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 L161— O-1096
 
 ROSALINE DE VERE. 
 
 There is a gentle lady ; 
 
 When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name, 
 
 And Rosaline they call her: ask for her; 
 
 And to her white hand see th(>u do commend 
 
 This seal'd-up counsel." Shakspeare. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 TREUTTEL AND WURTZ^ TREUTTEL, JUN. AND RICHTER, 
 30, SOHO SQUARE. 
 
 1824.
 
 London: Primed bvC. Roworth, 
 Bell.y?,rd, temnle-har.
 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Courteous Reader, 
 
 You have before you a singular collec- 
 tion of letters — are they natural or not ? I 
 say that they would be so if such characters 
 existed. Do they exist ? Surely they must 
 have had some foundation. Must not I 
 have painted after nature ? But you will 
 say, that I love strong lights and shades — 
 so I do — I have passed some years iaitaly ; 
 all there is light and shade. 
 
 Who, you will exclaim, can compare 
 with Rosaline de Vere ! Is she not, like 
 the Venus de Medicis, composed of a col-
 
 IV 
 
 lection of women ? It is true, I have met 
 with her qualities scattered among differ- 
 ent women ; I have put them together in 
 her, are they not in harmony? Among the 
 millions of combinations of moral and phy- 
 sical forms, such a woman may have ex- 
 isted — possibly does exist — and probably 
 will exist. In my opinion, it will be the 
 gage of the high toned sentiment and in- 
 telligence of those men who fall in love 
 with her, aye, and of those women, too, who 
 admire her. 
 
 But then her story, her opinions, her sen- 
 timents are told in letters — how tiresome ! 
 — such is not the mode now a days. Cour- 
 teous reader, recollect the two most popu- 
 lar Romances that ever delighted persons 
 of good taste, were told in letters, Clarissa 
 Harlowe and the Nouvelle Heloise. What, 
 you will ask, is the object of this Romance ? 
 Strange be it to say, truth — (the general
 
 plot is not true, but most of the particular 
 stories have occurred;) so I think that Ro- 
 salines sentiments and opinions are true ; as 
 to the opinions of the others, the reader 
 may adopt them or not as he chooses — 
 for all I care. Oh, sacred truth! thou 
 pure goddess whom I adore — this — this 
 book, is the oblation of my heart, that I 
 place upon thy holy altars — to thee I de- 
 dicate it — let thy votaries foster it, and I 
 am satisfied. Adieu !
 
 NAMES OF THE PRINCIPAL PERSONS. 
 ENGLISH. 
 
 ROSALINE DE VERE. 
 MAJOR DE VERE. 
 MRS. BARBARA BELMONT. 
 SIR ARTHUR ATHERSTONE. 
 SIR REGINALD LASCY. 
 COLONEL FELIX MCCARTHY. 
 DR. ALEXANDER m'LAURIN. 
 HANNAH, HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ITALIAN, 
 
 CLORINDA DI TORRI, A FLORENTINE. 
 THE MARQUIS DI TORRI. 
 
 RINALDO COUNT DI ROCCA ST. CACCIANO. 
 PIETRO PERRUVINI. 
 
 FRENCH. 
 
 MADAME LA MARQUISE DE B- 
 
 THE COUNT DE MONTVALIANT. 
 THE CHEVALIER DE ST. VALERY. 
 
 The Scenes lie in England^ Italy, and France* 
 The Period is Seven Months,
 
 ROSALINE DE VERE. 
 
 MRS. BARBARA BELMONT TO SIR ARTHUR ATHER- 
 STONE. 
 
 Bath, November 2d. 
 
 I KNOW not what excuse to make to you for having 
 allowed the agreeable correspondence, which had 
 subsisted for so long a period between us, to drop 
 on a sudden ; are we widows more suspicious than 
 maidens ? can we venture to go on trifling so long 
 with true sentiment ? or, do we understand sooner, 
 or discern more quickly, the drift of a concealed 
 passion? I own our correspondence has given 
 me considerable pleasure ; and, if my vanity had 
 kept it alive, my prudence has compelled me to 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 stay it for a while. But with a man of your fine 
 feeling and proverbial discretion, if I entertain a 
 certain reserve, at all events I fancy I may now 
 have little occasion for chilling caution ; — let then 
 my thoughts flow freely into your mind, where I 
 doubt not but they will find a congenial receptacle. 
 I confess to you that I began to fear that we were 
 proceeding a little too fast ; the tenor of your last 
 letters was overspread with that warm tint, which 
 your pen must have imbibed in Italy. And let 
 me assure you, Sir Arthur, that a widow of seven- 
 and-twenty, who has been told that she was hand- 
 some, and moreover who has been at large for 
 five years, is not quite so frozen by either age or 
 habit, as not to run some risk of being thawed by 
 the contagion of your wit and feeling; accept then 
 my excuse for my abrupt silence, and let me leave 
 off trifling. I should no longer be a flirt, which 
 I have often heard you say is hardly pardonable 
 after five-and-twenty. In truth, I wish I could 
 philosophize and look out for compensations in life. 
 My natural cheerfulness makes me much inclined 
 to become an optimist, and then I could argue 
 thus — as time flows on and the beauties of the 
 person begin to wane, the beauties of the mind
 
 3 
 
 increase, because we have more experience, there- 
 fore we are wiser. Admirable logician ! you will 
 exclaim; but I am not made for a philosopher; 
 no, indeed, neither for the sternness of Stoics nor 
 the insipidity of the Platonists. If I must belong 
 to a sect, to please so learned a professor in these 
 things as you are, Sir Arthur, let me be enrolled in 
 the easy, gay Epicureans, who made and taught 
 friendship as a virtue, and then let friendship be 
 the fence or boundary of the range of my heart. 
 But, may I ask, do you really think that the fine 
 passion, as the French term it, is always to be con- 
 tained within a certain time — that it is the exclu- 
 sive attribute of extreme youth ? I fancy, on its 
 declaration, the dexterity of the tongue makes 
 ample amends for the loss of the flexibihty of 
 features, for the absence of dimples and youthful 
 freshness ; as far as this proposition regards our 
 sex, I bow with deference to your superior know- 
 ledge; but I am sure it is true with regard to 
 yours. Were we enabled to inspect the records 
 of gallantry of our acquaintance, and to elicit from 
 them a candid reply, how many a nymph would 
 have confessed her fall — more to the fascination of 
 her lover's tongue than to the regularity of youth- 
 b2
 
 fill features? But I am beginning to prose. — 
 Knowing how artless 1 am, you will not be dis- 
 pleased with my simplicity. Now hear the real 
 excuse of this epistle, with all its formal preamble. 
 Is it to put you in good humour to do a commis- 
 sion for me ? On the contrary ; I am too conde- 
 scending to confer on you a signal favour. I 
 expect shortly an importation from Italy. It is 
 neither a picture nor a statue ; but a fit model for 
 the ablest professors of both these arts to exercise 
 their genius upon. It is a woman, just twenty 
 years of age, who joins, if report speaks true, the 
 perfection of youthful personal, to mature mental 
 charms. It is my far-famed niece, Rosaline de 
 Vere. I have said enough to provoke your curi- 
 osity, excite your criticism, and awaken your gal- 
 lantry ; when I hear of her arrival, I shall send 
 you her address, and expect from you a most 
 detailed report ; such as may become a member 
 of the Royal Society, or enthusiast of the belle 
 arti, and a calm critic on female beauty. 
 
