THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 

 
 EMMELINE. 
 
 SOME OTHER PIECES.
 
 I'riitlni l,ii Jniin-a Hit lln iiliju, (1/1,1 Co.
 
 EMMELINE. 
 
 WITH 
 
 SOME OTHER PIECES. 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY BRUNTON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF SELF-CONTROL, AND DISCIPLINE 
 
 TO 
 
 WHICH IS PREFIXED 
 
 A MEMOIR OF HER LIFE, 
 
 INCLUDING SOME EXTRACTS 
 
 FROM HER CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 EDINBURGH : 
 
 PRINTED FOR MANNERS AND MILLER, 
 AND ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO., EDINBURGH 
 AXD JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 1819.
 
 MEMOIR.
 
 VALE' 
 
 HEU QUANTO MINUS EST 
 CUM RELIQUIS VERSARI, 
 
 QUAM TUI 
 'MEMINISSET
 
 TO 
 
 CAPTAIN WILLIAM BALFOUB, 
 
 R. N. 
 
 THIS TRIBUTE 
 
 TO THE 
 
 MEMORY OF HIS SISTER 
 
 TS 
 RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATE f.Y 
 
 INSCRIBED.
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 IMMEDIATELY after Mrs Brunton's death, 
 various eloquent tributes were paid to her 
 memory in the newspapers of Edinburgh. 
 Pier literary friends, however, have express- 
 ed a wish, that some more detailed Memoir 
 of her life should be prepared ; exhibiting 
 chiefly the history of her mind, and her ha- 
 bits of composition. With that wish I have 
 willingly complied. It has been for twen- 
 ty years my happiness to watch the work- 
 ings of that noble mind my chief useful- 
 ness to aid its progress, however feebly. 
 Nothing is more soothing to me now, than 
 to dwell on the remembrance of her no- 
 thing more dear, than to diffuse the benefit 
 of hen* example.
 
 VI 
 
 I know, that I shall perform the task 
 very inadequately. Were I better quali- 
 fied than I am for its discharge, the relation 
 which I bore to her makes it needful for 
 me to repress feelings, upon which any 
 other biographer would have dwelt with 
 delight. But if I can make her memory 
 Useful to one of her fellow creatures, this 
 is the only consideration which her sainted 
 spirit would prize. 
 
 MAHY BALFOUR was the only daughter 
 of Colonel Thomas Balfour of Elwick, a 
 cadet of one of the most respectable fami- 
 lies in the county of Orkney. Her mo- 
 ther was Frances Ligonier, only daughter 
 of Colonel Ligonier of the 13th Dra- 
 
 o 
 
 sroons. 
 
 Mary was born in the Island of Burra 
 in Orkney, 1st of November, 1778. Her 
 early education was not conducted on 
 any regular plan. Her father, himself a
 
 Vll 
 
 man of extraordinary talents and acquire- 
 ments, had little leisure for superintending 
 it, and was very often necessarily absent 
 from his family. Her mother had early 
 been left an orphan to the care of her un- 
 cle, Field-Marshal the Earl of Ligonier; 
 and had been trained rather to the accom- 
 plishments which adorn a court, than to 
 those which are useful in domestic life. She 
 was, however, a person of great natural 
 acuteness, and of very lively wit ; and her 
 conversation, original though desultory, 
 had no doubt considerable influence in rou- 
 sing her daughter's mind. She was assi- 
 duous, too, in conveying the accomplish- 
 ments which she herself retained ; and Mary 
 became, under her mother's care, a consi- 
 derable proficient in music, and an excel- 
 lent French and Italian scholar. From 
 these languages she was much accustomed 
 to translate ; and there is no other habit of 
 her early life which tends, in any degree, to 
 account for the great facility and correctness 
 with which her subsequent compositions 
 were written,
 
 Vlll 
 
 When she passed the bounds of mere 
 childhood, the defects, under which her 
 early education must otherwise have la- 
 boured, were remedied partly by a short 
 residence at school in Edinburgh, and, still 
 more, by the affectionate care of her father's 
 sisters ; of whose kindness she entertained, 
 through life, the most grateful recollection. 
 But as a great part of her training was still 
 left to herself, her love for reading spent 
 itself on poetry and fiction. They helped 
 to people for her that world of her own, 
 which the day-dreams of youth called up 
 in her solitude. 
 
 At a very early age, the charge of her 
 father's household devolved upon her ; and 
 the details of housekeeping in Orkney are 
 of so exhausting a kind, that, from her 
 sixteenth to her twentieth year, she could 
 have had very little leisure for self-improve- 
 ment. 
 
 About this time, Viscountess Wentworth, 
 (who had formerly been the wife of Mrs 
 Balfour's brother, the second Karl Ligo- 
 nier,) proposed that Mary, her god-daugh-
 
 IX 
 
 ter, should reside with her in London. 
 What influence this alteration might have 
 had on her after life, is left to be matter of 
 conjecture. She preferred the quiet and 
 privacy of a Scotch parsonage. We were 
 married in her twentieth year ; and went to 
 reside at Bolton, near Haddington. 
 
 Her time was now much more at her 
 own command. Her taste for reading re- 
 turned in all its strength, and received ra- 
 ther a more methodical direction. Some 
 hours of every forenoon were devoted by 
 her to this employment ; and, in the even- 
 ing, I was in the habit of reading aloud to 
 her, books chiefly of criticism and Belles 
 Lettres. Among other subjects of her at- 
 tention, the philosophy of the human mind 
 became a favourite study with her, and she 
 read Dr Reid's works with uncommon 
 pleasure. She renewed her acquaintance 
 with our best historians. Her ear was pe- 
 culiarly gratified with the music of Dr 
 Robertson's style ; and she used often to 
 say, that she looked upon his account of 
 the first voyage of Columbus, as the most
 
 attractive and finished narrative which she 
 had ever perused. 
 
 She added a little German to her acqui- 
 sitions in language. 
 
 She repeatedly began, but as often relin- 
 quished, the study of mathematics. Where 
 the address to the intellect was direct and 
 pure, she was interested and successful. 
 But a single demonstration by means of 
 the reductio ad absurdum, or of applying 
 one figure to another in order to show 
 their identity, never failed to estrange her 
 for a long time from the subject. 
 
 Her reading was useful to her, rather as 
 strengthening her general habits of atten- 
 tion, than as leading to marked proficiency 
 in any one branch of study. Her memory, 
 not having been systematically cultivated 
 in early life, was less powerful than her 
 other faculties. She retained the substance 
 of what she read, less by remembering the 
 words of the author, than by thinking over 
 the subject for herself, with the aid of the 
 new lights which he had opened to her 
 mind.
 
 XI 
 
 I do not know that, during her resi- 
 dence in East Lothian, she wrote anything 
 beyond an ordinary letter. Even her let- 
 ters at this period were few. Indeed her 
 correspondents were always very limited 
 in number. To letter-writing, as either an 
 employment in itself, or as a recreation, 
 she had an utter dislike. 
 
 East Lothian, in general, is not distin- 
 guished for landscape beauty. But the si- 
 tuation of the Manse of Bolton is pretty, 
 and there is some fine scenery on the banks 
 of the stream which washes it. These 
 close and wooded banks formed a singular 
 contrast to the bare flats, and the magnifi- 
 cent sea-prospects of Orkney ; a contrast 
 which deepened the impression of both, 
 and helped to form that habit of obser- 
 ving the varieties and beauties of nature, 
 which afterwards became so marked a fea- 
 ture of her mind. She now taught herself 
 to draw ; sufficiently, at least, to sketch 
 with facility and truth any object or scene 
 which peculiarly pleased her. 
 
 Her various employments were never 
 allowed to interfere with each other. An
 
 XH 
 
 arrangement of her time was made ; to 
 which, as far as is possible for the mistress 
 of a family, she strictly adhered. 
 
 Two East Indian wards cf mine became 
 inmates of the family while we resided in 
 East Lothian. Her care of them was truly 
 maternal. She took a deep interest espe- 
 cially in their religious education ; and, in 
 instilling into them the principles of their 
 belief, she was led very carefully to re-exa- 
 mine her own. For this important work 
 she had greater facilities now, than she had 
 enjoyed at any former period ; and she ap- 
 plied herself to it with all her characteristic 
 ardour. Through the grace of God, it 
 gradually led her both to the " knowledge 
 and to the love of the truth as it is in Christ ;" 
 to that " anchor of the soul sure and sted- 
 fast," on which her hope leaned through 
 life, and was nobly sustained in the near 
 prospect of dissolution. The Shorter Cate- 
 chism of our Church was the form on which 
 she grounded her instructions to her young 
 pupils ; and while, with anxious and suc- 
 cessful assiduity, she accommodated its lan- 
 guage to their capacity, she never failed to
 
 Xlll 
 
 speak in warm admiration, of the vigour 
 and condensation of thought by which it 
 is very peculiarly distinguished. 
 
 Both in her own mind, and in the minds 
 of her pupils, she was anxious to make re- 
 ligion an active principle, to carry its in- 
 fluence habitually into life. It mingled 
 now with all her own pursuits. She sought 
 knowledge, not merely for the sake of the 
 pleasure which it bestowed, but from a 
 strong sense of duty. She loved nature, 
 not for its own beauty alone, but for the 
 traces with which it abounds of the wisdom 
 and the love of the Creator. Her religion 
 was not a religion of gloom. It shed bright- 
 ness and peace around her. It gladdened 
 the heart which it purified and exalted. 
 
 After six years, tranquilly and happily 
 spent in East Lothian, she accompanied 
 me to Edinburgh in Autumn 1803. In 
 the earliest letter of hers w r hich has come 
 into my possession, I find her thus regret- 
 ting her removal. The letter is addressed 
 to her mother.
 
 XIV 
 
 OCT. 6, 1802. 
 
 I heartily regret the loss of my little quiet resi- 
 dence, which many nameless circumstances have 
 endeared to me. But when I think that Mr B., 
 without any object in view, might sink into indo- 
 lence, live neglected, and die forgotten, I am 
 in part reconciled to a removal, which will make my 
 wants far more numerous, and my income (all 
 things considered) more scanty. And though I 
 shall never cease to regret Bolton, though I must 
 want many things which I here enjoy ; and, what 
 is worst of all, though I can no longer expect that 
 Mr B. will continue so much to be, as you truly 
 call him, my companion and instructor ; I think I 
 could endure any thing rather than see him, to 
 please me, consign himself with regret to solitude 
 and inaction. He is pleased with a change that gives 
 him something to hope for, (which here he never 
 could have had,) and I think I can reconcile myself 
 to any thing that gives him pleasure. * * * 
 
 I am engaged just now in reading a very large- 
 book, which entertains me more than any thing I 
 ever read before ; it is Froissarfs Chronicle. The 
 simplicity of the narrative, its minuteness, its dra- 
 matic effect if I may use the expression, make it 
 more interesting than most true histories, and more 
 amusing than most works of fiction. It places be- 
 fore one the speakers and the actors, living men 
 and women ; and their antique costume gives them
 
 XV 
 
 an air half-droll, half-pleasing. If the price of the 
 book did not place it beyond the reach of ordinary 
 purses, I should have besought you to buy it. 
 
 Hitherto she does not seem to have been 
 at all aware of the strength of her own 
 mind. Our circle of acquaintance was 
 small. Slie appeared among them scarcely 
 in any other light than as an active and 
 prudent young housewife ; who submitted, 
 with the most cheerful good-humour, to 
 the inconveniences of a narrow income ; but 
 who contrived, by method and taste, to join 
 comfort with some share of elegance in the 
 whole of her management. Few literary 
 people were within our reach. It w r as chief- 
 ly with me that she talked of what she had 
 read ; and, as some of the subjects were 
 new to her, she contracted, far more than 
 enough, the habit of speaking as a pupil. 
 
 It was otherwise in Edinburgh. Our 
 circle widened. She mingled more with 
 those whose talents and acquirements she 
 had respected at a distance. She found 
 herself able to take her share in their con-
 
 XVI 
 
 versation ; and, though nothing could be 
 farther from the tone of her mind than ei- 
 ther pedantry or dogmatism, she came by 
 degrees, instead of receiving opinions im- 
 plicitly, to examine those of others, and to 
 defend her own. There was a freshness 
 and originality in her way of managing 
 these little friendly controversies a play- 
 fulness in her wit a richness in her illus- 
 trations and an acuteness in her argu- 
 ments, which made her conversation attrac- 
 tive to the ablest. If they were not con- 
 vinced by her reasoning, they were grati- 
 fied by her ingenuity, and. by her unpre- 
 tending openness, 
 
 But the circumstance which, more than 
 any other beyond the range of her own do- 
 mestic intercourse, tended both to develope 
 her intellect, and to establish her character, 
 was an intimacy which she formed, soon 
 after her removal to Edinburgh, with a lady 
 in her immediate neighbourhood. They 
 were indeed so near, that it was easy for 
 them to be much together. They read to- 
 gether worked together and talked over, 
 
 with confidential freedom, their opinions, 
 
 8
 
 XV11 
 
 from minuter points to the most important 
 of all. In their leading views of human life 
 and human duty, they were fully agreed. 
 Hut whether they agreed, or whether they 
 differed, they benefited each other essen- 
 tially either mutually confirming each 
 other in the truth, or mutually leading each 
 other towards it. 
 
 This intercourse continued for about six 
 years, when it was interrupted by Mrs 
 Izett's removal from Edinburgh. But it 
 was not, and could not be suspended alto- 
 gether ; so far as letters could prolong it, 
 it was continued to the last, by the only 
 close and confidential correspondence, be- 
 yond the bounds of her own family, in 
 which Mary ever engaged. 
 
 In the literary pursuits which the^ car- 
 ried on together, there were occasional 
 blanks, caused by the avocations of either. 
 It was chiefly for the employment of ac- 
 cidental intervals of leisure, occasioned by 
 the more numerous engagements or her 
 friend, that Mrs Brunton began the wri- 
 ting of Self-Control. At first its .-mthor 
 had no design that it should meet tiie eye
 
 XV111 
 
 of the public. But as her manuscript swell- 
 ed, this design, half unconsciously, began 
 to mingle with her labours. Perhaps, too, 
 a circumstance which I remember to have 
 happened about this time, might have had 
 more weight than she was aware of in 
 prompting the attempt. She had often 
 urged me to undertake some literary work ; 
 and once she appealed to an intimate friend 
 who was present, whether he would not be 
 my publisher. He consented readily ; but 
 added, that he would, at least as willingly* 
 publish a book of her own writing. This 
 seemed, at the time, to strike her as some- 
 thing the possibility of which had never 
 occurred to her before ; and she asked more 
 than once, whether he was in earnest. 
 
 A considerable part of the first volume 
 of Self-Control was written before 1 knew 
 any thing of its existence. When she 
 brought it to me, my pleasure was cer- 
 tainly mingled with surprise. The beau- 
 ty and correctness of the style the acute- 
 ness of observation and the loftiness of 
 sentiment were, each of them in its way, 
 beyond what even I was prepared to ex-
 
 XIK 
 
 pect from her. Any encouragement which 
 my approbation could give her, (and she 
 valued it at far more than it was worth,) 
 she received in the fullest measure. 
 
 From this time forward she tasked her- 
 self to write a certain quantity every day. 
 The rule, of course, was often broken ; but 
 habit had taught her that a rule was useful. 
 Every evening she read to me what had 
 been written in the course of the day; and 
 when larger portions were completed, she 
 brought the manuscript to me for more accu- 
 rate examination. I then made, in writing, 
 such remarks as occurred to me ; and left it 
 to herself to decide upon them. Any lit- 
 tle alteration on what had been recently 
 written she was always willing to receive, 
 if she thought it an improvement. 15 ut 
 some changes which were suggested to her 
 upon the earlier parts of the story, she de- 
 clined adopting. She had what appeared 
 to me an undue apprehension of the trou- 
 ble which it might have cost her to assimi- 
 late the alterations to the remainder of the 
 narrative. But she had little hope, from 
 the first, of the story being very happily
 
 XX 
 
 combined ; and she was only the more un- 
 willing to aggravate, by any sudden changes, 
 the harshness of its construction. To its 
 moral usefulness she uniformly paid much 
 more regard than to its literary character. 
 
 In the autumn of 1809 the state of her 
 health made it desirable that we should 
 visit Harrogate. Her letters to her rela- 
 tions in Orkney give a lively picture of this 
 little tour. 
 
 TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 Nov. 21, 1809. 
 
 From Carlisle AVC took a different route to the 
 Lakes from that by which I formerly went with 
 you. We drove, through a country as flat as the 
 floor, to a little village called Wigton ; and from 
 thence to Keswick by a tremendous road ; but lead- 
 ing at last through the vale of Bassenthwaite, one of 
 the sweetest of all prairic.'i rittntcti. 
 
 The day which we spent at Keswick was the 
 finest possible not a breath of wind, and scarcely 
 a cloud on the sky. We sailed and wandered about 
 till it was quite dark. Great was my desire to take 
 up our rest there for a fortnight ; for in " the
 
 XXI 
 
 Grange" the sweet little hamlet at the mouth of 
 
 ~ > 
 
 Horodale, there wen- a parlour and bed-chamber to 
 be let furnished ! Dread Lowdore is the most plc- 
 turcftque waterfall I ever saw ; but no more to be 
 compared with Moness in magnificence, than a little 
 coquette, tricked out in gauze and gumflowers, with 
 the simple majesty of Milton's Eve. 
 
 We went, as formerly, by Amhleside to Kendal. 
 The Lakes are truly lovely, though not quite so 
 unparalleled as when last I saw them ; for I have 
 since seen Loch Lomond ; nor do I think they can 
 once l)e compared in sublimity with the approach 
 to Loch Katrine. 
 
 Did you ever see Kirkby Lonsdale ? It is the 
 most rural, pretty, interesting place imaginable. 
 It is a true English village English in its neat- 
 ness English in the handsomeness of its houses, 
 (Scotch handsome houses are seldom built in vil- 
 lages) and English, above all, in its church-yard 
 smooth as velvet green as emeralds clean, even 
 to the exclusion of a fallen leaf from one of the tall 
 trees that surround it ! From this church-vard, 
 situate on a high bank overhanging the river Loon, 
 you command a fine view of Lonsdnle, rising here 
 and there into gentle swells gay with woods and 
 villas. The river is not very English ; for it is a 
 rapid, lively, transparent stream not creeping slug- 
 gishlv through rich meadows, but dancing imilv to
 
 XX11 
 
 the sun. or dashing against tiny rocks into Lillipu- 
 tian waves. 
 
 Notts ro'/la at Harrogate ; and I believe there is 
 no place in Britain to which yon would not sooner 
 accompany us. One hundred and forty people dine 
 with us daily all dressed as fine as Punch's wife 
 in the puppet-show. Do but imagine the noise of 
 so many tongues the bouncing, banging, and dri- 
 ving of eighty waiting-men the smell of meat suf- 
 ficient, and more than sufficient, for a hundred and 
 
 forty cormorants and all this in the dog days ! ! ! 
 
 ^- -& % 
 
 Harrogate itself is a straggling village, built on 
 an ugly sandy common, surrounded with stunted 
 black Scotch firs the- only thing in shape of tree 
 or shrub that never can be an ornament to any pos- 
 sible place. From a hill above Harrogate, there i^ 
 a view of prodigious extent, over the richest and 
 largest plain which I have ever seen. York, which 
 is 22 miles distant, >eems nearer than the middle of 
 the landscape. Mrs I., who is an Englishwoman, 
 was in extacies. For my part, I must confess, 
 that I think a little rising ground, or even ;! moun- 
 tain, no bad feature in a landscape. A scene \sith- 
 out a hill seems to me to be about as inteix'-.tir.g a- 
 a face without a nose !
 
 XX11J 
 
 TO MUS CRAIGIE. 
 
 1810. 
 
 Studley Royal is truly a noble place. Besides 
 ii park of 1100 acres, adorned with timber of un- 
 equalled magnificence, there are 300 acres of plea- 
 sure ground, kept with a neatness of which I had 
 no previous idea. The lawns are as smooth, and as 
 equal in colour and texture, as green velvet ; and 
 though they, as well as the gravel-walks, are shaded 
 by lofty trees, and embellished with an endless va- 
 riety of flowering shrubs, not a fallen leaf not a twig 
 is suffered to derange their neatness. 
 
 The place is laid out in the old-fashioned style, 
 with circular pieces of water, statues, temples, cas- 
 cades flowing over flights of steps, and banks made 
 by rule and plummet. Nevertheless, the place is 
 not only beautiful, but magnificent ; the ground is 
 naturally swelling and varied ; the artificial river is 
 so large, that you forget it is the work of man ; the 
 temples, though a little out of place, are still beau- 
 tiful ; and the smooth shaven lawns show to great 
 
 o 
 
 advantage the dark majesty of the woods, that tower 
 over them sometimes to the height of 120 feet. 
 
 ~ 
 
 Hut, above all, Studley contains one charm which, 
 so far as I know, is altogether matchless the ruin.-
 
 XXIV 
 
 of Fountain's Abbey. This noble pile but how 
 can I describe it to you ? No words that I can use 
 will give any idea of its beauty, or of the effect 
 which it had upon me ! Sometimes the very recol- 
 lection of it fills my eyes with tears. I may convey 
 to you some notion of the magnitude of the build- 
 ing, by telling you that it still covers two acres of 
 ground, and that it once extended over ten ; but to 
 describe the effect of the whole is out of my power. 
 Imagine the huge folding-doors thrown open, to 
 usher you into a cathedral of prodigious extent. 
 The roof is gone. The noble pillars, of more than 
 Corinthian lightness, which once supported it, still 
 spread here and there into broken arches, twisted 
 with ivy ; which clothes, but does not conceal their 
 forms. Large trees, rising from the dismantled 
 court, mingle their giant arms with the towers. 
 The windows but \\liy should I attempt an impos- 
 sibility ? I protest I will never again try to give 
 an idea of Fountain's Abbey ! To crown all, I had 
 scarcely heard the place mentioned, and had never 
 read anv account of it ; so that it burst upon me at 
 once in all its glory. 
 
 My companion, who is an Englishwoman, main- 
 tained a long dispute with me on the comparative 
 merits of Studley and Dunkeld ; she, of course, 
 preferring the beauties of her own country, and I, 
 as m duty hound, upholding the honour of mine. 
 The \\oods of Dunkeld are almost equal in magm-
 
 XXV 
 
 ficcncc. The river is superior ; as all the works of 
 its mighty Maker are to those of man. The moun- 
 tains of Dunkeld are incomparable ; hut I confess 
 that Scotland lias no Fountain's Abbey. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 According to the different styles which prevailed 
 at the different times when York Minster was rear- 
 ing, it exhibits every variety of Gothic architec- 
 ture. The whole, notwithstanding its sublime ex- 
 tent, has an air of astonishing lightness and grace. 
 * * 
 
 I could not help smiling at the insignificance to 
 which the human form was reduced, as it stood com- 
 pared with the gigantic features of this building. 
 Stone saints, as large as Mr B., furnished Lillipu- 
 tian ornaments for some of the screens. 
 
 We were so fortunate as to be there at the hour 
 of evening prayer, and heard the evening-service 
 chaunted. If I might with reverence say, that any 
 earthly worship was suitable to its object, I should 
 say, that the service at York was not unworthy of 
 Him, in so far as man could make it so, except in 
 one point. In this vast temple, echoing to music 
 which m in-lit well be called heavenly, none but hire-
 
 XXVI 
 
 lings came to worship ; excepting the paid singers, 
 there were not six persons present. To this struc- 
 ture belong priests of all ranks clerks, singing-men 
 and singing boys. A superb establishment is kept 
 up. Nothing is wanting to the service, except what 
 the Lord of Hosts prefers to every temple humble 
 and devout hearts. 
 
 I staid there nearly two hours, and came away 
 long before I was satisfied with ga/ing. As for 
 poor Mr B., he is gone York-Minster-mad. 
 
 The next day's journey lay through a pretty smi- 
 ling country: with much more appearance, and much 
 less reality of richness than East Lothian. This 
 apparent richness is caused by the innumerable 
 hedge-rows. I verily think there is not a field of 
 twenty acres in the whole " North Hiding." I 
 saw hundreds of the size of your garden, inclosed 
 with double hedges. These are a great ornament 
 to the country. Indeed, it is so flat, that it would 
 be quite ugly without them. Hut the ground can- 
 not be very productive, where the owners waste so 
 much of it on fences. In the richest part of East 
 Lothian, not a hedge is to be seen. 
 
 There is not much corn in this part of Yorkshire, 
 and still less sown grass. It is a grazing country ; 
 meadow-grass seems the chief object of the farmer. 
 By the bye, its verdure is infinitely finer than that 
 of sown grass, and this is another cause of the smi- 
 linii 1 air of the lields.
 
 XXV11 
 
 On entering Durham every tiling changes. The 
 country becomes bare and hilly a doleful strife 
 between English dullness and Scotch sterility I- 
 Every coal country that ever I saw is dreary ; as it' 
 it were intended that com tort should be cheap within 
 doors, where there is nothing to invite one abroad. 
 
 As you approach the Border, the Scotch farm- 
 ing begins to prevail. Large fields of turnip and 
 clover few hedges trees only planted in clumps, 
 where little else will grow. The country on the 
 English side is far from being pretty. Indeed, by 
 whatever road you enter Scotland, it gains bv com- 
 parison for the first stage. We crossed the Tweed 
 by a beautiful bridge at Coldstream ; and, to con- 
 fess the truth, mv heart leapt lightly as I drew in 
 the breath of my native land. We Scotch folks 
 shook hands very heartily, and declared that we had 
 seen no such river in England ; nor any vale like 
 that in which its waters were glancing bright " to 
 
 the sun." turned a mournful eye towards 
 
 her own country ; but at Kelso, where first we 
 alighted, even she confessed that no English town 
 could boast a finer situation. It stands at the junc- 
 tion of the Tweed and the Teviot. Both are fine, 
 streams, and flow here through a lovely country, 
 rising into sunny slopes, or shelving into woody 
 dells, or sinking into rich meadows. The Eildon 
 hills tower at a distance, and are highly ornamental 
 o every scene of which they form a feature. * *
 
 XXV111 
 
 The road to Edinburgh lies through the Lam- 
 
 c"> O 
 
 mermuir range of hills. For miles, little but heath 
 meets your eye. At last, without any warning, on 
 reaching the ridge of Soutra, all the rich Lothians 
 burst on your sight, spread like a map at your feet ! 
 Edinburgh towers with its rocks in the middle, and 
 the majestic Forth widens slowly into a sea. I have 
 often gazed on this prospect, yet still it strikes me 
 as the most magnificent which I have seen. It is 
 unrivalled in extent, richness, and variety ; and 
 though I think closer scenes are more interesting, 
 this, I am persuaded, no one can look on without 
 pleasure. 
 
 But no pleasure, which mere beauty can give, 
 ever equalled that which I felt at this first distant 
 glimpse of my home my home, to which, where- 
 ever I travel, I always return as to the arms of a 
 friend ! Have we not reason to bless the goodness 
 which has so ordained that many a home, possessing 
 no other charm, yet charms us, because it ?'.? our 
 home. But mine has many, many comforts. If I 
 could share them with you, and two or three other 
 persons dear to me, it would want none to make it 
 complete to me. This cannot be ! But I trust we 
 shall meet in a home, which will, indeed, be com- 
 plete to us all ; and who knows whether our pro- 
 pensity to Jove thr place with which we are fami- 
 liar, may not be one means of endearing to us that 
 better home throughout eternal ages.
 
 XXIX 
 
 In September 1810, it became necessary 
 that Self-Control should go to press, if it 
 was to appear during the favourable part 
 of the next season. A very considerable 
 part of it at that time remained to be writ- 
 ten ; the imperfect idea which she had 
 formed to herself of its construction made 
 it doubtful how much. But she expressed 
 no hesitation in allowing the printing to 
 begin. The necessity of finishing her 
 work within a certain time, served rather 
 to animate than alarm her; and, what- 
 ever may be thought of the probability or 
 of the skilfulness of the concluding part 
 of the narrative, there can be no doubt of 
 its eloquence. Indeed, throughout the 
 whole, whatever was written most rapidly, 
 was the best written. It was only when 
 she was dissatisfied with what she was 
 doing, or when she was uncertain of what 
 was to follow, that she wrote with diffi- 
 culty. It is only in such passages that 
 there is interlineation or blotting in the
 
 XXX 
 
 manuscript. The work was printed from 
 the first copy. 
 
 Some striking indications of the state of 
 her mind during its composition may be 
 gathered from the following letters to Mrs 
 Tzett. 
 
 AMIIL 10, 1810. 
 
 It is even so ! You are sixty miles distant from 
 Edinburgh, and I have lost what probably no time 
 will restore to me ; that " medicine of life," which it 
 is promised that they shall find who have received 
 a title to yet higher rewards. Since you left me I. 
 have a hundred times determined to write. I need 
 not assure you that forgetfulncss has had no share 
 in my silence. Levity itself would not forget a 
 friend (if levity could have a friend,) in one month 
 " one little month f I am reminded of vou by 
 all my business and all my pleasures; for winch 
 of my pleasures did not you heighten and in what 
 branch of duty did not you stimulate me? But ail 
 that is over ! and I can only repent that I did not 
 better use what might have been so eminently use- 
 ful. 
 
 I thank you heartily for your account of your 
 rambles at Kinnaird uould that I were the com- 
 panion of them ! In return, you shall learn my me-
 
 XXXI 
 
 thodical routine. I write part of every forenoon, 
 and walk for an hour or two before dinner. I lounge 
 over the fire with a book, or I sew and chat, all the 
 evening. 
 
 Your friend I. aura proceeds with a slow but re- 
 gular pace ; a short step every day no more ! She 
 has advanced sixty paces, alias pages, since you left 
 her. She is at present very comfortably situate, if 
 the foolish thing had the sense to think so; she is 
 on a visit to Norwood, where she is to remain for a 
 a few days ; and a very snug old-fashioned place it 
 is ! Though it should never be laid open to the 
 public at large, you shall see the interior of it one 
 day or other. 
 
 Last Thursday I paid a visit to a very different 
 habitation our chateau at St Leonards; though 
 nothing has as yet the least tinge of green, it did 
 not look very ill. It is as gay as ten thousand pur- 
 ple crocusses, and twice as many yellow ones can 
 make it. I shall soon grow impatient to take pos- 
 session, and, if we can manage it, I believe we shall 
 revert to our old plan of going there early ; if not, 
 I must just console myself with my friend Laura in 
 Edinburgh. I wish I saw the end of her ; but 
 " wilds immeasureably spread seem lengthening as 
 I go." 
 
 If ever I undertake another lady, I will manage 
 her in a very different manner. Laura is so de- 
 cently kerchiefed, like our grandmothers, that to
 
 XXX11 
 
 dress her is a work of time and pains. Her younger 
 sister, if she ever have one, shall wear loose, float- 
 ing, easy robes, that will slip on in a minute. * * 
 
 As for ""s new production, I believe I never 
 
 shall have any personal acquaintance with it. It is 
 an " Historical Romance" a sort of composition to 
 which I have a strong dislike. Fiction disguises 
 the simplicity, and destroys the usefulness of the 
 true history ; and the recollection of the true history 
 deprives me of all interest in the fiction. Besides, 
 
 the foundation of "s tale is a history as well 
 
 known as that of the deluge ; and she professes to ad- 
 here closely to truth, only dramatizing a little. Now, 
 this " dramatizing" 1 is an undertaking too arduous 
 for mortals. Shakespeare himself has, in some degree, 
 failed in it ; his historical plays are, indeed, the most 
 amusing of histories ; perhaps, as far as mere cha- 
 racter is concerned, the most jkiififul. But he is 
 sadly encumbered with the facts ; and no part what- 
 ever of the interest of these plays arises from tilt- 
 plot ; so, at least, it appears to me. Now and 
 
 all other Misses, must pardon me, if I think that la- 
 dies are more likely to make their works interesting 
 by well imagined incident, than by masterly deline- 
 ation of character. Ladies have, indeed, succeeded 
 in delineating real life ; a very few of them have 
 done so ; but it has been rather in pictures of man- 
 ners than of character. But has slender ma- 
 terials for a picture of manners ; and let your theory 
 
 I' 2
 
 XXX111 
 
 of female genius forgive me for doubting her power 
 of giving interest to a story, the catastrophe ot 
 which is not to IK? forgotten. * * * 
 
 We old i'olks make friends slowly so slowly, 
 that I believe life will be too short to furnish me 
 with another such as you ; therefore I value you 
 accordingly. I hope we shall be near neighbours 
 in another world ; or, that if your place be, as it 
 well may, a higher one than mine, you will not be 
 forbidden to visit the meaner mansions of our Fa- 
 ther's house. * * 
 
 I am going to visit the woman that is come to 
 No. 6. I believe I shall hate her ; yet they say 
 she is a pleasant person enough. If she sits in the 
 same place where you used to work, I think I shall 
 beat her. They say narrow-minded people always 
 hate their successors ; I must be the most illiberal 
 of all creatures, for I hate the successors of my 
 friends. * * You see my paper is clone so, of 
 course, is my letter. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 ST LEONARDS, AUG. 30, ISlO. 
 If I have not answered your two letters, blame 
 aot me, who had all the will iu the world to do so, 
 C
 
 XXXIV 
 
 nor Mr B., who has teazed me every day to write 
 to you. Blame your dear friend and favourite, 
 Montague de Courcy of Norwood, Esq., for he has 
 been wholly and solely in fault. He has been ma- 
 king love so energetically, that I had not the heart 
 to leave him in the middle of his flames ; more es- 
 pecially, as he has been interrupted by a score of 
 troublesome visitors breaking in upon his privacy. 
 To say the truth, I have been far more compassion- 
 ate towards him than she who ought to have been 
 the most deeply interested. She has not only given 
 him his conge, but has barbarously left him, in a 
 cold October evening, standing under a tree in his 
 own avenue. There he has stood since last night ; 
 there he must stand all to-day, for to-day I write to 
 you ; all to-morrow, for to-morrow I go to town ; 
 and all Thursday, for I do not return till then. 
 The thirtieth chapter is closed, and I mean that six 
 more should bring all things to their proper issue. 
 If I write every day, and all day, that may be done 
 in fifty days. But I find that in one way and an- 
 other, half my time is abstracted from my business, 
 as I now begin to consider this affair, at first begun 
 for pastime ! Besides, I must take more exercise, if 
 I would not be sick ; and must sew more, if I would 
 not be ragged. 
 
 I admit not an iota of what you are so polite to 
 Mr M., as to call his reasoning ; I must be allowed 
 to call it wplmtry, since it was at best only a just
 
 XXXV 
 
 conclusion upon wrong premises. Selfish we should 
 indeed be, if we rejoiced in the prosperity of our 
 friends merely because it promotes our own happi- 
 ness. But the question remains, " Why does it 
 promote our happiness, while we expect from it no 
 personal advantage ?" Why, but because we are not 
 selh'sh ? Why, but because an unvitiated mind has 
 a faculty for enjoying pleasure, which acts antece- 
 dently to any interested consideration ? This faculty 
 you have, I believe, in full perfection ; give it free 
 exercise. It is the noblest of your faculties ; that 
 which assimilates you the most to Him, who, with- 
 out needing any creature, being all-sufficient for his 
 own blessedness, yet willeth the happiness of every 
 thing that lives. They who ascribe all kindly feel- 
 ings to selfishness, would blot out the last faint trace 
 of the image in which man was made would de- 
 stroy the last wreck of the crown which has fallen 
 from our head. 
 
 But as for the subject which led you to metaphy- 
 sics, I believe it will be for your advantage to make 
 it an exception from your general habits of sympa- 
 thy ; since I believe it is likely to lead you into more 
 of pain than of pleasure. The " love," the " admi- 
 ration,'" the " esteem," which you anticipate for 
 your friend, she will never obtain unless in your 
 imagination. My hopes of popular favour are low 
 very low indeed. Of a work like mine, the wise 
 and the good will not be at the trouble to judge.
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Its faults arc not such as will recommend it to the 
 vulgar. It may become popular, for that is a mere 
 lottery. If it do, be assured, my dear friend, its 
 faults, of which it has many, will draw down the 
 censure of those who are, or who think themselves 
 entitled to decide for their neighbours. Now, will 
 not one bitter sarcasm on it, much more on its au- 
 thor, give you more real vexation than the praise of 
 nine-tenths of novel readers will give you pleasure ? 
 I judge by myself, for, while I have little pleasure 
 in praise, I am on many subjects keenly alive to 
 censure. Many a person less generally vain than I, 
 has felt all the touchy vanity of authorship. 
 
 But I am positive that no part no, not the small- 
 est part of my happiness can ever arise from the 
 popularity of my book, further than as I think it 
 may be useful. I would rather, as you well know, 
 glide through the world unknown, than have (I will 
 not call it enjoy) fame, however brilliant. To be 
 pointed at to be noticed and commented upon 
 to be suspected of literary airs to be shunned, as 
 literary women are, by the more unpretending of 
 my own sex ; and abhorred, as literary women are, 
 by the more pretending of the other ! My dear, I 
 would sooner exhibit as a rope-dancer I would a 
 great deal rather take up my abode by that lone 
 loch on the hill, to which Mr I. carried my husband 
 on the day when the mosquitoes were so victorious 
 against him.
 
 xxxvu 
 
 All these things considered, pray transfer your 
 .sympathy to some other eircumstanee of my lot. 
 Rejoice with me that I have the finest pease and 
 cauliflower in Scotland ; and, moreover, the most 
 beautiful apple tree that can be seen. * * * 
 
 You say you expect that I should tell you your 
 faults. With all my heart ! I will tell you two in 
 a breath. In the first place, you are far too san- 
 guine in expecting strange good fortune to befal 
 your friends. You not only look for roses in the 
 wilderness, but roses without thorns. Take my 
 word for it, you may have, if you chuse, the thorns 
 without the roses ; but the converse will never do. 
 The next fault and a sad one it is is, that you 
 constantly refer to my letters, as if I should remem- 
 ber w r hat I write. Now, I protest that I retain no 
 mqre recollection of any letter I have written you 
 since you went to Kinnaird, than I do of the cere- 
 monies of my baptism. So, if you think it neces- 
 sary to answer categorically, you must tell me my 
 observation as well as your reply. * * 
 
 This letter-writing is but a poor affair after all. 
 It carries on just such a conversation as we should 
 do, if you were not to answer me till I had forgotten 
 what I had said ; turning your back to me too all 
 the while you were speaking. A triste enough con-- 
 fab, you will allow ! * * *
 
 XXXV111 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 OCT. 4, 1810. 
 
