
 and wooed thy smiles in Italia' s genial clime; 
 I have sought thee on the bosom of the deep, 
 and sighed for thee beneath the glowing sun 
 of Iberia : but alas ! for ever thou eludest 
 my feeble grasp ; and it is in vain, oh ! ruth- 
 less Death, I seek to evade thy power. — 
 Here, then, the contest ends ; and here it is, 
 I feel, that in a few, a very few days, this 
 heart, now so warm, shall cease to beat; these 
 eyes, that now gaze enamoured on this en- 
 
140 THE DYING INVALID. 
 
 chanting landscape, will be for ever closed ; 
 and the thousand, thousand, tender, soul- 
 thrilling remembrances, that crowd on my 
 memory, shall be for ever lulled to rest by 
 the bitter, but Lethean draught of death. 
 
 I had hoped to reach my native land, to 
 have my pillow smoothed by the gentle hand 
 of affection, and my last sigh breathed in the 
 home of my fathers: but it may not be ; and 
 far, far from all I love, I resign a life which 
 they would die to save. Will some tender 
 presentiment warn them of my fate ? I cling 
 to this hope with fond anxiety ; for I cannot 
 bear to think that, at my last moment, they, 
 unconscious of its approach, should per- 
 chance be engaged in scenes of amusement, 
 or indulging anticipations of our meeting. 
 Memory, faithful to scenes of past happiness, 
 pictures that happy home, and those dear 
 
THE DYING INVALID. 141 
 
 relatives, at this tranquil hour of evening, at 
 their accustomed occupations. I see the 
 cheerful fire round which they are assembled : 
 my father in his easy chair, enjoying his 
 slumber, and my revered and tender mother 
 regarding him with looks of complacency and 
 love ; while my sister is, perhaps, tracing my 
 route on the map, or reading aloud my last 
 letter. Well do I know the anxiety of that 
 dearly-loved circle for any of its absentees ; 
 and my delicate health has so often drawn 
 on its sympathy, that I reckon, and with 
 jealous fondness too, on being often the sub- 
 ject of its thoughts. As the picture warms 
 on my imagination, how does my heart vi- 
 brate ! I fancy myself returning to my native 
 home ; I feel the motion of the vehicle as it 
 rolls down the avenue; I see the looks of 
 cordial welcome that beam in the eyes of 
 
142 THE DYING INVALID. 
 
 the old domestics who admit me, as silent 
 and unannounced, on eager tiptoe, I enter 
 the library. Already I hear the exclama- 
 tions of rapturous surprise and joy. I feel 
 the fond and thrilling pressure of affectionate 
 embraces, and the tears of love and gratitude 
 moisten my cheek ; when, oh ! bitter inter- 
 ruption, I am recalled from the blissful 
 creation of imagination, to the painful, cruel 
 reality, by my hired attendants reminding 
 me of the necessity of taking my restorative 
 drops. All the cold discomforts of a sick 
 room, in a foreign land, and among stran- 
 gers, rise up in soul-chilling contrast to the 
 happy scene to which fancy had transported 
 me, and tears of bitter disappointment and 
 sorrow, dim my heavy and languid eyes. — 
 Oh ! you dear and tenderly-loved friends, to 
 whom my heart turns with such warm affec- 
 
THE DYING INVALID. 143 
 
 tion, you will peruse this, when the hand that 
 traced it is for ever motionless, and he whom 
 you loved is consigned to his last earthly 
 abode. 
 
 You will pardon the unsteady lines ; you 
 will understand why the blotted words are 
 nearly obliterated. — Yes! yes! beloved 
 friends, your tears will moisten the paper on 
 which mine now fall; and even in death I 
 shall not be forgotten. 
 
144 
 
 PASSION AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 x assion and Sentiment were once united, 
 and for a short time enjoyed great felicity; 
 but, like all ill-assorted unions, theirs was not 
 of long duration. 
 
 Passion grew tired of the mild graces of 
 Sentiment, and Sentiment sought in vain to 
 throw a veil over his defects, which became 
 every day more glaring. 
 
 They gave birth to twins, lovely as the 
 first roses of spring ; and they named them 
 Love and Memory. 
 
 Love, like his father, possessed a thousand 
 fascinations, joined to as many faults; while 
 
PASSION AND SENTIMENT. 145 
 
 m 
 
 Memory had all the amiable qualities of her 
 mother, to whom she bore a strong resem- 
 blance. Though their characters were so 
 dissimilar, the sister and brother were much 
 attached to each other. Love was part; to 
 Memory, because she reminded him of many 
 of his pleasures and triumphs; and Memory 
 fondly regarded Love, because she gratefully 
 remembered the happy days of their child- 
 hood. Love, like his father, was fond of 
 roving, and soon sated with the fruition of 
 his wishes ; like Passion, too, he was selfish, 
 and seldom considered the happiness of 
 others : so that those who contributed to his, 
 were often left to weep over their delusion. 
 