 I am very dull here. Sir Arthur ; I have made 
 my health and the waters the excuse to avoid the 
 duller society and monotony of a country-house 
 at this dull season of the year ; and, as I am no
 
 fox-hunter, I cannot discover the extreme delight 
 of being closeted with three or four tale-bearing, 
 tale-scribbling, scandal-talking women all the 
 morning, to enjoy a dull game of whist and take 
 part in the somniferous, meagre chit-chat of the 
 evening ; though I am aware that it is not place 
 but circumstances that contribute to our tedium 
 or pleasure. And believe me, my dear Sir Arthur, 
 when I declare, that I am relieved from the one, 
 and that I feel the enjoyment of the other, when 
 I have the opportunity of subscribing myself, 
 
 Your's, most sincerely, 
 
 Barbara Belmont.
 
 e 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 Bath, November 5th. 
 
 They are arrived ! Your commission of in- 
 spection was made out in my last letter ; I have 
 now only to furnish you with the carte du pays. 
 Be patient and attend ; listen to a long family 
 matter-of-fact statement ; there would neither have 
 been good sense nor good breeding in my weary- 
 ing you with prolix details respecting my family in 
 the course of our acquaintance, which has been 
 maintained rather by the sprightly sallies of easy 
 conversation, than fixed upon any basis of more 
 solid confidence. Now, however, the case is 
 altered; I stand in need of your good offices, 
 so much admired as you are ; and, if I may coin 
 a new phrase, so much expanded upon the world 
 as you have been ; therefore, without either blush- 
 ing or apologizing for the compliment, I proceed. 
 
 Major de Vere, my brother-in-law, is certainly 
 a collateral descendant of one of the most illus- 
 trious houses that has adorned English story. I 
 am neither an herald, nor a maker or forger of 
 pedigrees, nor much of an historian ; let his nan^e
 
 stand for proof. He succeeded an exceedingly 
 dissipated and profligate father, who left him a 
 large country-house, some old portraits and oak 
 trees, and a huge antique library ; a small estate 
 covered over with a plentiful load of debt, so dex- 
 terously contrived and ambiguous as to leave 
 grounds for interminable law-suits. Under these 
 circumstances, Aubry de Vere, the person in 
 question, whilst yet a youth, entered into the 
 army ; and, after thirty or forty years drudgery, 
 during which time he has made nearly the circuit 
 of the globe, he quits the service with the rank of 
 major. Whom is he to blame ? None but his ill- 
 fated stars; they have uniformly conducted him 
 from the place where he should have been, to the 
 place where he should not have been; he has 
 ever been a moment too soon, or a moment too 
 late ; moreover, he has had accusations brought 
 against him, and has been tried by courts-mar- 
 tial, when he ought to have been rewarded for 
 his zeal ; and he has been engaged in duels by 
 the overflowings of the milk of human kindness, 
 in his endeavours to appease the strife and 
 smother the wrath of others. Although one of 
 the poorest officers in his regiment, swindlers and
 
 8 
 
 gamblers have made him then- mark. And, not- 
 withstanding he is a great mathematician, and 
 most learned in the art of war, his plans, confessed 
 to be excellent, have mouldered away, neglected 
 and moth-eaten, in the pigeon-holes of some colo- 
 nial public office. 
 
 If I remember right, his figure was uncommonly 
 handsome ; his port noble and commanding ; the 
 warmth of his heart was as proverbial as the 
 soundness of his head; and his easy flowing 
 courtesy and conversation made him the centre 
 and delight of every circle of society — even from 
 the highest to the lowest orders. He was the 
 best husband to my poor sister that any woman 
 could be blest with — saving his untoward fortunes, 
 which constantly grappled with her tender heart ; 
 so that they wore it out with hope deferred, until 
 at length she sunk into the grave, and thus dis- 
 solved the doleful partnership. Bankrupt of 
 every joy, saving that of love and sympathy, allow 
 me, in passing, to drop a tear on the memory of 
 her, who will, as long as life warms my breast, 
 reside embalmed in that breast. 
 
 It is now six years since he lost his beloved 
 wife — she who had clung to him during his mis-
 
 9 
 
 fortunes, and who had furnished the sole com- 
 pensation for the bitterest of them. As soon as 
 I had myself recovered from the dreadful blow, 
 which the intelligence of her death had stunned 
 me with, I urged Major de Vere to repair to 
 England ; but the desolation which his grief oc- 
 casioned in his bosom required a kindred desola- 
 tion of society. This cruel blow of the fates was 
 struck at Gibraltar, and he hastily embarked with 
 his only child Rosaline, for Leghorn ; he could 
 not bear even the countenances of his brother 
 officers. — Is not this quite natural ? The master- 
 key of his affections being broken, it could no 
 longer unlock his heart to secondary objects. 
 The loss of one dear object removes for a while 
 all others immediately out of the atmosphere of 
 our affections. Had I urged him at that moment 
 to have given me up Rosaline, he probably would 
 have consented ; for she had become indifferent 
 to him. At the close of the year, I renewed my 
 intreaties to him, in order to her being placed 
 under my care. The case was then altered. 
 The glimmerings of his former affection for his 
 wife then were attracted by, and fixed themselves 
 on, his daughter ; and, to rive them asunder, would
 
 10 
 
 have gone near to have extinguished the feeble 
 flame of life that remained in him. Thus was 
 this fair blossom abandoned, as it were, to a self- 
 taught education. Thus was she to be tossed 
 about by the storm of the passions of her own 
 untutored youthful heart, until time and expe- 
 rience had formed her character ; or, to use a 
 more philosophical phrase, should have modified 
 her being. Six years has she been left to her 
 own judgment; her ill-fated, grief-stricken fa- 
 ther's eyes only gloating on her the while. He 
 found refuge in the doctrines of necessity ; and 
 surrendered at discretion, into the arms of inevita- 
 ble fate. She, like a beautiful wild flower on a 
 mountain, has budded and blown, agitated by 
 every wind, and pelted by every storm, until her 
 character and her opinions must have been as in- 
 vigorated as the mountain herbs, which blow 
 spontaneously, fresh, healthy and strong, but ex- 
 posed to be cropped by every way-faring passen- 
 ger. I tremble at the fearful risk which she has 
 run! What obstinacy may not have been en- 
 gendered in her character! What erroneous 
 opinions may she not have imbibed ! Her fond 
 father, in his letter, boasts of her being " the child
 
 11 
 
 of nature, and the pupil of reason." I tremble 
 with anxiety to see how this description of her 
 character will ultimately develope itself. What 
 are we to expect from a young creature, born with 
 every attribute of the happiest of her sex — wit, 
 beauty, talents — left, from fourteen years of age 
 to twenty, without any rudder or compass, but 
 the natural feelings of her heart, and the natural 
 light of her understanding ? 
 
 How great is my confidence in you, when I 
 thus open myself! What greater proof of that 
 confidence, than to give you a commission, with 
 such ample information to enable you to perform 
 it ! Ponder over what I have written — examine 
 with care — search with penetration — and report 
 with candour ; and you will then entitle yourself 
 to be favourably inscribed on the tablets of one, 
 who is ever pleased to inscribe herself. 
 Most sincerely your's, 
 
 Barbara Belmont.
 
 12 
 
 SIR ARTHUR ATHERSTONE TO MRS. BELMONT. 
 
 London, November 9th. 
 
 You are a most wayward creature. From the 
 warmest habits of friendship, from daily inter- 
 course and confidential correspondence, you jump 
 into an interregnum of three months silence, and 
 I into three months neglect or disdain. How am 
 I to construe it ? I will not say despair, for you 
 are a lady of fashion, and of the world. That 
 frightful word despair has long since been struck 
 out of the tablets of ladies of your caste. 
 
 I accept the good omen of your future favour 
 on the return of your correspondence, and on the 
 interesting and confidential trust that you have 
 reposed in me. I shall now prove myself, I hope, 
 not unworthy of that trust, by the assiduity with 
 which I have endeavoured to discharge it. Let 
 me therefore proceed forthwith in my report. 
 