 I write to-day, not because I am in your debt, 
 for you know you owe me a letter as long as your- 
 self; but purely to tell you that you must not ex- 
 pect to hear from me for three months to come ! 
 Ay ' stare if you please but do not presume to 
 challenge mine award for, know, that I am one of 
 the republic of letters. People are always great upon 
 new dignities ; and truly mine are new enough. 
 This is the first day of them ; this day the first page 
 of fair print was presented to my eyes, and they are 
 to be feasted with four sheets a- week, for three or 
 four months to come. * * 
 
 You know, my dear friend, what is alone neces- 
 sary to make the feeblest undertakings prosper. 
 Join with me, in begging for all my undertakings 
 that blessing, which in itself is the only true riches, 
 and which bringeth no sorrow with it. If " two of 
 us shall agree touching any thing which we shall 
 ask," we have a promise that it shall be granted. 
 Ask with me that our Master may make this little 
 work of mine the mean instrument of His glory, by 
 promoting virtue, if it be but in one heart. Ask for
 
 XXXIX 
 
 me, too, that the skis attending its execution may be 
 pardoned ; and that I may neither be elated by its 
 success, nor fretted by it.s failure ! 
 
 Its failure ! the very thought makes my flesh 
 creep ! I cannot express to you what a fellow feel- 
 ing I have now with the poor wretches, whose works 
 fall dead from the press. Well well by the end 
 of February, or beginning of March, my rank in 
 the scale of literary being, will be determined by a 
 sentence from which there is no appeal. A hundred 
 things may happen ere then, which will make that 
 sentence of as small avail to me, as the forms of the 
 clouds that pass over me. * * 
 
 Acknowledge this as SiJ'idl-grown letter ; and ex- 
 cuse the blank, for the sake of the new and disas- 
 trous situation of your very affectionate, 
 
 M. B. 
 
 The book was dedicated to Miss Joanna 
 Baillie ; who acknowledged the anony- 
 mous compliment by a letter to the pub- 
 lishers. Mrs Brunton replied in her own 
 name ; and her answer to Miss Baillie's 
 letter in return, contains a very open-heart- 
 ed statement of her motives for engaging
 
 xl 
 
 in the work, and of the manner in which it 
 was written. 
 
 TO MISS JOAXNA BAILLIE. 
 
 MARCH, 1811, 
 MY DEAR MADAM, 
 
 No circumstance connected with the publication 
 of Self-Control, has given me half so much pleasure 
 as your very obliging letter so kind so natural 
 so different from some of the pompous strictures, 
 and bombastical praises which have been volunteer- 
 ed on the same occasion ! I thank you most heartily 
 and sincerely. 
 
 I should have done so much sooner, but that I 
 wished to tell you how far I found it possible to 
 make immediate use of your criticisms. The bene- 
 fit which I may derive from them in another work, 
 is an after consideration. At present, I am endea- 
 vouring to apply them to the second edition of Self- 
 Control, which goes to press next week. 
 
 I am sorry and half-ashamed, however, to tell 
 
 you, that, though my judgment acquiesces in most 
 
 of your objections, I have found it impracticable to 
 
 remove them. The faulty passages are so connect- 
 
 10
 
 xli 
 
 eel, either in truth or in my fancy, with the texture 
 of my story, that I am, or, at least, sincerely think 
 myself unable to alter them. Laura, I i'ear, must 
 continue obstinate ; or what would become of the se- 
 cond volume ? Pray suffer me to defend another im- 
 portant hinge of my very ill jointed machine our 
 Scotch proficiency in painting. The Fourth Edin- 
 burgh Exhibition will open in a few days, for the 
 conviction of all sceptics. 
 
 You have made your very censures flattering to 
 me ; lor I cannot help being pleased when my judg- 
 ment happens to accord with yours, even though it 
 be somewhat against my book. I have always j'dt 
 that Lady Pelham was a little tedious ; I am not at. 
 all surprised that you feel it too. Many will feel it 
 who would not have had the candour to express 
 their sentiments to me ; and few, indeed, would 
 have given that opinion in terms so gentle allow 
 me to say, so friendly as your's. I have endeavour- 
 ed to curtail her ladyship's chiding* a little ; and 
 would have gone much further upon your sugges- 
 tion, if I could have found any more passages that 
 could be disjoined. I wish most sincerely it had 
 been in my power to make every correction you 
 suggest. 
 
 I have no intention of excusing the faults of my 
 book to you, but, if you can have patience with so 
 much egotism, I can account for them naturally 
 enough. Till I began Self-Control, I had never in
 
 xlii 
 
 my life written any thing but a letter or a recipe, 
 excepting a few hundreds of vile rhymes, from 
 which I desisted by the time I had gained the wis- 
 dom of fifteen years ; therefore I was so ignorant 
 of the art on which I was entering, that I formed 
 scarcely any plan for my tale. I merely intended 
 to shew the power of the religious principle in be- 
 stowing self-command; and to bear testimony against 
 a maxim as immoral as indelicate, that a reformed 
 rake makes the best husband. For the rest, I was 
 guided by the fancy of the. hour, " Me laissant al- 
 ler doucement, selon la bonne loi naturelle. r> The 
 incidents were inserted as they happened to occur 
 to my mind, and were joined in the best way I 
 could to those that went before and after. 
 
 The thing was not meant at first to see the light ; 
 nor would it ever have done so, if I had not thought, 
 the time it came to cost me too much to be spent 
 in mere unprofitable amusement. I cannot help 
 laughing, when I recollect the glowing face and op- 
 pressed breathing with which I read the first chap- 
 ters to my husband ; making, in order to please 
 him, a strong effort against my reluctance to the 
 task. Indeed, the book was far advanced before 
 even he saw it. Now, I can hear it censured by 
 many with very little emotion, and praised by others 
 with far less. Any thing like approbation from you 
 has elevated me to a convenient height above com- 
 mon praise or censure.
 
 xliii 
 
 Mr B. is delighted that you approve of the story 
 of poor Jessie Wilson, which has always been his 
 favourite part of the book ; and I am no less grati- 
 fied that you praise the American expedition, which 
 is in equal favour with me. Both incidents have 
 shared the fate of the book itself; being reprobated 
 by some, and applauded by others of the literary 
 authorities here. Upon the whole, however, my 
 success has very far exceeded what I ventured to ex- 
 pect. Edinburgh is ready for the second edition long 
 ago ; but I have not heard whether we are equally 
 fortunate in London. L. and R. are too busy to 
 recollect a concern which is not quite so important 
 to them as to me. 
 
 There is no exaggeration in the state- 
 ment which this letter gives of her feelings 
 after the book was actually published. The 
 secret for a little time was well kept ; and 
 she had frequent opportunities of hearing 
 her work commented upon. Censure sel- 
 dom discomposed her ; but she was some- 
 times apt to lose patience when indiscrimi- 
 nate praise was given.
 
 xliv 
 
 It bad not been published above a month 
 when a second edition was called for. Many 
 alterations were suggested to her by those 
 to whom her connection with the book was 
 acknowledged. She felt herself at liberty to 
 avail herself of few of these. Her reasons 
 were, partly apprehension of the trouble 
 which the admission of any one change 
 might have caused her in adapting to it 
 other parts of the narrative ; but, still more, 
 some peculiar notions concerning the re- 
 sponsibility of an author ; which she stated 
 in the preface to the second edition, and 
 which, though rather sneered at in one of 
 the journals in which her work was review- 
 ed, were very honestly her sentiments. 
 
 A curious and interesting exhibition of 
 her own feelings in regard to the success of 
 the book, and of her own opinion in regard 
 to its defects, is made in the following let- 
 ters to Mrs Izett.
 
 xlv 
 
 FKB. 20, 1811. 
 
 It has come out, the evil spirit knows how, that 
 I am the author of Self-Control. The report meets 
 us at every turn ; and is now so strong, that our 
 only way is to turn it off, without either confessing 
 or denying. Of course, all the excellencies of the 
 book are attributed to Mr B., while I am left to 
 answer for all its defects. The report has gathered 
 strength from the imprudent zeal of M. S. ; who, ex- 
 asperated by hearing her own sex deprived of any 
 little credit it might have done them, averred, in 
 the heat of her indignation, that " to her certain 
 knoivli'dfre Mr B. had never written a line of it." 
 
 o 
 
 The inference was clear she knew who had. Thus, 
 her authority is added to a report, which, I say 
 again, arose the evil spirit knows how ; for I war- 
 rant he is at the bottom of any thing so torment- 
 ing. 
 
 This is my bad news ; and bad enough, though 
 not quite so bad in reality, as it was in anticipation. 
 Perhaps it may die away again. If not there is no 
 help. I must only creep a little closer into my 
 shell ; and shrink, if possible, a little more from the 
 public eye. 
 
 Now for my good news. And, first, for the best, 
 my highly respected, excellent friend, W , tin-
 
 xlvi 
 
 willing, industrious, and successful disciple of the 
 Master, whose unprofitable servant I am, gives the 
 book his unqualified approbation ; and, what I va- 
 lue a thousand times more than all the flattering 
 things which have been said, or can be said, of its 
 style and imagery, he says it will be useful. 
 
 Next, Mr Miller states the sale to be unexampled 
 here. In five days 240 went out of the hands of the 
 publishers. The remainder of the edition are sent to 
 London. How it may do there remains to be seen. 
 Here, it is very much indebted for its success to the 
 attention and friendship of the publishers. * * 
 
 Let me hear from you according to my last injunc- 
 tions. Be very minute, if you wish to be useful to me. 
 I am sure I need say no more. If I could acquit 
 you of partiality, I might find a pleasure of the same 
 sort in your approbation as in W/s. But he knew 
 nothing of the author. 
 
 I have heard a great many fine speeches about 
 the book ; but truly my memory is rather short on 
 that subject. Per conira " The first sentence of 
 the dedication is nonsensical and affected." 1 Non- 
 sense it may be ; but I stoutly deny the affectation. 
 Moreover, " the author must be Scotch, for there 
 are two Scotticisms in the book." 1 It has a great 
 many other faults ; but I forget them now. *
 
 xlvii 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 APRIL 19, 1811. 
 
 I ought to have thanked you an age ago (speak- 
 ing with feminine hyperbole) for your very kind, 
 very satisfactory letter. Vague praise or censure, 
 even from you, would have brought me neither 
 pleasure nor profit ; but, when you descend to par- 
 ticulars, you are useful ; and in general agreeable to 
 me. 
 
 You would be astonished, if you saw how com- 
 posedly your thin-xliiiincd friend now hears both 
 praise and censure. I protest I am often astonish- 
 ed at it myself. It is quite unaccountable from 
 any part of the constitution of my own mind, with 
 which I am acquainted. If I could believe myself 
 to be so conceited, I might call it a saucy feeling of 
 superiority to the generality of my critics ; but it 
 would not be pleasant to think myself so destitute 
 of decent humility. 
 
 Now that you have told me what you think de- 
 fective in Self-Control, I shall, without reservation, 
 acquaint you with all the faults (so far as I recol- 
 lect them) with which it has been charged by others ; 
 and shall even candidlv confess those which strike
 
 xlviii 
 
 myself. To begin with the latter, which, of course, 
 appear to me to have most, foundation ; I think the 
 story of Self-Control is defective it is disjointed 
 it wants unity. The incidents, particularly in the 
 second volume,* have little mutual connection. 
 This appears to me the capital defect of the book. 
 It is patch-work the shreds are pretty, and some- 
 times rich ; but the joining is clumsily visible. 
 You, who know how the thing was put together, 
 will easily account for this blemish ; but I doubt 
 neither you nor I can now excuse or mend it. The 
 American expedition, too, though, in the authors 
 opinion, the best written part of the book, is more 
 conspicuously a. patch, than any thing else which it 
 contains. Though I do not see the outrageous im- 
 probability with which it has been charged, I con- 
 fess that it does not harmonize with the sober co- 
 louring of the rest. We have all heard of a " pea- 
 cock with a fiery tail ;"" but my American jaunt is 
 this same monstrous appendage tacked to a poor 
 little grey linnet. 
 
 In the middle of the second volume the story lags. 
 An author of more experience would have brought 
 out the characters without such an awful pause in 
 incident. An author of more invention would have 
 contrived incidents to serve that very purpose, as 
 
 The first edition was in tiro larsc volumes.
 
 xlix 
 
 well as to fill up agreeably the necessary time be- 
 tween the close of the first love, and the triumph of 
 the second. 
 
 I confess to you, that these are the only great 
 faults in Self-Control to which my conscience pleads 
 guilty ; but they are far from being the only ones 
 of which I am accused. 
 
 One, I am sure, will astonish you, as, I am sure, 
 it did me. It is alleged, that no virtuous woman 
 could continue to love a man who makes such a 
 debut as Hargrave. All I say is, that I wish all 
 the affections of virtuous persons Avere so very obe- 
 dient to reason. As to the faults found with the 
 incidents, they are at least four times as numerous 
 as the incidents themselves. " Hargrave bursts 
 upon you too abruptly/ 1 " Laura should have been 
 more confidential to Mrs Douglas." " Her profi- 
 ciency in painting is improbable." " The curricle- 
 ad venture is trivial." " There is too much of Lady 
 1'elham." " The second volume is dull." " Laura 
 should, at all events, have found means to get rid 
 of Hargrave." " De Courcy's Jong unsuccessful 
 passion degrades him into a tame despicable being." 
 " The arrest is clumsy, improbable, and tedious." 
 " Jessie Wilson is coarse and indelicate." Above 
 all, " The American story is tasteless, extravagant, 
 and altogether flat, stale, and unprofitable." 
 
 Nevertheless, the book is both read and bought. 
 In spite of all these faults, and a hundred more. 
 (1
 
 1 
 
 (many of them contradictory), there is not a copy 
 to be had either in Edinburgh or in London. 
 
 I finished the corrections for the second edition 
 last night and now, what shall I do next ? You 
 know I have no great enjoyment in idleness. 
 
 Meanwhile, the hurrying of that vile book into 
 the world has put all my necessarv and appropriate 
 employments far behind. I have letters to write 
 books to read presses to put in order wine to 
 bottle gowns to make and all manner of house- 
 hold linen and wearing apparel to mend. To-day 
 I have eleven people to dine with me, for which im- 
 portant event I must go and prepare. So it is 
 lucky that my paper is full. 
 
 She had at all times great pleasure in 
 travelling ; and after her book had been 
 
 O 7 
 
 prepared for the second and third editions, 
 we visited England in 18 J 2. 
 
 This was her first visit to London ; and 
 it was very interesting to trace the impres- 
 sion made upon her mind by that world of 
 wonders. 
 
 The pleasure which she anticipated in
 
 the journey, she thus states in a letter to 
 her sister-in-law. 
 
 TO MRS BALFOUR. 
 
 MARCH 21, 1812. 
 
 The beginning of this month was delightful, and 
 the hedges were just going to burst into leaf; when, 
 behold, this week we have snow a foot thick, and 
 to-day it is again falling without intermission, ac- 
 companied by a tremendous gale. It is well for 
 those, who, like you and me, have comfortable 
 homes, and affectionate inmates of them. Let it 
 snow on now, and so perhaps we may escape it 
 in April, when it would spoil all the fruit crops at 
 St Leonards, and kill all the lambs in Elgar Holm. 
 I hope, too, that it may serve instead of the May 
 fogs, which would dismally eclipse my views in tra- 
 velling to London. 
 
 You would smile if you knew how much I am 
 bent on this journey, and, perhaps, with some latent 
 self-complacency, you would say, " Well, well, I 
 would not give the sight of little Thomas fondling 
 his sister for all the wo-hts in London." 1 But con-
 
 lii 
 
 sider, my dear, that I have no Maries nor Thomases. 
 When I leave home, I carry all that makes the soul 
 of home with me ; I leave nothing behind but walls 
 and furniture ; and when I return, I bring back 
 materials for enlivening my fire-side. 
 
 To tell the truth, I believe nobody was ever bet- 
 ter formed for enjoying life than I, saving and ex- 
 cepting in the construction of an abominable stomach ; 
 for I delight in travelling, yet can be happy at 
 home. I enjoy company, yet prefer retirement. I 
 can look with rapture on the glorious features of 
 nature the dark lake the rugged mountain the 
 roaring cataract yet can gaze with no small plea- 
 sure on the contents of a haberdasher's window. 
 * # 
 
 May God grant that, as long as I have friends, I 
 may have a heart to love them ; that I may never 
 be loose from the sacred charities of kindred, nor 
 stand alone in a world peopled with my brethren. 
 I trust I shall always love you all, and I hope I 
 shall always have a little corner in all your hearts. 
 I particularize " you,'' lest you should fancy that 
 " all" 1 meant all my brethren of mankind. Now, I 
 should wish to love them all, to be sure ; but truly, 
 I have no great hopes. Yet I think I would will- 
 ingly serve any one, provided I were allowed to tell 
 him plainly and roundly that I thought him a rogue 
 or a fool, if that happened to be my opinion for the 
 time.
 
 liii 
 
 Some extracts from her Journal of this 
 tour, and of a subsequent one in 1815, will 
 he found in the following volume. 
 
 These extracts in themselves will not, I 
 hope, be found to be devoid of interest. 
 IS ut the principal purpose for which they 
 are introduced, is to illustrate the general 
 habits of the writer's mind. They exhibit. 
 I think, not only a discriminating love of 
 landscape scenery, but an intelligent obser- 
 vation of the works of art ; a patient inves- 
 tigation of subjects which might not have 
 been supposed very likely to attract her ; 
 and a facility of expressing, in brief and per- 
 spicuous language, the new ideas which she 
 had acquired. 
 
 The Journal was written in the most hur- 
 ried and desultory manner, often noted 
 down in the parlour of an inn at night after 
 a fatiguing journey. It was written mere- 
 ly for the purpose of reviving her own re- 
 collections. For this was one great source 
 of her pleasure in travelling ; the occupa-
 
 liv 
 
 tion not only engrossed and delighted her 
 while it lasted, but she had equal satisfac- 
 tion in looking back upon it, and in talking 
 over with those to whom she could com- 
 municate her feelings freely, the new im- 
 pressions which she had received, and the 
 new lights which had reached her. 
 
 During her residence in London she was 
 seized with an aguish ailment, which, as 
 she herself states in the Journal, most essen- 
 tially diminished her pleasure for the time ; 
 and which, by subsequent attacks, injured 
 materially both her health and her spirits. 
 
 On her return to Edinburgh, she began 
 again to think of literary employment, It 
 was some time before she could fix on a 
 subject. Various themes either presented 
 themselves to her own mind, or were sug- 
 gested to her notice, without meeting her 
 full approbation ; till it occurred to me 
 that it might be interesting to continue the 
 plan which her former novel had begun ; 
 and to shew the means through which, 
 when Self- Control has been neglected, the 
 mind must be trained by suffering ere it
 
 Iv 
 
 can hope for usefulness or lor true enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 About the end of the year 1812, Disci- 
 pline was begun upon this plan. She pro- 
 fited in so far by the advice which had 
 formerly been offered to her, that she did 
 prepare a sketch of the story before any 
 part of it was executed. But the very 
 mcagrcncss of the outline bespeaks the pre- 
 valence of her former habits, and shews how 
 little she profited by its use. 
 
 I insert here what part of it remains/ in 
 the words in which it was drawn up. The 
 number of each chapter is placed at the head 
 of a page, in a very small book ; and the 
 asterisks mark blank spaces, which, no 
 doubt, it was her original intention to fill 
 up, in proportion as her own conceptions of 
 her story should be matured. Scarcely any 
 thing, however, seems to have been added 
 to the first outline, till the narrative was 
 allowed, as before, to develope itself in the 
 finished manuscript. Several pages at the 
 beginning ancl end of the book are cancel- 
 led.
 
 Ivi 
 
 OUTLINE OF DISCIPLINE. 
 
 CHAP. X. Miss Mortimer's departure. * Hack- 
 ney-coach. * Mr MaitlantTs eloquence. * Miss 
 Mortimer's letter. 
 
 CHAP. XI. Ellen's reflections on Miss M/s let- 
 ter. * Tries to make Mr Maitland jealous of 
 Lord F., at Miss A. 1 s instigation. 
 
 CHAP. XII. Mr Maitland leaves her". * En- 
 tanglement. * Her father forbids. Ellen angry. 
 * Quarrels with Lady Maria about precedence. 
 These determine her. Such the amiable passion* 
 which sometimes instigate a love-match ! 
 
 CHAP. XIII. Elopement. 
 CHAP. XIV. Return. 
 
 CHAP. XV. Application to Miss Arnold, and 
 answer. * Creditors offer her a small sum to sub- 
 sist on for the present. She disdainfully refuses. 
 Retires to . Alone, in want and deso-
 
 Ivii 
 
 Jate. * Miss M. conies. Urges Ellen to go home 
 with her. Ellen sullenly drives her away. Fido 
 left belli nd. Ellen weeps over him. 
 
 CHAP. XVI. Goes home with Mis* M. * 
 Shewn to room. Bible. * True repentance.- 
 * Miss M/s life and manners. * Ellen, charm- 
 ed witli the eloquence of a Sectary, is going to join. 
 Miss M. persuades her to pause. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. Letter from Mr Maitland. Story. 
 * Pays Lord F. Meets Lady Maria. Sells 
 ring for Miss Mortimer. * Miss M. dies. Ellen 
 gives all to the old servant. * Contrast of E.'s 
 sorrow with her former rebellious despair. 
 
 CHAP. XVIII. Ellen, still proud, unwilling to 
 enter into a menial life among acquaintance. *' 
 Gets a letter of recommendation from Miss M.'s 
 friend, and goes to . * Finds the lady ab- 
 sent. Seeks a situation. Engaged by a cunning 
 fool. * Mistress jealous that E. has something 
 concealed. * Then jealous of her lo\ er. 
 
 CHAP. XIX. Mistress marries, and is quite en- 
 gaged with her husband for the present. * Always 
 showing signs of jealousy. Ellen. Fever. 
 
 Removed by mistress to a mad-house. Blank in 
 her recollection.
 
 Iviii 
 
 CHAP. XX. Ellen's first recoilectedness 
 
 CHAP. XXI. Ellen dismissed. Sends for her 
 clothes. Sells some for subsistence. Her delight 
 in the fresh fields, &c. * Meets Miss Arnold a 
 beggar. Sells shawl. Miss A. sick impatient 
 wretched. Tells her story cunningly. Retains lit- 
 tle traits of cunning still, and of sly flattery, even 
 where she has nothing to gain by it. * Ellen, 
 after many struggles, resolves to beg for her. 
 
 CHAP. XXII. &c. Sees her name in a news- 
 paper-advertisement. * Journey. Highland 
 inn. Children. Fowls. Petticoat-bellows. Tub- 
 chimney. Horse with creels. * Scenery. Glen 
 Eredine. * Castle Eredine. Multitude of ser- 
 vants. Old Chief. Furniture. Miss Graham's 
 apartments. * Cecil sick broken-hearted for 
 death of Mr Kenneth. Visit to Cecil. Cecil's 
 song. * Eord St E. 
 
 This work too, like the former, was print- 
 ed from the first copy : and with even less 
 of interlineation and change in the writing
 
 lix 
 
 than in Self-Control. It was composed, 
 however, more slowly and with more la- 
 bour. While writing Self-Control, she at- 
 tended to nothing else during those hours 
 in which it engaged her. But amidst the 
 composition of Discipline she had usually 
 some female work going on. In the inter- 
 vals of sewing or knotting she wrote down, 
 what she had first deliberately considered 
 both in regard to sentiment and to style. 
 
 A part of the book from which she her- 
 self received very great pleasure in the com- 
 position, and from which she anticipated 
 with most confidence its popularity, was 
 the sketch of Highland manners in the 
 third volume. She had been delighted 
 with the pictures of Irish character which 
 Miss Edgeworth has drawn so skilfully. 
 The little which she had seen of the High- 
 lands convinced her that materials for a si- 
 milar attempt might be found there of not 
 inferior interest. She was anxious in her 
 enquiries ; and eager in giving form to the 
 information which she gained. 
 
 The ardour and minuteness with which, 
 durin<r some little excursions into the Hirh-
 
 Ix 
 
 lands, she prosecuted her observation of 
 scenery, manners, and character, are stri- 
 kingly exemplified in the following letter. 
 
 TO MISS JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 Nov. 1813. 
 
 I suppose you are by this time returned from 
 your Devonshire excursion, and I trust you have 
 brought with you a stock of health and strength for 
 the winter. I am not sure that the benefit is last- 
 ing ; but I know that the climbing of hills has an 
 admirable effect on the spirits at the time ; and T 
 fancy there is enough of that sort of exercise in De- 
 vonshire. However, I hope you will be so national 
 as to let me say, that a pretty little English knoll is 
 not half so exhilarating as the top of a Scotch hill. 
 
 Perhaps my feeling is partly prejudice but it 
 is not quite so ; therefore, though you should not 
 join in it, do not hold it in utter derision ! I have 
 lumped with joy, when, from the top of one of our 
 own mountains, I have unexpectedly seen, as it were 
 just at my feet, some well-known object which I had 
 thought far beyond mv sight. But, in the middle
 
 Ixi 
 
 of a wide prospect, where all is new and strange, 
 one feels one Vself emphatically a stranger, with all 
 a stranger's unconcern in the objects around ! How- 
 ever, England is no strange land to you ; so some 
 winding avenue, or some smoke curling above its 
 woods, may carry your imagination as pleasantly 
 away, as mine follows a burn dancing in the sun, or 
 a glen that shelters the house of a friend. 
 
 I spent part of this summer in Perthshire, and 
 many a pleasant ramble had I ! One of them wa* 
 to Killivrochan, the wildest of all human habita- 
 tions. It stands upon the bank of the Tummel. 
 about two miles (Highland miles perhaps) above 
 the pass of Killiecrankie. Did you ever see the 
 Tummel ? It is the stream of my affection ! Of all 
 rivers, it is the most truly Highland ; an impetuous, 
 melancholy, romantic stream, foaming among the 
 fragments that have fallen from mountains which 
 seem to have been cleft for its course. 
 
 Killivrochan has no lawns nor gardens near it ; 
 no paltry work of man's device, to fritter away the 
 majesty of nature ! Fortunately there is no room 
 lor such disfigurements, for the site of the house 
 occupies the only level spit between a perpendicu- 
 lar mountain and the river. The walks are cut in 
 solid rock, and, sometimes approaching the brink 
 of the precipice, shew the Tummel foaming far be- 
 low ! Sometimes they descend to the very bed of 
 iJie stream, and then wind up its perpendicular
 
 Ixii 
 
 bank, to shew the noblest mountain-view imagina- 
 ble ! But still all is deep solitude ! no trace appears 
 of any living thing ; except now and then a roe 
 springing from a thicket, or an eagle sailing down 
 the glen. 
 
 The place was advertised as shooting quarters ; 
 which brought some strangers where Lowland foot 
 had seldom trodden ; but none inclined to take up 
 their rest there. An Englishman who visited 
 it the day before I was there, declared that he 
 " would rather have a grave opened, and jump 
 into it alive, than be buried in such a frightful de- 
 sert." You cannot imagine with what contempt 
 the servants related this specimen of Lowland taste ! 
 ' I should lose at least one child a-day in those 
 whirlpools," said the Englishman. 
 
 " Your honour would need to bring a large fa- 
 mily with you then for the summer," answered the 
 forester. 
 
 But it was not the scenery alone that amused me 
 in Perthshire ; the inhabitants furnish me with en- 
 tertainment of a different kind. I have been so 
 long among the stupid plodding Lowlanders, that 
 I was struck with many little Cclticismx, which 
 would have escaped me a dozen of years ago. Mul- 
 titudes of these, which were amusing enough at the 
 moment, it will not do to relate. Did you ever ob- 
 serve with what fearless decision a Highlander pro- 
 nounces upon the name, nature, and cure of every
 
 Ixiii 
 
 possible disease ? A little girl, whom my friend 
 found begging at her door, gave us a very extraor- 
 dinary account of the situation of her stepmother. 
 '" She taks the uncoest loups, Mem," said she; 
 " she'll fipcnd aft' o that chair on a that table." We 
 were a little incredulous, but the child persisted in 
 her story. " Me !" said she, " it fleyed me whan I 
 saw her loupin" 1 like a pyet." 
 
 ' And what does your father do, when he sees 
 her in such a state ?" 
 
 u lie just yokes to, and he laughs For, ye see, 
 she'll rin on the house-taps like a cat." 
 
 " What can be the matter with the woman '<:" 
 said my friend to me. 
 
 " On, Mem," interrupted the girl, as if quite an 
 fait* ' It is just the fly in ague. A lumtle o' folk 
 has't about u.s." 
 
 I suppose this woman had St Vitus's dance. 
 In general, nothing is more ridiculous than a 
 Highlander's description of his maladies. It is such 
 a mixture of shrewdness, confidence, and total igno- 
 rance ; it is *o absurdly minute, and yet so loaded 
 with apologies to the delicacy of the listener, that I 
 have many a time been obliged to laugh, at the cx- 
 penee of being thought a monster of insensibility. 
 
 What excuse can 1 make for writing all this non- 
 sense to you ? I remember entering warmly into 
 the feelings of an officer, who, having been long im- 
 mured in one of Tippoo's forts, far from every 13ri-
 
 Ixiv 
 
 tish sight and sound, found, I know not how, a few 
 pages of an English spelling-book. The tiling was 
 worthless in itself; but the very accents of home 
 would be music to his ear. I need not make the 
 application of this story to a true-hearted Scotch- 
 woman. 
 
 I am, 
 
 Your obedient and affectionate, 
 
 M. B. 
 
 When this part of the book was nearly 
 completed, Waverley was published. It 
 came into her hands while she was in the 
 country, ignorant of its plan, or of its claim 
 to regard ; she was so fascinated by it, that 
 she sat up till she had finished the reading 
 of the whole. Her anticipations of its suc- 
 cess were, from the first, confident and un- 
 hesitating. With the honest buoyancy of 
 a kindred spirit, she exulted in the pro- 
 spect of its authors fame ; and, in rejoicing 
 that a favourite object had been accom-
 
 Ixv 
 
 plished so admirably, forgot at first how 
 much the plan interfered with her own. 
 
 When this view of the subject struck 
 her, with all the native openness of her 
 mind she felt and acknowledged her own 
 inferiority. Not from disappointment or 
 ill-humour, but from pure and unaffected 
 humility, she resolved at first to cancel the 
 Highland part of her own story altogether. 
 T could not agree to the sacrifice. I en- 
 deavoured to convince her that the bias 
 which Waverley might give to the public 
 taste, might rather prove favourable to her 
 plan ; that public curiosity would be rou- 
 sed by what that great master had done ; 
 that the sketches of a different observer, 
 finished in a very different style, and taken 
 from entirely a different point of view, 
 would only be the more attractive, because 
 attention had previously been directed to 
 their subject. She allowed herself to be 
 persuaded ; she allowed, at least, her objec- 
 tions to be over-ruled ; she returned to her 
 work, but she returned to it slowly and he- 
 sitatingly ; and it was finished with far less 
 e
 
 Ixvi 
 
 both of spirit and of hope, than attended 
 the tracing of the original design. 
 
 The manuscript of this novel was com- 
 pleted before any part of it was sent to 
 press. It was published in December 1814. 
 
 The composition of Self-Control could 
 not be noticed in her correspondence with 
 her own relations ; for she had not avowed 
 herself even to them as its author. But 
 she mentions Discipline very freely both 
 to them and to Mrs Izett, in such passages 
 as the following. 
 
 TO MRS IZETT. 
 
 Nov. 3, 1812. 
 
 * * * Ellen comes on slowly ; but she will do 
 better by and by, if I can adhere to my resolution 
 of writing a little every day. To tell you the truth, 
 I now feel that my stock of wits, such as it is, is not 
 properly my own ; but is under the management 
 and controul of a higher power, who can say, " Go, 
 and it goetli ; or come, and it conieth." You will
 
 Ixvii 
 
 answer, " Have you not long thought so?" Yes, 
 I have long believed it, but now \Jccl it. Do you 
 not see the difference? Hither by His own opera- 
 tions on the soul, or by His providence ordering 
 matters over which we have no controul, He rules 
 our understanding our will our conscience 1 our 
 belief. Oh ! then how zealous ought we to be in 
 asking direction, since He can afford it in such a 
 variety of ways; and since circumstances, which to 
 us appear as trivial as the sports of flies, may by 
 Him be made to accomplish His promise, that all 
 shall work together for good to them who love 
 Him. 
 
 You see to whom the success of Self-Control was 
 
 \ring. I hope I may lawfully ask a blessing for 
 this thing also ! It would be sinful to enter upon 
 a work of years, which was so trivial, or useless, or 
 unlawful, that I could not ask a blessing for it. 
 But, if I do ask one, it will be a manifest absurdi- 
 ty to trifle over my employment. The other began 
 as pastime. This has been zcorl; from the begin- 
 ning. 
 
 I find that the serious style best suits my talent 
 and my inclination. I hope, therefore, that when 
 
 1 come to the serious part of the book, I shall pro- 
 ceed with more case and pleasure. It is not far off 
 now.
 
 Ixviii 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 DEC. 1, 1812. 
 
 You give me a pretty broad hint, that my little 
 interest in my present work proceeds from my own 
 indolence. To this I can make an answer, which 
 satisfies myself. I can, and often do write, when I 
 would much rather let it alone. But in these cir- 
 cumstances I never write well, nor can I by any 
 exertion write better. The only fruit of my endea- 
 vours is strong disgust at the whole. An author 
 can no more invent, who is not " i" the vein," than 
 a painter could draw a straight line, whose hand 
 was in the tremour of an ague-fit. To tell me that 
 I am idle, is only Pharaoh's call for bricks without 
 straw. * * * 
 
 TO HER BROTHER. 
 
 ST LEONARDS, SEPT. 9, 1813. 
 As to the size of your little gentleman, you must 
 reconcile yourself to that, by hoping that, like you, 
 like Caesar, Alexander the Great, myself, and others,
 
 Ixix 
 
 our friend may hide a capacious soul in a diminu- 
 tive body. 
 
 Indeed, I think you and I need not seek far for 
 arguments, to prove that small bodies are likely, a 
 priori, to contain great souls. For instance; it is to 
 be supposed that nature, like an impartial parent, 
 Avill balance the deficiency of one gift by liberality 
 in another, and not bestow double portions on some 
 of her children, to the exclusion or neglect of others. 
 Again ; according to the universal language of man- 
 
 O 7 fJ O O 
 
 kind, great souls are active' and aspiring. AVe talk 
 of a " towering mind" " a soaring spirit," 1 &c. 
 Now, how should souls, that are loaded with moun- 
 tains of bones and flesh, tower and soar like jour's 
 and mine ? unless, indeed, a soul were of the make 
 of a paper-kite, which flies the better for a clog at 
 its tail. Once more : To what purpose should the 
 principle of motion, in a great clumsy machine, be 
 tempered as finely as in smaller frames ? Would 
 you have the spring of a cuckoo-clock as nicely made 
 as that of a little tiny repeating watch ? 
 
 I think all this sufficient to convince any body 
 whose interest does not lie on the other side ; but I 
 am sure that, if necessary, I could advance as much 
 more of the same kind, as would weary out the 
 >'rc((tc.tt of our opponents. 
 
 While you are, of course, so much occupied with, 
 your own brat, I thank you for taking such an in- 
 terest in mine. In one respect, your's has the ad-
 
 Ixx 
 
 vantage ; for, while he would thrive, although I 
 were to forget his very existence, mine depends not 
 a little upon the interest you take in her for her 
 growth and progress. She will come on much the 
 better for the mention you make of her. No fear 
 of the falls of Niagara ! Ellen is too common-place 
 a person for such achievements ; and none of her 
 future adventures are at all more surprising than 
 those which I read to you. 
 
 Only two dangers now threaten her ; the one is, 
 that I may give up recording such a humble history ; 
 the other, that, after I have done my best, it may 
 be little read. To be sure, what satisfies you may 
 well content the herd of novel-readers. But it is a. 
 very different thing to hear a manuscript read, from 
 sitting down with a printed book in one's own hand 
 to spy faults ; or from seeking amusement, without 
 any reference to the author, or to the judgment 
 which one^s friends form of the work. Even I 
 think Self-Control in print a far worse performance 
 than Self-Control in manuscript. 
 
 However, I mean to do my very best for my se- 
 cond daughter ; and if I live and thrive till this 
 time next year, we shall try how she looks in " wire- 
 wove and hot-pressed." My stay here is rather 
 favourable to her progress. But that advantage 
 will not last her long ; for, in the beginning of next 
 month, we are to move to town. I shall not be sorry 
 to find myself in Albany Street, where, I must own,
 
 Ixxi 
 
 my quarters please me better than any where else. 
 Mr H. is the busiest of all men, with his pot-hooks 
 of all imaginable forms. In proof whereof, he has 
 scarcely transplanted any tiling this season ; so that 
 the walk is in great beauty. IJy the by, I am sorry 
 vou went away without seeing St Leonards. I 
 think it would be a place to your own heart's con- 
 tent so buried from the view of all earthly things 
 and persons ! 
 
 TO MU.S CK.YIGIK. 
 
 AUG. 1813. 
 
 William has probably told you what a busy wo- 
 man I am. If any body had said to me three years 
 ago, that, even to my brother, I should ever boldly 
 avow myself an author, I would have fearlessly as- 
 serted the thing to be impossible ; and if, before 
 Self-Control went to press, I could have guessed 
 that it woidd be traced to me, I would certainly 
 have put it in the fire. It is now universally belie- 
 ved to be mine ; and this, in spite of its success, I 
 shall always think my misfortune ; but I am sure 
 it is not my fault. I never absolutely denied it, in- 
 deed ; for that would have been a direct falsehood :
 
 Ixxii 
 
 but I always thought myself at liberty to mislead 
 those, who wanted the delicacy Avhich has prevented 
 you from questioning me on the subject. At first, 
 the book was written merely for my amusement. It 
 was finished within two years, and scarcely at all 
 altered from the first manuscript. I am ashamed 
 to think how much more slowly I proceed with my 
 work, than I did with my play. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 MAY 31, 1814. 
 
 You talk of my seeing you before I begin another 
 book. That may well be ; lor I shall certainly 
 draw a long breath before I begin again. 
 
 Since Self-Control was fixed upon me, my circle 
 of acquaintance has widened so unmercifully, that 
 my time, in Edinburgh, is very little at my com- 
 mand. But, upon the whole, I am a gainer. I have 
 gained associates among persons eminent for talents 
 and respectability ; while I have lost only the power 
 of sitting at times dozing by my own fire-side, or of 
 wandering out unnoticed among the crowd. I have 
 
 o c5 
 
 lost the power of commanding my own time ; but 
 others command it pleasantly for me.
 