 Memory mourned his faults, and w r ould 
 have consoled his victims. But alas ! her 
 presence only recalled him more forcibly to 
 their minds ; and she only irritated the 
 
146 PASSION AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 wounds which .she would have healed : so that 
 in pity she endeavoured to avoid them, and 
 followed the footsteps of Love ; who, finding 
 that she continually reminded him of his 
 cruelties and follies, fled her approaches, 
 and shunned her remonstrances. Memory 
 grieved at the unkindness of Love, and weary 
 of witnessing his errors, sought consolation 
 in the arms of Sentiment, who bestowed her 
 hand on Virtue, with whom she enjoys a 
 most blissful union; while Love has formed a 
 league with Passion, and consumes his whole 
 life in the pursuit of Pleasure, not, however, 
 without sometimes giving a sigh to Memory, 
 when he reflects that their pursuits and des- 
 tinies are incompatible. 
 
147 
 
 THE ABODE OF MEMORY. 
 
 Memory, like an enchantress, reposes in her 
 cell, guarded by the Muses, who have each 
 a key to it. Every avenue to this abode 
 possesses some peculiar charm : at one, the 
 united odours of the most fragrant flowers 
 are exhaled; and at another, the sounds of 
 music steal on the ear in dying cadences. 
 The breath of morn is here felt in all its 
 balmy freshness, and the mild breeze of 
 evening is pregnant with delicious musings. 
 
 Though Memory reposes, she never 
 sleeps; but indulging in heavenly contempla- 
 tion, she appears abstracted from all around 
 l 2 
 
148 THE ABODE OF 
 
 her, until excited by some association pro- 
 duced by the questions of the Muses, by the 
 odoriferous perfumes, or by the strains of 
 music floating on the air. 
 
 The breath of morn never passes by her 
 unheeded; and as the evening breeze is 
 wafted by, a new character is given to her 
 meditation. All the charms around her 
 are necessary to her existence ; and tran- 
 quillity is the state most congenial to her 
 happiness. 
 
 There is but one approach to the abode of 
 Memory which is painful ; and that is the 
 path of repentance, the key of the gate of 
 which is kept by Conscience. 
 
 The least noise at this entrance never fails 
 to startle Memory, who punishes the unwel- 
 come intruder by her sternest frowns. 
 
MEMORY. 149 
 
 All who would seek the abode of Me- 
 mory, or cultivate her regard, must seek her 
 through the Muses, and be presented by 
 Virtue. 
 
 j, 3 
 
150 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 It was intended that this little volume, should 
 be dedicated to my late revered, and deeply 
 lamented friend, Mrs. *****; but alas ! 
 Death has snatched her from a world, to 
 which her many amiable qualities rendered 
 her an ornament. Instead of a dedication, 
 the following Tribute to Friendship accom- 
 panies this work. It is the effusion of a heart 
 sorrowing for her loss, and deeply sensible 
 of her virtues. 
 
 * Of the rich legacies the dying leave, 
 Remembrance of their virtues is the best." 
 
 Never did the truth of the above beautiful 
 sentence, strike me with such force, as when, 
 
A TRIBUTE TO FRIENDSHIP. 151 
 
 after having given way to the first poignancy 
 of regret for the loss of my beloved friend, 
 my sorrows became soothed by the recol- 
 lection of the many virtues, of which she was 
 possessed; virtues, which, while they adorned 
 her character, and rendered her an orna- 
 ment and example in this life, rendered her 
 also more worthy of that which is to come, 
 seining to her sorrowing friends, as a gua- 
 rantee of the bliss which she is gone to 
 enjoy, and leaving behind her a remem- 
 brance, that, like the essence of the rose, will 
 survive long after the flower that gave birth 
 to it has for ever faded. When we reflect 
 that the only consolation which we can derive 
 on the death of friends, must spring from the 
 recollection of then virtues, surely it must 
 act as the most powerful incentive to a ten- 
 der heart to cherish those qualities, which, 
 l 4 
 
152 A TRIBUTE TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 while we live, dispense happiness to those 
 whom we love, and console them when we 
 are taken from them. 
 
 Few human beings ever possessed more 
 amiable qualities than Mrs. *****. Blessed 
 w T ith a naturally strong understanding, she 
 united with it a lively fancy, and brilliant 
 imagination. Her memory was singularly 
 retentive, and her taste exquisitely refined. 
 To a mind highly cultivated, she joined a 
 dignified simplicity of manners that rendered 
 her alike fit for a court or a cottage. Those 
 who were but slightly acquainted with her, 
 would have thought the first her proper 
 sphere ; but those who best knew, and loved 
 her, would have felt that the domestic circle 
 of the latter, where the heart expands itself 
 to all around, was more congenial to her 
 nature. 
 