 I was much struck with the first appearance of 
 Miss de Vere. But I take the credit to myself 
 exclusively, because it was owing to my being 
 somewhat of a connoisseur in the fine arts. I 
 was struck as a dilettante, — possibly, she will not
 
 13 
 
 Strike persons generally, until some great autho- 
 rity has made her pass current by the stamp of 
 their approbation, which is necessary in this gre- 
 garious town, where a name or two can put a 
 player or a preacher in vogue — where we are apt 
 to follow the bell-wether, and flock on all occa- 
 sions together hke sheep. 
 
 Miss de Vere, therefore, runs the risk of not 
 being at first pronounced a striking beauty ; nor 
 is the Venus de Medicis, with every one, for I 
 have seen many fine people flaunt out of the tri- 
 bune of the gallery at Florence, and exclaim : Is 
 this all ? Yes, I own it is all. And what greater 
 compliment can be paid to Praxiteles or Phidias ? 
 Harmony is not striking, whilst deformity is ; and 
 I can give you no greater proof of your niece's 
 perfection of form, than when I declare that I can 
 neither designate her as tall or short, or fat or 
 thin — as slow or quick in motion. This is the 
 result of exquisite proportion, joined with exqui- 
 site grace. She is fair, but with shade. Her 
 habitual attitude is that of reclining repose, more 
 for the purpose of meditation and observation, 
 than sloth or listlessness. For though in such a 
 state of habitual repose, her senses are all alert —
 
 14 
 
 her forehead is expansive — and outswelling ovei 
 her eyes, indicating great room for the action of the 
 brain, and showing that it has ah^eady been years 
 at work, so as to enlarge its outward casement. 
 Her eye, for so young a person, has receded into 
 its socket — marking how much communing it has 
 had with that brain, and how httle it has gazed on 
 vacancy. That eye has different shades, accord- 
 ing as different objects strike its retina; in a state 
 of repose, it is covered over with an haze, which 
 shows how much the brain behind is at work ; but 
 in a moment it is Ht up, the haze is dissipated, and 
 then it flashes with the highest intellectual fire — 
 rather than sparkles with careless joy — its colour 
 then becomes a dark blue — clear, penetrating, and 
 steady ; it sinks again into a greyish hazy cast. The 
 vigour of her mind seems to have made some in- 
 road upon the freshness of her visage : here are 
 no ruddy plump milk-maid cheeks ; but feeling 
 and intelligence occasionally warm and illuminate 
 the most regular and classic features, and the 
 softest and fairest skin, where transparency deli- 
 neates every flush of feeling. It is only in highly 
 sensitive beings, that the quick flow of the blood 
 occasions that sublime transition from white to
 
 15 
 
 rose-colour or crimson ; because these transitions 
 mark the quick play of the passions. The dignity 
 of her form and deportment crowned the whole ; 
 for I discovered that principle of self-reverence, 
 which furnishes the ballast to the vessel, whilst 
 the vigour of her mind tingling in her blood, at 
 times marks her as a model for a Sibyl — a Cas- 
 sandra — or an Eloise. 
 
 Thus she is more a tragic than a comic muse : 
 as far as regards my own taste, I confess I like 
 the first rather represented on marble or on 
 canvass ; and I own that the system of my sympa- 
 thies draws me into the attractive sphere of the 
 second more. Will you construe this into a com- 
 pliment to yourself? Which of the two is the 
 most prudent to choose for a wife ? Which of 
 the two is the most susceptible of the deepest 
 passion, there can be no doubt. For, here we 
 may choose between the volatility of feehng of the 
 one, and the intensity of passion of the other. But 
 I should venture to draw the conclusion, that their 
 prudence would be about equal, for their incHna- 
 tions would be as they found kindred attraction ; 
 fear not, therefore, for your self-educated niece. 
 She has, or I mistake her much, self-reverence and
 
 16 
 
 pride ; the surest safeguard of a woman's virtue 
 on her side. As for formal education, formal sys- 
 tems and formal doctrines, we see every day that 
 they are of no avail — you have, my dear Mrs. Bel- 
 mont, some awkward prejudices, not befitting a 
 woman of your discrimination and habits. You 
 give in too much to formalism^ which, indeed, is 
 only one of those conventions of society, that the 
 world fall into ; and it extends itself then, through 
 every department of life, public and private. We 
 are all more or less slaves to it : we then lose sight 
 of original principles. I am not for advocating 
 savage or natural life, but are we not getting every 
 day a little too formal, until we shall conclude by 
 stifling every warm feeling, and blurring over every 
 pleasure that could animate our being? But I 
 begin to perceive that you are yawning, so, adieu. 
 Whenever you preach to me, be assured, you 
 shall receive a Roland for your Oliver. But be- 
 lieve me more, when I add, that I remain, 
 
 Most truly and sincerely, 
 
 Your devoted, 
 
 A. Atherstone.
 
 17 
 
 ROSALINE DE VERE TO CLORINDA DI TORRI. 
 
 London, November 10th. 
 
 My Dearest Friend, 
 
 The letters which I have written to 
 you during my journey, were trifling. I could not 
 lose sight of you — I strove to converse — I mixed 
 up a sad jumble of sorrow for our separation. 
 Observations upon the road, the country, and the 
 sights, all of which I scarcely saw, and do not re- 
 member, whilst the real concern of my heart was, 
 where can I, where shall I find compensation for 
 the loss of my dearest Clorinda's society ? Is it 
 essential to friendship for its votaries to be perpe- 
 tually present to each other? Does occasional 
 absence reinvigorate its bonds — tie them faster 
 together — and enhance the value of that greatest 
 of all human delights — friendship ; that I have yet 
 felt by insinuating into the bosom some alloy of 
 temporary uneasiness and alarm? Yes, such cruel 
 separation makes trial of the first of human virtues 
 — constancy of mind. Aye, constancy of mind, 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 
 
 as the basis, and friendship, for the superstruc- 
 ture, are two of the noblest attributes or ad- 
 juncts of our being. For can either of these 
 coincide with selfishness ? No, my friend. The 
 noble sentiments of your heart are a foil to that 
 original sin of our birth, and which unhappily 
 passes current through the world under the most 
 specious disguises, which assumes the loftiest 
 flights of human enterprize. But I am satisfied 
 with that balm which pure and virtuous friend- 
 ship administers to a troubled mind. In it I find 
 a consolation for the fallen fortunes of our house. 
 It is often more sacred than instinct. Our instinc- 
 tive affections are accompanied by duty and grati- 
 tude to our own blood. But often are they cold and 
 sickly from the want of the cement of friendship. 
 When thus connected the delight is intense. 
 But I, whose circle of natural affections are con- 
 fined to one remaining parent, who want those 
 props and stays of our existence — brothers and 
 sisters — to fence out the cold winds that blow from 
 all quarters of an unfeeling and selfish world, 
 fly to that sympathy, which I trust has invariably 
 grappled your heart with mine. Think not such
 
 19 
 
 strains too warm. Born under a tropical sun, the 
 maid of the West Indies thus addresses the maid 
 of Italy. Possibly in this particular may the ori- 
 ginal cords of the attraction lay, that drew us 
 together. Believe me, Clorinda, neither the new 
 theatre that I am now reluctantly forced upon, 
 nor all the conventional civilities, or the pleasure 
 of making new acquaintances, (I will not say 
 friendship,) for one moment shall efface your image 
 from my mind. Those who live in a state of in- 
 difference, live in a state of half their being — They 
 quench the noblest part of it ; that is, anxiety and 
 care after things noble and generous. When the 
 Stoics were accused of indifference, it was not what 
 was ordinarily meant by that phrase ; it was indif- 
 ference towards things indifferent, (and that means 
 those things, which touch not the highest cords 
 of our heart, or excite not the purest ray of our 
 intelligence.) Thus, have I shortly discharged to 
 you my first duty. A repetition of such a decla- 
 ration, which never in the six delightful years of 
 our friendship have T made to you before, would 
 be fulsome after this day to urge again; but I have 
 taken a new point of departure, and this letter is 
 c2
 
 20 
 
 he charter under which I now sail. Lock up its 
 sentiments in your bosom, as the most sacred de- 
 posit of her feeUngs, who is unalterably 
 
 Your friend, your true friend, 
 
 Rosaline de Vere. 
 