 Ixxiii 
 
 However, I intend (if the ten thousand nameless 
 s which affect industry and invention will al- 
 low me) to be very busy at St Leonards. I have 
 enough to do I am sure. Six weeks of hard work 
 will finish my manuscript. Hut then the whole af- 
 fair remains to be corrected and polished ; and in 
 that, way I might work, I suppose, ad hrfinituin. 
 When I have ended, " I Mill dance on the top of 
 it," as the man in the song was to do with his dead 
 wife. I am sure she was not half such a plague to 
 him, as my book has been to me. 
 
 TO MRS I/I:TT. 
 
 AUG. 15, 1814. 
 
 Ellen is at an end. She was finished at three 
 o'clock one morning ; and I waked Mr B. out of 
 his first sleep to hear of her wedding. I am correct- 
 ing ; which is not the part of the business the most. 
 to my liking. I have a great aversion to blot a 
 page of good clean writing. 
 
 If no accident befall if my manuscript is neither 
 
 burnt, nor stolen, nor lost, perhaps the book may 
 
 be in your hands entire before Christmas. I dare 
 
 vsay you will make a pause in your historical course 
 
 9
 
 Ixxiv 
 
 to read it were it only to see how will like 
 
 it and if she venture at all to disapprove, you will 
 colour up to the ears, and have just self-command 
 enough to hold your tongue. 
 
 Have you finished Waverley ? And what think 
 you of the scenes at Carlisle ? Are they not admi- 
 rable ? I assure you, that, in my opinion, they are 
 absolutely matchless, for nature, character, origina- 
 lity, and pathos. Flora's " seam," and the " paper- 
 coronet," are themselves worth whole volumes of 
 common inventions. And what think you of Evan's 
 speech .' It delights my very soul ! 
 
 Why should an epic or a tragedy be supposed to 
 hold such an exalted place in composition, while a 
 novel is almost a nickname for a book ? Does not 
 a novel admit of as noble sentiments as lively de- 
 scription as natural character as perfect unity of 
 action and a moral as irresistible as either of them? 
 I protest, I think a fiction containing a just repre- 
 sentation of human beings and of their actions a 
 connected, interesting, and probable story, conduct- 
 ing to a useful and impressive moral lesson might 
 be one of the greatest efforts of human genius. Let 
 the admirable construction of fable in Tom Jones be 
 employed to unfold characters like Miss Edge worth's 
 let it lead to a moral like Richardson's let it be 
 told with the eloquence of Rousseau, and with the 
 simplicity of Goldsmith let it be all this, and Mil- 
 ton need not have been ashamed of the work ! Rut
 
 Ixxv 
 
 novels have got an ill name ; therefore " give novels 
 to the clogs." I have done with them ; for, if even 
 the best jx>ssible would be comparatively despised, 
 what is to become of mine ? Well ! what shall I do 
 next ? Give me your advice, and, if I like it, I 
 will take it. * * * 
 
 I began the Gaelic Grammar yesterday. The 
 pronunciation is terribly unintelligible. " There 
 is no sound like this in English," is a very spirit- 
 breaking index. I fear I shall never make out the 
 true croaking and spluttering. If I persevere, 
 however, I may astonish you when we meet shock- 
 ing your ears witli your dear native tongue spoken 
 in the barbarous, accents of a southron. But to 
 what purpose should I persevere ? 
 
 TO MRS CliAIGIE. 
 
 DEC. 10, 1814. 
 
 If I make my letter as voluminous as I intend, 
 the chance is, that it will not be the first of my 
 works you read. '* Discipline" is to accompany it ; 
 and the only chance which the letter has for prece- 
 dence, consists in its bemir more easily read. How-
 
 Ixxvi 
 
 ever, the book is William's property ; and perhaps 
 he may read it himself before he sends it to you. 
 I hope and believe, that I shall soon receive his 
 criticisms. I wish I had as good hopes of youFs ; 
 but I fear you will not pronounce so decidedly as I 
 could wish. Before I can get a judgment from ei- 
 ther of you, the world will have settled the siicees-, 
 though not the merit, of the book ; for it is to be 
 published three days hence, and a week will decide 
 the business. 
 
 It is very unfortunate in coming after Waverley, 
 by far the most splendid exhibition of talent in the 
 novel way, which has appeared since the days of 
 Fielding and Sinollet. There seems little doubt 
 that it comes from the pen of Scott. AVhat a com- 
 petitor for poor little me ! The worst of all is, 
 that I have ventured unconsciously on Waverley "s 
 own ground, by carrying my heroine to the High- 
 lands ! 
 
 There is no help for all this ! In authorship 
 luck does a great deal. Self-Control was more suc- 
 cessful than many a better book has been. This 
 mav be less successful, without being le^s deser- 
 ving. Well! well! In so far as my motives have 
 been good, the rewards of good intention are secure 
 to me. I am persuaded, that no book of its kind 
 can convey lessons more important in their nature. 
 Whether these lessons be well or ill given, is quite
 
 Ixxvii 
 
 another affair, of which I have no means of jud- 
 ging 
 
 The same day that gives " Discipline" to the 
 
 public, is ko give a wife. Both of these great 
 
 events are to take place on Tuesday, 13th Dee. 
 
 TO HER BROTHER. 
 
 APRIL 21, 1815. 
 
 I thank you for your criticisms ; some of them 
 have served the purpose for which I presume you 
 intended them, bv making me laugh heartily. 
 
 Not but that I acknowledge there is some justice 
 in them all, except in your attack upon my Scotch- 
 man ; who, I assure you, is not so very marble, but 
 that he is in high favour with the ladies. A hand- 
 some fashionable young one, the other day, embar- 
 goed Mr Miller in a corner of his own shop, till he 
 should tell her who Maitland was ; since, " beyond 
 all doubt, the character was a real one " 
 
 As for the Highlands, you know, they are quite 
 the rage. All the novel-reading Misses have seen 
 and admired them in the verdure and sunshine of 
 July. Now, what novel-reading Miss ever had 
 common sense enough to doubt, that what is plea-
 
 Ixxviii 
 
 sing to the eye, should be desirable in possession ; 
 or that what charms for an evening, should delight 
 
 O ' O 
 
 for ever ? 
 
 As for my religion, I allow that there is too much 
 for amusement, perhaps for good taste ; neverthe- 
 less, I cannot bate you one iota. For the great pur- 
 pose of the book is to procure admission for the re- 
 ligion of a sound mind and of the Bible, where it 
 cannot find access in any other form. Yes ! I say 
 the great purpose ; for, though I love money clear- 
 Iv, money is not my motive for writing as I do ; not 
 for the complexion and sentiments of my books. 
 On the contrarv, I am quite sure I might make 
 twice as much of my labour, if I could bring my- 
 self to present to the public an easy flexible sort of 
 virtue possessing no strong support, and being, 
 indeed, too light to need any instead of the old- 
 fashioned erect morality, which " falls not, because 
 it is founded on a rock." 
 
 The success of Discipline, on its first 
 publication, was far greater than the author 
 herself had anticipated. But she was by 
 no means gratified by it to the same extent
 
 Ixxix 
 
 as she had been by the reception of Self- 
 Control. She was now well-known to be 
 the author, and therefore she was not so 
 sure that the applause which reached her 
 was all sincere. The honied words of praise 
 were never very valuable to her. They had 
 now lost the charm of novelty, and she 
 doubted whether they retained the more 
 valuable recommendation of truth. 
 
 Her standard for estimating skill in the 
 delineation of character had been raised by 
 the appearance of Waverley ; and she felt 
 more perhaps than she ought to have done 
 how poorly her own sketches appeared be- 
 side those of that masterly work. The si- 
 lence, too, of the principal literary journals 
 discouraged her. She had never, indeed, 
 expected to attract much of their notice ; 
 but, while other works of the same kind 
 were discussed in their pages, she thought 
 that if they had judged favourably as to 
 the usefulness of her labours, they would 
 not have with-held from her their advice 
 and encouragement.
 
 Ixxx 
 
 An interruption of my professional du- 
 ties, which the repairing of the Tron Church 
 occasioned in the summer of 1815, enabled 
 us again to visit London, and to linger for 
 a few weeks amidst the lovely scenery of 
 the south-west of Kngland. The elasticity 
 of her spirit returned, and she enjoyed her 
 tour with all her own enthusiasm. The 
 beauty of Monmouthshire, especially, sunk 
 into her heart ; and her eyes used ever after- 
 wards to glisten when she heard the name. 
 
 When we were settled in Edinburgh for 
 the winter, she was less willing to return 
 to her usual employments. She had grown 
 distrustful of her own power to combine 
 the incidents of a long continued narrative ; 
 and would not venture to engage again in 
 any thing exactly similar to what she had 
 written before. I pressed her to undertake 
 a series of essays on the character and wri- 
 tings of her favourite Cowper ; but though 
 she seemed fond of the idea, she was un-
 
 Ixxxi 
 
 willing to change, at once, so entirely the 
 kind of composition in which the public 
 had received her with indulgence. The 
 qualities which she required in the subject 
 that was to engage her, she thus describes 
 in a letter to her brother. 
 
 TO HER BROTHER. 
 
 OCT. 27, 1815. 
 
 After ihc finest summer I ever remember, the 
 weather is now completely broken. We have had 
 constant rains for a month past. We shall go, 
 therefore, without regret, to town next week. All 
 the world are going thither as well as we. The 
 approaching Musical Festival has drawn more peo- 
 ple to Edinburgh, than it ever contained before at 
 one time. 
 
 I am sure I heartily wish the mob were dispersed 
 again ; for I am quite weary of bustle and idleness. 
 The last season has, indeed, been at once the most 
 bustling and the most idle, I ever spent. But now 
 I am resolved to be busy. 
 f
 
 Ixxxii 
 
 Tell me HOAV I shall fill up the few and short in- 
 tervals, which my necessary avocations leave me ; 
 that is, tell me on what subject you think I may 
 write ; for writing is now become a part of my duty. 
 When I ask your advice, however, I openly make 
 the reservation, which most people, in the same 
 case, make secretly I will take your advice only if 
 it please me. 
 
 I am thinking of short tales . but have as yet 
 scarcely devised any subject for them. I do not 
 need to write for bread ; and I would not write 
 one volume, merely to gain the fame of Homer. 
 A moral therefore is necessary for me ; but where 
 to get one on which to found a tale that will be 
 readable, is the question. A lofty moral, too, is 
 necessary to my style of thinking and writing ; 
 and really it is not ca.sy to make such a one the 
 ground-work of any story which novel readers will 
 endure. 
 
 One advantage, indeed, I possess the path which 
 I have chosen is almost exclusively my own. The 
 few moral lessons which our English fictions profess 
 to teach, are of the humblest class. Even Miss 
 Edgeworth's genius has stooped to inculcate mere 
 worldly wisdom. " Patience is a plaster for all 
 sores'" " Honesty is the best policy" " A penny 
 saved is a penny got,"' seem the texts which she 
 has embellished with her shrewd observation, and 
 exquisite painting of character.
 
 Ixxxiii 
 
 To cut short this endless subject. Some evening 
 when you have nothing else to do, sit down, and let 
 me hear your sentiments at great length. As I said 
 before, I will adopt them, if I like them. 
 
 She resolved at last to attempt a collec- 
 tion of short narratives, under the title of 
 Domestic Tales. The first of these which 
 she projected, was, " The Runaway." It 
 was to contain the story of a truant boy, 
 whose hardships should teach him the va- 
 lue of home. With this narrative, how- 
 ever, she wished to blend some account of 
 the peculiar manners of Orkney ; and while 
 she w r aited to renew the recollections which 
 were fading, after so long an absence from 
 her native county, she began the story of 
 Emmeline. The scope of this was to shew, 
 how little chance there is of happiness 
 when the divorced w r ife marries her se- 
 ducer.
 
 Ixxxiv 
 
 As the interest of such a story does not 
 very much depend upon the incidents, as 
 what is written of it had received all the 
 correction which she ever gave to her com- 
 positions, as the principal characters are 
 sufficiently developed to be useful, and as 
 the spirit of the times seems to make the les- 
 son peculiarly seasonable, I have not hesi- 
 tated to publish Kmmeline in its unfinish- 
 ed state. My present feelings must, in- 
 deed, greatly mislead me, if it is not equal 
 in eloquence and power to any of her for- 
 mer writings. 
 
 I subjoin the sketch of this tale, which I 
 find written out in the same form as the 
 outline of Discipline. It will enable the 
 reader to perceive how the history of Em- 
 meline was intended to proceed. In the close 
 of this sketch, the sentence is written with 
 which the narrative concludes, at page 100.
 
 Ixxxv 
 
 OUTLINE OF EMMELINE. 
 
 The wedding. * Trifles indicating future dis- 
 trust. * Husband, a soldier, accustomed to all 
 the rousing interests of war. * Women not form- 
 ed by nature to be sufficient for themselves. Loss 
 of reputation greatest of earthly calamities ; a cala- 
 mity which, when felt as it ought to be, no power 
 but one can cure. * Mr D., first husband, re- 
 stores her fortune. De C. discontented under obli- 
 gation. The injured Mr D., whom he had endea- 
 voured almost successfully endeavoured to hate 
 and despise, had risen. Thinks his wife should 
 not accept ; and half-angry that she does Yet 
 does not like to ask such a sacrifice. * * E. loves 
 De C. the more for being alone with him, and ha- 
 ving nothing else to occupy her. But he wearies. 
 De C not of those whose thoughts go forth in search 
 of sympathy. Those who conceal their thoughts,, 
 often act as if other people knew them, or, at least, 
 were to blame for not knowing them. * The pair 
 alone. Solitarv. E. remembers the gaiety, and 
 
 J O */ J 
 
 attendance, and respect, that waited on her former 
 nuptials Longs for her children, De C., a do-
 
 Ixxxvi 
 
 mestic man, feels great want of his own family 
 Very fond of his wife Watches every cloud in her 
 face. Ellen constantly fears, that, though he loves, 
 he does not respect her. His natural stateliness 
 she mistakes for scorn. Husband's sister, once fa- 
 vourite friend, does not visit them. His respectable 
 mother refuses to own them. Ellen's pride at first 
 supports her. She and her husband resolve to be 
 every thing to each other. The tiling is impossible 
 to the guilty ! * Dependants worthless. Re- 
 spectable persons, even in the lower rank, keep 
 aloof. Others partly plead the example of their 
 betters, in excuse for their misdeeds. Charity de- 
 feated by loss of reputation. * Tries to see her 
 children. * Meets her first husband. * * * 
 Driven into society by the unhappiness of solitude, 
 Slighted. Husband very angry. Angry with 
 his wife too ! * * He goes to rejoin the army, 
 avowing his resolution never to return. 
 
 During this winter a friend, who knew 
 how very valuable the gratification was to 
 her, procured for her occasionally the pri- 
 vilege of hearing extracts read from Guv 
 
 f> C3 *
 
 Ixxxvii 
 
 Mannering, while it was at press. They 
 were admirably read which was at all 
 times a great enjoyment to her. Thus en- 
 hanced, the pleasure which she felt from 
 her favourite work of her favourite novel- 
 ist, and the freedom with which she was 
 allowed to express her admiration, made 
 the evenings which were so employed 
 among the happiest of her life. 
 
 I can hardly give a more striking proof 
 of her singleness of heart, and truly gene- 
 rous nature, than that while this author was 
 withdrawing public notice from herself, 
 perhaps in more than a due degree, he had 
 not one more enthusiastic admirer. The 
 delight which she felt in every new trait of 
 excellence, and her eagerness for the popu- 
 larity of what she saw to be transcendent 
 in desert, cannot be forgotten by any who 
 witnessed the emotions, which to herself 
 appeared mere matters of course, destitute 
 of all merit or attraction. 
 
 Though the written expressions of her 
 admiration are cold in comparison of what 
 these confidential hours encouraged her to
 
 Ixxxviii 
 
 say, I subjoin such extracts on this subject, 
 as I can obtain from the materials before 
 
 me. 
 
 TO HP:R BROTHF.K 
 
 DEC. 1810. 
 
 All Edinburgh was talking (till the Grand Duke 
 Nicolas arrived to change the subject) of the vo- 
 lumes, which you must have seen advertised, under 
 the title of " Tales of my Landlord.' 1 Beyond a 
 doubt they are from the same hand with Guy Man- 
 nering, though the author has changed his publisher 
 for concealment. 
 
 The four volumes contain two tales. The last, 
 the longest, and by very far the best, is a .story of 
 the days of the Covenanters ; in which, by the by, 
 our ancestor Balfour of Burleigh makes a very 
 scurvv figure. The conscientious and heroic, though 
 
 See also page Ixxiv.
 
 Ixxxix 
 
 often misguided, Covenanters ate treated with little 
 candour, and less mercy. But, notwithstanding all 
 this, the tale is one of ten thousand. The descrij)- 
 tion the exquisite drawing of character the hu- 
 mour the unrivalled fertility of invention or ra- 
 ther the boundless observation, which are shown in 
 this Old Mortality, would immortalize the author, 
 even if he had no former claim to immortality. I 
 cannot, however, allow, that I think it equal, upon 
 the whole, to Guy Mannering, 
 
 TO MRS BALFOUR. 
 
 JAX. 17, 1818. 
 
 Send me carelessly and freely whatever you hap- 
 pen to hear of anecdote superstition proverb 
 or provincial expression, which at all marks the pe- 
 culiarities of character, or the state of society in our 
 county. It is with such that Scott has given life 
 and reality to his novels. In these admirable works, 
 I am persuaded that there is little, except the mere 
 story, which can be called invention. The more 
 prominent persons in them are indeed, as it seems 
 
 lo
 
 xc 
 
 to me, real characters ; and his dialogues the essence 
 of thousands of real conversations. Scott is gifted 
 with a memory, which absolutely retains every thing 
 good, bad, and indifferent. Hence he can never be 
 at a loss for realities to enliven his tale ; and there 
 is a spirit in the truth, which no human genius can 
 give to mere fiction. From whence comes the won- 
 derful verisimilitude of De Foe's novels but from 
 this, that they contain only so much falsehood as is 
 necessary to make truth connected and entertain- 
 ing. So let me have whatever you collect. There 
 is nothing so common that it may not be of use. A 
 structure may not be the less pleasing, that it is not 
 all built of alabaster. 
 
 Scott (for I am convinced that it must be he) has 
 again tried this mixture of truth and fiction in Rob 
 Roy, and tried it successfully ; though not perhaps 
 quite so successfully as in former instances. But 
 though it may be inferior to some of his other 
 works, I think it will gain by a comparison with 
 the best national pictures of any other hand. I 
 understand he has already contracted for four vo- 
 lumes more of Tales of my Landlord. How won- 
 derful is the activity of his mind ! No sooner is 
 one effort made, than he is ready to undertake an- 
 other, and of the same kind too !
 
 Her time was now very much broken in 
 upon while we were in Edinburgh ; her 
 visitors were numerous ; the share which 
 she took in the management of some of the 
 public charities, was laborious ; and, above 
 all, a resolution which she had early form- 
 ed, of investigating personally every case 
 of distress which claimed relief from her, 
 led to extensive and increasing occupation. 
 During the winter, therefore, Emmeline 
 went on very slowly. 
 
 AVhen we removed in June for a few 
 months to the country, I was in hopes that 
 its progress would have been more regular 
 and rapid. But she had a lingering attack 
 of the same low fever which had seized her 
 in London, and which was now even more 
 than usually accompanied with dejection 
 and languor. Its effect is thus strongly 
 painted in a letter to Mrs Izett.
 
 xcn 
 
 TO MRS IZETT. 
 
 SEPT. 4, 1816. 
 
 I am as much in the open air as this me- 
 lancholy summer has allowed me. As for my wri- 
 ting, it has been for four months entirely disconti- 
 nued. For the greater part of that time, I have 
 been utterly incapable of interesting myself in that, 
 or indeed, any other employment. The worst con- 
 sequence, however, of my indisposition, has been 
 the uneasiness it has given to you and to Mr B., to 
 him especially, for he has felt it much ; and this has, 
 no doubt, tended to increase it. I trust it is now 
 removed ; and that I shall, when an endless train of 
 visitors allows me, be able once more to take my ta- 
 lent from its napkin. 
 
 Do not write to me either reproof or exhortation. 
 I might have done something to rouse myself; but 
 I had lost the will. I write without method or co- 
 herence ; for I do not aim at either. I am setting 
 down my thoughts just as they occur. Make out 
 the feelings which prompt them as you best can. 
 
 Have you seen a little tale, called Dis- 
 play 'r It is worth its price, I assure you. There it
 
 XC111 
 
 a most overpowering- Memoir of Cowpcr, by himself. 
 If you have not seen it, pray get it ! You will be 
 astonished by its power ! 
 
 In tlie spring of 1817, her spirits got a 
 severe shock, by the death of a young friend 
 to whom she was most affectionately at- 
 tached, and whose talents and principles 
 justified the brightest hopes of her friends. 
 She had been the companion of part of our 
 tour in 1815, and I cannot refuse myself 
 the melancholy satisfaction of inserting a 
 tribute to her, in a letter written by Mrs 
 ISrunton at that time. It thus describes the 
 beginning of an attachment, which after- 
 wards ripened into strong affection, and 
 which, I trust, is now again the joy of both. 
 
 TO MUS F. 
 
 LOKDOK, JrxE, 1815. 
 
 G. left me on Wednesday, and has carried 
 with her more of my esteem, as well as affection.
 
 XC1V 
 
 than I ever bestowed upon any person in the same 
 term of acquaintance. Perhaps I like her the bet- 
 ter that she affords me occasion to applaud my own 
 penetration. She is precisely the being I expected 
 her to prove. She tempts me to the sin of covet- 
 ousness ; and is, at this moment, the only posses- 
 sion of your's, or any other person's, for which I am 
 inclined to break the tenth commandment. If I 
 do not absolutely, as the Catechism says, " envy 
 and grieve at the good of my neighbour," 1 I cannot 
 deny that I have " inordinate motions and affec- 
 tions" to what is your's. I am ready to quarrel 
 with you for taking her away from me before I had 
 time to steal any part of the kindest and gentlest 
 of hearts from you. I have seldom seen any one 
 whom I was more desirous to attach ; but she is 
 gone from me before I had time to counteract the 
 ill impressions she would receive from my stiffness, 
 and my Calvinism. This last, you know, you gave 
 me permission to expose ; and accordingly I have 
 not concealed it. On the contrary, I have spoken 
 out my convictions strongly, though, I hope, not 
 harshly ; and have even solemnly adjured my dear 
 young friend, to give them her deliberate and can- 
 did consideration. 
 
 She will probably tell you this, and all else which 
 has occupied our discourse and attention. But she 
 will not tell you, that the modesty and candour 
 the singular mixture of simplicity and acuteness, of
 
 enthusiasm and gentleness, which she was every mo- 
 ment unconsciously exhibiting, have made her the 
 most interesting show which I have seen in London. 
 
 For a long time this blow disinclined her 
 from exertion. The first effort which she 
 made, was prompted by the revival of a de- 
 sire which she had before attempted to in- 
 dulge, of learning the Gaelic language. To 
 this arduous attempt she devoted a great 
 part of her leisure for some months. I have 
 reason to believe that her progress was con- 
 siderable ; but this was the only one of her 
 pursuits in which I took no share. 
 
 She was fond of the study of language ; 
 and very little encouragement would have 
 induced her to devote to classical learning 
 that leisure, which seemed to me to be, in 
 her circumstances, capable of a more im- 
 proving destination. On the general sub- 
 ject, she thus expresses herself in a letter to 
 her sister-in-law.
 
 XCV1 
 
 TO MRS BALFOUR. 
 
 JAN. 17, 1818. 
 
 * * I am glad you are teaching Mary Latin. 
 It seems to me, that, nature itself points out the 
 propriety of teaching women languages, by the fa- 
 cility with which we generally acquire them. I 
 never knew a girl, who, in learning the dead lan- 
 guages, did not keep above the boys in her class ; 
 nor did I ever happen to see this acquisition pro- 
 duce a female pedant. Indeed, learning of all kinds 
 is now too common among ladies, to be any longer 
 like Cain's mark, excluding the bearer from all hu- 
 man intercourse. I know a lady, who, two years 
 ago, gained a mathematical prize, from Oxford I 
 think, with perfect impunity ; being still univer- 
 sally received as a very agreeable womanly sort of 
 person. 
 
 I am clear for furnishing women with such ac- 
 complishments as are absolutely incapable of being 
 converted into matter of exhibition ; and such, in 
 the present state of society, are classical learning
 
 XCV11 
 
 and mathematics. These hard times compel so 
 many women to celibacy, that I should think it no 
 bad speculation to educate a few for respectable old 
 maids ; especially such as have minds strong enough 
 to stand alone, and romantic enough, not to chuse 
 to marrv, merely for the sake of being married. 
 Luckily, the education which fits a woman for 
 leading apes with a good grace, will not spoil her 
 lor " suckling fools, and chronicling small beer." 11 
 
 Whether your Mary is to marry or not, I hope 
 she will grow up with a mind vigorous and happy 
 in its own resources ; trained as a mind ought to be, 
 which is soon to shake off its connection with all 
 material objects, and to owe its sole happiness to 
 improvement in knowledge and goodness. 
 
 As for the boys, the world will educate them in 
 spite of you. You may "" plant and water," 1 but 
 the rude blast will soon give your sprouts its own 
 direction ; nor can they, like our happier sex, hide 
 themselves from its influence. Reading, reflection, 
 and advice do nuich to form the character of women. 
 Men are the creatures of circumstance and of ex- 
 ample ; half a do/en witty profligates will put to 
 flight a dozen years' maxims in an afternoon. But 
 as the old saying has it, " they are well kept whom 
 God keeps ;"* and some are wonderfully kept some 
 as wonderfully restored. IJv this time, I fancy you 
 think I am borrowing a page from the l)r"s incipient 
 volume.
 
 xcvm 
 
 I wish you would let me do the honours of the 
 banks of Esk. Surely you may contrive to leave 
 Orkney for a little while next summer. You would 
 be so much amused ; and yet you would return with 
 such new pleasure to your home. So, at least, it is 
 with me. Wherever I ramble, my own home seems 
 to me like some flowery island in the great ocean, 
 upon which the eye, when it is weary of wanderings, 
 can always rest with pleasure. 
 
 Composition had now long ceased to be 
 a voluntary employment. It had come to 
 be looked upon as a task ; and she rather 
 sought reasons to justify to her own mind 
 her desertion of her former habits, than 
 opportunities of renewing them in their 
 strength. During the summer of 1818, 
 however, she had in a great measure con- 
 quered these feelings ; and had it pleased 
 Providence to spare her life, I am convin- 
 ced that she would at this hour have been
 
 XC1X 
 
 returning to her former occupations with 
 all her former ardour. 
 
 She was strongly impressed, indeed, with 
 a belief that her confinement was to prove 
 fatal ; not on vague presentiment, but on 
 grounds of which I could not entirely re- 
 move the force, though I obstinately refu- 
 sed to join in the inference which she drew 
 from them. Under this belief she comple- 
 ted every the most minute preparation for 
 her great change, with the same tranquillity 
 as if she had been making arrangements for 
 one of those short absences, which only en- 
 deared her home the more to her. The 
 clothes in which she was laid in the grave 
 had been selected by herself; she herself 
 had chosen and labelled some tokens of re- 
 membrance for her more intimate friends : 
 and the intimations of her death were sent 
 round from a list in her own hand-writing. 
 But these anticipations, though so deeply 
 fixed, neither shook her fortitude, nor di- 
 minished her cheerfulness. They neither 
 altered her wish to live, nor the ardour 
 with which she prepared to meet the dutie^
 
 of returning health, if returning health were 
 to be her portion. 
 
 They seemed rather to animate her zeal 
 the more in any thing by which she could 
 promote the welfare of her fellow-creatures. 
 To this great work she seemed the more 
 anxious to devote herself, as her recollec- 
 tion became the deeper, that the " night 
 cometh in which no man can work." 
 " Life," she says, in one of the last letters 
 which she ever wrote, and which contains 
 no other trace of her own forebodings ; 
 " life is too short and uncertain to admit of 
 our trifling with even the lesser opportuni- 
 ties of testifying good-will. The flower of 
 the field must scatter its odours to-day. 
 To-morrow it v\ ill be gone." 
 
 Her forebodings were not often the sub- 
 ject of her conversation with those around 
 her, because she knew how painful the 
 theme was to them. For the same reason, 
 she mentioned it but slightly to her rela- 
 tions at a distance. But there is a striking 
 mixture of fortitude and tenderness in the 
 last letter which she addressed to her sis- 
 ter-in-law.
 
 Cl 
 
 TO MRS BALFOUK. 
 
 FRANK-FIELD, OCT. 22, 1818. 
 
 * * * If it please Almighty God to spare my 
 infant's life and my own, I trust I am " made of 
 sterner stuff," than to shrink from a few hours of 
 any pain which nature can support. I suppose the 
 trial will be made about three weeks hence. I hope 
 not scxmer ; for even then I shall scarcely l>e ready. 
 Ready ! do I say ! What time would be necessary 
 to prepare me for the change which I must proba- 
 bly then undergo ! But there is ONE with whom 
 one day is as a thousand years ! When I spoke of 
 preparation, I merely meant that I had not " set 
 my house in order." 
 
 I wish, my dear Mary, that some of you would 
 write to me very circumstantially about auntCraigie ; 
 and soon, lest the letter be too late for me. If I am 
 to be removed, I cannot regret that she is so soon to 
 follow. But what a loss will she be to every mem- 
 ber of your circle ? AVhere is there a being, within 
 the sphere of her influence, who does not owe to her 
 many acts of kindness ? It grieves me especially
 
 Cll 
 
 to think of her excellent sister, whose kind heart 
 will feel her privation most deeply ! Remember 
 me most affectionately to them both, especially to 
 aunt Mary, who was the first love of my heart 
 who was the first person whom I recollect as show- 
 ing me kindness and who, since the time when I 
 remember her singing to sooth me, till this moment 
 of my sending her my blessing and farewell, has 
 never ceased to be kind and dear to me !* 
 
 May God bless my dear William and you, in 
 your family, and in all your concerns ; but chiefly 
 in that great concern of making your conduct in 
 this life a preparation for a better ! I shall not 
 write again. My husband will. 
 
 Her anticipations, however, had been 
 only too well-founded. After giving birth 
 to a still-born son, on the 7th of Decem- 
 ber, and recovering, for a fe\v days, with 
 
 * This excellent person died a few days before her niece ; 
 but not before she had received this affecting testimony of 
 gratitude and attachment.
 
 cm 
 
 u rapidity beyond the hopes of her medical 
 friends, she was attacked with fever. Tt 
 advanced with fatal violence, till it closed 
 her earthly life on the morning of Saturday, 
 December 19, 18 IS. 
 
 Over what she was in the relations of 
 domestic life, the hand which traces this 
 narrative, must be allowed to draw a veil. 
 To those who knew her there, no words of 
 mine are wanting ; and, to those who knew 
 her not, no words of mine could convey 
 any just idea of her value. 
 
 Her own letters, indeed, with which the 
 kindness of her correspondents has enabled 
 me so largely to enrich this Memoir, convey 
 a more faithful and far more impressive pic- 
 ture than any which I could have drawn, not 
 only of her general manner, but of a mind 
 and a heart which were open as the day.
 
 CIV 
 
 Of her literary character, I have endea- 
 voured to give a true, though feeble out- 
 line. They who have merely heard of her 
 as the author of two once popular novels, 
 if they ever glance at these pages at all, 
 may think I have said too much. But I 
 am sure that the detail will not seem tedi- 
 ous to those who met her in the intercourse 
 of private life ; or who examined her books 
 with care enough to estimate from them 
 what the author might have been capable 
 of performing. 
 
 Criticism on her works, although it 
 might have been expected from any other 
 biographer, it is not my intention to at- 
 tempt. Censure or panegyric, indeed, would 
 be alike unsuitable from me. Were there 
 no other reason for my declining the task, I
 
 cv 
 
 mi^ht well be deterred from it by the sin- 
 gle circumstance, of my having anticipated 
 for her books so different a fate from that 
 which they have experienced. I did not 
 expect that they were to become rapidly 
 popular ; but I trusted that the calm good 
 sense and discrimination of character which 
 they display, and the pure and lofty senti- 
 ments which they breathe, and the flowing 
 and natural eloquence which clothes them, 
 would at last establish them, as much as 
 works of the kind are ever established, in 
 public favour. The fact has been entirely 
 the reverse. They rose very fast into cele- 
 brity, and their popularity seems to have 
 as quickly sunk away. 
 
 It might have been otherwise, had she 
 been permitted to increase their number. 
 I am persuaded, that, in all which she had 
 done, she was only trying her strength ; 
 and that, if her life had been prolonged, the 
 standard of female intellect might have been 
 heightened, and the character of English 
 literature nii"ht have been embellished bv 
 
 > 
 
 her labours.
 
 evi 
 
 The excellence of her mind consisted 
 more in the general harmony of its facul- 
 ties, than in the extraordinary strength of 
 any one. Her memory, as I have men- 
 tioned before, was retentive rather of facts 
 and opinions than of dates and words ; and 
 this circumstance, perhaps, made the stores 
 of a very rich and active mind seem even 
 more original than in truth they were. 
 Her imagination I would characterize ra- 
 ther as vivid and distinct, than as peculiar- 
 ly inventive. Her taste had not been very 
 early cultivated 4 but it grew so rapidly 
 with the slightest guidance, that any de- 
 fect was obviously the fault, not of nature, 
 but of misdirection. Her judgment was 
 both quick and steady ; and her discrimina- 
 tion between sophistry and sound argu- 
 ment was almost instinctive. 
 
 The trace, perhaps, of early unkindness 
 had made her slow in receiving strangers to 
 her esteem. But her warm affections, when 
 they once were w r on, repaid a thousand fold 
 any suspicion which might at the first have 
 restrained them. Never was there on earth
 
 t'Vll 
 
 attachment more implicit more disinter- 
 ested more self-devoting than hers. Ne- 
 
 O 
 
 ver was there openness more artless and 
 confiding. 
 
 From these mingled elements, a scru- 
 tiny of strangers, approaching almost to jea- 
 lousy, and an attachment and gratitude 
 to her friends, which gave them credit 
 for every excellence, she gained latitude 
 enough in her study of mankind, to pour- 
 tray every variety of moral feeling. 
 
 The study of character in real life was a 
 favourite pursuit with her ; and the little 
 journals from which extracts are published 
 in this volume, contain many examples of 
 the skill which she exercised in this depart- 
 ment, even under obvious disadvantages, 
 and on very slender intercourse. These, 
 however, from their very nature, cannot be 
 published.
 
 CV111 
 
 In her letter to Miss Baillie, quoted 
 above, p. xliii, she alludes to some poems 
 which she had composed in her very early 
 youth. I cannot venture to insert what 
 she herself so peremptorily rejects ; al- 
 though some of them are within my reach, 
 of which she had preserved copies. Since 
 that period, I am scarcely aware of her ha- 
 ving written a line of verse till very re- 
 cently ; and it was owing to an accidental 
 circumstance that she resumed the attempt. 
 In some of those periods, during which she 
 did not think herself equal to any literary 
 exertion, she amused her leisure with mu- 
 sic. She attempted particularly to recall 
 and to note down some airs peculiar to 
 Orkney, which had pleased her in her child- 
 hood. Before she would play any new one 
 to me, she used to exact a promise, that I 
 would write words for the tune. The pro- 
 mise was often forfeited ; and I find among
 
 C1X 
 
 her papers, some instances in which she 
 herself has supplied the defect. Three of 
 these little poems I shall here subjoin. The 
 last of them derives a strong and melan- 
 choly interest, from its being, so far as I 
 know, the last thing which she wrote. Be- 
 fore it met my eye, the hand which had 
 written it was in the grave. 
 
 Aiu " JMy Love's in Germany.' 1 '' 
 
 Oh, why didst thon wander from me, my own love. 
 Oh, why didst thou wander from me ? 
 For idly I roam in each meadow and grove, 
 Where, gladsome, I loitered with thee, my own love. 
 Where, gladsome, I loitered with thee. 
 
 Oh ! heavy ""s my heart when the sunset is sweet, 
 And sick when the morning looks gay, 
 For then I remember how I used to meet 
 With thee, who art now far away, my own love, 
 With thee, who art now far away.
 
 And when the wild storms, round his dwelling that 
 
 rave, 
 
 Tell man to be social and free, 
 Poor I shall be lonely and cold as the grave, 
 While pining in absence from thce, my own love. 
 
 While pining in absence from thee. 
 
 A i it 
 
 That altered form thou shalt not, see, 
 Which once was lovely to thine eyes ; 
 
 And memory still in charms to thee 
 Shall dress it, though its beauty flies. 
 
 Nor shall my presence e'er betray 
 
 A wrinkle, or a lock of grey ! 
 
 Thou shalt not know that sorrow's blast 
 Has swept the roses of my prime ; 
 
 That care her hand hath o'er me passed 
 Sadly anticipating time ; 
 
 And on my brow her lines of thought, 
 
 In deep deforming furrows, wrought.
 
 CXI 
 
 Oh ! if the years that, roll along 
 Shall carry in their course away 
 
 Each gift of mind each feeling strong- 
 That blest me in life's better day, 
 
 How s(H)thing is the thought, that thou 
 
 Wilt think me still what I am now ! 
 
 The naked tree, whose yellow leaf 
 Is swept before the winter wind, 
 
 Shall rise from its dominion brief, 
 Opening to vernal breezes kind. 
 
 But changing seasons, as they flee, 
 
 No bloom renewed can brine to me ! 
 
 Am 
 
 AVhile thou at eventide art roaming 
 
 Along the elm-oY>rshaded walk, 
 
 Where, past, the eddying stream is foaming 
 
 Beneath its tiny cataract, 
 
 Where I with thee was wont to talk, 
 
 Think thou upon the days gone by, 
 
 And heave a sigh ! 
 
 8
 
 CX11 
 
 When sails the moon above the mountains, 
 And cloudless skies are purely blue, 
 And sparkle in the light the fountains, 
 And darker frowns the lonely yew, 
 Then be thou melancholy too, 
 When musing on the hours I proved 
 With thce, beloved ! 
 
 When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling, 
 
 And lingering shadows disappear, 
 
 And soft the woodland songs are swelling 
 
 A choral anthem on thine ear, 
 
 Think for that hour to thought is dear ! 
 