A TRIBUTE TO FRIENDSHIP. 153 
 
 Her talents and accomplishments, though 
 various and excellent, may be described ; 
 but her heart — how shall I praise that, which 
 was above all praise ? It was the genial 
 soil in which all the purest and best affections 
 took root, and never withered; for to the 
 latest period of her life, they flowered with 
 unfaded freshness, extending their branches 
 to husband, children, relatives, and friends. 
 
154 
 
 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 Youth should be clothed in the robe of innocence; 
 and maturity should wear the garb of truth. 
 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 It is pleasing to behold the gradual expan- 
 sion of the youthful mind. We may look 
 upon children as little men and women, 
 and trace in the former most of the pro- 
 pensities of the latter; but, with all due 
 respect to maturity, children are often much 
 more entertaining : first, because there is in 
 them a freshness of mind that gives elas- 
 
FRAGMENTS. 155 
 
 ticity to their thoughts, and freedom to their 
 actions ; and, secondly, because, though they 
 have all the propensities of men and women, 
 they have not, like them, the sense or cun- 
 ning to conceal them. 
 
 More depends on first impressions than 
 people are aware ; and parents should, if 
 possible, be more careful in the selection 
 of their nurse-maids than of their gover- 
 nesses. The former often lay the found- 
 ation of evils, that the latter never can 
 erase. It is in infancy they imbibe that 
 most detestable of all mean vices, cun- 
 ning, which engenders lying and deception ; 
 and how often do w r e see a child emerge 
 from the nursery, devoid of that freshness 
 and simple purity, which constitute the 
 greatest charm of infancy ! 
 
156 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 " A child without innocence is like a 
 flower without perfume," is, I believe, an 
 observation of Chateaubriand's; and its truth 
 has often struck me, when I have beheld 
 the petty artifices so disgusting in children. 
 If we believe, with Locke, that there are no 
 innate ideas in the human mind, we may with 
 him consider that of a child as a sheet of 
 blank paper. But as it cannot long remain 
 so, how careful ought we to be what characters 
 first deface its unsullied purity ! — characters 
 so often indelible; — and can we, or ought 
 we, to permit them to be traced by a menial 
 hand ? a hand perhaps stained by theft, and 
 the ready minister to the crimes and vices of 
 its owner. 
 
 But allowing that the menials, to whom 
 we trust our children, are not dishonest 
 or vicious, how few of them are to be 
 
FRAGMENTS. 157 
 
 found that are not ignorant and full of 
 prejudices ; and what security have we 
 that our children will not imbibe the latter, 
 however we may, by education, guard 
 against the former ? Who is it that cannot 
 trace to the first impressions conveyed to 
 then- minds by servants, the many false 
 opinions and injurious prejudices of youth, 
 which in after age they have found it so 
 difficult to conquer entirely ? Beware, then, 
 ye who are blessed with children, how ye 
 abuse the treasures committed to your 
 charge; and reflect, that on early impressions, 
 depends much of the good conduct and 
 happiness of your offspring. 
 
158 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 SELF-CORRECTION. 
 
 Every one who has reflected on his own 
 errors, and the difficulty of correcting them, 
 will be ready to exclaim with Belcour in the 
 West Indian : " No one sins with more re- 
 pentance, or repents with less amendment." 
 It has often been urged, that when a person 
 becomes truly sensible of his errors, he can 
 correct them ; but this is a very doubtful 
 point. The errors unfortunately become 
 deeply rooted, before we are entirely con- 
 vinced of their existence; and time has al- 
 lowed them so to. spread, and entwine their 
 fibres with our nature, that we can rarely 
 eradicate them. 
 
 I have seen spots of ground which produced 
 large rushes, and which the owner has en- 
 
FRAGMENTS. 159 
 
 deavoured to reclaim. The surface has been 
 burnt without producing any effect; the 
 rushes again protruded their heads. The 
 earth has then been turned over; but in a 
 few months the obstinate rushes have again 
 appeared. At length, as a last resource, it 
 has again been dug several feet deep, and a 
 new soil laid on; and by this means the 
 rushes have been banished. Such is the 
 growth of evil passions in the human heart : 
 you must dig deep, indeed, before you can 
 exterminate their root ; and you must lay a 
 new soil of virtue, to prevent a fresh growth 
 of evil, — so prone is our nature to germi- 
 nate evil passions. 
 
 In eradicating the weeds from a spot once 
 cultivated, but long neglected, how often do 
 we find them so closely entwined with the 
 flowers, that the one cannot be destroyed 
 
160 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 without injuring the other : so it is with 
 many of our errors ; they are so nearly 
 allied to our good qualities, and long indul- 
 gence has so closely united them, that the 
 exertions necessary to destroy the one not un- 
 frequently impair the other. 
 