 CLORINDA DI TORRI TO ROSALINE DE VERE. 
 
 Florence, October 20th. 
 
 Shortly, my dearest friend, after you had taken 
 your departure, my mother importuned me with 
 more earnestness and more ill-humour than ever 
 upon the hateful subject, which all our stratagems 
 had hitherto diverted. How cruel was this when 
 my eyes were suiFused with tears, and my bosom 
 convulsed with sobs, for the first sad affliction 
 that the fates have yet visited me with ! Are 
 stupid conventions of society and mere formalities 
 to contravene one of the primeval dictates of 
 nature — the free unbiassed choice of our mates ?
 
 21 
 
 To force a husband on a woman, contrary to her 
 free choice, is to quench at once the most sacred 
 of her natural affections, and to overturn the first 
 object of her being — to introduce discord into her 
 existence. 
 
 But your advice has not yet passed away hke a 
 summer shower, nor has the six years clashing of 
 our intelligence, and intermingling of our senti- 
 ments, left so little impression upon me, that I am 
 likely to surrender at discretion. To your pene- 
 trating and powerful mind, I owe these first prin- 
 ciples of right, that I feel I shall have strength 
 enough ever to make the rule of my conduct. 
 You have been my pioneer in the rugged and in- 
 tricate path, which led to the discovery of the true 
 natural affections, and of pure reason ; these shall, 
 I hope, be the constant monitors in my breast and 
 in my mind. How often have I listened to you^ 
 my instructress, when you have held dissertations 
 upon this copious theme ; when you have said that 
 all institutions, public and private, that all habits* 
 conventions of society, usages and customs have 
 first sprung out of these abundant sources, senti- 
 ment and the natural affections ! But that selfish- 
 ness, in which is contained every vice and every
 
 22 
 
 crime> has soon extinguished those glorious lights, 
 that is, our true affections and our pure reason, 
 and has left us to wander in the most frightful 
 darkness. If my language is warm, excuse an 
 Italian heart, at the tender moment of separation 
 from the idol of its devotion, and, above all, the 
 moment of cruel persecution. I had intended a 
 longer letter. I can now scarcely call a moment 
 my own. Stupid and base persons mock me as 
 romantic, the nickname that cowardice and selfish- 
 ness ever gratuitously bestow upon honesty and 
 zeal. Methinks I still hear the silver tones of 
 your voice pouring into my ear the honeyed words 
 of truth : trace them again, over again, upon 
 paper ; let our mutual flights transcend the vulgar 
 bounds of formalism and conventions, which are 
 only established on egotism. And let us prove to 
 those, who may chance to inspect our corre- 
 spondence, that virtue and liberty can coexist. 
 Adieu, my dear friend, I embrace you a thousand 
 times.* 
 
 Clorinda. 
 
 * The original of this letter was in Italian. — The ladies wrote 
 each in their own language, and then made it a duty each to 
 translate afterwards.
 
 23 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 London, November 11th. 
 
 Your's arrived just after I had ended my letter 
 to you. The subject in hand is one of the 
 greatest delicacy that can engage the attention of 
 a woman. It is beset with difficulties, because 
 the decision of it lies between conflicting duties. 
 Indeed this matter requires the utmost manage- 
 ment and care. I shall endeavour to give you my 
 advice, and to trace out the line which I think you 
 should pursue; and, in so doing, I shall strive 
 to avoid all animation of sentiment or warmth of 
 language : because, when we are to consult or 
 deliberate, all passion should be laid aside. You 
 have two duties to perform, and which should con- 
 stantly occupy your most serious thoughts, the 
 duty, which you owe to your parents — and the 
 duty, which you owe to yourself. These then are 
 nearly balanced, and the balance in most cases 
 should incline to the first; because, when we our- 
 selves are comprehended, we should ever be ex- 
 tremely cautious, as our own hearts must be warped 
 towards our own desires: but let us examine
 
 24 
 
 how the matter stands. Possibly, this is the only 
 exception in which the duty of implicit obedience 
 between parent and child may be infringed upon; 
 because the parent, in dictating a special marriage, 
 infringes on parental rights ; because marriage is 
 the fountain and main source of parental rights, 
 and because the eternal law of nature, that dictates 
 to us the continuation of human existence, is in- 
 fringed, if the free choice in such a case is at all 
 shackled ; for I hold that you are contending on 
 the part of maternal duties, when you insist upon 
 the free choice of what must constitute you a mo- 
 ther; therefore, the question lies between a mother 
 in being, and a mother in expectation; the first 
 object of your being, that which nature has desig- 
 nated you for, is to be a mother. Well, then it 
 must follow, that in the choice of how you are to 
 become a mother, you ought not, according to the 
 law of nature, and the law of reason, which are 
 twin sisters, be obstructed in that choice. Such 
 an interruption would constitute a derangement of 
 all natural attraction, and would go to substitute 
 antipathy for sympathy, which would be to invert 
 the order of nature. I think these grounds more 
 forcible to argue the matter upon than mere inch-
 
 25 
 
 nation, because the latter holds to the sphere of 
 pleasure, and the former to the first object of a 
 woman's being. Put then inclination entirely out 
 of the question ; but lay all your stress upon your 
 undoubted prerogative derived immediately from 
 the hand of nature. If your mother urges her 
 right by parental authority, you can then turn that 
 argument upon her, and declare that your paternal 
 authority in return would be weakened, or, if not, 
 lose half its force, if an husband had been forced 
 upon you contrary to your free choice ; and that 
 harmony must subsist between the parents, or dis- 
 order will be the inevitable consequence among 
 the offspring. These arguments appear to me to 
 be convincing ; because they are drawn from the 
 original fitness and unfitness of things, which are 
 to be found in the harmony and accordances of 
 nature. Indeed, if I chose, I could go to direct 
 authorities in support of them. For instance, our 
 famous Archbishop Tillotson held, that natural 
 duties were to be placed before rehgious duties ; 
 or, in other words, that our duty to God was con- 
 tained in our duty to our neighbour ; and, therefore, 
 he says, that a woman suckling her child is per- 
 forming her duty, more than if she were taking the
 
 26 
 
 sacrament. If every churchman held such lan- 
 guage, and amazed us less with mysteries, the 
 church would be more generally esteemed, and its 
 ordinances more readily obeyed. I do not wish 
 to urge too many arguments upon this head, be- 
 cause they may tend to weaken the main one ; and 
 I give you Tillotson's opinion for your own satis- 
 faction, recommending you not to use it, as it might 
 excite anger and alarm, and awaken the stupid 
 prejudices of those formalists, by whom you are 
 surrounded, and who, hke the formalists of every 
 country, venerate forms and understand not prin- 
 ciples; the glorious prerogative of bigoted and 
 ignorant heads, who thus become the prey of the 
 designing few. That you, my dearest friend, may 
 despise the one, and hold by the other, shall ever 
 be the endeavours of your sincere friend to assist 
 you in. In the mean time. 
 
 Believe me, &c. &c. 
 
 Rosaline.
 
 27 
 
 MRS. BELMONT TO SIR A. ATHERSTONE. 
 
 Bath, November 12th. 
 