 And then her flight remembrance wings 
 
 To by-past things. 
 
 To me, through every season, dearest ; 
 In every scene by day, by night, 
 Thou present to my mind appearest 
 A quenchless star for ever bright ! 
 My solitary, sole delight ! 
 Alone in grove by shore at sea. 
 I think of thee !
 
 cxin 
 
 On her religious character, I must not al- 
 low myself to dilate, for her piety was not 
 of an ostentatious or obtrusive kind. It 
 was willingly avowed whenever it could 
 benefit others, by example ; but it shrunk 
 from observation in its details, and there is 
 a sacredness in its privacy on which I dare 
 not intrude. 
 
 Though her affections were warm, her 
 religion was not a religion of the affections 
 only. Her powerful and discriminating 
 judgment was faithfully employed in in- 
 vestigating the evidences of her belief, even 
 while she prayed most meekly for that 
 faith which cometh down only from the 
 Father of Lights. The books which she 
 valued the most in this most important 
 of all discussions, were Butler's Analogy, 
 Macknight's Truth of the Gospel History, 
 h
 
 CX1V 
 
 and Paley's Hora? Paulina?. The last at- 
 tracted her in a very peculiar degree, and 
 she used to reckon it by far the most origi- 
 nal and the most acute of Dr Paley's works. 
 
 In the study of the Scriptures themselves, 
 she was unwearied ; and the pleasure which 
 she had in the employment was ever new. 
 
 The books which, next to the Bible, she 
 kept constantly near her, both as doctrinal 
 and as practical remembrancers, were John 
 Newton's Messiah andCardiphonia; Jeremy 
 Taylor's Holy Living ; the Old Whole 
 Duty of Man ; Baxter's Saints' Everlasting 
 Rest ; and Cowper's Poems. 
 
 She had the highest reverence for the 
 Common Prayer Book of the Church of 
 England ; and her guide in the duty of 
 self-examination, was Bishop Gibson's little 
 book upon the Lord's Supper. She was 
 too deeply convinced of the vital impor- 
 tance of the duty of self-examination, not 
 to be regular and strict in discharging it. 
 She recorded in writing, at least twice in 
 every year, the answers which her consci- 
 ence enabled her to give to the different to- 
 pics of enquiry, which are suggested by
 
 cxv 
 
 Bishop Gibson ; and on comparing this re- 
 cord from time to time, she wrote down 
 the inferences by which she desired that 
 her conduct might be guided. 
 
 The only direct contribution which she 
 has left to the spiritual welfare of her fel- 
 low-creatures, beyond what is contained in 
 her works already published, is the frag- 
 ment inserted in this volume, under the 
 title which she herself had given it, of 
 HELPS TO DEVOTION. It is published ex- 
 actly in the state in which she left it. Some 
 one, I trust, of judgment as sound, of affec- 
 tions as warm, and of piety as ardent as 
 her own, will complete the selection which 
 she has begun. In the preface, of which 
 the manuscript is blotted with tears of the 
 most eager interest, she draws the picture 
 of the influence of her religion upon her 
 own mind. 
 
 I never was acquainted with any human 
 being, who, in every concern of life, mi- 
 nute or important, was guided by a more 
 earnest wish to do the will of GOD. The 
 principle might, at times, be mastered by 
 temptation, but it was not forgotten ; and
 
 CXV1 
 
 the meekest and humblest self-condemna- 
 tion immediately acknowledged the folly 
 of having swerved from its dictates. 
 
 So long as the use of her understanding 
 was preserved to her, the same temper 
 which had swayed her through life, was 
 manifested on her death-bed. On one of 
 the last occasions when I expressed to her 
 my delight and gratitude for the increasing 
 hopes of her recovery ; her answer was, 
 that though she could not but wish to live 
 while her life was so valued, her earnest 
 prayer had been, that, in this and in every- 
 thing else, instead of her being allowed 
 to chuse for herself, her heavenly Father 
 might do what was best for us both. 
 
 Within two short days thereafter, the vio- 
 lence of fever suspended the expressions of 
 her feelings ! GOD only knows with what 
 bitterness of heart I longed that one ray of 
 intelligence might return ere her departure ; 
 that I might hear her speak once again of 
 her faith and hope ; that I might once again 
 receive her blessing. It was " best for her" 
 that recognition should not aggravate the 
 last conflict of nature ; and, for me, if I
 
 exvn 
 
 cannot profit by the remembrance of her 
 life, the accents of her last breath would 
 have been lost upon me. 
 
 I close this feeble sketch with a testimony 
 far outweighing all that it would have been 
 possible for me to say, a testimony from 
 one who knew her intimately one whose 
 good opinion was dear to her, for she loved 
 and reverenced him. 
 
 Dr Inglis thus closed a sermon, " On the 
 death of the Kighteous," the first which 
 w r as preached in the Tron Church after her 
 interment. 
 
 " Let me exhort you, in the last place, 
 as you would rise superior to the fear of 
 death, to cherish the memory of those who 
 have already passed from the society of the 
 few who were most dear to you on earth, 
 to the society of the blessed in Heaven.
 
 CXV111 
 
 " How unnatural seems to be the con- 
 duct of many, whose consolation for the 
 loss of a departed friend appears to depend 
 upon committing his name to oblivion 
 who appear to shrink from the view of 
 every object that would, for a moment, 
 bring to their recollection the delight which 
 they once felt in his society. If such con- 
 duct be, in any respect, excusable, it can 
 only be in the case of those who have no 
 hope in God. 
 
 " There arc few, if any, among us, who 
 have not, ere now, committed to the silent 
 tomb the perishing remains of some, who 
 had been, not only long, but deservedly 
 dear to us ; whose virtues are, in conse- 
 quence, a satisfying pledge that they have 
 only gone before us to the mansions of bliss. 
 Some of us have, but recently, laid in the 
 grave all that was mortal and perishing of 
 one, who may well continue to live in our 
 remembrance whose memory will be a 
 monitor to us of those virtues which may 
 qualify us for being reunited to her society. 
 Though the body mingle with the dust.
 
 ex ix 
 
 the spirit, in this case, yet speaketh ; it in- 
 vites, and, I trust, enables us to anticipate 
 more effectually on earth, our intercourse 
 with the spirits of the just in Heaven. 
 
 " Great cause we, no doubt, have to 
 mourn over that dispensation of Provi- 
 dence, which has, in the meanwhile, remo- 
 ved from the sphere of our converse on 
 earth one, from whose converse we had 
 so invariably derived at once instruction 
 and delight whose piety was so genuine, 
 that, while never ostentatiously displayed, 
 it was, as little, in any case, disguised 
 whose mental energies communicated such 
 a character and effect to both her piety and 
 her active beneficence, that they often ser- 
 ved the purpose of an example to others, 
 when such a purpose was not contemplated 
 by her whose mental energies, great as 
 they were, yet derived their chief value 
 from being stedfastly consecrated to the 
 interests of truth and the cause of virtue 
 and whose native simplicity and openness 
 of mind imparted to all her endowments 
 a value, which no talents can otherwise 
 possess.
 
 " Not to mourn over a dispensation of 
 Providence, which has deprived us, in the 
 meanwhile, of such a blessing, would be 
 incompatible with the design of Provi- 
 dence, in visiting us with such a cause of 
 affliction. But God forbid that we should 
 sorrow as men who have no hope of being 
 reunited in Heaven to those who have been 
 most dear to them on earth ! God forbid 
 that we should be unwilling in our hearts 
 to conform to the design of Providence, 
 when, by removing from us those who have 
 been the objects of our regard in this world, 
 it would, in some sense, unite earth to 
 heaven, by gradually weaning us from the 
 world, and gradually transferring our hearts 
 to heaven, before we have altogether com- 
 pleted the appointed years of our pilgrim- 
 age on earth ! 
 
 " Let a view of our condition, as the 
 heirs of Heaven, so elevate our minds, as 
 to make us now join, with one heart, in 
 the language of our Christian triumph 
 ' O death ! where is thy sting ? O grave ! 
 where is thy victory ? The sting of death 
 
 is sin ; and the strength of sin is the law ; 
 
 6
 
 CXXl 
 
 but thanks be to God, who giveth us the 
 victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ.' 
 Amen." 
 
 ALEX. BRUNTON. 
 
 EDINBURGH, March %, 1819.
 
 EMMELINE.
 
 " Do you find the paths in which you are led, or rather hurried and 
 driven on, to be * paths; of pleasantness and peace ?' With what f'aee 
 can you charge the professors of religion with hypocrisy, if you pretend 
 to find satisfaction in those ways ? You know that you are not happy, 
 and we know it likewise." 
 
 JOHN NEWTOX.
 
 EMMELINE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste, 
 That it yields nought but bitterness. 
 
 SlIAKSPKAllt. 
 
 THK dews were sparkling in the summer 
 sun, the birds sang in full chorus, the an- 
 tic sports of* animals testified activity and 
 joy, and gladness seemed the nature of 
 every living tiling, when the loveliest bride 
 that ever England saw was preparing for 
 her nuptial hour. Affluence awaited her, 
 and to her rank belonged all the advanta- 
 ges of respectability, without the fetters of 
 state. That hour was to see her united to 
 the gallant Sir Sidney de Clifford, a soldier 
 high in fame, a gentleman who, in person,
 
 manners, and accomplishments, was rivalled 
 by few a lover, who adored her with all 
 the energies of a powerful mind. He was 
 the husband of her choice whom she had 
 loved above all that heaven and earth con- 
 tain above Him whom they cannot con- 
 tain. 
 
 If youth, beauty, affluence, satisfied am- 
 bition, and successful love, can give happi- 
 ness, Emmelihe was happy. Yet the sigh 
 which swelled her bosom was not the sigh 
 of rapture ; nor was it, though Emmeline 
 was the softest of her sex, the offspring of 
 maiden fears. It was wrung from her by 
 bitter recollection ; for Emmeline had, be- 
 fore, been a bride. Attendance and re- 
 spect, cheerful preparations and congratu- 
 lating friends, had beguiled the apprehen- 
 sions of innocence. The bonds into which 
 she had entered, had been hallowed by a 
 parent's blessing a blessing given, alas ! 
 in vain. The bridal ornaments, which now 
 a menial was arranging, a proud and joy- 
 ful hand but this way Emmeline dared 
 not look. " I will forget the past," thought 
 she. " This day, at least, I will forget it ;
 
 and from this hour I will atone for my 
 error for my guilt, if I must call it so. 
 Kvery duty will I now punctually per- 
 form sweet, willing duty now ! The cen- 
 sorious world may be busy with my name 
 but what is the world to me ? Never 
 much now less than nothing. Let Lady 
 de Clifford forgive me let Mary and 
 my father" Emmeline checked a sigh of 
 anguish. " I will not think of that to- 
 day," said she ; and she started up, to seek 
 in change of posture and of object an es- 
 cape from thought. 
 
 Her eye wandered over one of those 
 smiling scenes almost peculiar to her na- 
 tive land. The shadows of gigantic oak 
 and knotted elm dappled a verdure bright 
 as a poet's dream of the lawns of Kden. 
 A river, scarcely seen to flow, spread its 
 glassy windings amidst the peaceful slopes, 
 where the morning-smokes, and the church 
 tower peeping from the woods, might lead 
 the fancy to many a scene of cheerful la- 
 bour and domestic peace. But one object 
 alone drew Emmeline's eye. It was a 
 
 J 
 
 graceful figure, which, with head bent 
 i
 
 6 
 
 downwards, and looks fixed on the earth, 
 was slowly and thoughtfully approaching 
 her dwelling. " Is that the step of a bride- 
 groom ?" thought Emmeline. But, ere the 
 tear that started had trickled down her 
 cheek, De Clifford's eye met hers ; and his 
 smile of fond and fervent love banished the 
 remembrance of all sorrow and all crime. 
 
 It was not the coldness of declining pas- 
 sion, nor the regrets of a reluctant engage- 
 ment, which had clouded De Clifford's 
 brow. Nor was it the fear of the world's 
 scorn ; for even the idea that he could be 
 scorned had never darkened de Clifford's 
 soul. His was one of the few powerful 
 minds, which are, indeed, " their own aw- 
 ful world." He had been accustomed to 
 command applause, not to need, still less 
 to solicit it ; and, when crowds huzzaed, 
 and senates thanked him, he had said to 
 himself, " these people praise they know 
 not what. Success is their idol. I might 
 have been the man I am, and yet tried by 
 a court-martial." Yet De Clifford was 
 now, though he acknowledged it not to 
 himself, sunk in his own esteem. He told
 
 himself that others, tempted as he had been 
 would, like him, have fallen. But this 
 balm was powerless for the wounds of a 
 mind like De Clifford's. Of the heavenly 
 medicine, which alone can heal the noble 
 spirit, De Clifford thought not. His only 
 resource was to banish the recollection of 
 his guilt ; and in this he was not unsuccess- 
 ful. 
 
 But disquiet of a different kind at this 
 moment pressed upon him. De Clifford 
 was a proud man. Every one felt that 
 he was ; though few called him proud, be- 
 cause most people were more inclined to 
 borrow dignity from his notice, than to ac- 
 knowledge his neglect. Yet no man had 
 higher natural capacities of domestic hap- 
 piness. His manners were perfectly free 
 from arrogance ; pride had even communi- 
 cated to them a reserve not unallied to 
 bashfulness. llomantic imagination, strong 
 passions, and deep sensibility, had shrunk 
 from exposure to the toilers after low gains 
 and lower pleasures, till DC Clifford had ob- 
 tained and deserved a character which repel- 
 led the common herd. His intimacy thus
 
 restricted to a few, concentrated among 
 those few affections deep and strong un- 
 told, but effective. He was the only son 
 of his mother, he was the sole guardian 
 of his sister, and to the ties which nature 
 and early association had wound round his 
 heart, this added tenfold strength ; for to 
 claim the protection of De Clifford, was of 
 itself to secure his love. But the best af- 
 fections of human nature were at this mo- 
 ment poisoned arrows in his heart. He 
 had received from Lady de Clifford a let- 
 ter, where grief, and shame, and maternal 
 love, were ill disguised by the language of 
 cold displeasure, while she informed him, 
 that, by taking a last leave of his paternal 
 mansion, she had left him at liberty to re- 
 place her with his bride, without injury to 
 the spotless fame of his sister, or to the 
 feelings of those whose pride and whose 
 hopes had perished in his fall. She renoun- 
 ced, for herself, and for Miss de Clifford, 
 all intercourse with the degraded Emme- 
 line, and sent a farewell, of which the fro- 
 zen words were blotted with tears, to one 
 whom she had loved long and tenderly.
 
 9 
 
 While DC Clifford read this letter, he 
 stood motionless; his cheek pale, his eye 
 flashing indignant fire. At the close, he 
 threw the paper from him ; and erecting 
 his martial figure, strode up and down 
 with proud and determined step. His re- 
 solution was taken. His mother might re- 
 nounce her son, his sister might cast off 
 the friend of her youth, but he would de- 
 grade himself and his Emmeline by no 
 supplications. Sacrifices he had expected 
 that he must make and was not the pos- 
 session of Emmeline his lovely, his gentle 
 Emmeline compensation for every sacri- 
 fice ! 
 
 But De Clifford could not so cast off 
 his early affections. By degrees, as his re- 
 sentment subsided, he persuaded himself 
 that his mother would repent her renun- 
 ciation. " She cannot do it," he thought ; 
 " my mother is not heartless enough to 
 sacrifice us to the illiberality of narrow- 
 minded prudes and bigots She will soon 
 seek us in our happy home, and be happy 
 with us there. And Mary Mary can- 
 not live without us Her whole heart was
 
 10 
 
 mine and Emmeline's She will think of 
 us talk of us every hour as she did 
 when I was in Spain, till she pined herself 
 sick for my return." And here tears, long 
 strangers, filled De Clifford's eyes ; but 
 indignant at the momentary weakness, he 
 dashed them off, and remained resolved. 
 
 De Clifford did not convey his mother's 
 cold message to his bride. He did not 
 even hint at her refusal to receive them, 
 nor at his own consequent feelings ; for he 
 was one of those who announce intention 
 merely that it may be executed. If he 
 opened his mind, it was seldom with a 
 view to gain sympathy with his senti- 
 ments, never to seek confirmation in his 
 purpose. He merely proposed to Emmc- 
 line, that, after a short excursion into 
 Wales, they should return to settle in 
 quiet retirement at Euston. 
 
 " And will Mary will Lady de Clif- 
 ford, meet us there ?" asked Emmeline 
 eagerly. 
 
 " They will probably soon join us," re- 
 turned Sir Sidney. " But you are not 
 afraid that we should be unhappy alone ?"
 
 11 
 
 " Ob, no," said Emmeline ; " with you 
 I cannot but be happy." 
 
 " My own Emmeline !" whispered the 
 bridegroom ; and she felt the more assured, 
 that she " could not but be happy." 
 
 De Clifford and his bride did not ex- 
 pose themselves to the eyes of the gazers 
 round a village green. Their splendid 
 equipage stole through a bye-path to the 
 church. The approach of the carriage, how- 
 ever, collected a little troop of children 
 round the churchyard gate. The little 
 idlers gazed in silence on the first of the 
 party who alighted ; but when Emmeline 
 appeared, they testified their congratula- 
 tion by a universal shout. 
 
 Emmeline was a stranger to them all ; 
 and the meanest bride in the village would, 
 on such an occasion, have received the 
 same rustic salutation ; but the meanest 
 bride in the village would have received it 
 with far other blushes than those which 
 burned in the cheeks of Emmeline, while 
 she forgot that this annoyance was not pe- 
 culiar to herself, and conscience converted 
 the shout of congratulation into the sounds
 
 12 
 
 of reproach. Shocked and terrified, she 
 clung to the arm of De Clifford, and has- 
 tened to escape from her innocent tor- 
 mentors. 
 
 A friend of De Clifford's acted as father 
 to the bride ; her own attendant was her 
 bridemaid. " I detest public weddings !" 
 De Clifford had said. " Xothincr can be 
 
 o 
 
 more absurd than to collect a crowd of 
 fools to pry into feelings, of which nine- 
 tenths of them know and can know no- 
 thing." 
 
 Emmeline had cordially agreed in his 
 opinion ; yet now she could not help re- 
 membering, that a father had once bestow- 
 ed her hand that the companion of her 
 childhood had supported her steps to the 
 altar ; she remembered the group of friends 
 whom her delighted parents had assembled 
 to share their joy ; she remembered even 
 the profusion with which, in the pride of 
 their hearts, they had laboured to grace 
 the nuptials of their darling and she felt 
 
 the change. 
 <-> 
 
 These thoughts mingled with a thou- 
 sand others, as she stood once more before
 
 the altar ; but she started when the priest 
 laid upon De Clifford the vow, to " ho- 
 nour her," and listened, with trembling 
 anxiety, to learn whether he eould steadi- 
 ly say, " 1 will." Her own vow was read 
 and the words, " forsaking all other, 
 keep thee only to him," seemed to her ear 
 marked with an almost reproachful em- 
 phasis. Daring to meet no other eye, she 
 stole one timid glance towards De Clif- 
 ford. His were fixed upon her thought- 
 fully, sadly ; but meeting her's, they were 
 hastily withdrawn. That look pierced her 
 heart. " Ah ! he too despises me !" thought 
 Emmeline ; " he too believes that no vow 
 can bind me !" and covering her face with 
 her hands, she burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 " Emmeline, my beloved Emmeline !" 
 said De Clifford, while, with a lover's ten- 
 derness, he soothed and caressed her ; but 
 she did not dare to tell him her suspicion, 
 nor he to own that he had read it untold 
 
 The lovers set out alone on their intend- 
 ed excursion. The valleys were glowing 
 with the riches of summer the rivers were 
 twining their silver threads, and dashing
 
 their tiny cascades among rocks which the 
 winter torrent had shattered. Along the 
 
 o 
 
 foot of the hills, the hazel coppice here and 
 there opened its bosom, to shew where a 
 brighter green led the eye to the cottage 
 orchard ; and higher up, the sunny brown 
 had streaks of verdure to mark where the 
 spring distilled unseen. Higher still, the 
 mountains swelled their purple masses 
 against the sky, or drew the vapours to 
 veil their barren summits. Emmeline had 
 all that feeling of the beauties of nature, 
 which belongs to innate sensibility and re- 
 fined taste. De Clifford could share her 
 delight ; and often, when his more think- 
 ing mind had begun to analyze the source 
 of his pleasure, she would recall him to the 
 pleasure itself with such artless graces of 
 imagination as made the scene again ap- 
 pear new. Nature seemed more fair, soli- 
 tude more peaceful, morn more reviving, 
 and evening more tender, when beauty 
 and calmness, and vivacity and tenderness, 
 were reflected in the looks of his lovely 
 Emmeline. 
 
 She, too, had moments which realized
 
 15 
 
 all her dreams of rapture, when she saw 
 De Clifford happy, and felt that she was 
 herself his happiness. Still they were only 
 moments ; and when moments of rapture 
 are subtracted, life has yet long years for 
 apathy or for suffering. 
 
 It was on her return from a delightful 
 ramble to the rustic inn where De Clifford 
 proposed to loiter a few days of bliss, that 
 a packet was put into the hands of Emme- 
 line. It dropped unopened to the ground, 
 and Emmeline, pale and trembling, sunk 
 upon a seat. " Ah !" bhe cried, " it is 
 from" . The name of her deserted hus- 
 band died on her lips. De Clifford flew 
 to support her, but his alarm gave place to 
 indignation when he saw what had thus 
 overpowered his Emmeline. " Unfeeling, 
 vindictive !'' he muttered through his clench- 
 ed teeth, and would have spurned the packet 
 from him, but Emmeline snatched it up. 
 " Oh, do not," she cried " we have wrong- 
 ed him enough already." 
 
 " At least let me read it," said De Clif- 
 ford, taking it from her trembling hands ; 
 " you need not endure his insolence."
 
 16 
 
 The envelope contained these words : 
 
 " Mr Devereux cannot retain in his pos- 
 session any thing which has ever belonged 
 to Lady de Clifford. He incloses a deed, 
 which restores to her the sum which he 
 received three years ago. He has added 
 the 10,000/. which the law has lately allot- 
 ted to him. In appointing Major Cecil 
 trustee on this deed, Mr Devereux earnest- 
 ly wishes that an occasion may thus be of- 
 fered of restoring Lady de Clifford's inter- 
 course with a parent so justly respected 
 and beloved," 
 
 De Clifford read this note without com- 
 ment. He laid down the papers, and left 
 the room without uttering a word. 
 
 Emmeline sat gazing on them tears 
 streaming unheeded from her eyes her 
 slender form bent in dejection and abase- 
 ment. She could not now lull her con- 
 science with sophisms of " hearts not form- 
 ed to harmonize, which no ceremonies could 
 unite ;" or of " consenting souls, by Hea- 
 ven's own act made one." She could not 
 seek comfort in recollecting the stoical cold- 
 ness, which was the only charge she could
 
 17 
 
 ever bring against Mr Dcvcrcux. She had 
 done him fatal wrong, and she felt it. The 
 heavier account of evil which lay against 
 her, Emmeline did not indeed examine, for 
 her compunction was not repentance. Her's 
 were the deadly pangs of remorse not that 
 life-giving sorrow, which finds, even in its 
 own anguish, a healing balm. The wronged 
 Mr Devereux had bestowed on her a gift 
 which his circumstances rendered truly ge- 
 nerous ; he had shewn, even amidst his just 
 displeasure, a noble concern for her happi- 
 ness for her restoration to the love and 
 protection of her father ; and all the fail- 
 ings which imagination had magnified, and 
 all the sophistries with which she had stri- 
 ven to beguile herself, vanished together 
 from her mind. She saw, not an injured 
 husband, supported by the first transports 
 of resentment, venting anger which she 
 need not fear, and could barely pity ; but 
 Mr Devereux, deserted, alone in his unso- 
 cial home, wounded by ingratitude, disap- 
 pointed in confiding friendship ! and she 
 wondered where she had found the fatal 
 courage to inflict such aggravated suffer- 
 r,
 
 18 
 
 ing. She saw him shed on his forsaken 
 infants a tear, embittered by pity, grief, 
 and shame ; she heard them lisp the sa- 
 cred name of mother, and break his heart 
 with questions " when she would return." 
 " Wretch that I am !" she cried, " I shall 
 never return ! My boy ! my boy ! I shall 
 never see thee more !" and she wrun<r her 
 
 o 
 
 hands in bitterness. " They are no longer 
 accounted mine," she cried " they are not 
 even named to me !" 
 
 She took the deed, and eagerly cast her 
 eye over it, in a vague hope of finding there 
 the names of her children joined with her 
 own ; but they were not mentioned. The 
 mft was to her alone, as if no living thins: 
 
 c> F5 O 
 
 claimed kindred or inheritance with her. 
 " Oh ! I have deserved this," cried Emme- 
 line, " for 1 had the heart to leave them !" 
 Who that had seen her as she sat on the 
 ground, the snowy arm, on which her face 
 was half concealed, resting on the seat from 
 whence she had sunk, her sunny ringlets 
 wet with her tears, her bosom struggling 
 with sobs that shook her whole frame, 
 would have known her for the same Em-
 
 19 
 
 meline who was wont to chase with feign- 
 ed impatience her laughing boy upon the 
 green herself as playful and as innocent 
 as he ? 
 
 A passing step at length roused Kmme- 
 line to the recollection of what De Clifford 
 must feel, should he witness her distress. 
 She rose from her abject posture, strove to 
 repress the bursting sob, and wiped the 
 tears which yet would force their way. 
 " Dearest De Clifford !" said she, " shall I 
 ever give thee cause to think I regret ma- 
 king any sacrifice for thee ? And yet 
 But if thou canst find thy happiness in 
 poor humbled Emmeline how r much more 
 may I find mine in thee, my noble brave 
 affectionate De Clifford !" 
 
 She had time to compose herself before 
 the return of her husband. He was absent 
 for hours. When he returned, the traces 
 of suffering w r ere seen in his bent brow 
 and sallow check, but his manner was un- 
 changed. He moved with his own firm 
 and commanding step ; he spoke in his 
 own calm low tones.
 
 20 
 
 Had Emmeline known how those hours 
 were spent had she seen him fixing his 
 unnoticing gaze on the pool where the big 
 rain-drops were plashing, or resting his 
 throbbing head against the cold rugged 
 rock had she seen him at last raise his 
 face, rigid with desperate resolution, and 
 heard the groan in which her name burst 
 from his lips, where had been her vain 
 hope that she was herself alone sufficient 
 for his happiness ? She was then doubly 
 the cause of his suffering. It was for her 
 that he had incurred this new and torment- 
 ing sense of inferiority, this remorse, this 
 first venom of " the worm that never 
 dies." 
 
 It was the anticipation of her fate that 
 made the resolute De Clifford hesitate and 
 tremble, while he advanced another despe- 
 rate step in the path of darkness. Many 
 have dared the arrows of self-reproach, and 
 some with breast so flinty, that none could 
 fasten there. But the anguish of the 
 .wounded spirit is testified by frantic ef- 
 forts to tear out the dart which must be
 
 21 
 
 carried to the grave, or to deaden the 
 wound which it is not for mortal hands to 
 heal. l)e Clifford imagined that he was 
 performing an act of justiee, that he was 
 atoning as a gentleman for his errors as a 
 man, when he sought escape from humili- 
 ation and remorse in this billet to Mr De- 
 vereux. 
 
 " Once more I entreat you to accept the 
 only satisfaction I have to offer you. 
 Choose your own time and place. Take 
 this life, and our account will be balanced, 
 for you will have robbed me of Emmeline. 
 " SYDNEY DE CLIFFORD." 
 
 To restore this imaginary balance, De 
 Clifford thought life a cheap sacrifice ; for 
 he had often hazarded life from what is 
 called a sense of duty ; that is, to support 
 his self-esteem. That he should be forced 
 to approve and to respect the man whom 
 he had injured, whom he had endeavoured, 
 almost successfully endeavoured, to hate 
 and to despise ; that he should feel his own
 
 inferiority to one whom he had wronged, 
 was anguish to the high spirit of De Clif- 
 ford. Compelled to own the generosity of 
 Devereux, he abhorred himself, and al- 
 most wished that justice might, by his 
 rival's hand, deal him a deadly blow. Yet 
 when he thought of Emmeline, the tender, 
 gentle, timid Emmeline, who, for his sake, 
 had renounced the society of the virtuous, 
 the protection of the good, the charities of 
 kindred, the brotherhood and equality of 
 all whom the world revere of Emmeline 
 left alone, shrinking from the wicked, 
 though rejected by the pure, he felt that 
 he dared not die. But the consciousness 
 of degradation, the anguish of remorse, the 
 mistaken sense of justice, returned ; and 
 De Clifford dispatched his billet. 
 
 De Clifford was not a man to spend in 
 unavailing wishes and regrets the energies 
 which should enable him to act and to en- 
 dure. His resolution once taken, he pre- 
 pared to meet its consequences. What he 
 suffered was hidden from mortal know- 
 ledge. Even the eye of love read not the
 
 23 
 
 feeling that sometimes blanched that cheek 
 which fear had never altered. Once, and 
 only once, was Kmmeline alarmed, when, 
 in perturbed sleep, he clasped her convul- 
 sively to his breast, and awoke in the cry 
 that supplicated pity for her. " Thou a 
 soldier's wife, and be scared by a dream !" 
 said he, gaily ; and the confiding Emme- 
 line remained in happy credulity. 
 
 De Clifford was now impatient to take 
 possession of his paternal residence. From 
 thence he could more speedily attend a 
 summons from Mr Devereux ; and in that 
 home, which was associated with a thou- 
 sand undefined ideas of peace, and secu- 
 rity, and kindliness, he felt as if Emme- 
 line would be less desolate. He announ- 
 ced his purpose decidedly, though kindly. 
 " We shall go to Euston, my Emmeline," 
 said he. " I feel as if you were but half 
 mine till I see you in your own house, and 
 among your own people." Emmeline 
 cheerfully assented, for the feeblest wish 
 of De Clifford could guide her will. Yet, 
 had it not been for the look and the caress
 
 which accompanied this command, she 
 might perhaps have remembered a time 
 when she had been consulted as a friend, 
 though not courted as a mistress.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Non, si vous voulcz quc je sois paisible ct contente, don- 
 ncz inoi quelque asyle plus siir encore, ou Ton puisse echap- 
 per a la honte et au repentir. 
 
 ROUSSEAU. 
 
 I\IEIIE are your own woods, Emme- 
 line," said de Clifford, as a turn in the road 
 opened to the travellers' view a rich and 
 populous valley. " That is Euston on the 
 side of the hill. That is our smoke rising 
 behind the wood, just above that very 
 green field with the large trees. There 
 you can just see one of the old pointed ga- 
 bles. My dearest Emmeline, welcome 
 home !" 
 
 Emmeline, looking with new and lively 
 interest on every object around her, read 
 not her husband's regret that no other 
 friend was to welcome her ; nor heard the 
 sigh which he gave to the absence of those 
 who were wont to endear his home.
 
 26 
 
 " And that spire on the little rising 
 ground, where the sun shines so bright- 
 ly ?" 
 
 " Is Euston church." 
 
 " Is there a village ?" 
 
 " O yes you are the lady of a pretty 
 large manor, Emmeline you may play 
 the Lady Bountiful upon a great scale." 
 
 Through the close lanes, and across the 
 short cropt green of this village, the travel- 
 lers passed undisturbed, though not unob- 
 served. The labourer dropped his mattock 
 to stare listlessly at the equipage ; the old 
 pauper, who was breaking stones on the 
 road, gazed after it with a vague dislike to 
 any change at Euston ; the widow, who 
 looked from the porch of the dame school, 
 sighed over the recollection of the good 
 Lady de Clifford ; the light damsel, who 
 performed the part of milliner at Euston, 
 took a familiar view of the bride's travel- 
 ling bonnet, secretly exulting that she 
 should no longer be awed by the virtue, 
 as well as by the rank, of her superiors ; 
 and the well-dressed gentlewoman, who
 
 27 
 
 was lolling at the clean sashed window of 
 
 o 
 
 the Rectory parlour, tossed and bridled at 
 the consciousness of being for once entitled 
 to look down upon the Lady of the Ma- 
 nor. 
 
 Among all the gazers, one heart only 
 was touched with gentler feeling towards 
 poor Emmeline. The old curate, as he 
 bowed his gray head to De Clifford, glan- 
 ced compassionately on the bride. " God 
 help thee ! poor thing," thought he ; " so 
 young, and yet so wicked ! God help 
 thee !" 
 
 All stood silently to see the travellers 
 pass, or ran to give in an under tone the 
 news of their arrival ; for even villagers 
 had the delicacy to feel, that Emmeline's 
 situation would give their curiosity almost 
 the character of insult. 
 
 The last time De Clifford had returned 
 to his paternal home, an exulting tenantry 
 had welcomed the wounded hero with tran- 
 sports of joy. They had gone in crowds 
 to meet him ; shouted his name in tri- 
 umph ; joined it with those which shall be 
 lasting as the annals of mankind ; and
 
 28 
 
 adorned it to their own taste with a hun- 
 dred tales of superhuman strength and 
 frantic daring. They had dragged his car- 
 riage to his own door ; and, with honest 
 unenvying sympathy of delight, had bless- 
 ed his mother, as she clasped him to her 
 heart. De Clifford remembered all this. 
 " All this w r as very foolish," said he to him- 
 self. " And yet these people's old heredi- 
 tary attachment has something very diffe- 
 rent from the folly of a common mob." 
 
 De Clifford was silent and thoughtful, 
 while Emmeline surveyed the reverend 
 approach to Euston Hall. Two lofty 
 towers, to whose very battlements the ivy 
 was clinging, flanked a gate massy w r ith 
 intricate ornament and armorial device, 
 through which was dimly seen an avenue 
 darkened with oak and elm, coeval with 
 the days of chivalry. The porter, with 
 his gray head uncovered, welcomed his 
 master with a smile ; while his daughter, 
 under pretence of restraining her children, 
 stood in her door to catch a view of her 
 new mistress. But, when De Clifford 
 spoke in the tone of kindly recognition, a
 
 29 
 
 tear ran quickly down the old man's face, 
 and he turned away. Emrneline saw this, 
 and felt it too ; but she tried to persuade 
 herself that she had no concern in it, and 
 she succeeded. 
 
 The straight avenue rose almost imper- 
 ceptibly, till, within a couple of hundred 
 yards from the house, it branched out to 
 encircle a large bowling-green, which open- 
 ed to view an extensive building, broken 
 in every direction with pointed gables, 
 and surmounted by a cross or a crest, or 
 shrouded by luxuriant vines, passion-flower, 
 and ivy. Stone mullions divided each 
 window into compartments ; some retain- 
 ing their ancient form of casements, still 
 coloured here and there with remains of 
 the glowing draperies of saints, and the ri- 
 gid forms of knights in armour ; some en- 
 larged by the hand of modern taste into a 
 light mimickry of the Gothic. Behind the 
 house stretched a terrace, inclosed by a 
 massy stone balustrade, and glowing with 
 flowers of every hue, quaintly arranged 
 in circles, hearts, and crosses, cut out of 
 turf of the closest velvet. From the ter-
 
 30 
 
 race, a noble flight of steps descended to 
 a lawn, first dotted with fantastical yew- 
 trees, then fringed with gayer evergreens 
 and flowering shrubs, then varied by the 
 darker foliage and broad shadows of single 
 forest trees, then stretching its deep inden- 
 tures to lose themselves in groves of oak 
 and chesnut. 
 
 Emmeline entered her home by a hall 
 pannelled with dark wainscot, and sur- 
 rounded by carved doors, surmounted with 
 heavy entablatures. Above each was dis- 
 played some spoil of the chase or the battle 
 of other days. Over some branched the 
 stately antlers of the moose deer ; over one 
 grinned the wolf's head ; here were dis- 
 played the broad-sword and the target, and 
 there the banner's discoloured shreds trem- 
 bled in every breath of air. 
 
 Two enormous chests, studded and bound 
 with iron, charged for centuries with the 
 plate and jewels of Euston, occupied the 
 deep recesses of the windows, while the 
 centre of the hall was filled by a huge oak 
 table resting upon lions, the supporters of 
 the armorial ensign of De Clifford,
 
 31 
 
 The rich crimson hangings and cedar 
 
 C5 O 
 
 pannelling of the parlour into which Km- 
 meline was ushered, were enlivened by 
 some good pictures of the Flemish school ; 
 and the heavy casements had here given 
 place to windows of more modern size and 
 form. 
 
 " You think this gloomy, Emmeline," 
 said De Clifford, who had been watching 
 her eye. " I remember it the most cheer- 
 ful home that ever released school-boy loi- 
 tered and domineered in." 
 
 " It will be so again," said Emmeline, 
 looking up in his face with a smile of heart- 
 felt tenderness. " It will be more than 
 a cheerful it will be a happy home." 
 
 A sudden contraction crossed De Clif- 
 ford's brow ; but he kissed the clear open 
 forehead that was raised towards him, and 
 answered lightly, " It must be both, love. 
 Come, let's have wine, and drink your wel- 
 come." 
 
 He pulled the bell ; but before a servant 
 came, he had forgotten his first intention, 
 and inquired eagerly for his letters. Mr 
 Devereux's answer was not among them.
 
 32 
 
 De Clifford drew a deep breath. "'We 
 may have another day of happiness still,'' 
 he thought ; and he returned to hang ena- 
 moured over his beautiful Emmeline. 
 
 Emmeline rambled through her new 
 abode with that feeling of harmless self- 
 importance, which is, perhaps, one of the 
 nameless charms of home. Amused and 
 interested, she enjoyed the present ; and 
 what except the present was left for her 
 to enjoy ? 
 
 She was particularly pleased with the 
 apartment appropriated to herself, fur- 
 nished with her instruments of music and 
 drawing, and with such lighter works of 
 imagination as might minister rather to 
 amusement than to reflection. On the one 
 side it communicated with the library ; on 
 the other a glass door opened into a pretty 
 conservatory, stored with rare and beauti- 
 ful plants. 
 
 " Xow here I shall hide myself," said 
 Emmeline, playfully, " when I wish to be 
 alone ; so remember your promise, De 
 Clifford, never come here without per- 
 mission,"
 
 33 
 
 " Ah, little traitress ! already contriving 
 to escape ! Well ! and how long will you 
 be able to support the happiness of being 
 quit of me ?" 
 