 ON SIMPLIFYING SCIENCE. 
 
 I admire the good sense that leads a pro- 
 fessor of any science to divest it of its terrors ; 
 by which I mean the multiplicity of technical 
 terms that encumber almost all our sciences, 
 and act as bugbears to frighten away those 
 who might have an inclination to study them, 
 but who have not courage to encounter what 
 appears so serious an undertaking. Those 
 who simplify science render an essential 
 service to the community, and ought to ex- 
 
FRAGMENTS. 161 
 
 perience the gratitude of all the encouragers 
 of arts and science. I am always impressed 
 with a favourable opinion of the understand- 
 ing and acquirements, of those who have the 
 least pretension, and who are willing to com- 
 municate what they do know with clearness 
 and simplicity ; but the generality of people 
 are so anxious to gain credit for their attain- 
 ments, that they endeavour to mislead others, 
 and to prevent them from being able to form 
 a just estimate of the science, by encumbering 
 it with difficulties that indolent people will 
 not take the trouble to surmount. Di- 
 vest the sciences of these unnecessary ap- 
 pendages, and we shall have fewer instances 
 of ignorance than are now daily to be met 
 with ; and those who have only a superficial 
 knowledge, will not receive the homage that 
 is due only to proficiency. 
 
 M 
 
162 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 MISREPRESENTATION OF CHARACTER. 
 
 If mankind would judge for themselves, 
 and draw fair conclusions from facts, and 
 from the lives and actions of persons ac- 
 cused or suspected of crime, we should have 
 fewer instances of misrepresentation and false- 
 hood. But while people, from indolence, 
 malice, or a disposition to credulity, give be- 
 lief and publicity to every idle rumour, how- 
 ever improbable it may be, or however con- 
 trary to the former conduct of the person 
 accused, we must expect that few events in 
 the lives of men, will be fairly viewed or 
 candidly recorded ; and, therefore, we should 
 be cautious in condemning. 
 
FRAGMENTS. 163 
 
 MENTAL IMPROVEMENT. 
 
 It is pleasant when one is prevented a 
 whole evening from reading, to make amends 
 for it by amusing and instructive convers- 
 ation ; for when we reflect how short is our 
 span of life, and how much of that short span 
 is consumed in sleeping, dressing, eating, and 
 visits, with a long et cetera of frivolous amuse- 
 ments, we have indeed but a short time for 
 mental improvement. And how frequently 
 is even that short time interrupted by dull, 
 trifling, or petulant companions, who, with- 
 out any mercy, break in on our time. 
 
 We should, therefore, never omit an op- 
 portunity of improvement ; for certainly the 
 Almighty never intended, that the powers of 
 mind with which he has endowed us were to 
 be unemployed. The best way to ensure 
 m 2 
 
164 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 our own happiness, as well as to show our 
 gratitude to our Creator, is to cultivate to the 
 highest state of perfection the talents be- 
 stowed on us, and to employ those talents 
 usefully and honourably. 
 
 POLITICS. 
 
 I am no politician, thank God, and when 
 I see the sad effects of politics which daily 
 present themselves, I rejoice that my sex has 
 placed a bar to my ever becoming a practi- 
 cal, as my feelings preclude my becoming a 
 theoretical politician. We see families di- 
 vided, father against son, and brother against 
 brother: who then that values domestic peace 
 would barter it for politics ? People flatter 
 themselves, that they can keep their public 
 and private feelings apart; and that a differ- 
 
FRAGMENTS. 165 
 
 ence in political opinions needs not interfere 
 with private friendship. But they know little of 
 the human heart who maintain this doctrine ; 
 or, they who practise it must have less natural 
 affection, or more self-command, than falls to 
 the share of the generality of mankind. 
 
 The more we regard a friend, the more 
 anxious do we feel that he should do as we do. 
 We are continually, even without design, 
 endeavouring to bring him to our way of 
 thinking, and at last our self-love, or pride, 
 becomes a party, and feels hurt that our 
 arguments have failed of producing conviction. 
 The angry passions are excited, and the 
 firmness or consistency of our friend, which 
 in other subjects we should applaud, we now 
 call obstinacy or bigotry. He probably sees 
 our conduct with similar feelings, or else, 
 perhaps, views it with patient forbearance, as 
 
J 66 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 a weakness. Either view is alike detrimental 
 to friendship. The former causes reciprocal 
 coldness, and the latter carries with it a sense 
 of superiority that is mortifying to our self- 
 love. Hence, any difference of opinion on 
 subjects which materially excite the passions, 
 is injurious to friendship ; and politics, which 
 so strongly stimulate them, are too often its 
 bane. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 London: 
 
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