 Your description of my niece has displeased 
 me, and disappointed me. Displeased me, — be- 
 cause you have made a fine flourish of your critical 
 powers, as a connoisseur ; and, disappointed me, — 
 because I see nothing but a pale-faced, whimsical 
 girl, without any real accomplishments ; and, 
 possibly, with very eccentric notions. The world ! 
 the world. Sir Arthur, is what I look to. To 
 the opinion of the world — success in the world — 
 splendid matches — great estabhshments — rich 
 jointures ; these are things which my heart yearns 
 after. And how are they to be obtained ? By a 
 " Sibyl ! a Cassandra ! an Eloise 1" 
 
 You own that she is a tragic muse ; in plain 
 Enghsh— very dull. You would like her better 
 in marble or on canvass. And then — but really I 
 do not know how to express it — you make up 
 (you odd creature) by a very pretty comphment to 
 me. I am no muse. I never had a spark of 
 genius ; only a httle easy flow of conversation.
 
 28 
 
 But to be serious ; your letter, like yourself, de- 
 cides nothing. You have indeed, Sir Arthur, a 
 tiresome want of decision. I must say that it is 
 your own fault ; and if you wish to have the re- 
 putation of gallantry — of being liked and admired 
 by the ladies, you must get rid of this great fault : 
 it is what we never forgive. Decision of charac- 
 ter in a man affords us a sort of crutch to lean 
 upon, to support our tottering march through 
 life. For, susceptible of a variety of emotions, and 
 sometimes contradictory ones, we are as con- 
 tinually in a state of oscillation as the pendulum 
 of a clock ; and we are oftener supported or kept 
 steady in moments of trial, from the exact balance 
 of contrarieties, than from any internal force. How 
 much then do we admire a quality in you that we 
 so seldom possess, which acts with a two-fold 
 import, because it protects us often from evil, and 
 sometimes furnishes us with an excuse for our 
 little failings and slips, because we have the solid 
 excuse of yielding to a decision that overpowers 
 us quite ! The French women have ever this sen- 
 timent in their mouths: — " Ah ! c'etait plus fort 
 que moi !" 
 
 But why have I run into this digression only to
 
 29 
 
 betray to you the secrets of my sex ? My letter 
 was about my niece, but I know not why I cannot 
 answer it now ; and, if you wish to know what I 
 intended to say, you will put yourself in your 
 carriage and run down here. Adieu then, until 
 I see you. 
 
 B. Belmont. 
 
 P. S. — The conclusion of your letter was ex- 
 cellent. You, who are the most trivial of all 
 persons — who conceive all merit rests in forms, 
 preach against them — when you think it is your 
 interest. Do you not think that I see through 
 you ? This prancing suits you but ill, my dear 
 Sir Arthur. 
 
 CLORINDA TO ROSALINE. 
 
 Florence, Oct. 20th. 
 
 Who shall foresee what is to come to pass ? 
 Who can calculate a moment upon the future ? 
 Are not our plans futile, and our schemes
 
 30 
 
 abortive? Oh! my dear friend, I am in an 
 excellent path to make my escape from the 
 dire calamities that might enthral the happiness 
 of my existence. This sudden change in my 
 fortunes springs out of the most trivial circum- 
 stances, as indeed have most of the great changes 
 that have taken place in the condition of human 
 affairs. I hasten to detail it to you. Yesterday 
 we had, as usual, at dinner, my odious intended, 
 the Abbate, and my father's great friend, Pietro 
 Perruvini, the mathematician; a man, whose dry 
 penetrating genius, as you well know, is capable 
 of unlocking the most profound secrets of nature, 
 and possessing itself of the most abstruse sciences ; 
 and whose caustic tongue marks him to be a true 
 Florentine. The conversation turned from the 
 news of the day to poHtical principles in the 
 abstract. My intended discovered the full blown 
 malignity of his disposition, by the most insolent 
 and provoking approvals of arbitrary power. 
 Pietro drew him on with the consummate skill of 
 an acute and wily logician — the Abbate backed 
 him with the intemperate and indiscreet zeal of 
 his order, when on political subjects — my mother 
 sat swelling with pride, and her eyes sparkhng
 
 31 
 
 with secret satisfaction. At length the contro- 
 versy grew too overwhelming for my father's ge- 
 nerous temper to bear with. He suppressed it 
 for a length of time, but it burst forth in a furious 
 storm. Roused from his usual apathy, the gene- 
 rosity and manliness of his heart lent his tongue 
 words, burning and copious, which dashed the fee- 
 ble efforts of his antagonist into nought. In the 
 collision my Sposo did not escape without some 
 home thrusts, which made him wince and change 
 colour. My mother bit her lip, and was flushed 
 from crimson to blue ; — she drew her breath short, 
 and her breast heaved high and long. The 
 Abbate's meagre visage turned from sallow to 
 jaundice ; from pale to deadly white. — He viewed 
 the mathematician with an eye of fear and malig- 
 nity that was quite horrible. 
 
 The company broke up rather abruptly, and a 
 shy civil salutation dispersed them. My mother, 
 tossing her head back, swelling and rising on her 
 instep, as if on wire, in an authoritative tone, 
 cried out, Clorinda, follow me. With downcast 
 eyes, constrained gait, and hesitating steps, I 
 obeyed. As soon as she reached her room, her 
 voice assumed a tone unusually soft and endear-
 
 32 
 
 ing. She began by arranging and settling my dress; 
 then taking me by the hand, she made me sit down 
 by her : — " Clorinda," said she, " you accompany 
 your father often to the Cabinet of Natural 
 History to hear Pietro Perruvini explain its con- 
 tents. The Advent is coming on; I expect, my 
 dear, that you will be very attentive to your reli- 
 gious duties — that you will not omit to hear ser- 
 mons — that you will consult the Abbat^ upon what 
 homilies you are to read. I know it is irksome to 
 confess to those with whom we live in society. I 
 therefore leave you the free choice of all the pious 
 and eminent spiritual directors that abound in this 
 city, and who may be termed, the soul's confiden- 
 tial counsellors. I should recommend the Domi- 
 nicans ; they have ever been the guardians of 
 the true faith : indeed, religion owes more, as the 
 Abbate always says, to Saint Dominic, than to 
 any other of the blessed saints and martyrs. I 
 take this opportunity, my love, of mentioning this 
 to you, because I think it necessary that there 
 should be some counteracting power to the per- 
 nicious conversations, which you must frequently 
 have heard to pass between Pietro and your 
 father, and the young Count Rinaldo, whose
 
 33 
 
 principles are suspected of liberalism. Pietro is 
 a clever man — your father seems infatuated by 
 him — but he is entirely occupied with geometry, 
 geology, natural history, and the other atheistical 
 sciences. He is, to be sure, very moral and re- 
 served in his conversation and manners. But 
 what is that cold-blooded infidel? — he never goes 
 to confession, except once a year, at Easter, in 
 order to procure his billet, and to prevent his 
 name from being inscribed on the church door as 
 a defaulter." Here I ventured to put in a word. 
 " Pietro, Madam," said I, in a most submissive 
 tone, ^'is not cold-blooded — no one has more 
 ardent feelings in the cause of justice and hu- 
 manity than he has. His charity outstrips his 
 means — his good offices infringe upon his time — 
 he abandons sometimes his mathematical calcu- 
 lations, to give good advice, when he lacks other 
 means of doing good." — " So, you young hussy, 
 you are bit too — (Catterecea was the phrase). Know 
 then, child, that good works without faith are 
 nought. Faith will remove mountains. In short, 
 your head is turned: — this comes from want of 
 early discipline. Had you been kept ten years 
 at a convent, instead of being left at home to 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 
 
 study prophane books all day long with that mad 
 English girl, (La pazza Inglese, was the term,) 
 you would have been more accomplished. You 
 would have danced better — made artificial 
 flowers — studied miracles — been more pious and 
 obedient, and would have made no difficulty 
 about a husband ; nor would you have had the 
 impudence to dare to tell me that a liberal and 
 mathematician, an atheist — was charitable." 
 