 De Clifford spoke in a tone of unusual 
 gaiety ; but there was a tremulousness in 
 his lip, an inquisition in his eye, that 
 alarmed Emmeline. " I hope you do not 
 mean to try," she said, changing colour. 
 
 " There is no saying how I may punish 
 your malicious intent," returned De Clif- 
 ford, still in his former tone ; but, as he 
 turned away, Emmeline caught the altered 
 expression of his countenance. 
 
 " Oh, you are going to leave me ! you 
 are ordered abroad !" she cried, clasping 
 his arm, and half sinking to the ground. 
 
 " My sweet Emmeline," said De Clifford, 
 fondly supporting her, " why will you ter- 
 rify yourself with phantoms ? I assure you 
 there was not such a thought in my mind. 
 I have no call to join the army, nor any 
 prospect of a call." 
 
 " Ah ! are you not deceiving me ?" said 
 Emmeline, still trembling. 
 
 " No, upon my word." 
 c
 
 34 
 
 " Then what meant that strange terri- 
 ble" 
 
 " You know," interrupted De Clifford, 
 " circumstances might make it indispensi- 
 ble for me to go ; and," he added in a 
 whisper, as if afraid to trust his voice with 
 the sound, " to leave thee my heart's trea- 
 sure my all " 
 
 " To go, perhaps," said Emmeline, firm- 
 ly, " but not to leave me. You cannot go 
 where I would not follow you." 
 
 " A brave follower of a camp, indeed ! 
 my pretty fairy Emmeline. A good figure 
 thine for a bivouac !" 
 
 " Nay, do not jest with me ; for I will 
 never be left one day behind, and thou in 
 battle and in danger, while I can drag 
 these limbs to follow thee. What have I 
 but thee ? Oh, I would not endure one 
 such day of dread and horror to pur- 
 chase the creation." 
 
 " Well, sweet foolish girl, trust me, we 
 shall have time enough to settle that mat- 
 ter," said De Clifford, glad that in pursu- 
 ing her own thoughts Emmeline had miss- 
 ed the clue to his.
 
 35 
 
 " Nay, promise me," she said, " that if 
 ever you are called away, I shall go with 
 you. Won't you promise ?" 
 
 " O yes. I will promise now, as I have 
 done a hundred times, that if you will ne- 
 ver make a dismal face at me, but look at 
 me with your own sweet laughing eyes, 
 you shall always do what you please." 
 
 But Emmeline could not always meet 
 his glance with laughing eyes ; nor was he 
 always in the humour to seek such ex- 
 pression there. Her heart turned to her 
 children with many a regret, to which 
 she would not give utterance ; and his 
 mind was full of a subject which he did 
 not dare to share with his wife. Day after 
 day brought no answer from Mr Deve- 
 reux. De Clifford cursed the uncertainty 
 of cross posts, and tried to persuade him- 
 self that his letter had been delayed or lost. 
 But a suspicion visited him that Mr De- 
 vereux disdained to answer or to accept of 
 atonement from him. The boiling blood 
 rushed to his forehead at the thought. He 
 left his house, and hid himself in the dark- 
 est shade of his woods. Alone and unseen,
 
 36 
 
 he brooded over his suspicion for hours ; 
 then, to confirm or banish it for ever, he 
 shut himself into his study, and wrote to 
 desire that a friend would carry in person 
 his proposal to Mr Devereux. 
 
 Another subject had from the first arri- 
 val of Mr Devereux's packet chafed the 
 galled spirit of De Clifford. He saw with 
 surprise, almost with indignation, that Em- 
 meline actually meant to accept the gift of 
 her deserted husband. For himself, no ex- 
 tremity could have prevailed with him to 
 stoop thus low. But the gift was solely to 
 Emmeline. All rights, all interference but 
 her own and her father's, were expressly 
 excluded. Had it been possible for him to 
 compensate the sacrifice to her, he would 
 have besought he would have command- 
 ed her to reject this galling obligation ; 
 but his estate was an entailed one, and 
 could not be burdened with so large a sum. 
 He thought it unjust to extort a sacrifice 
 which he could not repay ; and what he 
 w r ould not enforce, he scorned to insinuate. 
 Emmeline, therefore, remained in profound 
 ignorance of the mortification she was in-
 
 37 
 
 flicting. Fallen as she was in her own 
 esteem, all thoughts of supporting an ima- 
 ginary dignity were lost in a sense of her 
 own demerit, and a painful admiration 
 of the generosity of Mr Devereux. To 
 spurn the kindness which she had abused, 
 entered not once into her contemplation. 
 To ape the independence of worth, to 
 front the injured Mr Devereux with the 
 unsubdued port of virtue, would, had 
 such a thought entered her mind, have 
 appeared to her the worst aggravation 
 of baseness. Far from rejecting his gift, 
 she saw in it, as he had intended, an occa- 
 sion of renewing her lost intercourse with 
 her father ; and looked forward to the 
 time, when, by restoring to her children 
 what was in truth their rightful inherit- 
 ance, she should again claim them for her 
 own. " A\ r hen I am in my grave," she 
 thought, a tear stealing from her soft blue 
 eye, " they will learn, perhaps for the first 
 time, that they had a mother." 
 
 De Clifford beheld with wonder this 
 tameness of spirit. " Strange !" he thought, 
 ** that she should have so little feeling:
 
 38 
 
 for her own dignity or for mine ! Can it 
 be the love of money that blinds her ? But 
 be what it may, she shall make no sacrifice 
 to me that is not suggested by her own 
 heart. Gentle as she is, she would not, 
 I know, refuse my faintest request ; but 
 this is an additional reason why I should 
 never urge her." On this subject, there- 
 fore, De Clifford's thoughts were impene- 
 trable. They passed away, indeed, under 
 the influence of Emmeline's syren voice 
 and witching smile, but they returned to 
 disquiet and irritate his solitude. 
 
 Meanwhile, this pair were left to their 
 own pleasures and their own pains. The 
 first weeks of their abode at Euston they 
 passed entirely alone ; the few gentry who 
 were in the neighbourhood keeping aloof. 
 With some, it was no matter of hesitation 
 whether they should receive into society 
 her who had broken its most powerful 
 bond, or whether they should open their 
 families to her who had violated all the 
 sanctities of her own. Some waited to 
 see what others would do ; curiosity over- 
 coming their dislike of vice, but not their
 
 39 
 
 awe for public opinion ; and some who 
 had never been admitted to Euston Hall, 
 and who suspected that the same exclusion 
 might operate still, loudly declared that 
 '* they would be civil to poor Lady de 
 Clifford, should they happen to meet with 
 her, but that they had no idea of throwing 
 themselves in the way of such people." 
 
 It was remarked, that the congregation 
 at Euston church became unusually nume- 
 rous and unusually gay ; but the first Sun- 
 day after her arrival, Lady de Clifford was 
 not there ; and the second she had taken 
 her place before the clergyman wore a 
 slouch bonnet held down her head du- 
 ring the whole service and, when it was 
 over, disappeared like a shadow ; so that 
 the only facts which could be affirmed 
 concerning her by the ladies of Euston 
 were, that her figure was, " to their taste, 
 rather small, and her veil real Brussels 
 lace." 
 
 The only visitors who disturbed the so- 
 litude of the lovers were, a neighbouring 
 squire, who had married his housekeeper ; 
 the candidate for the borough ; and a mem-
 
 40 
 
 ber of the four-in-hand club, who obli- 
 gingly turned a few miles aside to make 
 Euston Hall a stage been Cheltenham and 
 York races. 
 
 De Clifford recollected the crowds of 
 visitors, who had formerly hurried to con- 
 gratulate his arrival. They had annoy edand 
 fatigued him. He had been sick of mam- 
 mas who had exhibited their daughters, and 
 of misses who exhibited themselves. He 
 cared nothing for good dinners ; disliked 
 drinking ; and loathed the paltry politics 
 which furnished his neighbours with causes 
 of irritation or of triumph. He was, there- 
 fore, not sorry to be left alone. But, that 
 people whom he despised should venture 
 any mark of neglect or disrespect to Em- 
 meline ! to his Emmeline ! He did smile 
 scornfully at the thought, but there was 
 bitterness in the smile. Nor did he forget 
 to think, were he withdrawn from her, 
 how total, how unbroken would be her so- 
 litude ; how lost would be all the graces of 
 her polished mind and captivating manners ; 
 how her life would waste, without hope and 
 without pursuit ; how the affections of that
 
 41 
 
 gentle heart would wither and perish, cast 
 out, and trodden under foot. 
 
 In the calm of accomplished desire, all 
 men reflect ; but the higher order of minds 
 alone can feel the pang which reflection 
 brought to the spirit of De Clifford. His 
 dreary anticipations of Emmeline's fate 
 were, however, removed by a letter from 
 the friend whom he had employed to wait 
 upon Mr Devereux. The interview, he 
 was informed, had been short but decisive. 
 In answer to his proposal, Mr Devereux 
 had declared, " that he would forgive Sir 
 Sidney De Clifford as soon as forgive- 
 ness was in his power ; but that, his 
 wrongs equally precluding compensation 
 and atonement, he must insist upon de- 
 clining all further communication on the 
 subject." 
 
 " Curse his forgiveness !" muttered De 
 Clifford, " frozen, puritanical coxcomb ! 
 Ideot thnt I was ! to offer him another 
 triumph over me." 
 
 Galled and mortified, De Clifford spent 
 the day alone. He loathed the intercourse 
 of every living thing. He avoided his ser-
 
 42 
 
 vants ; checked the very dog that fawned 
 on him ; and shrunk even from the soothing 
 presence of Emmeline. The thought of her 
 mingled strangely with the causes of his 
 disquiet ; and no irritation is so tormenting 
 as that which connects itself with the ob- 
 ject of unsubdued desire. " Would that 
 I had never seen her !" he thought ; " or 
 that this fatal madness had seized me, be- 
 fore she became the property of that 
 with his canting forgiveness ! and I must 
 suffer her, forsooth, to be his obsequious 
 debtor ! Better starve with her ! Why 
 should I not command her to give back 
 his ostentatious trash ? Should I suffer my 
 wife to degrade herself, for a few paltry 
 pounds ? If she felt as she ought, she would 
 thank me for preferring her dignity to a 
 mean consideration of interest. And to in- 
 terfere is only to involve myself in a fruit- 
 less altercation with her father. He will 
 no doubt be resolute in defence of what 
 he will call her interest he \vho sold her 
 to a heartless engagement. Yes, yes ! He 
 would insist upon his right of guardianship, 
 though he has driven her from his presence
 
 43 
 
 spurned her like the vilest thing that in- 
 fests the earth. He shall croueh at her feet, 
 before I hold one moment's intercourse with 
 him. 33ut she, she will need only an in- 
 timation of his pleasure. Anything any- 
 thing, however humiliating, provided it be 
 his will. She even married to please him. 
 And when I had condescended to extort a 
 sacrifice to her own dignity, she would no 
 doubt repine that she could not obey her 
 father, and probably consider me as a capri- 
 cious tyrant, destined to set her at variance 
 with all mankind. But why does she not, 
 of herself, renounce this vile obligation ? 
 She ought to shrink from it, even more 
 than I if that were possible. Why does 
 she not feel what is fit to be done, without 
 being driven to it like a slave ? strange 
 moral insensibility ! And yet she does not 
 want sensibility neither. Avarice avarice 
 blinds one half her sex, and vanity the 
 other. Yet let me recollect, have I ever 
 seen any other sign of avarice in her ?" 
 
 De Clifford felt a pang not unallied to 
 jealousy, when he recollected how greatly 
 his own fortune exceeded that which Em-
 
 44 
 
 meline had forsaken ; but before the 
 thought could assume distinct form, it was 
 gone. De Clifford assured himself that he 
 was indeed fervently beloved. 
 
 Yet, in this hour of gloom, when the 
 mind lent its own dark colours to what it 
 looked upon, he rather tried to excuse his 
 irritation, by dwelling upon all that could 
 savour of evil, and doubting all that pro- 
 mised unmingled good. 
 
 No !" he thought. " In this great error 
 of her life she was surely disinterested. 
 And yet, these soft yielding souls do not 
 often harbour strong passion not such 
 passion as scorns every obstacle hazards 
 all renounces all. The cold calculating 
 love of money suits better these feeble na- 
 tures. They could not support that fever 
 of the soul w r hich absorbs in itself all feel- 
 ings all w r ishes all pursuits." 
 
 De Clifford suddenly stopped the hur- 
 ried steps which had carried him forward 
 during this painful reverie ; for his heart re- 
 proached him with the artless tenderness of 
 Emmeline. " She is, she must be artless," 
 he cried. " And yet she deceived that
 
 45 
 
 cold, cautious Why "will lie haunt my 
 
 thoughts ? Would he were in his grave, 
 or I in mine !" 
 
 When Emmeline next saw her husband, 
 he was thoughtful and silent. But this 
 was his general character. He looked pale 
 too, but he assured her that he was well ; 
 and she felt something in his manner that 
 forbade farther inquiry. He gave his 
 thoughts no utterance, yet he was vexed 
 that Emmeline did not in part divine 
 them. He knew that she was ignorant of 
 Mr Devereux's contemptuous refusal of the 
 satisfaction he had offered, and therefore 
 could not enter into his mortification and 
 disquiet ; yet he felt as much displeased as 
 if she had known all, and had wilfully in- 
 flicted on him the disgrace of making him 
 a debtor to the man who insulted and de- 
 spised him. He inwardly reproached him- 
 self for this injustice ; yet the displeasure 
 which was renounced by his judgment ad- 
 hered to his feeling. 
 
 O 
 
 De Clifford's habitual temper was calm, 
 though commanding. To his domestics 
 he was just and humane, though not con-
 
 46 
 
 descending ; to his friends he was steady 
 and generous, though not communicative. 
 But he was labouring under a trial which 
 no temper can endure, the sense of incu- 
 rable degradation the consciousness of ha- 
 ving done a wrong which he could neither 
 repair nor atone ; and that which a light 
 and frothy mind would have vented in a 
 few bursts of petulance, perhaps in strong, 
 but transient expressions of remorse, cor- 
 roded the heart which would not reveal, 
 and could not expel its bitterness. 
 
 For two days Emmeline watched in si- 
 lent anxiety the clouded countenance of 
 her husband ; now hesitating whether she 
 might venture to ask the cause of his dis- 
 quiet ; now doubting, as he recalled his self- 
 command, or wrapped himself more closely 
 in his habitual reserve, whether he had in- 
 deed any secret to reveal. 
 
 " Why should I not venture ?" she said 
 to herself. " If he has any uneasiness, who 
 can sympathize in it like me ? He cannot 
 be displeased that his every thought, every 
 look, should interest me ! Why should I 
 not venture ?"
 
 47 
 
 Yet Emmeline still hesitated. She had 
 lost that inward consciousness of worth, 
 which allows a wife, even while sensible of 
 her subordinate station and inferior powers, 
 somewhat of the frank equality of friend- 
 ship. She herself was little aware how far 
 this loss affected her sentiments towards 
 her husband ; yet that which in a sterner 
 mind would have produced a peevish im- 
 patience of degradation, or an irritating 
 jealousy of influence, quelled even to cow- 
 ardice the gentle spirit of Emmeline. 
 
 She \vaited long to seize the best mo- 
 ment for her purpose ; yet chose, perhaps, 
 the worst. It was just when De Clifford, 
 observing that she watched him, had made 
 an effort to conquer his disquiet -just when 
 he had resolved, that for one hour, at least, 
 he would forget it in lover-like trifling with 
 his still beloved mistress, that Emmeline, 
 looking at him with a face from which 
 anxiety and fear had banished all the play- 
 ful tenderness which bewitched him there, 
 said to him, " Dear De Clifford ! will you 
 not speak your thoughts to me ? Day and
 
 4S 
 
 night I think only who or what it can 
 be that offends you. Nay, do not turn 
 away from me,< something, I am sure, 
 vexes you," 
 
 No man can bear even the most gentle 
 notice of his ill-humour, when he is just 
 struggling to conquer it. 
 
 " Pshaw, Emmeline," said De Clifford, 
 " never fancy a man is out of humour un- 
 less he tells you so." 
 
 " I did not mean out of humour," said 
 Emmeline, shrinking, " only you were 
 so so grave" 
 
 " My face was not made to wear an eter- 
 nal smile, Emmeline. If you ever expect- 
 ed that, I am sorry you will be disappoint- 
 ed." 
 
 These were the first unkindly words that 
 ever de Clifford had addressed to his wife. 
 The blood rushed quickly to her face, and 
 as quickly retired. Her eyes filled with 
 tears ; but she struggled with them for a 
 moment while De Clifford was leaving the 
 room, then threw herself on a seat, and 
 wept bitterly.
 
 49 
 
 " Oh, I deserve this, and a thousand 
 times more !" she cried. " A curse lies 
 upon me, and it would be just terribly 
 just if lie should fulfil it." 
 
 De Clifford soon became conscious of his 
 injustice ; but husbands can seldom confess 
 that they have been in the wrong, and 
 wives should yet more rarely desire such a 
 confession, since no woman was ever the 
 more beloved for even momentary superi- 
 ority. The gentle Emmeline was as far 
 from expecting as from desiring such an 
 avowal from her husband. She met his 
 first advance of kindness with a joy as 
 gratefid as if she alone had been the of- 
 fender. De Clifford, won by her sweet- 
 ness, forgot for a time all mortification and 
 all care. When, conscious that he deser- 
 ved to be received with coldness, he cau- 
 tiously, and by degrees, laid aside his own, 
 when his first relenting word was answered 
 in accents kind as a youthful mother's first 
 blessing on her child, when his half stolen 
 look of love met those eyes, blue as deep 
 waters reflecting a softer darker sky, he 
 D
 
 thought she had never looked so lovely, 
 never been so dear ; and so tender was this 
 first reconciliation, that the lovers could 
 scarcely regret their short estrangement,
 
 51 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheek, 
 And given my treasure and my rights in thee 
 To thick-eyed musing r 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 MEN'S disquietudes partake the transi- 
 tory nature of their joys ; and, though 
 some situations are so peculiarly fertile in 
 vexation that one only gives place to an- 
 other, yet no single form of it is unremit- 
 ting or permanent. The oft repeated at- 
 tack we at last learn to parry ; or the pain 
 which cannot be escaped, habit teaches us 
 to endure. 
 
 De Clifford's remorse gradually lost its 
 
 asperity. Recollection of the injury he 
 
 had inflicted, of the generosity which had 
 
 met his wrongs, returned by degrees less 
 
 requently and less forcibly to his mind,.
 
 52 
 
 till at last it came like an unwelcome vi- 
 sitor, only to be denied admittance. Along 
 with the hope of repairing in his own idea 
 his injured honour, he had lost the fear of 
 leaving to desolation his beloved Emme- 
 line ; of forfeiting, while yet it was new, 
 the treasure so dearly earned. The ob- 
 ject of eager, anxious pursuit, was secure. 
 Emmeline, at whatever price, was all his 
 own. Her love left him nothing to desire, 
 her compliance nothing to contest, her 
 mildness no caprice to fear, her submission 
 no humour to study. His lot in life seem- 
 ed fixed the lot which he himself had 
 chosen. What then remained but to enjoy 
 it in peace ? 
 
 And all around breathed peace. The 
 toils of the harvest were ended. The woods 
 were silent. The birds had ceased their 
 warbling ; all but the confiding redbreast, 
 whose solitary song now began to be heard 
 near the dwellings of man. The morning- 
 smokes crept low along the frosty meadow. 
 The moon glided all day like a silvery 
 cloud through the cold clear sky. The cat- 
 tle lay quietly ruminating in the fields, their
 
 53 
 
 breath floating round them in a vapoury 
 veil. In the stillness of evening, you might 
 hear the single leaf drop, to join its fel- 
 lows which the frost had scattered on the 
 ground. 
 
 Amidst their own sheltering woods and 
 peaceful glades, the proprietors of Euston 
 were secluded from the world that world 
 which furnishes so much of the business of 
 the multitude. They were loosed from the 
 bands of relationship, from the courtesies 
 of neighbourhood, from the interchange 
 of good offices, from the interruptions of 
 the idle, and the flutter of the busy. " And 
 be it so," said the lovers for they were 
 still lovers " we shall be the world to 
 each other." 
 
 On one side the resolution was fulfilled 
 De Clifford was every thing to Emmeline. 
 Depending upon him for all her pleasures, 
 finding in his will her sole aim and pur- 
 pose, she clung to him only the more for 
 the desertion of every other stay. His 
 love, his society, his protection, even his 
 authority, daily endeared him to the gen- 
 tle depending Emmeline ; and her attach-
 
 incut became, if possible, more fervent, 
 than when, in evil hour, she sacrificed to 
 it all that is most precious in time and 
 in eternity. While he was present, she 
 saw, she heard only De Clifford. The mo- 
 ments of his absence were a dreary blank 
 in her being ; the sound of his returning 
 step made her heart leap light. 
 
 But love, successful love, at least, 
 though it may be the business of woman, 
 can never be more than the pastime of 
 man. De Clifford was a soldier, accus- 
 tomed to all the rousing interests of war. 
 These interests had given place to an 
 overpowering passion, which had filled, 
 and perhaps delighted, such a mind the 
 more, for its struggles, its dangers, and its 
 guilt. These rapids in the tide of life were 
 past, and all was still. All who have watch- 
 ed the subsiding torrent, know how apt it 
 is to stagnate. Perhaps the most difficult 
 problem in the management of the human 
 mind, is to fill the void which is left there 
 by the accomplishment of supreme desire 
 The w r ant of something to wish, has op- 
 pressed many a heart besides his who wept
 
 55 
 
 for more worlds to conquer. One senti- 
 ment alone there is, important enough to 
 occupy, vast enough to fill, lofty enough to 
 elevate, excellent enough to satisfy the 
 greatest soul. But of this De Clifford 
 thought not ; or, if he had, he would have 
 despised the humiliation, and abhorred the 
 self-denial necessary to make it his own. 
 
 " What shall we do to-day, Emmeline ?" 
 was the question he often asked as they 
 lingered over the breakfast-table, ques- 
 tion of evil omen to the happiness of him 
 who asks it ! " To-day we must do so and 
 so,'' is the language of happiness ; for it is 
 the language of activity, of duty. 
 
 Emmeline was not the best person to 
 answer this application ; for she could de- 
 vise pleasure, but not invent business. De 
 Clifford's only employment which deserved 
 the name was his professional studies an 
 employment from which Emmeline was 
 necessarily excluded. Then he would ride 
 out without an object, or wander in his 
 grounds till he was tired ; then he would 
 return to the society of his beautiful wife ; 
 till he was tired of that too.
 
 56 
 
 Perhaps the arrival of the newspaper set 
 him once more to trace the progress of the 
 armies, or conjecture their next movement. 
 Thus occupied, he sometimes scarcely no- 
 ticed the presence of Emmeline, except 
 when her silver voice roused him to an at- 
 tempt to make her comprehend the subject 
 of his inquiry. 
 
 To her, on the contrary, his presence, 
 even when he was occupied and silent, 
 gave a secret inexpressible satisfaction ; 
 and, while she drew her work-table close 
 to his side, she almost forgot the mourn- 
 ful thoughts that haunted her in his ab- 
 sence ; forgot that she was an outcast 
 from society an alien from her father a 
 mother bereft of her children. 
 
 They, who are weary of themselves, rare- 
 ly give the true name to their disorder. 
 They have commonly sufficient ingenuity 
 to ascribe their uneasiness to something 
 which has less connection with self-re- 
 proach. Many a sincere wish did De Clif- 
 ford send towards his revered mother and 
 his beloved sister ; but many a sigh, too, did 
 he ascribe to their absence, which belonged
 
 rather to ennui. lie still, however, per- 
 sisted in his determination to make no 
 concession to them ; nor did he even give 
 utterance to his regret, though he felt 
 much, and fancied more. " Just as they 
 please," was all his answer to Emmeline's 
 mournful comments upon their long ab- 
 sence and obstinate silence. 
 
 Emmeline tried to borrow part of his 
 spirit to support her under the neglect of 
 her dear and early friends. " Surely," she 
 thought, ' they need not have added their 
 part to the slights thrown on me. The 
 world would have excused De Clifford's 
 mother and sister for shewing some coun- 
 tenance to his wife ! One, too, whom they 
 once professed to esteem ! And, though I 
 were ever so unworthy, ought they to re- 
 nounce De Clifford De Clifford, who, 
 but for me, would have been the pride of 
 his family, as he is of England ? If they 
 really have the heart to abandon him, why 
 should I long for them ?" 
 
 Yet Emmeline did long for them ! Often 
 and often as she sat alone, she thought of 
 their friendship shewn in her days of inno-
 
 58 
 
 eence, till the tears trickled down her 
 cheeks. " I have no friend on earth now," 
 she said, " but thee, dear De Clifford ! 1 
 never can have another ; for good women 
 will not be my friends, and I cannot love 
 the wicked." 
 
 Had any one asked Emmeline whether 
 she was happy, she would instantly have 
 thought of her husband, and answered 
 " Yes ;" but the next moment she would 
 inwardly have made many a melancholy 
 reservation. She had once been remark- 
 able for natural gaiety of temper, but that 
 characteristic was insensibly passing away, 
 and darker thoughts were becoming the 
 habitual tenants of her mind. She had 
 miserably forfeited the peace of innocence, 
 but she wanted the hard unkindly daring 
 spirit which alone can enjoy the pleasures 
 of vice. The very tenderness of heart, 
 which, in happier circumstances, would 
 have been at once her ornament and her 
 delight, now made her a prey to repressed 
 affections and unavailing regrets. She 
 seldom spoke her melancholy thoughts to 
 her husband ; for, indeed, they never oc-
 
 curred to her when in his presence ; yet 
 I)e Clifford observed the change in her ge- 
 neral spirits, and observed it with the ten- 
 derest compassion. But, while he pitied, 
 he grew weary too. Men so naturally ex- 
 pect amusement and relaxation in the so- 
 ciety of women, that, in a female compa- 
 nion, cheerfulness is to them almost as im- 
 portant a requisite as good-humour itself. 
 Miserable is he who must spend his life 
 with one who has no retreat from melan- 
 choly, except in a seared conscience and a 
 hard heart ! 
 
 A rainy week in the country, spent 
 tete-a-tete between a husband who has 
 neither scientific habits, nor necessary bu- 
 siness, and a wife who has no household 
 details to occupy, and no children to 
 amuse her. will try the spirit even of a light 
 heart and a clear conscience. It was at the 
 close of such a week, that De Clifford ob- 
 served in the newspaper an advertisement 
 of a meeting of the neighbouring land- 
 holders to take place next day. De Clif- 
 ford detested these meetings ; which he said 
 
 O 7 
 
 only served to occasion wrangling before
 
 60 
 
 dinner, and raving after it ; but the canal 
 which was the point of discussion, was to 
 intersect the Euston estate, and he persua- 
 ded himself that it was quite necessary for 
 him to attend. 
 
 His presence at this meeting was not use- 
 less. He had been accustomed to survey 
 ground with an accuracy to which none of 
 his neighbours could pretend ; and he knew 
 every step of the track in question. The 
 information, therefore, which he had to 
 communicate, his family influence in the 
 county, his noble appearance and command- 
 ing manner, secured attention while he 
 spoke ; and at the end of a short speech, 
 which he was in some sort compelled to 
 make, he sat down with a feeling of self- 
 congratulation, which of late had been a 
 stranger to him. 
 
 Some of his hearers were offended with 
 the presumption of even this slight claim 
 on public notice, from one who was suf- 
 fering under public disgrace ; and some 
 mourned the untimely blight of a youth of 
 such goodly promise. 
 
 l)e Clifford, however, was soon after ho-
 
 61 
 
 noured with a visit from one of his hesita- 
 ting neighbours, who thought " Sir Sidney 
 a very fine young fellow, and the proprietor 
 of one of the best estates in the county, and 
 moreover of his own opinion in regard to 
 the canal ;" and whom all these small rea- 
 sons induced to do what he was not quite 
 sure that he ought to do, namely, to call 
 upon De Clifford and invite him to dinner. 
 Emmeline was not included in the invita- 
 tion, because Mr Ashley had a wife and 
 daughters, whose hesitation to visit her was 
 not yet conquered. An apology, however, 
 was made for this omission, on the score of 
 lame coach-horses and bad roads ; and De 
 Clifford went to Mr Ashley's. 
 
 As he rode off, Emmeline stood gazing 
 after him in a fit of melancholy musing; but 
 she shook it off, and began to amuse her- 
 self, first with a book, then with her work, 
 till the remembrance of her father, of her 
 friends, of her children, stole upon her, her 
 hands dropped idly on her lap, her body re- 
 mained motionless, her mind passive in that 
 melancholy dream which clothes creation in 
 darkness, and loves to have it so.
 
 62 
 
 De Clifford staid late ; so late that Emme- 
 line was roused from her reverie by wonder 
 and alarm at his stay. It is not to be told 
 
 / 
 
 what restless anxiety, what groundless fears 
 beset those who have hazarded their all on 
 a single stake. Emmeline pictured to her- 
 self every possible mischance which could 
 have befallen her husband ; struggled with 
 her fears ; felt that they were weak ; yielded 
 to them and wept over the consciousness 
 that she deserved to suffer them. Thus 
 passed the time of De Clifford's absence, 
 and somewhat like this was the history of 
 his every absence. He returned in good 
 spirits ; Emmeline tried to be glad that he 
 had been so well amused, but she was ex- 
 hausted with washing and wearying for his 
 return, and could welcome it only with 
 sickly smiles. De Clifford felt something 
 like reproach in her languor ; but he con- 
 sidered the lonely life she led, pitied, ex- 
 cused, and tried to divert her with an ac- 
 count of his visit. 
 
 " I wish you had been with me to-day, 
 Emmeline," he said, as they drew their 
 chairs together towards the fire.
 
 This was the first time that De Clifford 
 had ever hinted a wish for his wile's admis- 
 sion into general society. She only an- 
 swered by a half smile and a half sigh. 
 
 " Our neighbour Mrs Villiers was there," 
 he continued ; " I wish you had seen her." 
 
 " Since it would have pleased you, I wish 
 I had," returned Emmeline kindly. 
 
 " My mother used to say that Mrs Vil- 
 liers was one of the best women living," 
 answered De Clifford. " I am sure she is 
 one of the most entertaining, which does 
 not often fall to the lot of your very good 
 people." 
 
 Emmeline felt that she was not at that 
 moment very entertaining, and a sensation 
 not unlike jealousy darted across her mind. 
 ' Is she pretty ?" enquired Emmeline. 
 
 " Pretty ! no, that is yes. I believe she 
 is, or rather has been. I dare say she is five- 
 and-thirty." 
 
 " Did you never meet with her before ?" 
 
 " A thousand times, when I w r as a boy ; 
 but last time I was at home some of her 
 children were ill, and she paid no visits." 
 
 This lady seemed to have seized upon
 
 64 
 
 a considerable portion of De Clifford's 
 thoughts ; for next day he interrupted a 
 long silence by saying, " That Mrs Villiers 
 has more wit than any body I have met 
 with ; and yet she will never have the 
 name, or rather the blame of it, she seems 
 so obstinately good-natured." 
 
 The truth was, that De Clifford heartily 
 wished to procure for his wife the pleasure 
 and the credit of this lady's acquaintance ; 
 though he would not condescend to own 
 this wish to Emmeline, scarcely to ac- 
 knowledge it to himself. His commenda- 
 tions, however, had effectually infused into 
 Emmeline the same desire, together with 
 a strong curiosity, in regard to whatever 
 concerned this subject of her husband's 
 panegyrics. 
 
 Emmeline attended often, though not re- 
 gularly, at Euston church. Let it not be 
 disbelieved, that such a person should join 
 in the solemnities of public worship, weep 
 at their pathos, delight in their sublimi- 
 ty ! A religion of the imagination is not 
 inconsistent with Emmeline's crime, scarce- 
 ly with any other. It is the natural inmate 
 8
 
 65 
 
 of every feeling and elegant mind, but as 
 unlike in its origin and effects to that " faith 
 which overcometh the world," as the sum- 
 mer flash that adorns the cold cloud with 
 momentary brightness, to the steady living 
 light of heaven. 
 
 While Einmeline wept over the confes- 
 sions of sin, her tears were placed by some 
 to the score of hypocrisy, by others to that 
 of penitence ; and among the latter, she 
 herself might at times be numbered. But 
 to neither class did Mrs Villiers belong. 
 " We shall know them by their fruits," 
 she said ; and she forbore to decide, where 
 her decision was immaterial. 
 
 The next Sunday after De Clifford's eu- 
 logium, Emmeline's curiosity so far over- 
 came her timidity, that when the service 
 was ended, she turned to take a steady view 
 of Mrs Villiers. Her eye rested on one of 
 those countenances, which, without regu- 
 larity, are sure to please. It was a face on 
 which no one ever looked once, without 
 being impelled to look again ; nor exami- 
 ned a second time, without irresistible im- 
 pressions of confidence and good- will. Its 
 

 
 66 
 
 expression in repose was that of strong 
 intelligence ; the slightest action relaxed 
 it into benevolence and love. The figure 
 suited well with such a face. Fifteen years 
 before, it might have been beautiful ; it 
 was now rather graceful than fine. 
 
 As Mrs Villiers walked out of church, 
 attended by her numerous and blooming fa- 
 mily, and a train of decent domestics, Em- 
 meline thought she had never before seen 
 such simple unpretending dignity of mien. 
 She followed, thinking only of Mrs Villiers, 
 and found her surrounded by acquaintances, 
 who pressed towards her with looks of 
 cheerful confidence, and by an outer circle 
 of her poorer neighbours, who waited for 
 her friendly enquiries. Emmeline stood for 
 a few moments alone amidst the crowd, an 
 object of neither kindness nor courtesy ; till 
 observing that every eye which met hers 
 was hastily withdrawn, she recollected her- 
 self and hurried away, ashamed that her 
 two splendid footmen should be able to 
 contrast her situation with that of Mrs Vil- 
 liers. 
 
 Emmeline's thoughts turned often to
 
 67 
 
 this new subject of her curiosity. She could 
 not indeed have forgotten it, had she been 
 willing. The Villierses were her nearest 
 
 o 
 
 neighbours. Their park wall was separa- 
 ted from that of Euston only by a narrow 
 foot-path lane. Their woods adorned the 
 views from Euston. Emmeline could not 
 go beyond her own gate, without meeting 
 their servants, their carriage, their children. 
 If she purchased a ribband in the village, 
 it was recommended as MrsVilliers' choice; 
 if a beggar asked alms of her, he enforced 
 her charity by Mrs Villiers' example. 
 
 Emmeline had many reasons to wish for 
 Mrs Villiers' acquaintance, and she fancied 
 many more. She was a stranger to that 
 country, to its manners, and its customs ; 
 therefore, in her domestic arrangements, she 
 often felt the want of that advice, of which 
 young wives in happier situations common- 
 ly receive enough and to spare. While De 
 Clifford was with her, Emmeline wanted no 
 other society ; but he now usually left her 
 to spend the mornings alone. They were 
 generally spent, indeed, in recollections and 
 feelings which could not be shared with a
 
 68 
 
 stranger. Yet there are seasons when the 
 youthful heart, however oppressed, will 
 struggle with its burden ; when for this it 
 will borrow aid from the cheerfulness of 
 those who can render it no other service. 
 Emmeline saw too, though De Clifford 
 
 o 
 
 would not own it, that he was weary of the 
 invariableness of his solitude ; and she fear- 
 ed, justly feared, that his weariness would 
 connect itself with every object in the in- 
 variable round which he was doomed to 
 tread. She thought Mrs Villiers's company, 
 of which he seemed so fond, would serve to 
 rouse and to amuse him, and perhaps pre- 
 vent him from wandering, to seek at a dis- 
 tance the variety which he could not find 
 at home. She sometimes fancied too that 
 if she could obtain the countenance of the 
 respectable Mrs Villiers, Lady de Clifford 
 and Mary, no longer considering her as an 
 outcast from mankind, would return to 
 cheer their deserted Euston. 
 
 But Emmeline was forced to ask herself 
 the mortifying question, whether Mrs Vil- 
 liers would ever admit of her acquaintance. 
 It was more consonant with her timid na-
 
 69 
 
 ture, to wish than to further this admis- 
 sion ; yet she involuntarily watched for 
 any accident which might bring her more 
 nearly into contact with Mrs Villiers. 
 
 Next Sunday she persuaded De Clifford 
 to accompany her to church. " You will 
 meet with Mrs Villiers," she said ; " you 
 will speak to her, and perhaps " E mine- 
 line stopped, but De Clifford understood 
 her meaning. He felt that he dared not in- 
 troduce his wife to Mrs Villiers ; that the 
 very proposal would probably be regarded 
 as an insult. The colour mounted even to 
 his forehead, and he turned away in silence. 
 
 " And my wife," thought De Clifford, 
 as he leant his head against the window 
 frame, and seemed intently watching the 
 deer, " my wife must fawn and dance at- 
 tendance for the acquaintance of those who 
 used to think themselves honoured by any 
 notice from the heads of this family ! What 
 a fool was I not to foresee Yet why should 
 these people be necessary to her ? What 
 has she to do with them ? Surely she has 
 some innate tameness of nature that I shall 
 never comprehend."
 
 70 
 
 " So you will not go with me," said Em- 
 meline, laying her soft hand upon his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 " No," he said, with a bitter smile " my 
 mortifications shall be at home to-day." 
 Then, seeing the eloquent colour change 
 in poor Emmeline's cheek, he added in a 
 kinder tone " I will share any penance 
 with you, except hearing Mr ." 
 
 " And yet," he thought, as he looked on 
 her reviving countenance, " she is so su- 
 perior to every one of those who pretend 
 to neglect her, in beauty, in sweetness, in 
 every gift that distinguishes one woman 
 above another ! Curse on their prudery ! 
 Why has she not the spirit to despise it ?" 
 
 Alas ! before a woman can despise the 
 world's scorn, she must full truly have de- 
 served it. Besides the most common of all 
 womanly virtues, she must have lost all the 
 gentleness that claims sympathy, and all 
 the benevolence that bestows it. A heart 
 of iron, as well as a brow of brass, is neces- 
 sary even to the worldly comfort of the in- 
 famous.
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 J, who should shield thy unprotected head, 
 *Tis I who doom thee to severest pains I- 
 Of all thy gifts, lo ! these the bitter gains ! 
 Ah ! reft of every friend save me alone, 
 I swell thy tear, I deepen every groan, 
 I to whom nought on earth, but hopeless life remains. 
 
 SOTHEBY. 
 