 " Madam, I did not know that atheism was a 
 consequence of mathematics, geology, and liberal 
 political principles." "No ? — Know it then, child : 
 they are worse than atheism. A conscientious 
 man, whose soul reposes in the bosom of the 
 church ; who follows its ordinances — who ab- 
 stains on Fridays and Saturdays, and on the vi- 
 gils of feasts — who confesses regularly, may doubt 
 — may, sometimes, disbeUeve ! — It will shew the 
 greater authority of the church, to bring him 
 home within its blessed fold. But a liberal, and 
 a geometrician, particularly if he affects charity 
 without faith, is inevitably lost (perduto) ; for him 
 there is, nor can be any salvation. Consult the 
 Dominicans upon this head, and you will find 
 their testimony conclusive." She then called out
 
 35 
 
 for the Ave Maria, and for her carriage, to go to 
 the opera. I retired, to write to you these circum- 
 stances. You will now see how the matter is. 
 The intended has ruined himself with my father 
 by his politics. My father does not like the 
 priests ; but you know there has been a tacit 
 treaty upon this head. My mother, who is as 
 fond of the church as she is of the opera, has 
 long since come to this agreement : — that when 
 she is inclined to be serious, she retires to con- 
 verse upon these subjects with her confessor, or the 
 Marquis de Tranchant, a French emigrant. My 
 father observes the terms of the treaty, in never 
 allowing his favourite pursuits, natural history or 
 political news, to be brought forward at places of 
 common resort, such as dinner, supper, or the 
 prima sera.* Pietro and the Abbate, like two able 
 diplomatists of rival or hostile powers, measure 
 each other from head to foot, before they begin 
 to speak ; — their conversation is short, and upon 
 the most insignificant topics. It was the blunder- 
 ing folly and empty violence of the sposo that 
 brought on the battle, and thus provoked the 
 war. My mother has naturally an excellent 
 
 * The early evening visits. 
 d2
 
 36 
 
 heart ; and, when her acrimonious poUtical feel- 
 ings and dreadful prejudices do not interfere, a 
 clear head ; though she seldom agrees with my 
 father, and he argued in the teeth of all her 
 favourite opinions, yet, upon reflection, she will 
 finish by taking his side ; — and, I think, I thus 
 perceive the loop-hole how I shall make my escape. 
 In the mean time, my dear friend, believe me, that 
 I shall strive to act with prudence. 
 
 Adieu, I embrace you, 
 
 Clorinda. 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, November 16th. 
 
 I REJOICE, my dear friend, at your happy 
 prospects, which I will not mar by comment or 
 advice, as you will have received my second letter 
 before this reaches you. 
 
 We have arrived here on our way to the bor- 
 ders of Wales, where my father's estate lies ; in 
 order that I should pay my respects to my ma-
 
 37 
 
 ternal aunt Barbara ; and as she is a specimen of 
 a fine lady of this country, I shall endeavour to 
 describe her to you. I am sure that she has a 
 good heart, from the affectionate cordiality with 
 which she received us. After having embraced 
 me kindly, she sat down in a musing attitude im- 
 mediately before me. And then, having examined 
 me most minutely, she shed some tears, which she 
 did with great grace and effect — urging how 
 much I put her in mind of her poor dear sister 
 Eliza ; although it is well known that there was 
 not the least likeness — and that I take after my 
 father. When he ventured to differ, then it was 
 my countenance, then my manner ; in short, it 
 was altogether. She then ran on, upon the ac- 
 complishments of the young ladies of this country. 
 — How many hours they were employed — the 
 vast quantity of things they learned — the rage 
 for modern education, that extended itself to the 
 common people — what a civilized country this 
 was become, and that soon vice and crime would 
 be banished from among us by this wonderful 
 progress in letters. She then enumerated the 
 number of reading-rooms — public libraries — Bible 
 societies — dancing academies — and saving banks.
 
 38 
 
 She dwelt with pride upon the fact that patent 
 medicines and gospel tracts were within every 
 one's reach — that this encyclopedic education had 
 entirely banished the antiquated notions of the 
 Jesuits, who pretend that each individual has 
 organs or a genius fitted to acquire some parti- 
 cular science, and that a vast number confound 
 each other — and that the pursuit of one train of 
 thoughts was the sufficient employment of life. 
 On the contrary, my aunt gave in rather to Mr. 
 Locke's opinion, that the mind was a piece of 
 blank paper, on which any character might be 
 traced ; the consequence being that the science 
 and genius lay in the pen and ink and the 
 writer's hand, and not on the material, which 
 was the paper, — the type of the human mind. 
 Having exhausted her lore, which, to say the truth, 
 lay rather in a narrow compass for apparently so 
 universal a critic, she then fell upon herself— 
 she declared that it was owing entirely to her 
 own free choice that she had remained so long a 
 widow — that the offers for her hand had been 
 innumerable ; but that the station which she held 
 in society in London might be deranged, unless 
 she married precisely in that society— and that,
 
 39 
 
 having narrowed the range of her choice, she 
 could not exactly find a match suitable ; for, she 
 added. My dear, I belong to a very exclusive so- 
 ciety, and no advantages of birth, rank, or fortune, 
 would induce me to marry out of that society. — 
 She then insinuated, in a confidential manner, and 
 in a low tone of voice, that she had been so for- 
 tunate as to unite two things generally considered 
 as incompatible — great ease and prudence of man- 
 ners, and great vivacity and yet purity of morals ; 
 that none of the men of her acquaintance dare 
 address a double-entendre to her ; and she con- 
 cluded by telling me, that I could not be too cir- 
 cumspect in my conduct. All this was uttered 
 with a volubility of tongue, which allowed of 
 hardly a pause for the inflection of voice, in com- 
 mon-place words tolerably well arranged. I saw, 
 at once, that Mrs. Barbara's forte was dissertation, 
 and not argument ; and that the copiousness of 
 her discourse was more the habit of her mind 
 than to comprise its effusions in a more fettered 
 logic. I carefully abstained then from controvert- 
 ing or even doubting any of her propositions ; 
 on the contrary, I seemed a good deal astonished 
 and delighted at the mazes that she had danced
 
 40 
 
 through. This I expressed by a frequency of 
 ready assents more by gesture than by words. 
 She then started up, took my father by both hands, 
 declared, without any previous iUustration, that 
 Sir Arthur was right, and that I was a wonderful 
 creature, and had undoubtedly a very subtile ge- 
 nius, that caused me to understand at first setting 
 off, so many things, which had occupied her so 
 long a time to get acquainted with — my talents lay 
 in my having been a patient and assenting listener. 
 My father smiled at her simplicity; for your people 
 of the great world, Clorinda, are often among the 
 most simple, particularly those who frequent only 
 a limited circle of acquaintances, and who gene- 
 rally inoculate each other with mutual ineptitude 
 and folly. She then said, in an affected protecting 
 tone, I think you will take, child ; indeed, I should 
 not bring you forward if I did not think that you 
 would — because one must not commit oneself, and 
 one is very apt to do that in bringing one's rela- 
 tions forward — because one is blinded from par- 
 tiality — but I never commit myself, and I think 
 you are \Qvy presentable, as the French say. Of 
 course no one can object to your name— but that 
 is nothing in comparison to my credit — and iny
 
 41 
 
 introduction — and then your own tone and man- 
 ners — I hope you have tact, child, and good taste. 
 Thus what is pompously called the great world, 
 is the name that certain circles give to themselves, 
 who are like the ostrich in the desert, when it 
 hides its head under its wing, it conceives no one 
 sees it — so those assuming this title, consider it to 
 be universally acknowledged. The great world 
 here T am not sufficiently yet acquainted with to 
 define, nor have I ever had that problem satisfac- 
 torily solved ; because it is neither birth, rank, 
 talents or station, that constitute fashion; nor 
 learning, nor even fine taste ; it is, I think, from 
 what I have heard and seen al^road, of our dearly 
 beloved English fashionables, upon the whole, 
 impudence — bustling, pushing pretensions, egre- 
 gious vanity and great insolence, where it is al- 
 lowed. Nothing can be so insipid, often, as their 
 society, so paltry as their feuds, or so venemous, 
 yet so absurd, or so contemptible as their exclusive 
 pretensions ; and were we to analyse those very 
 pretensions, what would they amount to ? Rank 
 folly — the frog swelling himself to the size of the 
 ox and bursting. The great world in Paris and 
 at Florence are those who never lose sight of the
 
 42 
 
 steeples of Notre Dame or of the Duomo. In- 
 deed, when one has the misfortune to be out of 
 sight of the one or the other, we cease to be in a 
 civihzed country. I have rather been in a gay 
 humour to-day, because my dearest friend's letter 
 has given me great satisfaction; and I think I 
 foresee, that it is not so much the repulsive quali- 
 ties of a certain person, as the attractive ones of 
 the Roman Count R^*''^ that has made her so un- 
 easy. Tell me, Clorinda, if I am right. Still I 
 must not always trifle, so recollect that we agreed 
 to take higher flights in our letters, and shortly, 
 you must expect a more severe one from me. 
 Adieu, till then. 
 
 Rosaline.
 
 43 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, November 17th. 
 
 I AM more persuaded every day of what I have 
 often urged to you ; that a woman, who feels she 
 has the capacity, loses half her existence in not 
 cultivating her mind, even in the highest flights 
 that it can take. How much are our office and 
 our duty mistaken ! My conviction is, that we 
 have nothing to do with the detail of sciences. 
 The practical sciences then belong exclusively to 
 men : but, in common with them, our business 
 lies in the knowledge of the source of all sciences, 
 that of the human mind. Are not we their coun- 
 sellors ? Are not we the executive officers of the 
 domestic authority, the instructresses of children, 
 the guides of their tender years? And from 
 whence is the authority of a free state ? — from the 
 aggregate of domestic authority. But we are 
 supposed to be ever under the influence of direct 
 and blind authority. If we are ignorant slaves, 
 those whom we are primarily to instruct will be 
 ignorant slaves also. For the head directs the
 
 44 
 
 hand — the master, the scholar. I say, therefore, 
 that a woman's pursuits ought to he the highest 
 flights of reason; and this can only he under- 
 stood hy her studying the full operation of the 
 human mind. The details of sciences, such as 
 chemistry, geology, are none of them within a 
 woman's sphere. The connexion hetween the 
 head and heart is what I presume to be their first 
 object. In it is contained the loftiest flight of 
 metaphysics, a word, which alarms the mass of 
 mankind. Whereas man is a metaphysical ani- 
 mal; that is his distinctive characteristic. He 
 lives equally in the sphere of metaphysics, as he 
 does in that of nature ; because all qualities are 
 metaphysical. A woman's sphere is peculiarly in 
 sentiment. Do not we hear a metaphysical lec- 
 ture every Sunday ? What is religion, God, im- 
 mortality, virtue, vice, if they be not all in the 
 sphere of metaphysics ? Our capital error is that 
 we attempt to teach truth through the medium of 
 fable, because successive generations do not found 
 their instruction upon the method of analysis, but 
 upon the authority of former generations, hence 
 we equally adopt their wisdom and their errors ; 
 that is, everything is a fable, or told through the
 
 45 
 
 medium of a fable. When first principles are 
 once mathematically imparted to the human mind, 
 then leave the heart to its play, then encourage 
 sentiment and poetry and fiction : these are the 
 flowers of the mind that adorn it. But I am a 
 decided advocate, that the first years of a child's 
 life should be passed in stern, dry instructions — 
 it is a great art to teach truth — the greatest art. 
 The ancient Persian youth were taught to ride, 
 shoot with a bow, and to tell truth. The latter is 
 the rub. Aye, what is truth ? Women so taught 
 will then arrive at the summit of justice, and form 
 a counteracting power in families and in states, 
 (because states are only the congregation of fami- 
 lies,) to selfishness, ambition, and all the fiercer 
 passions, Trhicli are repugnant to their sex, and to 
 the happiness of mankind. The greatest pride of 
 my life is to have been thus early instructed, to 
 have exclusively studied the power of my own 
 mind, and allowed it to take its natural drift, and 
 I hold that it is easier to comprehend truth than 
 falsehood; and the difficulty of our early educa- 
 tion is, that we begin by teaching children false- 
 hood, or fiction, which is repugnant to the beau- 
 tiful purity of their youthful minds. Hence arises
 
 46 
 
 our playing fast and loose, between contradictory 
 principles ; for we can never expect duty and self- 
 devotion, if there be the least doubt as to the rec- 
 titude of principles. The love of power, commu- 
 nicating itself on every side, warps justice, and 
 blends together truth and falsehood. They have 
 then to unlearn again what has been taught them 
 — hence the confusion which envelops all our 
 moral existence. My dearest friend, cultivate 
 your reason, and then you will find the road to 
 self-reverence — the safeguard of your own virtue 
 and dignity — you will discover justice, which 
 places you in a state of relationship with society. 
 I need not recommend to you to frequent as much 
 as possible your father's society, and to receive 
 all the instruction that Pietro Perruvini can give, 
 and I am sure I need not to urge you to be civil 
 to Count R*=^^, and assure him how much / re- 
 gret the loss of his society — his lively wit — strong 
 sense and extended benevolence, which shewed 
 itself in the best tried manner towards his country, 
 and in the kindest offices to all. I shall endeavour 
 to make my lectures to you as little irksome as pos- 
 sible, but every degree of instruction is more or 
 less so. My next will be written from the borders
 
 47 
 
 of Wales, where my father, who wants some re- 
 pose after the fatigue of his journey and the ex- 
 haustion of his spirits, is most anxious to arrive. 
 I begin to see (and indeed I do not repine) that 
 I shall soon have but the secondary place in your 
 heart; until a similar one falls to my lot, you 
 have the first place in mine. Adieu. I embrace 
 you. 
 
 Rosaline. 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, November 25th. 
 
 My father, my dear friend, is gone to his estate 
 on the borders of Wales ; and as it was conceived 
 that neither the season of the year, nor the state 
 of the house, was such as ladies could venture in, 
 I remain here with my aunt, who is in a perpetual 
 state of impatience for the arrival of Sir A. Ather- 
 stone. 
 