 ACCIDENT appeared so far to favour Em- 
 meline's wishes. Sir Sidney and she, in 
 their rambles round the village, more than 
 once encountered Mrs Villiers. On these 
 occasions, however, she always happened to 
 be so earnestly engaged in conversation, 
 that she could only spare time for a slight 
 bow to De Clifford, without even a single 
 glance towards Emmeline. 
 
 At first Emmeline doubted, or rather 
 tried to doubt, how far this preoccupation 
 was intentional. One day, however, De
 
 Clifford and she suddenly turning a corner, 
 found that they were entering at the same 
 moment with Mrs Villiers into the little 
 shop which pretended to supply Euston 
 with the minor articles of millinery. Em- 
 meline coloured deeply, and her heart flut- 
 tered with something like expectation. 
 Mrs Villiers gracefully made way, as if to 
 offer her precedence ; then addressing to 
 Sir Sydney one phrase of the most common- 
 place civility, she passed to the other side 
 of the shop, and occupied her attention 
 there. The rising in Emmeline's throat 
 scarcely allowed her to speak her errand, 
 which she hurried over in a few moments, 
 then without venturing to look back, she 
 glided away. 
 
 De Clifford bit his lip till the blood came. 
 Emmeline put her arm into his, and press- 
 ed her bosom to him with a gesture which 
 seemed to say, " Thou art my own Why 
 should I care for the slights of a stranger ?" 
 but the scalding tears dropped upon the 
 arm she pressed. They walked on in si- 
 lence till they found themselves in the no-
 
 73 
 
 ble avenue of Euston hall. De Clifford 
 then raised his head. 
 
 " I wonder, Kmmeline," he said, " that 
 yon should prefer scrambling through a 
 dirty detestable village, to walking in your 
 own unmolested grounds !" 
 
 " I only go, my love, that in hopes of 
 meeting something to amuse and please 
 you," returned Emmeline. 
 
 " Indeed !" said De Clifford, wholly sub- 
 dued by the tenderness of her voice and 
 manner. " Then, I assure you, I am never 
 so much pleased with any walks as those 
 where you and I may wander undisturbed 
 together." 
 
 This intimation of her husband's taste 
 was sufficient for the present to confine 
 Emmeline's walks within the grounds of 
 
 o 
 
 Enston. Her life was therefore, if possible, 
 more monotonous than ever. 
 
 About this time, however, a circum- 
 stance occurred which, from its rarity, ap- 
 peared to her not wholly unimportant. She 
 was roused one day by the sound of a car- 
 riage driving up to the door. Emmeline 
 ran to the window, and saw with some
 
 74 
 
 pleasure a lady alight. The servants an- 
 nounced Mr and Mrs Jenkinson, and a 
 robust handsome young woman entered, 
 followed by a fat elderly lethargic look- 
 ing man. The appearance and manners of 
 the visitors did not prepossess Emmeline 
 much in their favour. The lady was over 
 dressed, and by an evident effort was fami- 
 liarly at ease ; the gentleman was so with- 
 out an effort, by the mere force of a certain 
 good-humoured effrontery, which was by 
 far the most tangible feature of a character 
 as smooth, common-place, and unimpres- 
 sive, as his face. 
 
 Emmeline, however, was not disposed to 
 view her guests with a fastidious eye. She 
 received them very graciously, and sent to 
 inform De Clifford of their arrival. Mrs 
 Jenkinson did not leave to her hostess the 
 task of leading the conversation. She excu- 
 sed the long delay of her visit upon the score 
 of her recent confinement ; and then pro- 
 ceeded to relate her relapses and recovery. 
 This led to an account of the number, ages, 
 and dispositions of her children ; this, to a 
 comparison of them with other families in
 
 75 
 
 the neighbourhood, and this, with a few 
 slight questions from Emmeline, to a his- 
 tory, full and particular at least, if not true, 
 of all the gentry within a drive of Kuston. 
 To this conversation Mr Jenkinson gave 
 what assistance his wife's superior facilities 
 of speech would allow him ; as he sat at 
 a table covered with refreshments, from 
 which he first industriously extracted all 
 that he considered as the nice bits, and 
 then, rather than desist from the exercise 
 of eating, continued to devour the debris 
 which he had made. The visit had been 
 protracted even beyond the customary 
 length, when the entrance of Sir Sydney 
 silenced the loquacious lady. Emmeline 
 no sooner cast her eyes on him, than, ac- 
 customed now to watch the traces of dis- 
 quiet, she saw them lurking under the 
 calmness of a countenance, which, like the 
 brow of night, often darkened, but seldom 
 glared with the coining storm. Habitual 
 politeness dictated his behaviour to his 
 guests ; yet there was in his eye that re- 
 buke, in his air and manner that cold state- 
 liness, which makes itself felt, though it
 
 76 
 
 cannot be complained of. Jenkinson, how- 
 ever, saw and felt nothing of this ; protect- 
 ed by obtuse perception and natural assu- 
 rance. He shook De Clifford heartily by 
 the hand, and, while his wife only ventu- 
 red in an under tone to renew her dialogue 
 with Emmeline, he assured De Clifford of 
 his desire to be on neighbourly terms with 
 him ; discussed the merits of the intended 
 canal ; reviewed the proceedings of the 
 December county meeting ; applauded De 
 Clifford's speech ; reminded him that his 
 father, Sir Michael De Clifford, had repre- 
 sented the county in parliament for above 
 twenty years ; advised him to stand candi- 
 date at the next election, and assured him 
 that it might be carried without any ex- 
 pense worth mentioning. 
 
 The colour rose in De Clifford's face, 
 and he smothered a heavy sigh ; but see- 
 ing the sly black eye of Mrs Jenkinson. 
 turned towards him, he answered careless- 
 ly, that " he had no thoughts of exposing 
 himself for his country in that way." 
 
 The visit at last was ended, and De Clif- 
 ford quitted Emmeline without any expla-
 
 77 
 
 nation of his cloudy aspect. It was not 
 till they met some hours afterwards that lie 
 said, " Pray, Lady I)e Clifford, do you 
 know who the person is whom you thought 
 fit to receive so cordially this morning- ?" 
 
 His eye was scarcely turned towards 
 Kmmeline as he spoke ; but there was a 
 sarcastic curl on his lip, which inspired her 
 with something like fear. 
 
 " Mrs Jenkinson," answered she, kindly ; 
 " the mistress, I believe, of that great 
 place upon the hill." 
 
 " Jenkinson's housekeeper, whom he 
 chose to marry a few years ago." 
 
 A long silence followed, and the subject 
 dropped. 
 
 Kmmeline, however, was far from re- 
 penting of her attentions to her guest. 
 " She meant to shew me a kindness ; and 
 kindnesses are so scarce with me now !" 
 thought Emmeline. But she would not 
 for the world have uttered this complaint 
 to De Clifford, lest she should seem to re- 
 proach him with the consequences of their 
 misconduct.
 
 78 
 
 The visit had been long unrepaid before 
 Emmeline ventured to say, in a voice of 
 timid inquiry, " You think we ought not 
 to return the Jenkinsons' A'isit ?" 
 
 " As you please, Emmeline," was the 
 reply. 
 
 A stranger might have thought it in- 
 tended to leave her judgment free. Em- 
 meline understood it differently. 
 
 " Perhaps, then," said she, in the same 
 tone, " I had better write her a note to say, 
 that I pay no visits at present." 
 
 " If you choose, my love," was De Clif- 
 ford's reply. 
 
 Its words were of the same import as the 
 last ; its manner was so different, that Em- 
 meline saw he approved her proposal. 
 
 The note was dispatched with regret ; 
 for seven months of total seclusion of that 
 penal seclusion which mankind inflict, not 
 in their forgetfulness, but in their scorn 
 had given value to any mark of human 
 sympathy or respect. Respect ! Emme- 
 line became every hour more sensible that 
 this sentiment she must never more hope
 
 79 
 
 to awaken. She had gradually learnt to 
 watch for the expression of an opposite 
 feeling. In her better days, the gentle fe- 
 minine Emmeline had claimed no defe- 
 rence which all were not willing to bestow. 
 But now a watchful jealousy was stealing 
 upon her. She read contempt in many 
 an indifferent look, and heard reproach in 
 words which conveyed it to no other ear. 
 
 De Clifford had nothing communicative 
 in his temper. He was one of those per- 
 sons, who can sit for hours in the company 
 of the friend they love best, happy in the 
 possibility of exchanging sentiments, with- 
 out, perhaps, once taking advantage of that 
 possibility. What he had no intention to 
 conceal, he yet felt no temptation to com- 
 municate ; and his thoughts and purposes 
 were often to be gathered from some acci- 
 dental expression, rather than deliberately 
 unfolded. Yet to the inquiries of a friend, 
 De Clifford was the most open of mankind. 
 Any question which Emmeline could have 
 asked him, would have been answered, con- 
 cisely indeed, but with the most explicit 
 frankness. Had she ventured to oppose
 
 80 
 
 his opinion or his will, he would have re- 
 mained firm, indeed, but not without <nvintr 
 
 o o 
 
 a reason for his firmness. 
 
 But Emmeline ventured neither ques- 
 tion nor opposition. That which was a 
 general habit of her husband's mind, she 
 often mistook for the expression of a pecu- 
 liar feeling towards herself. " Had he mar- 
 ried a woman whom he respected," she 
 thought, " to her he might have opened 
 his whole heart. She might almost have 
 been his friend. But I ! What am I but 
 his toy ? only to be cared for in an idle 
 hour soon, perhaps, to be thrown aside 
 for ever. Oh ! shall I live to see that day ! 
 No. I shall see its approach, and that will 
 break my heart, before I have lost all ! ; ' 
 
 It was not in her husband's conduct 
 alone that Emmeline watched for tokens of 
 disrespect. She dreaded even the presence 
 of her servants. She could not venture to 
 reprove their misconduct, or even to re- 
 mark their omissions. Their insolence she 
 dared not encounter ; for she knew, and 
 they knew, the vulnerable point, where 
 
 the meanest hand could fix a poisoned 
 12
 
 81 
 
 dart. The impertinence which another 
 would have answered with a smile of good- 
 natured contempt, or a burst of idle indig- 
 nation, wrung the heart of her whose con- 
 science justified the scorn cast on her by 
 the meanest of mankind. The encroach- 
 ments, therefore, of her domestics were un- 
 resisted, their neglects passed without no- 
 tice, their irregularities without reproof; 
 and as they fully understood the reason of 
 this laxity, endurance only increased the 
 evil. 
 
 De Clifford perceived that his household 
 was disorderly, its economy ill arranged, 
 his domestics turbulent and dissatisfied. 
 He remembered, with a sigh, its easy, re- 
 gular, and willing movement, while guided 
 by the calm but determined spirit of his 
 mother ; and the respect of which Emme- 
 line was so jealous, gained little by the 
 contrast. The charms of his long-loved 
 home were one by one decaying. His 
 friends had forsaken it. The chanties of 
 relationship were fled. His still dear Em- 
 meline was no longer the playful being 
 formed to banish gloom, or enliven ease to 
 r
 
 82 
 
 pleasure. Anxiety and care were setting 
 their untimely stamp upon her youthful 
 features. The smile which had once light- 
 ed them with gladdening sunshine, was 
 now but the cold and short-lived spark that 
 flashes in the troubled deep. 
 
 She tried in vain to disguise the change 
 from De Clifford. It met him in a thou- 
 sand forms, each alternately inspiring him 
 with pity, grief, or displeasure. " Sweet 
 frail thing !" he thought, " alike unable to 
 resist temptation, or to endure punishment! 
 Why did I disquiet thy peaceful life ?" So 
 thought De Clifford, as unexpectedly en- 
 tering his wife's apartment he surprised her 
 in tears. She hastily concealed them, and 
 he ventured not to inquire their cause ; but 
 sitting down by her, endeavoured to divert 
 her melancholy. 
 
 " You have not shewn me your portfolio 
 for a long while, Emmeline. I doubt you 
 have been very idle. Come, little trifler. 
 let me inspect your proceedings." 
 
 " Oh ! not to-day," said Emmeline, lay- 
 ing her hand on the portfolio ; " not to-day !
 
 83 
 
 By to-morrow I hope to have something 
 that will please you." 
 
 " But I am in the humour to-day," in- 
 sisted De Clifford, with good-natured ob- 
 stinacy ; " and you know how your resist- 
 anee always ends, Emmeline." 
 
 The fading rose in Emmeline's cheek 
 deepened to crimson, and spread over her 
 face and bosom. " Alas ! I know that too 
 well !" she thought ; " but why must the 
 reproach come from you ?" 
 
 De Clifford, unconscious that his words 
 could insinuate reproach, was now exami- 
 ning some sketches which had never been 
 meant for his eye. Two infant figures 
 were repeated in every attitude of sport 
 and of repose. Many of them were blotted 
 with tears. Upon some the names were 
 written again and again, as if the very 
 names were dear ; and sometimes they were 
 joined with a short and melancholy sen- 
 tence that sued for pity or forgiveness. 
 
 While De Clifford hurried over his com- 
 fortless survey, Emmeline unresisting stood 
 by and wept. In painful compassion he 
 pressed her to his breast, but he did not
 
 84 
 
 speak, for he felt that this was a sorrow which 
 refuses to be comforted. He now heartily re- 
 gretted the solitude which left her to the free 
 
 o 
 
 indulgence of recollections so dispiriting. 
 He fervently wished that she had possessed 
 one friend, or even companion, to cheer her 
 lonely hours. He thought of his mother, 
 and for a moment he half purposed to forget 
 his displeasure, and entreat that she would 
 come to sooth the wounded spirit of his 
 Emmeline ; but when a doubt arose of her 
 compliance, he found it more easy to resolve 
 upon undertaking the task himself, and he 
 determined to devote himself to its accom- 
 plishment. And he would have kept his 
 determination, could it have been fulfilled 
 at the expence of only fortune or life, for 
 life and fortune were still light in his regard 
 compared with his beloved Emmeline. But 
 he forgot to take time into his account. He- 
 forgot the lengthened demands which the 
 office of comforter would make upon his 
 patience, and upon that regular, continued, 
 self-devotion, which, if indeed it ever be a 
 natural virtue, is not the virtue of mascu- 
 line nature.
 
 85 
 
 A few days served to make him weary 
 of the confinement to which he subjected 
 himself; and then he presently grew an- 
 gry with Emrneline, as if she had com- 
 pelled him to this unnatural constraint. 
 He inwardly accused her of weakness and 
 selfishness, for not absolutely driving him 
 from her to his accustomed exercises and 
 employments. After the first week, every 
 day subtracted something from the entire- 
 ness of his self-devotion ; and while he was 
 secretly angry with himself for breaking 
 his resolution, he was yet more angry with 
 Emmeline for making him feel that he 
 ought to keep it. 
 
 Fortunately for both, a slight incident at 
 this time diverted their thoughts into an- 
 other channel. Spring was now far advan- 
 ced, and the woods of Euston began once 
 more to invite their masters with a grate- 
 ful shade. In this delightful season of ac- 
 tivity, of progress, of hope, which breathes 
 sympathetic gladness into the youthful 
 heart, and brightens again the fires that 
 were expiring in the calm of riper years, 
 De Clifford and Emmeline wandered
 
 86 
 
 through their noble domain, vainly seek- 
 ing that which the careless passenger found 
 in every lawn and grove. 
 
 Emmeline's walk always paused on a lit- 
 tle rising ground commanding a near view 
 of Mrs Villiers' mansion. And it was a view 
 to engage attention ; for it was a gay and 
 peopled scene. The ornamented farm which 
 surrounded that spacious and cheerful 
 dwelling, was busy with rustic labour and 
 easy superintendance, with the voluntary 
 toils of youth, and the noisy sports of child- 
 hood. With a sigh would Emmeline gaze 
 on Mr and Mrs Villiers as they consulted 
 together upon some rural plan, or together 
 watched its execution. With mortal sick- 
 ness of the soul she turned away when she 
 saw their children address them with con- 
 fiding gesture, and owe to their assistance 
 an increase of innocent joy. She could of- 
 ten hear their very voices in the breeze, for 
 so near was their neighbourhood that the 
 magnificent oaks of Euston threw here 
 and there branches into the less splendid 
 domain of Mr Villiers. 
 
 One day as Emmeline was making her
 
 87 
 
 usual pause of melancholy survey, she ob- 
 served one of the little Villierses climbing 
 among the boughs which had thus invited 
 him to trespass. The boy perceiving at 
 last that he was observed, stopped, and 
 seemed to think of retreating ; then stimu- 
 lated perhaps equally by the approving 
 smile of De Clifford and the alarm of Em- 
 meline, he proceeded fearlessly. He had 
 nearly gained the top, and was casting 
 down a triumphant glance on the specta- 
 tors of his atchievement, when a hollow 
 branch to which he had trusted gave way, 
 and he fell to the ground. Emmeline, 
 shrieking, hid her eyes, and listened during 
 a time that seemed lengthened tenfold, to 
 the rustling of the twigs, the rebound on 
 the branches, the heavy sound with which 
 all was closed. She felt the very whirl of 
 the air, the vibration of the ground on 
 which she stood ; but she had not courage to 
 look where, close to her foot, the child had 
 fallen. 
 
 De Clifford, who attempting to save him, 
 had somewhat broken his fall, raised him 
 and found him insensible. His first thought
 
 88 
 
 was to carry him in his arms to Euston 
 Hall ; but fearing to injure him by removal 
 he laid him down upon Emmeline's lap, 
 and ran to procure such medical aid as the 
 village could afford. 
 
 Emmeline, trembling and in tears, con- 
 tinued to chafe the child's cold hands, now 
 fancying signs of returning life, and now 
 fearing that all was over. Some of her do- 
 mestics soon came to her assistance, but she 
 would not resign her charge ; and when the 
 surgeon arrived, and directed the removal 
 of his patient to the house, Emmeline con- 
 tinued to watch by the bedside of the little 
 sufferer, and to perform with her own hands 
 every service which his state required. 
 Though her delicate frame could ill sup- 
 port alarm or fatigue, she refused to seek 
 rest or refreshment. " My own children," 
 she thought, bursting into tears, " may 
 need a stranger's care. I will not leave 
 him !" 
 
 Meanwhile Sir Sidney humanely under- 
 took the office of conveying tidings of the 
 accident to the child's parents; and the 
 moment he obtained the surgeon's opinion
 
 80 
 
 that the injuries were not mortal, he de- 
 parted on his painful errand. 
 
 Kmmcline continued to watch by her 
 little patient, as he still lay in a heavy stu- 
 por, till she heard the carriage return, and 
 was told that Mrs Villiers was alighting 
 from it. Then Emmeline started, and her 
 breath came quick. She remembered how 
 decidedly Mrs Villiers had avoided her. 
 She felt that only circumstances of over- 
 powering force had brought the irreproach- 
 able Mrs Villiers to Euston ; and, even in 
 her own house, the unhappy Emmeline 
 shrunk under a sense that her presence 
 would be deemed intrusive. 
 
 Yet an indistinct wish crossed her mind 
 that Mrs Villiers should know how she 
 had been employed ; should know, that 
 she owed something to this poor despised 
 being, whose very presence was degrada- 
 tion. Without perceiving her own mo- 
 tive, she busied herself again about the 
 child, and hesitated whether to go or to 
 remain, till Mrs Villiers entered the room. 
 Then Emmeline timidly drew back, and
 
 90 
 
 wished herself away. But Mrs Villiers 
 could now send no glance to daunt or to 
 encourage Emmeline. Her straining eyes 
 were fixed on one object alone. " Harry ! 
 my dear Harry !" was all that her ashy 
 lips could utter, as she pressed them a 
 thousand times to the face of her senseless 
 child. 
 
 The surgeon endeavoured to comfort 
 her with assurances that his patient had 
 suffered no fracture, nor any other out- 
 ward injury ; but he was obliged to con- 
 fess, that, in the present state of things, it 
 was impossible to ascertain the extent of 
 the danger ; and even that the event might 
 for days remain doubtful. " God's will be 
 done !" the mother tried to say ; but the 
 words were almost lost to human ear. 
 
 Mr Villiers, who had been from home 
 when the news of his misfortune was 
 brought, now arrived ; and Emmeline 
 stole unnoticed from the room. ]\or, du- 
 ring the day and night which elapsed be- 
 fore the child could be removed, did she 
 venture to intrude upon Mrs Villiers.
 
 91 
 
 though every attention which politeness 
 could suggest, was bestowed upon the un- 
 willing visitor. 
 
 Xor was it politeness alone that dictated 
 those attentions. Emmeline's heart was 
 in them all. While useful to the virtuous 
 Mrs Villiers, Emmeline felt for the mo- 
 ment as if restored to her better self, as 
 if she could once more claim faint affinity 
 with the worthier part of womankind. 
 Her spirits rose ; she endeavoured to per- 
 suade her>elf that she had now obtained a 
 certain introduction to the notice of Mrs 
 Villiers ; and she already anticipated, as its 
 happy consequence, the restoration of her 
 intercourse with Lady I)e Clifford and 
 Mary, the most respected and beloved of 
 her friends. " And you, dear De Clifford," 
 she thought, as she looked at her husband, 
 '' will again be happy in a home peopled 
 with those you love ; your noble spirit will 
 no longer be galled by seeing your wife 
 despised and renounced by all human 
 kind : and then, perhaps, your poor Em- 
 incline will seem less umvortny to be 
 treated and trusted like a friend !"
 
 Mrs Villiers's involuntary visit, however, 
 drew to a close. The child was pronounced 
 out of danger, and permission was given 
 for his removal. With a beating heart, 
 Emmeline saw the preparations for the de- 
 parture of her guests. At first, she thought 
 herself sure that Mrs Villiers could not go 
 without thanking her in person for her at- 
 tentions, and turned to her glass with a 
 wish to render her appearance as prepossess- 
 ing as she could ; drew closer the covering 
 on her bosom, and arranged her head-dress 
 to an air of grave simplicity. The only 
 ornament of her attire she laid aside her- 
 self unconscious why she did so. It was 
 De Clifford's picture which hung round 
 her neck, and she herself knew not that 
 she shrunk from reminding Mrs Villiers 
 of her connection with De Clifford. 
 
 She every moment expected to hear her 
 announced ; but the moments passed, and 
 brought no visitor. She began to wonder 
 whether it were possible that Mrs Villiers 
 could depart without seeing her, and then 
 to fear that it was certain. She began to 
 doubt whether she ought not, in polite-
 
 93 
 
 ness, to have sought the company of her 
 guest, and hesitated whether she should 
 not yet present herself before Mrs Villiers ; 
 but some remains of pride, that incurable 
 disease of the human soul, which not even 
 anguish, remorse, and disgrace can era- 
 dicate, forbade her to hazard a repulse. 
 
 The carriage which was to convey the 
 invalid home drove up to the door, and 
 tears of disappointment and mortification 
 had filled Emmeline's eyes, when Mrs 
 Villiers at last requested admission. The 
 glow of joy and of timidity brightening in 
 her delicate cheek, Emmeline hastily ad- 
 vanced to receive her welcome visitor ; 
 and, as she stood before her guest, trem- 
 bling, yet glad, embarrassed, yet grace- 
 ful the forgotten tear still glittering un- 
 
 O O O 
 
 der her long dark eye-lashes her slender 
 form bending somewhat forward, half in, 
 courtesy, half in habitual dejection, Mrs 
 Villiers gazed on her with a compassion 
 that rose even to pain. " Lovely, miser- 
 able thing !" she thought, " must thou, so 
 formed to adorn virtue, charm only to dis- 
 guise the deformity of vice ! Yet, such as
 
 94- 
 
 thou art, except those charms, might 1 
 have been, had not the providence and 
 grace of Him whom thou knowest not, 
 preserved me ! Unhappy victim of a sen- 
 tence wise as it is terrible ! But the no- 
 bler the victim, the more solemn the warn- 
 ing ! I must not help thee to hide the 
 brand that warns others from thy crime 
 and thy punishment." 
 
 No trace of severity or of scorn appear- 
 ed in her manner ; for her's was the spirit 
 that " rejoiceth not in iniquity," but re- 
 gards it as the foul spot of pestilence, loath- 
 some indeed, but deadly too. The majesty 
 of independence and virtue was so soften- 
 ed in her mind and voice by Christian com- 
 passion, that Emmeline was irresistibly won 
 to love, as well as to respect, and felt almost 
 re-assured and happy. 
 
 Mrs Villiers had thanked her gracefully, 
 nay warmly, for her hospitalities ; she had 
 bid her a gentle, almost a kind farewell ; she 
 had turned to go and was already disap- 
 pearing, before Emmeline observed that 
 not a hint had been dropped of their future 
 intercourse. She made one quick gesture
 
 9-5 
 
 as if to follow her guest, then with a bitter 
 sigh sunk baek into her seat. " It is all 
 over !" she said. " From equal as from 
 friend, I am banished for ever ! Oh De 
 Clifford ! What have I not sacrificed for 
 you!" 
 
 Yet the thought was scarcely formed, ere 
 she reproached herself with regretting any 
 sacrifice which could be made for one so 
 dear ; and when De Clifford came in, and 
 tenderly enquired the cause of her encrea- 
 sed melancholy, all that she had renounced 
 seemed for the moment light in the ba- 
 lance. It was with some reluctance that 
 she confessed to her husband her hopes 
 and their disappointment ; for she was daily 
 sinking deeper into that abasement, which, 
 by imperceptible degrees, was withdrawing 
 her from the confidence of wedded friend- 
 ship. 
 
 Before she had ended her detail, De Clif- 
 ford had coldly released her from his arms. 
 " And is that all ?" he said, turning away. 
 " If you would learn a little of the dignity 
 and self-dependence that become your con- 
 dition. Kmmeiine, it would not be in the
 
 96 
 
 power of every indifferent person to ruffle 
 your spirits or your temper." 
 
 The reproach was no sooner uttered, 
 than he was conscious that the latter part 
 of it sprang only from his own jaundiced 
 perceptions ; yet not deigning to retract, 
 he left Emmeline alone to weep over its 
 injustice. But Emmeline was not the 
 greatest sufferer. The pliant nature of wo- 
 man is perhaps incapable of that anguish 
 which deserved humiliation inflicts on the 
 stubborn soul of man. Emmeline could 
 shed tears and find relief in them ; could 
 own that she deserved her fate, and submit 
 to it unresisting, though in sorrow. Hour 
 after hour, De Clifford could nurse his bit- 
 ter thoughts alone, could find in his own 
 misery a reason for hating all human kind, 
 could execrate the severity of those who 
 stand, and the folly of those who fall ; 
 could weigh what he had renounced against 
 what he had obtained ; smile in disdain 
 upon the infatuated eagerness of his former 
 pursuit, and the more infatuated facility of 
 his prey ; could curse the hour when ho- 
 nour, activity, and fame, every manly pur-
 
 97 
 
 suit, every heroic purpose, were spurned 
 for a toy ; doubt whether life were worth 
 the load of weariness which it laid on him ; 
 rouse himself at the thought that a brave 
 man's death might yet shed its glory on 
 his tarnished name; then remember the 
 desolate widowed Emmeline, and falter ; 
 then wipe the cold drops from his fore- 
 head, submit himself again to the gaze of 
 man, and be like the deep flood of lava, 
 firm, dark, and cold to the beholder, while 
 devouring fires are yet glowing in its 
 heart.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Conscience roused sat boldly on her throne, 
 
 Watched every thought attacked the foe alone, 
 
 And, with envenomed sting, drew forth the inward groan, 
 Expedients failed that brought relief before ; 
 
 In vain her alms gave comfort to the poor 
 
 Give what site would to her the comfort came no more. 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 " I DWELL too much on the evils of my 
 lot," said Emmeline to herself, one bright 
 summer morning, when a thousand sights 
 and sounds of joy breathed their influence 
 unnoticed into her soul. " I waste in 
 dreams, of that which never can return, 
 the spirits and the health which should 
 gladden De Clifford's home to him. I 
 have been too inactive. Employment 
 might divert my thoughts. It might be- 
 guile them from those inexhaustible themes 
 of misery that haunt me for ever. If,
 
 99 
 
 wretched as I am, I can contribute to the 
 good of others, should not this rouse me to 
 something like energy and hope ? Friend- 
 ship and equality I must look for no more ; 
 but gratitude may draw some kindly feel- 
 ing towards me. Those whom I benefit 
 will surely forgive. I am surrounded by 
 the poor, the ignorant, the destitute ; and 
 have I forgotten their wants so long ? Alas ! 
 misery has changed me sadly."
 
 100 
 
 Emmeline did not dare to look her last. 
 She sat motionless and stunned. The noise 
 of a carriage was heard. She gave one 
 start of agony then listened in the still- 
 ness of despair. The sound died in the 
 distance. It was lost and Emmeline was 
 left ALONE. 
 
 (The last sentence is copied from the Outline.)
 
 EXTRACTS FROM JOURNAL.
 
 EXTRACTS FROM JOURNAL, 
 1812, 
 
 THE first entrance of England is far from 
 conveying favourable impressions. The 
 country is bleak and dreary. The road to 
 Belford is abominable. 
 
 You no sooner cross the boundary, than 
 you are sensibly in another kingdom. 
 Xear neighbourhood and constant inter- 
 course have effected little intercommunity 
 of manners, language, or appearance. Be- 
 fore you advance ten miles on English 
 ground, the women are prettier, the ac- 
 cent is perceptibly English, and hats and 
 shoes are universal. 
 
 The southern part of Yorkshire is a very 
 lovely country. It is certainly too flat ; and
 
 104 
 
 to Scotch eyes the straight line which the 
 horizon presents is tiresome. But it is di- 
 vided into innumerable little fields, by 
 hedges in every possible variety of curve, 
 and composed of whatever can possibly en- 
 ter into the composition of a hedge. Oak, 
 crab, alder, elder, maple, hawthorn, briar, 
 honeysuckle, and a thousand flowering 
 weeds, all blending in unrestrained luxu- 
 riance ! The English seem to think their 
 hedges entitled to share in the national li- 
 berty ; for they ramble into every direc- 
 tion, except a straight line, and straggle as 
 they list, without either confining or being 
 confined. 
 
 From Doncaster, which is a handsome 
 town, we turned off from the great road to 
 see the " Dukeries." Through these parks 
 we drove for nearly a stage ; crawling up 
 and lumbering down steep hills, by the 
 vilest roads that ever were seen for made 
 they are not. We saw nothing which I 
 would have gone a yard to see, except the 
 noble remains of Sherwood Forest. These 
 belong to Thoresby Park ; they consist of 
 prodigious oaks, magnificent in decay, flou-
 
 10.5 
 
 rishing vigorously in the branches, while 
 the trunks are generally hollow. From 
 Ollerton the country continues beautifully 
 swelling and woody to Newark, where we 
 again joined the great road. 
 
 At Greatham a comfortable little inn, 
 where we were forced, by a tremendous 
 thunder-storm, to take shelter for the night 
 I pointed out to the waiter a new parson- 
 age, which was building within half a mile 
 of the inn door, and asked him the name of 
 his parish minister. He did not know ! ! ! 
 Intimate and affectionate relation between 
 pastor and flock ! We were well driven, 
 and by a good road, through Stamford to 
 Burleigh the magnificent ! A noble re- 
 spectable magnificence ! Cecil had as good 
 a taste in houses as his mistress had in 
 prime ministers. Admirable pictures ! 
 A Magdalene, by Carlo Maratti ; Dome- 
 nichino's mistress, by himself loveliness 
 personified ! Above all, the Salvator Mun- 
 di ! The features are taken from the letter 
 of Publius, describing the person of Christ 
 a profusion of curled auburn hair divides 
 on the forehead, and fulls to the shoulders.
 
 106 
 
 The dark grey eyes are raised in benedic- 
 tion, which the lips are half opened to pro- 
 nounce one hand holds the sacramental 
 bread ; the other is raised in the attitude 
 of devotion. On the table stands the bra- 
 zen plate, from whence the bread has been 
 lifted ; and a cup filled with the emblema- 
 tic wine. These are the few simple objects 
 w r hich the picture represents. But the ma- 
 gical expression of the countenance ! the 
 inimitable execution of every part ! Such 
 benevolence such sensibility so divine 
 so touching cannot be conceived without 
 the soul of Carlo Dolce ! How blest must 
 the creature have been whose fancy was 
 peopled with such images ! 
 
 called to take us to an oratorio at Co- 
 
 vent-Garden. As we are nobody, he advi- 
 sed us to go to the pit, that w r e might have 
 some chance of seeing and hearing. We 
 w r ere no sooner placed, than the adjoining 
 seats \vere occupied by some very drunk 
 sailors, and their own true loves, whose ex- 
 pressions of affection made it necessary to
 
 107 
 
 change our quarters. The music was far 
 superior to any thing I had heard before. 
 But in such a place, and in such company, 
 the praise of God seemed almost blasphemy. 
 All went on peaceably enough, till it plea- 
 sed Braham, the most delightful singer that 
 ever sung, to sing a nonsensical song about 
 Lord Nelson. Although the words and 
 tune were equally despicable, the song was 
 encored ; Braham was engaged elsewhere, 
 and went off without complying. The 
 next performer, Mrs Ashe, a sweet modest 
 looking creature, whose figure declared her 
 to be in no fit situation to bear fright or ill- 
 usage, tried to begin her song, but was 
 stopped by a tremendous outcry. She tried 
 it again and again, but not a note could be 
 heard, and she desisted. The Halleluiah 
 chorus was begun ; but the people bawled, 
 and whistled, and hissed, and thumped, and 
 shrieked, and groaned, and hooted, and 
 made a thousand indescribable noises be- 
 sides, till they fairly drowned the organ, 
 the French horns, the kettle-drums, and 
 the Halleluiah chorus ! So I have seen Co- 
 vent-Garden and a row ! 
 
 9
 
 108 
 
 To-day, the charity children, to the num- 
 ber of seven thousand, assembled in St 
 Paul's. They were all clothed in the uni- 
 form of their several schools; and their 
 dress was quite new and clean ; they were 
 placed on circular seats, rising above each 
 other, under the dome. The area in the 
 centre of the circle which they formed, and 
 the whole of the nave, were filled by many 
 thousand spectators. We had a full view 
 of them all ; and indeed I have seen no 
 view so delightful in all London, as this 
 sight of 7,000 immortal beings, rescued by 
 the charity of their fellow-creatures from 
 ignorance and misery ; nor have I heard 
 any music so noble as the burst of their 
 little voices, when the old 100th Psalm 
 rung in the mighty vault of St Paul's. 
 They too sung the Halleluiah chorus, with- 
 out any accompaniment but the organ. 
 What a contrast to Covent-Garden ! 
 
 Went to Wilkie's Exhibition the best 
 bestowed shilling I have spent in London !
 
 109 
 
 Picture of a Sick Lady ; the colouring is de- 
 lightful ; a wonderful escape from spotting. 
 A Card-playing 1 groupe admirable ! So is 
 the Blind Fidler. An excellent Reckoning 
 Day ; one of the figures is leaning across 
 the table, and evidently saying to the 
 steward, " I'll make the thing quite plain 
 to you." The steward is knitting his brows, 
 as much as to say, " It is not quite plain 
 yet." One sits gnawing the head of his 
 staff. Another is reckoning to himself on 
 his fingers. One groupe have closed their 
 accounts, and are stuffing at a side-table. 
 In general, each picture tells its own story 
 completely ; the colouring is almost always 
 pleasing. 
 
 The Opera House does not strike me as 
 more splendid than Covent-Garden. Ca- 
 talani sung admirably, and Tramezzani is 
 an excellent actor. The dancing is more stri- 
 king for its agility than for its grace. Ves- 
 tris spins round on one foot an incredible 
 number of times ; and he kicks out both
 
 before and behind till his leg is perfectly 
 at right angles to his body. 
 
 But all this kicking and spinning can- 
 not please the sick ! It is now near a fort- 
 night since all the pomps and novelties of 
 this world of wonders became nothing more 
 to me than the shadows that flit along the 
 walls of a prison. Every thing tires me 
 now ! 
 
 At Woolwich we saw mountains of 
 balls, and thousands of cannon ! We saw 
 the whole process of making ball-cartridges. 
 The balls are cast in a mould, two toge- 
 ther, connected by a bar of an inch or two 
 long ; they are then cut asunder, close by 
 each ball, and the little bar is thrown back 
 into the melting-pot ; then each ball is tied 
 in a rag ; then in a paper cone, with room 
 left above it for powder. The powder is 
 run by measure into the cone, and the top 
 is fastened down ; the cartridges are then 
 packed in small parcels, and the business 
 is finished. Each of these operations is
 
 Ill 
 
 performed by a different hand, and with 
 dispatch almost incredible. One boy fills 
 4,000 cartridges in a day ; little creatures, 
 who would scarcely be entrusted in Ork- 
 ney with the pastoral care of three geese, 
 earn eight or nine shillings a-week in this 
 way. 
 
 Charlton is most beautiful ; it is almost 
 romantic. The house is very elegant ; the 
 windows of a beautiful suite of rooms open 
 out upon a charming little lawn, shaven 
 like green velvet, and bounded in front by 
 an abrupt woody bank, which forms one 
 side of a deep and woody dell. The grounds 
 are sheltered in every direction by woods 
 of various kinds, through which there are 
 led walks, as retired as those in Highland 
 glens ; yet every opening affords a glimpse 
 of the river, constantly alive with vessels 
 of all sizes, from the gaudy pleasure-boat 
 up to an Indiaman. Of all the places I 
 ever saw, considered merely as a place, 
 Charlton is that where 1 should chuse to 
 set up my rest.
 
 Next day went to the Victualling-Office 
 at Deptford ; where I should have thought 
 there was food enough for a nation. I 
 think they told us there were eight stores 
 of beef, one of which we saw, containing 
 16,000 casks, of three hundred weight each. 
 The baking of biscuits \vas going on with 
 astonishing speed ; but, as it seemed to me, 
 with very bad success. One man kneaded, 
 another shaped, a third divided them, a 
 fourth laid them on a board, and a fifth 
 pushed them into the oven ; withal they 
 are ill-shaped and worse fired ; some are 
 burnt, and some are raw. This, however, 
 is a little equalized in the drying-rooms, 
 which are above pine-apple heat. In the 
 brew-house is a nice little steam-engine, by 
 which all the work is performed. 
 
 In Meux's Brewery every thing is as 
 filthy as steam and smoke, and dust and 
 rust can make it ; except the steam engine, 
 which is as polished and as clean as the bars
 
 113 
 
 of a drawing-room grate. The first opera- 
 tion of this engine is to stir the malt in vats 
 of twenty- eight feet diameter, filled with 
 boiling water ; the second is, in due time, 
 to raise the wort to the coolers, in the floor 
 above ; then this wort is conveyed by lead- 
 en pipes into the tub w^here it is to ferment, 
 and afterwards into the casks where the 
 porter is first deposited. One of these casks, 
 which I saw, measures seventy feet in dia- 
 meter, and is said to have cost 10,000 ; 
 the iron hoops on it weigh eighty tons ; and 
 we were told that it actually contained, 
 when we saw it, 18,000 barrels, or 40,000 
 worth of porter. Another contained 16,000 
 barrels, and from thence to 4,000 ; there 
 are above seventy casks in the store. 
 
 From the top of the immense building, 
 which holds this vast apparatus, we had a 
 complete view of London and the adjacent 
 country. I must own, however, that I was 
 rejoiced to find myself once more safe in the 
 street. I believe, indeed, that I am, as Dr 
 Blair phrases it, " destined to creep through 
 the inferior walks of life ;" for I never feel 
 
 71
 
 myself in a very elevated situation, without 
 being seized with an universal tremor. I 
 shook in every limb for an hour after co- 
 ining down. 
 
 A long walk on Hampstead-heath with 
 , who took leave of me very kindly. 
 We drove to Vauxhall. No public amuse- 
 ment in London has pleased me so much 
 probably because it was entirely new to 
 me. There was no moon ; and from to- 
 tal darkness we at once entered a colon- 
 nade, blazing with literally thousands of 
 lamps of every various colour ; suspended 
 in the forms of festoons, stars, coronets, 
 and every else that is graceful and fantastic. 
 Some of the walks were in total darkness. 
 Others were lighted by a pavilion, or a pa- 
 goda, or a temple of lamps, to which the 
 walk formed a vista. Several rooms and 
 colonnades contained boxes, retreating be- 
 hind a row of light pillars, twisted round 
 with wreaths of lamps. In each box was 
 laid a small table for supper. Bands of mu 
 sic were stationed in different parts of the-
 
 115 
 
 garden ; and English, Irish, Scotch, Ger 
 man, and Turkish airs were performed by 
 musicians in the garb of each country. 
 Many thousands of well dressed people 
 were assembled in this gay scene. Upon 
 the whole, Vauxhall is the gayest raree 
 shew possible, and no bad type of that 
 kind of pleasures, glittering and bright 
 enough when not too closely examined ; 
 but, when seen in fair day-light, mean, 
 worthless, and unsubstantial. 
 
 Nothing in the beautiful environs of 
 London is so beautiful as the view from 
 Richmond-hill. I do not at all wonder 
 that our Southern neighbours complain of 
 the scarcity of wood in Scotland. The coun- 
 try seen from Richmond-hill is wooded, as 
 far as the eye can reach, like a gentleman's 
 park. All is, to be sure, nearly a dead 
 level. But the multitude of elegant houses, 
 the richness of the woods, and the 
 windings of the smooth Thames beneath 
 its flat turfy banks, make the whole scene 
 resemble an immense pleasure ground, in-
 
 116 
 
 terspersed with clumps, lawns, temples, 
 and artificial pieces of water. Perhaps my 
 national partialities deceive me, but, though 
 I must own we have no prospect so rich, 
 I think we have some infinitely more inte- 
 resting. There is no compensating for the 
 varied outline of our distant mountains a 
 dead flat line in the horizon spoils any pros- 
 pect in my eyes. 
 
 Windsor occupies an eminence, or, as 
 they are pleased to call it in England, a hill. 
 It makes a very noble appearance, as it 
 rises above the woods with its banners float- 
 ing in the air. It is indeed the only royal 
 residence I have seen at all fit for a king. 
 The apartments are very handsome and 
 the Hanoverian plate superb. There are 
 some very fine pictures. I was particular- 
 ly struck with two small ones by Carlo 
 Dolce a Madonna and a " Bearing the 
 cross." The first is finished exquisitely ; 
 the face is lovely ; and the drapery perfect- 
 ly graceful. The deep sorrow in the face 
 of the Saviour is wonderfully touching ;
 
 117 
 
 the hands are inimitable. These are in the 
 king's dressing closet. In the same room 
 is a beautiful sketch by Rubens. In the 
 king's drawing-room is a " Holy Family,"' 
 the most interesting of any of Rubens' pic- 
 tures which I have seen. " Venus attired 
 by the Graces," by Guido, seems a master- 
 piece of grace and nature. However, as 
 gentlemen are admitted to her Goddess- 
 ship's presence, I wish her tirewomen had 
 been a little more expeditious. 
 
 The apartments immediately over those 
 occupied by the king are shut up ; nor is 
 any one allowed to walk beneath his win- 
 dows. We saw his private chapel, where 
 he was accustomed to attend regularly 
 every day with his family ; but the good 
 man's seat has long been vacant, and it will 
 be long before his equal fill it. 
 
 From the top of the round tower there 
 is a very rich and extensive view ; but, ex- 
 cept on the Eton side, still less interesting 
 than that from Richmond-hill. 
 
 From Windsor we went by Henley to 
 Oxford, through one of the loveliest coun- 
 tries upon earth. The ground is actually
 
 118 
 
 hilly. Every spot is cultivated, or richly 
 wooded ; the fields bear fine crops, in spite 
 of farming vile beyond expression ; and the 
 whole is clothed with the brightest ver- 
 dure imaginable. Nothing is more stri- 
 king, in a comparison of the two extremi- 
 ties of the island, than the difference of 
 colour. Even our richest fields in Scot- 
 land have either a brown or greyish cast ; 
 and except upon a gentleman's lawn, the 
 verdure of English grass is never seen to 
 the north of Newcastle. 
 
 The approach to Oxford is very striking. 
 The spires are seen at a distance, mingling 
 with trees ; which are fine, in spite of the 
 barbarous custom of lopping their lower 
 branches. As you enter the town, Mag- 
 dalene College is the first thing you see. 
 As you proceed along the High-street, 
 something new and grand presents itself 
 at every step ; spires, domes, minarets, and 
 arches ! I have seen no street of the same 
 length at all comparable to it for magnifi- 
 cence. It bends a little, so that some- 
 thing is always left to expectation. 
 
 We quickly procured a guide, who con-
 
 119 
 
 ducted us to the Chapel of Magdalene. 
 One end of the Chapel contains a window, 
 painted in so elegant a design that I could 
 scarcely believe its antiquity. The side 
 windows in the choir are in the same style 
 of colouring ; and unfortunately darken the 
 altar piece, a most glorious picture ! It re- 
 presents the Saviour bending under his 
 cross ; his temples bleeding with the thorns. 
 The attitude is a wonderful mixture of 
 grace and exhaustion ; the countenance ex- 
 presses the noblest resignation. The dra- 
 pery is very fine ; not frittered away in 
 small lights and shadows, but disposed in 
 grand broad folds. The colouring is har- 
 moniously sober, the finishing is perfect, 
 there is a tear upon the cheek, a drop 
 of blood has trickled down to the neck, 
 every muscle in the feet, every vein in the 
 hands, is perceptible. . 
 
 The walks of Magdalene College are 
 shaded by tall trees, and lie along the banks 
 of the Charwell ; a stream which will never 
 disturb the student's musings, either by its 
 noise or motion. Our guide told us that the 
 " walks were always cool, because of a plea-
 
 120 
 
 sant hair which came from the water." He 
 made us particularly notice, " Haddison's 
 walk, the great poet as wrote the Spec- 
 tators." * * * 
 
 The Radcliffe library is a very beautiful 
 rotunda, with a gallery running round it. 
 As to books, there are none except a few 
 medical ones. * * * 
 
 The Pomfret Marbles are old patched 
 remnants bodies without heads, and heads 
 without bodies. Some of these scraps are 
 very fine, but most of them spoiled by mo- 
 dern mending. 
 
 From the Marbles we went to the Thea- 
 tre that is, the place where the disputa- 
 tions are held. It is a room above eighty feet 
 long and above seventy broad ; the largest 
 roof, we were told, in the kingdom, unsup- 
 ported by pillars. The roof is made of 
 square pieces of wood, all joined together 
 by screws and nuts. The room is said to 
 contain 5000 persons, which appears to me 
 incredible. There are galleries on three 
 sides. I am disappointed in the Theatre, 
 which is far inferior to the Radcliffe both 
 in magnificence and beauty. * * The gar-
 
 121 
 
 dens of St John's are very pretty ; and 
 kept, like every thing about Oxford, with 
 exemplary neatness. 
 
 Though 1 am absolutely tired of looking 
 at pictures, we went with new pleasure 
 to take a second view of the altar-piece of 
 Magdalene Chapel. Next to the Burleigh 
 Carlo Dolce, it is the most enchanting pic- 
 ture I ever saw. I must not pretend to 
 judge, but, if it be a Guido, it is finished 
 in a manner differing from his ordinary 
 style. It seems to have roused the enthu- 
 siasm of the woman who shews it. She 
 pointed out its beauties with the warmest 
 and most wr///'admiration. " Oh ! Madam," 
 she said to me with tears in her eyes, 
 " what do you think ? I have shewn this 
 glorious picture for thirty years, and now 
 I must leave it. I buried my husband six 
 weeks ago ; and the shewing ofthe.m tilings 
 is always given to men. But, thank God, 
 they cannot hinder me to see it in the time 
 of prayers." She was delighted with our ad- 
 miration, and positively refused a fee at 
 parting ! ! ! 
 
 We returned to " the Angel," to dinner ;
 
 122 
 
 and then left this most interesting and (if 
 I may except " mine own romantic town") 
 most beautiful city that ever I beheld. 
 
 The road to Woodstock is made interest- 
 ing by the retiring spires of Oxford. 
 Woodstock itself is a neat enough vil- 
 lage, peopled, as well as Blenheim, by a co- 
 lony of extortioners their manufactures 
 of gloves and steel being only the tools of 
 this their real trade. 
 
 I was disappointed in the first coup dccil 
 of Blenheim. I had heard too much of it. 
 The water was full of weeds, betraying at 
 once its artificial origin. The poorest rill 
 that tosses untamed in its rocky channel, 
 or frets against the pebbles which it has 
 borne down from its hill, is less admirable 
 indeed, but more interesting, than an ocean 
 which we know to be confined by man's 
 devices. But Blenheim is intended to as- 
 tonish, not to interest. It is a huge splendid 
 show-box, made to be looked at, and only 
 to be looked at. The house is princely ; 
 but the moment you enter it you perceive 
 that it is of no more use to the owner than 
 its picture would be. He may shew but
 
 123 
 
 he cannot live in it. In fact, a very small 
 part of it is in family use. The rest, for pay- 
 ment of certain most unreasonable fees, is 
 at the service of the public. The entrance 
 hall is magnificent ; and answers one's ideas 
 of splendour. The saloon too is superb, with 
 its fine marble portals. The library is very 
 splendid, with its pillars, pilasters, and 
 basement of marble ; but it is ill propor- 
 tioned ; and not very fully lighted. The 
 chapel is very well ; with a princely monu- 
 ment to " the Duke." The other apart- 
 ments are just well enough. There are 
 some fine pictures particularly a large 
 collection of Ilubens's. There is a fine 
 Rembrandt, " Isaac blessing Jacob ;" two 
 charming Beggar Boys by Murillo ; and a 
 Madonna by Carlo Dolce, in his own man- 
 ner and his best manner, which is most 
 delightful. But one has no time to study 
 pictures at Blenheim. The servant rhymes 
 over their names, and drives you from one 
 to another, as if you could see a picture as 
 you see what's o'clock. 
 
 I need not chronicle the grandeur of 
 Blenheim, for we bought, of course, the
 
 124 
 
 Blenheim Guide, where Dr Mavor has 
 made all the finery ten times finer. The 
 china gallery contains specimens of the pro- 
 gress of porcelain for 2000 years. Costly, I 
 make no doubt, every thing is so at Blen- 
 heim ! but utterly void of beauty or inte- 
 rest to me. I paid one half-crown to see 
 it ; I would not give another for the whole 
 collection. In one of the attached offices is 
 the theatre ; in another is the Titian gal- 
 lery, hung, I cannot say ornamented, with 
 pictures by that master. They represent 
 about a score of gods and goddesses, as large 
 as life and as ugly as sin. I wish, on the 
 other hand, that sin were always as naked 
 as they. Nobody could then be deceived 
 about its nature. * * The park is truly 
 fine. * * 
 
 Escaped from Woodstock ; and, with 
 the very worst driving we have seen since 
 we left home, reached Stratford- on -A von 
 before it was quite dark. Hurried to 
 Shakespeare's house sat in his chair saw 
 his bed-room the room where he was 
 born ! The walls are covered with the 
 names of such as wished to buy a part of
 
 125 
 
 liis immortality at a cheap rate. Part oi 
 his furniture remains ; but all is falling fast 
 to decay. 
 
 Next morning we went by an admirable 
 road, through a pretty country, to War- 
 wick. Warwick has been a fortified town. 
 It lias still a portcullis and tower at each 
 end. It is clean, handsome, and remark- 
 ably well paved. The avenue to the castle 
 is strikingly appropriate. It is a winding 
 road cut through the solid rock, which 
 rises on each side to the height of 12 or 
 15 feet, and is crowned with ivv and tan- 
 
 v 
 
 gled shrubs. The great court of the castle 
 is admirable. Here is nothing that calls 
 you to admire with the arrogance of up- 
 start finery ; but there is a magnificence 
 more touching than splendour the sober 
 dignity of baronial pomp softened by the 
 hand of time into something between beau- 
 ty and sublimity. The stately towers and 
 battlements, unshaken by the storms of 
 ages, aro here and there gracefully shroud- 
 ed in ivy. There is a reality a consist- 
 ency an air of nature, I may say, in the
 
 126 
 
 majesty of Warwick, which gives it a most 
 interesting charm. To this charm the 
 Prince of Wales alluded very happily, 
 when he said to some one who compared 
 Warwick with Blenheim, " We can build 
 a Blenheim." Three sides of the court are 
 surrounded by the buildings connected 
 with the castle. The fourth is occupied 
 by what has once been a fortified embank- 
 ment ; but is now thickly covered with 
 trees, evergreens, and flowering shrubs. 
 Close under the walls of the castle flows 
 the Avon, \vhich is here a very beautiful 
 stream ; and from some of the Gothic win- 
 clows there is a most appropriate view of the 
 ruined arches of a bridge, which was once 
 commanded by the fortress. 
 
 The entrance-hall of Warwick is not so 
 superb as that of Blenheim ; but it is more 
 unaffected. It is characteristically orna- 
 mented with arms, furs of animals, and 
 antlers of the Moose Deer. It is lined 
 with oak ; and is, as well as the very long 
 and noble suite of apartments into which 
 it opens, finished in the style of Harry
 
 127 
 
 VII's time. One of the largest rooms in 
 the house is pannelled witli carved cedar. 
 
 The gardens are fine and extensive. 
 The dressed ground commands beautiful 
 glimpses of the park and the adjacent coun- 
 try. In the Conservator)' is the superb 
 Warwick Vase. It was found in Hercula- 
 ncuin, and has been transported without 
 any injury. It is made from one block of 
 pure white marble; the carving is in alto 
 relicco, and as fresh as if it had been cut 
 yesterday. We were told that it contains 
 120 gallons. * * * 
 
 Our journey from London to Harrogate 
 lias, upon the whole, been most delightful.
 
 128 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM JOURNAL, 
 
 1815. 
 
 WENT to the exhibition at Somerset- 
 House. We saw a thousand things, of 
 which I remember not one, except Wil- 
 kie's " Distraining for Rent." The centre 
 figure, the Tenant, seated at a table, leans 
 on his arm, shading his face with his hand 
 an exquisite expression of suffering ; the 
 mouth closed even to compression. On his 
 right hand is his little son, grasping his 
 coat, and looking towards the Wife, who is 
 fainting. Her infant, who lies in her lap, 
 is saved from falling by one little girl, and 
 the Mother is supported by another. On 
 the other side of the picture is the Bailiff ; 
 and on the edge of a dismantled bed sits
 
 129 
 
 his Clerk, writing on with stoical uncon- 
 cern. The centre is occupied hy a cradle, 
 from which the pillows, &c. have been drag- 
 ged, and are thrown upon the ground, lie- 
 hind the table, on which the unfortunate 
 tenant leans, is a groupe, consisting of a 
 young man, who, with strong indignation, 
 addresses the Bailiff an old woman in tears, 
 evidently of anger a little boy, who woidd 
 fain fight if he were able and a decent 
 elderly man, who is endeavouring to quiet 
 them all. Near the door, behind the faint- 
 ing wife, stand two neighbours ; the one 
 weeping, the other looking on with more 
 composed concern. The cradle and its fur- 
 niture are beautifully finished. The whole 
 figure of the tenant is admirable ; so is that 
 of his indignant friend. The wife is not so 
 well finished, and not pretty enough. The 
 whole seems to me as superior in expres- 
 sion and moral effect, as it is inferior in fi- 
 nishing, to the best works of Mieris and 
 Gerard Dow. Mieris finishes most exqui- 
 sitely ; but then such labour to paint cab- 
 bages and carrots ! It would be far easier 
 to raise them, and of far more use. 
 i
 
 130 
 
 Went by water to Richmond with 
 
 , and two gentlemen of their acquaint- 
 ance. The weather was delightful, which 
 was well, for the weight of another person 
 would have sunk the boat. The scertery is 
 beautiful, especially below Kew, covered 
 with villas and villages. Landed at Kew, 
 and revisited the garden. * * 
 
 Landed again at Richmond, and walked 
 up the hill. The view is the richest possi- 
 ble, and very beautiful certainly ; but if 
 the river were expunged, there is not one 
 feature of the scene which has identity 
 enough to be remembered for half an hour. 
 Took boat about half past seven. The 
 evening was lovely ; the sun, on setting, 
 threw a fine pillar of light along the river, 
 and afterwards tinged it with the richest 
 shades of orange, fading, as they approach- 
 ed the boat, to silver. The water, an un- 
 ruffled mirror, reflected every tree or cloud ; 
 and, as it grew dark, transformed every 
 taper on the banks into a slender shaft of 
 fire. Landed about ten, after a very plea- 
 sant excursion.
 
 131 
 
 Went again with Dr Bell to the Na- 
 tional School. I took my place in the 
 lowest class, and said my lesson with the 
 rest. After the children have learnt to 
 make every letter quickly in sand, they 
 are put into this class, and are taught to 
 form syllables. The first girl calls out a ; 
 after an interval sufficient to count six, the 
 second calls out b ; after a like interval, the 
 third calls out ab, &c. If any girl does not 
 know the letter or syllable which it is her 
 turn to say, the next is tried, and the first 
 who can say takes place of all who cannot. 
 If any girl is observed trifling, she is in- 
 stantly called on. In the highest class, 
 
 the children read selections from Scripture ; 
 and, in addition to the other exercises, arc 
 examined by the monitor on the meaning 
 of what they read. Nothing can be more 
 striking than the eagerness of attention 
 which the children show, although no other 
 
 O 
 
 punishment is inflicted for idleness than 
 loss of place in the class. The lowest class 
 being found the most difficult to train, the 
 best teacher is reserved for it. The mis-
 
 132 
 
 tress goes continually from class to class, 
 speaking to the children, reproving or ap- 
 plauding them by name. 
 
 Salisbury is a dirty, shabby, old place, 
 
 of no great extent, with a ditch called a 
 canal in each street. Every dozen of yards 
 there is a bridge, though any body might 
 step across the canals. The water in them 
 is pretty clean, and, I believe, supplies the 
 town. The Cathedral stands in an open 
 square called The Close, surrounded with 
 trees and gravel-walks. The centre tower 
 is finished with a spire, which is not nearly 
 so grand as minarets. The spire is built 
 without perforations, and quite plain, which 
 has a poor effect. It does not look by any 
 means so lofty as it is said to be. It is 
 called 400 feet high. 
 
 The altar stands in a beautiful little cha- 
 pel, into which the church is opened. Some 
 of its pillars are wonderfully light, not 
 more than a foot in diameter. Others are 
 composed of clusters of still more slender 
 shafts, united to each other only by the capi-
 
 133 
 
 tal. The pillars of the nave and choir are also 
 clustered. All the windows are alike, and 
 of the simplest structure, each consisting of 
 three plain narrow Gothic arches. That over 
 the west door is stained ; the one behind the 
 altar is stained also. It contains only one 
 figure, and represents the resurrection of 
 Our Saviour. The side windows being of 
 common glass, the church is glaringly light, 
 and is all as clean as possible. The Chap- 
 ter House somewhat resembles that at 
 York, except that the roof is supported by 
 a slender pillar in the centre. It is so light, 
 that when approaching it through the clois- 
 ters I thought the roof was gone. The 
 whole is inferior to York Minster. 
 
 The country around Southampton is very 
 beautiful. We went to iS T etley Abbey by 
 water a very picturesque ruin. Part of 
 the church is pretty entire ; that is, entire 
 enough for a painter. The roof is gone. 
 Part of the east window is standing, thick- 
 
 c> 7 
 
 ly clothed with ivy. There are fine trees 
 in the area. I had no time to sketch ; for
 
 134 
 
 an English party took possession, preceded 
 by baskets of meat and drink, and attended 
 by a regimental band kettledrums and 
 all ! ! Stalls for toys and gingerbread dis- 
 grace the entrance to these ruins. Shelter- 
 ing woods and lonely situation have not 
 been able to hide them from their kindred 
 Goths ! Walked home through woods and 
 fields, clambering over stiles indescribable. 
 
 ISLE OF WIGHT. Walked up to the 
 signal post near Newport, to take a view 
 of this " garden of England." The fore- 
 ground of the landscape is an ugly bare 
 heath ; the middle, a great stiff barrack ; 
 the distance, dull heights and uninterest- 
 ing hollows. Nothing is pretty, except 
 peeps of the sea and of the coast of Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Saturday, went by a narrow but other- 
 wise tolerable road to Ventnor inn, the very 
 southern A*crge of the island ; a comforta- 
 ble enough little place : as dear as a Lon- 
 don hotel. The landscape around it con- 
 sists of bare ugly hills, dreary open sea,
 
 135 
 
 and crags as regular in shape and strata 
 as a wall. Bonchurch is pretty, and very 
 rugged. Perhaps the good folks may think 
 it sublime who never saw any hill higher 
 than Ludgate, or any rocks larger than 
 those in the pavement. The cottages are 
 beautiful. One of the poorest had a fig tree, 
 a passion flower, and a myrtle, on the front 
 of it. Many of them have vines ; but this 
 is universal since we left London. 
 
 The people in the Isle of Wight are 
 unlike the other English. They are ill- 
 looking, swarthy, and generally black-eyed. 
 The children are dirty and ragged. The 
 cottages, in spite of their external beauty, 
 are poor. Except around villas or hamlets 
 the country is entirely bare, or its few trees 
 are stunted and cankered. In short, it is 
 not worth any Scotchman's trouble to cross 
 a ferry of five miles in order to see a coun- 
 try like his own, but every way inferior ; 
 bare as East Lothian, without being rich ; 
 only rough where it pretends to be mag- 
 nificent ; and merely dull where it affects 
 the sublime. The dialect is very nearly 
 unintelligible; but, in answer to almost
 
 136 
 
 every question, we can make out, " I don't 
 know." A Scotch militiaman, whom we 
 met near Niton, says, " They are the most 
 ignorant brutes that ever were made. You 
 may sit in a public house, madam, a whole 
 day, and never hear a word of edification, 
 farther than what farmer has the fattest 
 calf. Some of them knows the road to 
 Newport, and some of them not that." 
 
 We had a sad scramble from Niton to a 
 new medicinal spring in the neighbour- 
 hood. My militiaman says " One drink of 
 Pitcaithly is worth the whole well." * * 
 Cowes and Ride seem the prettiest parts of 
 the island. 
 
 After a passage with some sea but no 
 wind, we arrived safe at Portsmouth. 
 Walked on the ramparts ; which extend 
 round all sides of the town except that oc- 
 cupied by the harbour. 
 
 Portsmouth is a regular fortification. 
 Next to the town there is a high mound 
 of earth the rampart. Upon this there is 
 a brick wall, from the top of which the
 
 137 
 
 earth-work slopes outward, and is covered 
 and coped with turf the curtain. This 
 weakens the force of the balls, which lodge 
 in it rather than rebound ; and prevents 
 splintering. Beyond this, and at the bot- 
 tom of the curtain, is a low wall, of which 
 I forget the name. Then comes the fosse, 
 a ditch of great width, which can be filled 
 with sea-water in a moment by sluices. On 
 the outer edge is the covered way ; a wall, 
 with a pallisade on the inside, from whence 
 musquetry might play. Without this 
 again is the glacis ; a field of considerable 
 breadth, sloped at such an angle that a ball 
 rebounding from it would not touch the 
 works. At regular intervals the curtain is 
 broken by bastions. These are angular 
 projections, so placed that should an enemy 
 get within the outworks, the side guns from 
 these bastions would rake them ; which is 
 called enfilading. Most of the guns, being 
 placed in niches made for them through 
 the curtain, can fire only in one direction. 
 This disadvantage is balanced by the pro- 
 tection which the curtain gives to the ar- 
 tillerymen. But some of the guns are
 
 138 
 
 placed en barbette, that is, on the top of the 
 curtain, where they can be aimed at plea- 
 sure, but where the men are quite exposed. 
 The ramparts are planted with trees, which 
 prevent the enemy from taking aim at par- 
 ticular buildings, and serve also by their 
 roots to bind the earth in the rampart. The 
 opposite side of the harbour is defended by 
 fortifications at Gosport ; and farther in- 
 land, Portsea also is completely fortified. 
 Lastly, the w r hole " island" is defended on 
 the land side by strong lines and double 
 moats. 
 
 We went aboard the Kelson, which, 
 though afloat, has neither crew nor rigging. 
 She is quite new. She measures 240 feet 
 from stem to stern. She rates at 2800 tons, 
 and 120 guns, but she will carry 130 guns. 
 At present she has 1200 tons of ballast on 
 board, but about one half of this will be 
 thrown out to make way for the guns. 
 There is something awful in the size and 
 strength of every thing around you as you 
 stand between decks ; but the interest is 
 much lessened by her wanting her stores, 
 rigging, and crew. She is at present only
 
 139 
 
 three shabby galleries of prodigious length. 
 From the Nelson \ve went to the block ma- 
 nufactory. * ** 
 
 Towards Brighton the country grows 
 frightful, and the road bad ; in some places 
 it is below high- water mark. Brighton is 
 the consummation of deformity ; a brick 
 town, crammed into a hollow between two 
 naked hills, open only towards the sea. Not 
 one spire breaks the dulness of the red 
 roofs; nor one tree the sameness of the 
 downs ; nor one point the dreariness of the 
 ocean. O what a contrast to the neigh- 
 bourhood of Bath ! * * * 
 
 Immediately on losing sight of Brighton 
 the country improves, and soon becomes 
 quite beautiful. At first it is hilly, after- 
 wards agreeably swelling ; everywhere fer- 
 tile, and extremely woody. The trees are 
 chiefly oak, and there are many very fine. 
 Til gate forest consists of small birch cop- 
 pice. The soil near the coast is chalky. 
 About the inland boundary of Sussex it is 
 clay, still mixed with flints. The commons
 
 140 
 
 are more numerous as you approach Lon- 
 don, but of no great extent. The villas 
 seem encroaching in all directions. 
 
 Tuesday morning, July 25th. Left Lon- 
 don ; I suppose for ever. What do I re- 
 gret in London ? Nothing, and nobody. 
 Yet it is not pleasant to bid a last farewell 
 even to the most indifferent objects. " Fare- 
 well for ever," cancels all offences and all 
 disgusts ! Why should I ever visit London 
 again ? Not to study my art. The fea- 
 tures of character, as of countenance, seem 
 less strongly marked there than among our- 
 selves. There are no doubt originals, but 
 I have no access to them. I see the people 
 only in drawing-rooms ; and a drawing- 
 room, like the grave, efface all distinc- 
 tions. There seems an established set of 
 topics, from which no one thinks of depart- 
 ing. All attend to the same objects, and 
 all take the same views of them ; or, at 
 least, people square their sentiments by 
 those of their own class or cast; and if you 
 know any one's birth, profession, and place
 
 141 
 
 of worship, you may, in general, predict 
 his opinions, moral, religious, and political. 
 Painters and musicians may go to London, 
 but what have I to do there ? 
 
 The country round London is beautiful 
 on every side, but it is no where interest- 
 ing. The villas are pretty, and nicely 
 dressed up with their waving acacias and 
 their velvet lawns ; but they have nothing 
 attaching, nothing peculiar. The neigh- 
 bourhood of Henley is interesting ; for here 
 are inequalities of ground and varieties of 
 outline, to distinguish one spot from an- 
 other. Harvest was pretty general all the 
 way to Oxford. Field-pease were carry- 
 ing home. Harvest does not seem the 
 same cheerful season here as with us. No 
 bands of reapers ! " Nae daffing, nae gab- 
 bing." In a fine field of wheat, one man 
 was cutting at one corner, and one woman 
 at another ! Reached Oxford to dinner. 
 
 At Magdalene-College chapel, I enqui- 
 red for my enthusiastic old woman, and 
 found that her son, after making a fortune 
 in India, had returned to take her under 
 his protection. A man shews the picture
 
 142 
 
 now, with great sang froid. Let the men 
 claim the head; and welcome ! They have 
 not half our heart. An abominable en- 
 tablature and pillars (Grecian too !) darken 
 the fine altar-piece. It certainly strongly 
 resembles the picture on the same subject 
 in the Dulwich gallery, by Morellas ; inso- 
 much, as to make it highly probable that 
 they are by the same hand. * * Next to 
 the Radcliffe, New College Chapel is the 
 finest thing in Oxford. The towers of All 
 Souls are very fine. * * 
 
 The most complete repose and seclusion 
 reign in the courts and gardens of the 
 colleges. This, of course, can only be in 
 vacation time. All are beautifully neat ; 
 and, considering that all the buildings are 
 designed for the same purpose, there is 
 wonderful variety in them. 
 
 Came by Witney, of blanket-making 
 fame, to Northleach, a poor decaying vil- 
 lage once a manufacturing place, but 
 now a den of paupers. Sketched the cu- 
 rious church, and slept at the comfortable 
 inn of Northleach, 
 
 The road between Oxford and Chelten-
 
 143 
 
 ham lies through a high, bare, cold, ugly 
 country ; yet in general the crops arc good. 
 Five or six miles from Cheltenham, it sud- 
 denly descends a steep and dangerous hill, 
 to the lovely village of Dowdswell ; from 
 hence the real " garden of England," the 
 vale of Evesham, spreads before you. It 
 is noble in extent, but not boundless ; for 
 the Malvern hills finely close the distance, 
 with an outline strongly resembling that 
 of the best aspect of the Pentlands. Chel- 
 tenham is a neat town, nearly a mile 
 long, surrounded with villas and cottages, 
 green fields, and multitudinous hedgerows. 
 The fine valley in which it lies is indented 
 everywhere with cultivated and woody 
 hills. * * * The vale of Evesham is per- 
 haps fifty miles in length, and of all 
 breadths, from one mile to twenty. Every- 
 where hills break the horizon ; and the 
 nearer view is filled up with snug cot- 
 tages, orchards, village-churches, shady 
 lanes, and fields green as the first spring 
 of Eden. Almost every cottage is man- 
 tled with a vine, and has a little court of 
 flowers before it. * * *
 
 144 
 
 In some respects we all live alike in this 
 house ; where we have settled for quiet, be- 
 cause our dinner party is only twenty-four. 
 Between seven and nine in the morning, we 
 
 o' 
 
 all contrive to walk half a mile to the well, 
 and drink an English pint or two of salt 
 water. From nine to eleven, breakfast is 
 on the table ; and every one drops in, at his 
 own convenience, to partake. Then each 
 " strolls off his glad way," in this Castle 
 of Indolence. Those who have carriages 
 
 o 
 
 drive backward and forward in the street. 
 This saves the sixpence which the gate 
 would cost ; and thus they can better af- 
 ford to stop at an auction, and buy twenty 
 pounds worth of trash, which they do not 
 want. At five, we meet for dinner dress- 
 ed, but not fine. After tea, the libraries, 
 the theatre, the concert-room, the gaming- 
 houses, are open for those who chuse them ; 
 and there are lights in the drawing-room 
 for workers and readers. * * In every 
 
 / 
 
 direction from Cheltenham, the walks and 
 rides are delightful. There are hills at no 
 great distance, on three sides of the town ;
 
 145 
 
 and from every little eminence there are 
 new views of this magnificent valley. 
 
 Monday, August 14. Left Cheltenham 
 at twelve, after having spent seventeen 
 very idle days pleasantly. The road is 
 very flat to Gloucester ; but still Robin 
 Hood's hill, and Churchdown hill embel- 
 lish the near view, and the Malverns fur- 
 nish the distant horizon. Having exa- 
 mined Gloucester formerly, we proceeded 
 immediately to Ross. The road is hilly 
 and beautiful. It enters the high country 
 about seven miles from Gloucester; and 
 winds on among rich narrow dells, and 
 hills cultivated and peopled to the sum- 
 mit. The last circumstance distinguishes 
 this country from Scotland ; as do also the 
 numerous orchards, and the dells without 
 a brook. Longhojw and Lea are sweet 
 villages pictures of seclusion and repose ! 
 
 Ross is a very shabby old town, in a 
 pretty situation, looking down from a high 
 bank on the Wye. The river was at this 
 K
 
 146 
 
 season too shallow for sailing. The stage 
 to Monmouth is as pretty as possible ; and 
 the situation of Monmouth seems to me 
 much finer than that of Ross. It lies in 
 the bottom of a beautiful basin, formed by 
 steep woody hills, all in the highest state 
 of cultivation. Up to the very top of 
 these, the little white cottages peep from 
 among their thickets and orchards. The 
 country is divided into baby farms, and 
 peopled with labouring tenants. This 
 gives the scene more than mere landscape 
 beauty ; for these little demesnes suggest 
 ideas of humble comfort peace inno- 
 cence and all that is pleasing in rural asso- 
 ciations. In many parts of England, where 
 I happened to know the condition of the 
 poor, I have looked at their lovely cottages, 
 as one would at the corpse of a beauty. 
 But in Monmouthshire all is cheerful. The 
 cottagers seem indeed poor, but not de- 
 pendant. Each has his cow his little 
 field his garden and for the most part 
 his orchard. Few of them therefore sink 
 into paupers. 
 
 Monmouth is a very old town, clean,
 
 147 
 
 but shabby. It has been fortified ; and one 
 gate at least is still standing. The castle 
 has almost disappeared. There is a very 
 old bridge across the Wye, which is here a 
 considerable stream, somewhat affected by 
 the tide. From the top of a steep lull, 
 which forms its bank on the side opposite 
 to the town, we had a view of a most 
 splendid valley varied by rising grounds 
 skirted by hills which are gay with every 
 sort of cultivation and terminated by the 
 Welsh mountains, at a distance of from 
 fifteen to twenty miles. No scene of 
 greater richness, variety, and beauty have 
 I seen in England. The whole is like 
 Mosaic work, without one blank. One rich 
 crop follows every curvature of the adjoin- 
 ing one, and all are bent into every variety 
 of curve. There are no frightful squares, 
 and straight lines in Monmouthshire fences. 
 The colours too are much richer than those 
 of Scotch landscape. The wheat is of a 
 more golden yellow ; the grass is unspeak- 
 ably green ; the very fallows are of a rich 
 purpleish brown. The woods are natural ; 
 and therefore they are more feathery, and
 
 148 
 
 less formal than our plantations. Nothing- 
 could be added to the beauty of this coun- 
 try, if the mountains in the back ground 
 were a little more imposing in their forms, 
 and a little more proportioned in their 
 height, to the plain from which they rise. 
 But nothing less than the Alps would suit 
 with such a scene. 
 
 The wind being high, and blowing 
 straight up the river, and the weather be- 
 ing showery, we abandoned all thoughts of 
 sailing down the Wye. The post road to 
 Chepstow is very bad ; and for seven miles 
 from Monmouth, nearly a continued climb ; 
 but the prospects are exquisite. The splen- 
 did country towards Abergavenny is al- 
 most constantly in sight ; and the home 
 views at every step present some new 
 beauty. About nine miles from Mon- 
 mouth, we turned to the left into such a 
 road ! ! "if road it can be called, which 
 road was none." It threaded through wild 
 closely wooded dells to Tintern. A wire- 
 mill, about half a mile above the village, 
 is the most picturesque thing possible. 
 The celebrated abbey is nothing outside ;
 
 149 
 
 but within, it is very fine, though not so 
 fine as Fountains. Sketched the north- 
 east corner. 
 
 The road from thence to Piercefield is 
 bad enough ; not nearly so bad, however, as 
 what we passed in the morning. Pierce- 
 field is really fine. There are two views, 
 which are exhibited under every possible 
 aspect. The first is a noble reach of the 
 Wye, winding round a meadow, which 
 forms one of its banks, w r hile the other 
 rises into abrupt rocks and masses of wood. 
 This bank is sometimes 150 feet high at 
 the least, while the other shelves in smooth 
 green to the water's edge. The rocks are 
 very noble ; and though the river, even 
 at high water, is too small for its magnifi- 
 cent accompaniments, yet, upon the whole, 
 I have seen nothing of the kind so fine in 
 England. The other view from the grounds, 
 is towards the Severn, which is here two 
 miles broad, and therefore a splendid ob- 
 ject, though the banks are remarkable only 
 for their richness. The town and castle 
 of Chepstow are the most striking features
 
 150 
 
 in this landscape. The situation of Chep- 
 stow is beautiful. * * * 
 
 Wednesday. We saw the funeral of an 
 infant, who was carried to the grave by 
 girls dressed in white ; no male attending 
 but the father. 
 
 After breakfast left the " Angel," and 
 beautiful Monmouth ! ! We passed the 
 prison on the outskirts of the town. It is 
 not secure ; so the prisoners were walking 
 in the court in fetters 1 1 We soon lost sight 
 of Monmouth, and, crossing the hills for 
 three miles, entered Herefordshire ; a rich 
 swelling country, full of orchards, and hop- 
 fields very pretty, though not quite so 
 interesting as what we have left behind. 
 The Abergavenny hills are still fine in 
 the distance. Hereford is a clean shabby 
 town ; and its cathedral a ditto ditto cathe- 
 dral. 
 
 Sixteen miles to Ledbury; very like 
 the former stage ; only we have lost the 
 Welsh hills, and gained the Malverns. Or- 
 chards and old forest-trees close so en- 
 tirely around Ledbury, that, till you enter 
 the town, you see no part of it but the
 
 151 
 
 spire. The road is delightful to Malvern. 
 In crossing the hills this morning, (Thurs- 
 day) we had the finest views imaginable of 
 the rich swells of Herefordshire ; the vale 
 of Gloucester at a distance ; and, near the 
 foot of the hills, Lord Somers's noble 
 place, Eastnor Castle. Near the top, the 
 road passes through a cleft in the hill, and 
 the wide plain of Worcester spreads before 
 you like a map. This is fine, no doubt, and 
 wonderfully rich ; but far less interesting 
 than the west view. Breakfasted at Steers's. 
 Wandered about the hills all morning ; 
 and then, passing through Great Malvern, 
 a beautiful village commanding the whole 
 vale, we proceeded to Worcester. The 
 country is undulating and rich ; but less 
 so than Herefordshire. 
 
 Worcester was not seen till we were with- 
 in a mile of it. It then made a very hand- 
 some appearance ; having several spires and 
 towers, besides those of the fine cathedral. 
 The Severn passes close to the town ; and 
 is here a fine navigable stream. Drove to 
 the Hop-pole, an excellent inn. Dr B. 
 called for Mrs but she was ungra-
 
 152 
 
 eious. Slight acquaintance are usually more 
 so than utter strangers. 
 
 Friday. Mr F., a most polite and obli- 
 ging person, called early, and introduced 
 us at Chamberlayne's porcelain manufac- 
 tory. Every part of the process was 
 shewn to us. Flints are first calcined, 
 which whitens them perfectly ; then, 
 mixed in certain proportions with grey 
 Cornish granite, they are ground to so fine 
 a powder as to pass through the closest 
 silk. Water is poured upon this powder, 
 and it is twice strained through silk sieves. 
 The mixture is boiled till it is as thick as 
 cream, and evaporated till it becomes a 
 tough paste. Pieces of it are then placed 
 upon a turning-wheel ; and moulded, sole- 
 ly by the hand, with wonderful precision 
 and rapidity. This is the case, at least, 
 with all the pieces of a circular form ; 
 such as bowls, plates, cups, and saucers. 
 Dishes of other forms are made in gypsum 
 moulds ; which, though they fit closely at 
 first, soon absorb the moisture, so as to 
 part very freely with the vessel which they 
 have modelled. Every piece is then placed
 
 153 
 
 in a separate clay case. The furnace is fill- 
 ed with these ; built closely up ; and sub- 
 jected to a red heat for sixty hours. It is 
 then allowed to cool ; the porcelain is with- 
 drawn, and in this state is called the bis- 
 cuit. It is greatly diminished in size by 
 this process. It is now ready to receive 
 the blue colour, which is cobalt ; and looks 
 of a dirty grey, till exposed to the action of 
 the glazing. The glazing consists of lead, 
 and glass ground to an impalpable powder, 
 mixed with certain secret ingredients in 
 water. The biscuit is merely dipped into 
 the glazing, and is then baked again for 
 forty hours. It is now ready to receive all 
 other colours which the pattern may re- 
 quire, and the gilding. It is then baked a 
 third time, for ten hours, or more, accord- 
 ing to the colours employed ; lastly, the 
 gilding is burnished with bloodstone or 
 agate, and the china is ready for the ware- 
 room. The colours are changed by baking. 
 The greens, when laid on, are very imper- 
 fect ; the rose colour, is a dull purple ; and 
 the gilding is as black as ink. The paint- 
 ing-room had an unwholesome smell, and
 
 154 
 
 its inmates looked sickly. This manufac- 
 ture is perfectly intelligible throughout, 
 and therefore interesting. You can fol- 
 low the flint and granite, till, through 
 seventeen different processes, they become 
 a gilded tea-cup. From the china manu- 
 factory, we were carried to the cathedral. 
 It is the finest, after York, which we have 
 seen. * * * Worcester is altogether a very 
 pretty town, in a very fine situation. The 
 streets are broad and clean, with good 
 pavement. They wind a little, but not 
 awkwardly. The shops are handsome. 
 The chief trade is in gloves, which the 
 women make at home. This must be bet- 
 ter both for health and morals, than a*, 
 sembling them in large workshops. 
 
 Saturday. Breakfasted at Kiddermins- 
 ter ; a very ugly mean-looking place, with 
 no pavement in the streets. Saw the car- 
 pet-weaving, but could not understand the 
 process. After the web is laid, the weaving 
 is so entirely mechanical that children learn 
 it in a week. Came by the poorest country 
 which we have seen for some time to Hag- 
 ley ; in which we are a little disappointed.
 
 The house is actually ugly. The grounds 
 are fine in form, and the wood is most 
 magnificent ; but there is a great want of 
 water, and a great superfluity of temples, 
 seats, and " objects" of all sorts. 
 
 Sunday. The inn, which we had ex- 
 pected to be a complete seclusion, resound- 
 ed from morning to night with the uproar 
 of parties who came to see the place. The 
 village church, within Lord Littleton's 
 grounds, was attended by a very decent- 
 looking congregation. A pretty chapel 
 makes a sort of chancel to the church. It 
 contains Lucy's monument. 
 
 The village is pretty, like all the English 
 villages ; straggling and woody. From the 
 highest ground in the park the view 
 stretches to Cheltenham and Gloucester. 
 The Monmouth hills are faintly seen. To 
 the east all the country is enveloped in 
 smoke. 
 
 Monday. Proceeded by a circuitous 
 road through Stourbridge and Hales Owen 
 to Birmingham, the ugly and the dull ! We 
 passed a poor manufacturing village called 
 'Mud-city t inhabited by creatures whose sa-
 
 156 
 
 vage habits made them till lately the terror 
 of travellers. They owe their present half- 
 civilization to the charity of Mr Hill, a 
 neighbouring squire, who has built and en- 
 dowed a church, and has established a school 
 among this horde of barbarians. He has a 
 large family of his own, whom may God 
 prosper ! 
 
 A vile hole this Birmingham ! Yester- 
 day I overheard one of the animals from it, 
 a young one too ! propose to cut down the 
 Hagley oaks. " They might go to the 
 king's yards," said the creature; " I am 
 sure they are of no use here." 
 
 Sent our letters to Soho. Mr and Mrs 
 Watt are gone to Scotland ! Tried to see 
 Thomason's manufactory. Nobody was at 
 work; first, because it was Monday, and 
 all last week's wages were not spent; se- 
 condly, because it was a walte. Of this, 
 however, we saw no signs in the streets. 
 All was as sombre a a church-yard ; not 
 even girls eating gingerbread, and boys 
 squeaking on half-penny trumpets. In the 
 evening we laboured through many of the 
 rugged streets of this wearisome town :
 
 157 
 
 found out a circulating library, and, on 
 depositing the price, were entrusted with 
 four volumes of trash. Mercifully ! occu- 
 pation makes all places much alike. 
 
 Tuesday. Pour comble, a pouring rain 
 all morning. Visited a very poor exhibi- 
 tion of pictures, last year's outcasts from 
 Somerset House. Spent the afternoon, 
 however, very agreeably in inspecting Tho- 
 mason's manufactory. What seemed the 
 most ingenious machine of all, was that by 
 which button eyes are made. One part of 
 it pushes forward the wire ; a second bends 
 it into a loop ; a third cuts it ; a fourth flat- 
 tens the points that they may join the bet- 
 ter with the button ; a fifth pushes the eye 
 when completed out of the machine. After 
 all, the movement does not seem very com- 
 plicated ; if I could have had it by myself 
 for half an hour, I think I might have fully 
 understood it. What makes me so slow of 
 comprehension when any one is bye ! I be- 
 lieve it is because I am distracted by consi- 
 dering what the byestanders will think I 
 am about. * * The plating on steel is exe- 
 cuted after the article is perfectly formed.
 
 158 
 
 The iron knife, fork, or spoon, is dipped in 
 a solution of sal-ammoniac, to cleanse it 
 from grease. It is then powdered with 
 resin to make the solder adhere to the 
 steel, with which it has no affinity. Next 
 it is dipped in the boiling solder ; lead and 
 tin. Then it is instantly fitted with a 
 coat of pure silver, rolled out thin and per- 
 fectly flexible ; this is pared round the 
 edges with a knife. The article, whatever 
 it is, is then passed through a heat strong 
 enough to melt the solder without affect- 
 ing the silver. The solder is squeezed out, 
 and falls away in drops ; the silver remains 
 adhering perfectly to the steel. One side 
 only of each article is plated at a time ; the 
 silver, by tkis means, overlaps at the edges, 
 and is double where it is the most liable to 
 waste. When the goods are finished, they 
 are polished ; first, by a fine file, then by a 
 leathern wheel, and lastly by the human 
 hand. * * Whether it was occasioned by 
 the nature of their work, or by their prac- 
 tice in explaining it, I do not know ; but 
 the people employed here shewed more in- 
 telligence than any persons of their station
 
 159 
 
 whom we have seen in England. I dare 
 say it is good policy to let them shew their 
 work ; the attempts to explain it will lead 
 them to understand it, and thus will help 
 them to inventions and improvements. 
 
 Left Birmingham in the morning ; the 
 country seems pretty, so far as the smoke 
 of 10,000 furnaces would allow us to see 
 it. * * The inn at Colebrook-dale is very 
 comfortable. The iron-bridge over the Se- 
 vern is beautifully light. This first valley, 
 which, however, is not the true Colebrook- 
 dale, is really a strange-looking place. The 
 steep and lofty banks of the Severn have 
 been torn and disfigured in search of mate- 
 rials for manufacture, till they exhibit such 
 appearances as might be supposed to follow 
 an earthquake fissures, cavities, mounds, 
 heaps of broken stones, and hills of ashes 
 and scoria?. The dell, which seems intend- 
 ed by nature for a quiet solitude, soothed 
 by the hush of waters and the wooings of 
 the cushet, resounds with the din of ham- 
 mers, the crackling of flames, and the 
 groanings of engines and bellows. All is
 
 160 
 
 shrouded with dense smoke ; and on the 
 few spots of vegetation which man has left 
 undisturbed, the scanty foliage of the cop- 
 pice is black, and the very weeds look 
 scathed and unwholesome. 
 
 Colebrook-dale, properly so called, runs 
 in a different direction from this first val- 
 ley ; and resembles it only in harbouring 
 one great iron- work. Colebrook is a very 
 lovely valley still ; the more so, for having 
 been planted and adorned by Mr Rey- 
 nolds. He has led walks along its banks 
 with great taste ; and, with equal liberality, 
 leaves them open to the public. We saw, 
 at a distance, the house of our respectable 
 friend, Deborah Darby ; which she left, 
 three years ago, for " a house not made 
 with hands." 
 
 At Coleport, we visited Rose's china 
 manufactory ; it is upon a still larger scale 
 than that at Worcester, but is carried on 
 in the same manner. Here we saw many 
 women employed in painting the china ; 
 but we were told, that, though they serve 
 the same apprenticeship as the men, under
 
 161 
 
 the same teacher, their work is always in- 
 ferior. Here also we saw the printing oi 
 china ; a process quite new to me. On a 
 copper-plate, properly engraved, the colour 
 is laid, heated, and well rubbed in ; a sheet 
 of cambric paper, prepared with a secret 
 composition, is then printed from this plate. 
 This paper is cut to fit the cup, saucer, &c. 
 and pressed closely to it ; the biscuit is 
 then washed in cold water ; when the paper 
 peels off, and the pattern remains perfectly 
 impressed. 
 
 From Colebrook-dale the country is very 
 pretty along the Severn to Shrewsbury. The 
 Montgomery hills are very fine ; and, seem- 
 ingly, at no great distance. The Wrcltin 
 is within a mile of the road, on the other 
 hand. 
 
 The situation of Shrewsbury is very 
 fine, on a bank overhanging the Severn, 
 and commanding a rich plain woody, and 
 full of gentlemen's seats. The mall is along 
 the river side, shaded with noble trees ; 
 the town itself is a confused mass of ugly 
 old houses ; a labyrinth of lanes, as rugged 
 
 L
 
 162 
 
 as the paths of virtue, and as dirty and 
 winding as those of vice. At one end of 
 the town, however, there are two rows of 
 handsome houses, and an elegant modern 
 church, St Chad's. 
 
 Heavy rain allowed us to see only imper- 
 fectly the stage to Oswestry. The road is 
 flat and not very interesting ; but we had 
 fine glimpses of the Montgomery hills to 
 the left. The entrance of North Wales is 
 very prepossessing. Chirk is a beautiful 
 village, washed by a stream of the same 
 name ; the banks are very steep, and the 
 dell which they form is crossed by an aque- 
 duct. 
 
 A far finer aqueduct, of fifteen arches, 
 crosses the Dee, as you enter the vale of 
 JJangollen. The Dee itself is a lively foam- 
 ing stream, and looks the more beautiful 
 from being contrasted with the rivers of 
 England. Near the town of Llangollen, 
 its rich and populous valley is narrowed by 
 the hill, on which are the ruins of Dinas 
 Bran. They make no great figure as you 
 approach. The village very much resem- 
 bles a Highland one ; a.s unlike to an Eng-
 
 163 
 
 lish village as possible ! It is built in narrow 
 shabby streets. The walls of the houses 
 consist of thin grey stones shewing the 
 mortar between. The " Hand" is an old- 
 fashioned house, but exceedingly comfort- 
 able. 
 
 Saturday. A wearisome climb to Dinas 
 Bran, under a burning sun. The ruins are 
 extensive, but not picturesque. The view 
 is boundless down the vale ; in all other di- 
 rections it is inclosed by hills. That to the 
 north is fully as bleak and desolate as any 
 thing I have seen in Scotland; a tame ridge 
 of grey rock, unvaried by soil or vegetation. 
 AVe endeavoured, as usual, to find the 
 shortest way to Valle Crucis ; and as usual 
 found only the worst. We passed a very 
 Scotch-looking farm-yard, where the chil- 
 dren were barefooted, and spoke Welch. 
 They all, however, can ask for a halfpenny 
 in English. Valle Crucis is pretty not 
 grand. The ruins are poor enough, and 
 are disfigured with a cottage orne ' and 
 farm offices. Spent the afternoon with the 
 " Ladies of Llangollen."
 
 164 
 
 Sunday. The whole of the church ser- 
 vice was in Welch. Spent this afternoon 
 also with " the Ladies." * * 
 
 Monday. Went up the vale of Dee to 
 breakfast at Corwen. This stage is pretty, 
 but not much more, certainly not sublime. 
 The stream is every where beautiful ; wind- 
 ing, lively, and impetuous. The hills are 
 tameish. The valley is more woody than 
 most of our Highland vales. Corwen is a 
 bare mean village ; with nothing interesting 
 except the blind harper, who has a first- 
 rate natural genius. His execution is most 
 wonderful the difficulties of his instru- 
 ment considered. His variations to his na- 
 tional airs are perfectly original and cha- 
 racteristic. An Irish gentleman issued from 
 a parlour, on purpose to make the perfor- 
 mer change his strain to the " Washer-wo- 
 man" and " Paddy Ollafferty." But when 
 he was called on for the " King's Anthem," 
 he fairly defeated his director, by adding 
 variations of such spirit and invention as 
 gave the old air all the charm of novelty. 
 Guessing that we too might have our na
 
 tional partialites, he volunteered " Hosliri 
 Castle," and played it well ; he assured me 
 that an old woman had been his only teach- 
 er. * * 
 
 In returning from lluthen to Llangollen, 
 a very long climb in the road shews an ex- 
 tensive view of the valley of Cllwyd wind- 
 ing to the sea ; it is very rich, but far from 
 equal to the vale of Kvesham. Saw Snow- 
 don in the distance The hill tract is very 
 desolate ; there is a prodigious descent from 
 it into Valle Crucis. * * 
 
 Wales may be inexhaustible to a land- 
 scape painter, with its endless rocks, and 
 ruins, and hills, which he can exaggerate 
 into something grand enough to fill the 
 imagination. But give me the woody shel- 
 tered land ; where, at every turn, a spire, a 
 smoke, the crowing of a cock, the shouting 
 of a child, lead the fancy to half a dozen of 
 irregular cottages, dropped upon a smooth 
 little green, and peeping from among their 
 own vines and roses ! Oh England ! the 
 very sight of thy sweet hamlets mends the 
 heart !
 
 I used to think Penrith a pretty place, 
 when I came to it from the north. Now, 
 even the valley round it is Scotch ; the 
 fields are large and angular, the grass brown, 
 the woods dark and lumpish, and the sin- 
 gle trees stunted. Farewell, green fields 
 and rural villages ! Farewell, waving fen- 
 ces, and feathery woods, and flowery cot- 
 tages ! But welcome, mine own rugged 
 Scotland ! where, though all is bare and 
 naked, every thing bespeaks improvement, 
 industry, intelligence ; independance in the 
 poor, and enterprize in the rich. The Eng- 
 lish villas repose on velvet law r ns, which 
 the giant oak and the luxuriant chesntit 
 dapple with their broad shadows. Ours 
 stand square and ungraceful on benty fields, 
 inclosed by parellelograms of firs ; but ours 
 are tenanted by their owners, and the best 
 feelings and the best principles of human 
 nature find exercise there ; while the villas 
 of England are either altogether deserted, 
 or inhabited bv menials and land stewards.
 
 167 
 
 Our fields boast no beauty, either of form 
 or colour ; but they are at once frugally 
 and liberally cultivated, and every year 
 makes new encroachments on the barren- 
 ness of nature. Our cottages range in vile 
 rows, flanked with pig-styes, and fronted 
 with dunghills ; but our cottagers have 
 Bibles, and can read them ; they are poor, 
 but they are not paupers. In some of the 
 agricultural parishes of England we found 
 more than half of the population receiving 
 clmniy (if I may so prostitute the word !) 
 from the remainder. Kvery mile in Scot- 
 land shows you new houses, new fields, 
 new plantations. In England, every thing- 
 is old ; and this is one great cause of its 
 beauty trees, grass, cottages, all are in 
 maturity, if not in decay. The first young 
 plantation of any extent which I observed 
 in England, was on the borders of the New 
 Forest ; and in the southern counties, I 
 scarcely saw one new cottage, unless in the 
 neighbourhood of large towns. *
 
 168 
 
 . There is the most striking difference, 
 
 the moment you enter Scotland, on the 
 language of the people, and especially on 
 the accommodation for travellers. " Horses 
 quickly for Hawick," quoth the Doctor. 
 " Ye'll get them in a wee, sir ; but they 
 are out at the park e'en now, and we maun 
 send and catch them." At last they came ! 
 two unwieldy, raw-boned brutes, alike in 
 nothing but their speed ; and driven by a 
 " vera canny lad" of sixty and upwards. 
 
 The road to Edinburgh is right Scotch ; 
 though bleak and dreary, it is judicious 
 and substantial. But oh ! it is untold how 
 dismally bare this country seems, after four 
 months' acquaintance with " merry Eng- 
 land !" I sigh over the thoughts of an 
 Englishman's impressions on visiting mo- 
 ther Scotland, as Shem and Japhet did over 
 their parent ! No wonder if we be a re- 
 flecting, frugal race ! the gay images of 
 spring, and the luxuriance of summer, ne-
 
 109 
 
 ver intrude upon us, suggesting frolic and 
 profusion ! No wonder if we be hospi- 
 table ! where one eternal winter constant- 
 ly reminds us to draw together, and be 
 social
 
 TIELrS TO DEVOTION 
 
 s i: i, E c T K D 
 
 I'KOM THE 
 
 HOLY SCRIPTURES.
 
 " The whole word of God is of use to direct us in Prayer." 
 
 Assembly's Shorter Catechism.
 
 EXAMPLES OF PKAISE. 
 
 THANKSGIVING 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 , PETITION.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I HOM the beginning of the world to the 
 present day, the sober-minded and think- 
 ing part of mankind have regarded prayer 
 as a duty of high importance. The wise 
 have considered it as strengthening that 
 sense of dependence, those sentiments of 
 gratitude, of reverence, and of love, which 
 are due from the creature to the bountiful, 
 ever-present, all-perfect Creator : as exci- 
 ting our benevolence towards those with 
 and for whom we pray, and as awakening 
 a right sense of our own sinfulness and in- 
 firmity. The conscientious have esteemed 
 it as a duty enforced by the express com- 
 mand of God. The pious have found it a 
 privilege, conveying joys and honours which
 
 the world knoweth not. Its blessed influ- 
 ence is not confined to the sunny hours of 
 life, when every pulse is health and every 
 scene is pleasure. Thousands have attest- 
 ed that it can pour upon the season of sick- 
 ness, of poverty, of reproach, and of death, 
 not flashes of momentary rapture merely, 
 but calm, enduring, ineffable joy. 
 
 Before it can accomplish such effects, it 
 must have become not only " the form of 
 sound words," but the utterance of the 
 heart ; not an occasional resort in difficulty 
 or distress, but the settled habit of the soul. 
 To assist the young in the attainment of 
 this most precious habit, is the design of 
 the following compilation. Let it not be 
 supposed that it is meant to supersede the 
 use of larger or more judicious manuals ; 
 much less to prescribe set forms of prayer ; 
 and least of all to represent these few ex- 
 tracts as comprising the whole, or even any 
 great number, of those parts of Scripture, 
 which are suitable for devotion. My in- 
 tention is only to offer specimens of the 
 manner in which the language of devotion 
 may be extracted from the inspired wri-
 
 177 
 
 tings ; in the earnest hope that the beauty, 
 simplicity, and suitableness of the expres- 
 sions, may allure my young friends to 
 drink deep of the pure fountain, from 
 which this is but a scanty stream. 
 
 I solemnly warn them against consider- 
 ing the following examples, or any other 
 form of words, even though drawn from 
 the oracles of the living God, as sufficient 
 of themselves to constitute a prayer ac- 
 ceptable to the Almighty, or useful to the 
 souls of men. God is a Spirit, and they 
 who worship him must worship him in 
 spirit. No prayer deserves the name, which 
 is not the overflowing of a humble, peni- 
 tent, and obedient heart ; nor can any be 
 accepted of God, which is not made in a 
 lowly sense of our own unworthiness, offer- 
 ed to him in the name of a crucified lle- 
 deemer. 
 
 Therefore let every act of devotion be 
 preceded by a sincere and earnest endea- 
 vour to awaken in ourselves dispositions 
 suitable to prayer. Before praise, let us 
 rouse our minds to contemplate the perfec- 
 tions of Jehovah ; lest we incur the guilt of 
 M
 
 178 
 
 those who honour him with their mouths, 
 while their heart is far from him ! Before 
 thanksgiving, let us call to mind his bene- 
 fits ; lest an empty form of gratitude, where 
 the sentiment is wanting, be an offence to 
 the Searcher of hearts ! Before confession, 
 let us strive to awaken our hatred to our 
 own particular sins ; lest a careless catalogue 
 of transgressions, which we intend not to 
 forsake, seem but an audacious braving of 
 Him, who is of purer eyes than to behold 
 iniquity. Before petition, let us humbly 
 consider the urgency of our necessities, 
 and the feebleness of our claims ; lest, in 
 begging that without which w r e perish, we 
 come short of the earnestness and importu- 
 nity to which the Lord has promised his 
 blessing. 
 
 In prayer, as in acts of less importance, 
 practice, though by no means sufficient, is 
 necessary for the attainment of perfection. 
 Those who are but beginners in this holy 
 art find it difficult, perhaps impossible, to 
 fix their minds in a protracted act of devo- 
 tion. The following examples therefore 
 are short ; not from any intention to con-
 
 179 
 
 fine the aspirations of the devout heart, but 
 that such as are pleased to take the assist- 
 ance of this little book, may have opportu- 
 nities of pausing when the attention grows 
 languid ; and of reviving it by turning to 
 some kindred subject, more consonant to 
 the feeling of the moment. 
 
 We know not what to pray for as we 
 ought ; and, as we have the gracious as- 
 surance that the Spirit helpcth our infirmi- 
 ties, I prefix a prayer for the assisting and 
 directing influences of the Holy Ghost. 
 God grant that it may so be used as to 
 call down upon the worshipper the same 
 Spirit which at first gave it utterance ! 
 
 My dear young friends ! (for the inten- 
 tion of doing you a kindness warms my 
 charity towards you,) it is no solitary re- 
 cluse, no surly misanthrope, no fanatic, no 
 enthusiast, who addresses you ; but a wo- 
 man in the prime of life, as cheerful, as 
 happy, though perhaps not quite so gay, as 
 most of you active in the business, alive 
 to many of the pleasures, of the present 
 state of existence. But her chief business, 
 as well as yours, is to extend the kingdom
 
 180 
 
 of God in her own heart, and in those of 
 others ; and if she shall be made the instru- 
 ment of attracting even the least of her 
 brethren to that service which is perfect 
 freedom, she will at once give and receive 
 pleasures, which excel all those of a present 
 world, as far as the capacities of angels ex- 
 ceed those of the babe that was bom this 
 hour.
 
 181 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 OH God, the God of the spirits of all 
 flesh, 1 be merciful to me a sinner." Lcf 
 tlnj Spirit help my infirmities, for / know 
 not what / should pray for as / ought. 5 
 Teach me what I shall say unto thee, for we 
 cannot order our speech by reason of dark- 
 ness. 1 Oh send forth thy light and thy truth ; 
 let them lead me, let them bring me to thy 
 holy hill, and to thy tabernacles. Then 
 will I go unto the altar of God, unto God 
 my exceeding joy ! yea, I will praise thee, 
 oh God, my God.' But who am I, that I 
 should be able to offer willingly after this 
 sort ? For all things come of thee, and 
 
 1 Xum. xvi. 22. - Luke xviii. 13. 
 
 " Rom. viii. '26. ' Psalm xliii. 3, 4, 
 
 * Job xxxvii. 1<).
 
 182 
 
 of thine own must I give thee. I know 
 also, my God, that thon triest the heart, 
 and hast pleasure in uprightness. 6 Create 
 in me a clean heart, and renew a right spi- 
 rit within me. 
 
 Open thou my lips, that my mouth may 
 show forth thy praise. 7 Then will I pray 
 with the spirit ; I will pray with the un- 
 derstanding also. 8 Lord, thou hast heard 
 the desire of the humble ; thou wilt pre- 
 pare their heart. 9 
 
 Hear my voice according to thy loving- 
 kindness, 10 God, which teacheth us to pro- 
 fit, which leadeth us in the way that we 
 should go. 11 In thee is my salvation, 12 O 
 Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Father 
 of mercies, and God of all comfort. 15 
 
 (; 1 Chron. xxix. 14. 1 6. 7 Psalm li. 10. 16. 
 
 s 1 Corinth, xiv. 1 5. y Psalm x. 1 7- 10 Psalm cxix. 149- 
 11 Isa. xlviii. 17, 18. 12 Psalm Ixii. 7- 13 2 Corin.i. 3.
 
 183 
 
 EXAMPLES OF PRAISE. 
 
 EXAMPLE I. 
 OF GENERAL PRAISE. 
 
 On Lord God of Israel ! thou art the 
 God, even thou alone ! of all the kingdoms 
 of the earth, 1 therefore let them praise the 
 name of the Lord ; for His name alone is 
 excellent ; His glory is above earth and 
 heaven." He is the living God, and an 
 everlasting King ; at His wrath the earth 
 shall tremble, and the nations shall not be 
 able to abide His indignation. 8 Who is 
 
 O 
 
 like unto thee, O Lord ! Who is like thee ! 
 Glorious in holiness ! fearful in praises ! 
 
 1 2 Kings, xix. 15. ~ Psalm cxlviii. \">. ~ Jer. x. 10.
 
 184 
 
 doing wonders ! * Who coverest thyself 
 with light as with a garment ; who stretch- 
 est out the heavens like a curtain ; who 
 layeth the beams of His chambers in the 
 waters ; who maketh the clouds His cha- 
 riot ; who walketh upon the wings of the 
 wind. He looketh on the earth, and it 
 trembleth ; he toucheth the hills, and they 
 smoke.' 
 
 The glory of the Lord shall endure for 
 ever ; the Lord shall rejoice in His works. 
 I will sing unto the Lord as long as I 
 live ; I will sing praise to my God while 
 I have my being. G From the rising of the 
 sun unto the going down of the same, the 
 Lord's name is to be praised ! Blessed be 
 the name of the Lord, from this time forth 
 and for evermore. 7 
 
 Exotl. xv. 11. A Psalm civ. 2, 3. 32. 
 
 Psalm civ. 31. 7 Psalm cxiii. 3. 2.
 
 185 
 
 EXAMPLE II. 
 
 OF GENERAL PKAlSE. 
 
 THOU, whose name alone is Jehovah, art 
 the most high over all the earth. 1 Behold, 
 1liou takest up the isles as a very little 
 thing ! All nations before thee are as no- 
 thing ; and they are counted to thee as less 
 than nothing and vanity." When I con- 
 sider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, 
 the moon and the stars which thou hast 
 ordained ; what is man that thou art mind- 
 ful of him ? and the son of man that thou 
 visitest him ? 3 The heavens, the heaven of 
 heavens cannot contain thee. 1 Lo ! these 
 are parts of thy ways ; but how little a 
 
 1 Psalm Ixxxiii. IS. - Isa. xl. 15. 1~. 
 
 5 Psalm viii. 3 -1. * 2 Chron. ii. 6'.
 
 186 
 
 portion is heard of thec ! The thunder of 
 iliy power who can understand ! J Shall not 
 thine excellency make me afraid, and tliy 
 dread fall upon me ? G Shall I not hide me 
 in the dust, for fear of the Lord ; and for 
 the glory of his Majesty ? 7 Woe unto him 
 that striveth with his Maker ! Let the pots- 
 herd strive with the potsherds of the earth. 8 
 Who would not fear thee, O King of na- 
 tions? 9 Thine is the greatness, and the 
 po\ver, and the glory, and the victory, and 
 the majesty. 10 Salvation, and honour, and 
 power, unto the Lord our God ! Alleluiah ! 
 for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth ! u 
 
 ' Job, xxvi. 14. c Isa. xxvi. 5. 7 Isa. ii. 10. 8 Isa. xlv. 9- 
 * Jerem. x, 7. J0 Chron. xxix. 11. n Rev. xix. 1. 6'.
 
 187 
 
 EXAMPLE III. 
 
 TRAISE OF THE POWER OF GOD. 
 
 OH Lord my God, thou art very great ! 
 Thou art clothed with honour and majes- 
 ty. 1 Thine is the greatness, and the power, 
 and the glory ; for all that is in the heaven 
 and in the earth is thine." Rulest thou 
 not over all the kingdoms, so that none is 
 
 O 
 
 able to withstand thee ? 3 Of old hast thou 
 laid the foundation of the earth, and the 
 heavens are the work of thine hands. 1 Thou 
 hast prepared the light and the sun,' and 
 hast caused the day-spring to know his 
 place.' 1 Thou hast said, let the dry land 
 
 1 Psalm civ. 1. - 1 Chron. xxix. 11. " 2 Chron. xx. 6. 
 1 Psalm cii. 23. 5 Isa. Ixiv. S. c Job, xxxviii. 12.
 
 188 
 
 appear, and it was so ; 7 and hast shut up 
 the sea with doors, and said, Hitherto shalt 
 thou come, but no further ; and here shall 
 thy proud waves be staid. 8 The earth is 
 full of thy riches ; so is that great and wide 
 sea, wherein are living things innumerable, 
 both small and great. These all wait upon 
 thee,that thou mayest give them their meat 
 in due season. Thou openest thine hand, 
 they are filled with good. Thou hidest 
 thy face, they are troubled. Thou takest 
 away their breath ; they die, and return to 
 their dust. 9 Thou dost according to thy 
 will in the army of heaven, and among the 
 inhabitants of the earth, and none can stay 
 thy hand, or say unto thee, what dost 
 thou? 10 
 
 All thy works shall praise thee, O Lord, 
 and thy saints shall bless thee. They shall 
 speak of the glory of thy kingdom, and 
 talk of thy power -, 11 for lo ! thine enemies, 
 C) Lord, shall perish ; all the workers of 
 iniquity shall be scattered. 1 " Is not de- 
 
 " Gen. i. 9. 8 Job, xxxviii. 11. y Psalm civ. 1! k 2{). 
 10 Dan. iv. 35. n Psalm cxlv. 10, 11. J - Psalm xcii. ?. 
 

 
 189 
 
 struction to the wicked? 15 and the wrath 
 of God upon the children of disobedience? 1 * 
 But the Lord is my strength, in whom I 
 will trust." He is my refuge arid my fort- 
 ress. 10 Why art thou cast down, my soul ? 17 
 Fear not, thou worm, for thou shalt rejoice 
 in the Lord, and shalt glory in the Holy 
 One of Israel. 13 Even the youths shall faint 
 and be weary, and the young men shall 
 utterly fail ; but they that wait upon the 
 Lord shall renew their strength. They 
 shall mount up as eagles; they shall run 
 and not be weary ; they shall walk and not 
 faint. 1 9 
 
 Now unto Him who is able to keep me 
 from falling, and to present me faultless 
 before the presence of His glory with ex- 
 ceeding joy ; to the only wise God our 
 Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion 
 and power, both now and ever. Amen. 20 
 
 *" Job,, xxxi. 3. 11 Eph. v. 6. Psalm xviii. 2. 
 ](i Psalm xci. 2. l ~ Psalm lii. 11. Isa. xli. 14. 10. 
 - 9 Isa. xl. SO, 31. - Jude, 24, 25.
 
 190 
 
 EXAMPLE IV. 
 
 PRAISE OF THE WISDOM OF GOD. 
 
 BLESSED be the name of God for ever 
 and ever, for wisdom and might are thine ! 
 Thou givest wisdom unto the wise, and 
 knowledge to them that know understand- 
 ing. Thou revealest deep and secret things ! 
 Thou knowest what is in the darkness, and 
 the light dwelleth with thee. 1 Thou art 
 wonderful in counsel, and excellent in work- 
 
 mg. 
 
 Oh Lord ! how manifold are thy works ! 
 In wisdom hast thou made them all. 5 Thy 
 way is in the sea, and thy path in the great 
 waters ! Thy footsteps are not known ;' 1 
 
 1 Dan. ii. 20,21, 22. - Isa. xxviii. 2<J. 
 
 " Psalm civ. 2 t. 4 Psalm Ixxvii. l;j.
 
 191 
 
 but secret tilings belong unto tlicc:' Hell 
 is naked before thee, and destruction hath 
 no covering. 6 ' There is no wisdom, nor 
 understanding, nor counsel against thee ; 7 
 for thou inakest the devices of the people 
 of none effect. 8 Thou takcst the wise in 
 their own craftiness. 9 Yet out of the mouth 
 of babes and sucklings thou hast perfected 
 praise. Even so, Father, for so it seemed 
 good in thy sight. 10 
 
 The way of man is not in himself; it is 
 not in man that walketh to direct his steps. 11 
 Shew me thy ways, O Lord ; teach me 
 thy paths. Lead me in thy truth, and teach 
 
 me. 1 "' 
 
 God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Fa- 
 ther of glory ! give unto me the spirit of 
 wisdom in the knowledge of thee ; lj Thou 
 who givest to all men liberally, and up- 
 braidest not. 11 And to God only wise be 
 glory, through Jesus Christ for ever. 1 ' 
 
 J Dent. xxix. 2<). (; Job, xxvi. (i. ; Prov. xxi. 30. 
 
 s Psalm xxxiii. 10. ;) Job, v. 13. Ul Mattli. xi. 26. 
 
 J1 Jcr. x. 23. i 1 - 1 Psalm xxv. 4, .5. ] " Eph. i. 16'. 
 H James, i. 5 15 Rom. xvi. 27.
 
 192 
 
 EXAMPLE V. 
 
 OF THE OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD. 
 
 O LORD, thou hast searched and known 
 me ; thou knowest my down-sitting and 
 mine up-rising ; thou understandest my 
 thought afar off. Thou compassest my 
 path and my lying down, and art acquaint- 
 ed with all my ways. Whither shall I go 
 from thy Spirit ? or whither shall I flee 
 from thy presence ? If I ascend into hea- 
 ven, thou art there ; if I make my bed in 
 hell, thou art there ; if I take the wings of 
 the morning, and dwell in the uttermost 
 parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand 
 lead me, and thy right hand shall hold
 
 193 
 
 me. 1 The heaven of heavens containeth 
 thee not.' Thine eyes are in every place. 5 
 Hell and destruction are before thee ; how 
 much more then, the hearts of the children 
 of men. 4 Thou knowcst our imaginations 
 which we go about,' and the things which 
 come into our minds, every one of them.' ; 
 
 AVo unto them then that seek to hide 
 their counsel from thee ; and say, who seetli 
 vis. 7 Behold, even thou hast seen it, oh 
 Lord. 8 Thou knowest, and art a witness, 9 
 for can any hide himself in secret places, 
 that thou shalt not see him ? Dost thou 
 not fill heaven and earth, O Lord ! 10 
 
 Search me then, oh God, and know my 
 heart ; try me and know my thoughts ; 
 and see if there be any wicked way in me ; 
 and lead me in the way everlasting," that I 
 may boldly say the Lord is my helper, 1 " 
 
 1 Psalm cxxxiv. 1, 2, 3. 7, 8, 9, 10. 
 
 2 2 Chron. ii. 6. 3 Prov. xv. 3. 4 Prov. \v. 11. 
 5 Deut. xxxi. 21. c Ezek. xi. 5. T Is-aiah, xxix. 1.5. 
 8 Jer. vii. 11. 9 Jcr. xxix. 2.'i. 10 Jer. xxiii. 21. 
 11 Psalm cxxxix. 23. 12 Ileb. xiii. 6'. 
 
 N
 
 194 
 
 my shepherd, 13 my very present help in 
 time of trouble, 14 the strength of my heart, 
 and my portion for ever. 15 
 
 33 Psalm xxiii. 1. H Psalm xlvi. 1. 15 Psalm Ixxiii, 26.
 
 195 
 
 EXAMPLE VI. 
 
 OF THE HOLINESS OF GOD. 
 
 HOLY, Holy, Holy, art thou, Lord God 
 Almighty, which was, and is, and is to 
 come ! 1 Who shall not fear thee, and glo- 
 rify thy name ; for thou only art holy, 2 
 righteous in all thy ways, and holy in all 
 thy works. 3 Thy law is perfect, thy com- 
 mand is pure, 4 and holiness bccomcth thine 
 house for ever. 5 
 
 1 Rev. iv. 8. - Rev. xv. 4. 3 Psalm cxlv. 17- 
 
 4 Psalm xix. 7- 5 Psalm xciii. 5. 
 
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