 Yesterday being Sunday, Mrs. Barbara proposed 
 to me to go and hear a great preacher. She said,
 
 48 
 
 she was ashamed to avow that he was not of the 
 estabUshed church ; that it was the first time in her 
 life that she had been guilty of the infidehty of 
 going to any other place of worship than that in 
 which she had been born and reared ; but that all- 
 powerful fashion, or curiosity, or both, had so far 
 got the better of her ortiiodoxy, that she was 
 determined to squeeze. I answered, that I was 
 perfectly wiUing ; that I had often listened to all 
 the great preachers in Italy, some of whom were 
 very eloquent, but that the English had generally 
 sneered at them, as most fanatical, superstitious, 
 and extravagant ; averring, that no person of sense 
 could listen with pleasure to such absurdities, as 
 what they uttered ; that, moreover, I expected to 
 be highly edified and interested, particularly as 
 the preacher was not one of the estabhshed church ; 
 therefore a more recent edition of protestantism, no 
 doubt amended, corrected and enlarged. And 
 therefore, I should have the opportunity of ob- 
 serving the difference between the barbarous jar- 
 gon of what I had been told w^as an Italian 
 papistical fanatic, and a staid, rational, edifying, 
 protestant dissenter. With much difficulty we 
 entered into the church, or meeting house, or con-
 
 49 
 
 venticle, (for 1 am not yet habituated to all the 
 different designations of the places of worship in 
 this country.) I was surprised to find that tickets 
 of admission were necessary; but I thought this 
 an excellent expedient to prevent compression, 
 and it struck me, that the piety of my countrymen, 
 from this circumstance, had not been overrated. 
 At length a figure, something like the print of 
 Don Quixote, ascended the pulpit ; and, if he 
 wanted the barber's dish on his head, the action 
 of his arms gave him a great similarity to the 
 knight of La Mancha's windmill. The pulpit 
 might afford the resemblance to the mill and its 
 occupant to the sails. His sermon was long — His 
 manner vehement — His matter various — And, if 
 confusion is a characteristic of the sublime, it was 
 awful. His doctrines were not consoling, for he 
 maintained, by the most perspicuous train of 
 reasoning, that in proportion as a man was 
 virtuous, in the same degree, he was in utter dan- 
 ger. He dwelt with peculiar severity upon the 
 hopelessness of doom of such as had the self-con- 
 ceit of self-holiness. Such as reputed excellent 
 fathers and mothers of families — decent people 
 who performed all their obligations to the world 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 
 
 with great exactness. But for those who were 
 either occupied by, or admirers of the beauties of 
 nature, they were in a state of utter reprobation. 
 Good works, inasmuch as they put us in conceit 
 with ourselves, were dangerous; nay, more, by a 
 singular figure in rhetoric, he held that good works 
 without faith were less than nothing. Like the 
 Duke of Buckingham's famous criticism upon 
 Dryden, when the actor said : " My wound is 
 great because it is so small." The duke replied : 
 " Then 'twould be greater were it none at all." 
 So this preacher might wisely intend to cut and 
 shuffle with himself: Thus, what is less than 
 nothing, may be greater than something. He then 
 went on: that by consulting the inward man, we 
 became much more intimately acquainted with him 
 than with the outward man, whom we viewed with 
 our fallacious organs and senses — that the invisible 
 was the most visible, and that the visible was in- 
 visible — that hght was darkness, and darkness 
 light, he declared was the very essence of religion : 
 that the unregenerate could hope for no mercy; 
 were his charities and benevolence co-extensive 
 with mankind, they were but an insult, without 
 special grace, and would subject him to be eternally
 
 51 
 
 lost. He defined special grace as a sort of license, 
 and significantly asked, if unlicensed hucksters and 
 chapmen, and dealers and pedlars, were not 
 punishable by the magistrates ; so would the great 
 Eternal Magistrate trounce all such ungraced, that 
 is unlicensed, unregenerate traders in the word, 
 those who felt not continually the workings of the 
 inward spirit — the inward man struggling with the 
 outward man, who was always led by the nose by 
 the evil one. He described sometimes the flesh 
 swallowing the spirit, and, at other times, the 
 spirit swallowing up the flesh; and, by a most 
 accurate calculation, it appeared, that not above 
 one in a million could be saved. According to his 
 inspection of the tables of salvation, which was as 
 minute as the multiplication table; it behoved 
 then his flock to struggle and sweat, and fight 
 night and day with the old man ; for whomsoever 
 he touched in this world would be damned in the 
 next, and not above one in a milhon escaped his 
 grasp. He then informed us that we had lain un- 
 der a mistake with regard to the lenity of the 
 Deity ; that he was a God of vengeance and of 
 terrors, delighting in destruction and desolation ; 
 and very aptly quoted all the passages in the Old 
 e2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 uNivERsnY OF n.iwms
 
 52 
 
 Testament that bore upon this point. Lest his 
 hearers should not be sufficiently impressed with 
 awe, he proceeded minutely to enter into a de- 
 scription of the last day, or great assize, as he 
 termed it. He made manifest the wonderful 
 rapidity of the trials; millions would be judged in 
 the thousandth part of a second. The preacher, 
 carried away with his subject, then dashed us 
 down into hell ; his description was more minute 
 than either Milton's or Dante's, though not so 
 poetical. He dwelt frequently, and with great 
 force, upon the pavement of hell, which he main- 
 tained was to be plates of iron, heated ten thou- 
 sand times hotter than we are able to heat even 
 iron red hot in this world ; it glowed, he said, 
 with a light red colour horrid to behold. In the 
 midst was a large clock, which every hour struck 
 eternity: it chimed every quarter of an hour, 
 hopeless doom ; and such benignant and consoling 
 sentiments. He then described the level lake of 
 brimstone. Here many persons uttered groans ; 
 some handkerchiefs were carried up to the eyes 
 and noses : but when he told us of the tremendous 
 smells, w^hich were engendered from this lake, by 
 an association of ideas, according to Locke's doc-
 
 53 
 
 trines, many delicate ladies, after having in vain 
 applied to salts and smelling bottles, screamed and 
 fainted ; and I am assured some were affected 
 with a nausea at the stomach. The preacher's 
 ready eye seizing the incident, turned it with great 
 effect to his argument, and declared, that all per- 
 sons in hell were subject to perpetual sea sickness. 
 Upon this, many ladies from the sister country, 
 and others, who had lately visited the continent, 
 and who had returned in the steam-packet, were 
 observed to weep bitterly. In this guise, and with 
 wonderful gesture and force of lungs, he continued 
 for one hour and forty minutes : but what was 
 most singular, was, that the greater part of his 
 audience appeared more stunned than convinced, 
 and after the first effects were over, could not 
 help smiling at each other, as they were returning 
 home. Indeed, his oration had this effect : when 
 a child places itself behind a door, and cries out. 
 Bo ! as a nervous lady enters, she makes a little 
 exclamation, puts her hands to her sides, and then 
 smiles, and takes up the child and kisses it ; with 
 this difference — that I found no lady inclined to 
 salute the preacher ; for, from the mere force of 
 imagination, they fancied that he was his cloven
 
 54 
 
 footed majesty in disguise. Not content with 
 preaching, I hear this great divine has given seve- 
 ral treatises to the vrorld, all wonderful, and pos- 
 sibly very edifying to those who can comprehend 
 them. Among them is a small tract (for our 
 author dwells with rapture rather on the terrors 
 of hell-fire, than the joys of paradise,) intitled : 
 " A new and approved Method of catching Flies 
 with Treacle, or a taste of Paradise by a liquorish 
 Christian." But his great work is upon shadows 
 and moonshine : wherein he proves to conviction, 
 that what is, is not ; and what is not, is ; and a 
 variety of other curious and profound metaphysi- 
 cal discoveries, which are deduced by the clearest 
 train of logical reasoning ; and which places our 
 preacher and author among the most eminent of 
 the day, and entitles him alike to the high consi- 
 deration of the quality, and the admiration of the 
 vulgar : but had he been born in Tuscany, and 
 mounted the pulpit there with a long beard, a 
 coarse brown habit and cord tied round his loins, 
 he would long since have been preferred from a 
 cell in the Capuchins, to a cell in St. Bonafacio — 
 a certain receptacle near the Bologna gates, where 
 he might have met wath a kindred congregation.
 
 55 
 
 I sum up his character in this short sentence : he 
 is the grotesque champion of figurative horrors. 
 
 I fear, my dear Clorinda, that I must have 
 wearied your patience upon the subject, but I am 
 determined to be fair ; and when I hear my dear 
 countrymen and countrywomen calling out that all 
 is superstition, and fanaticism, and absurdity on the 
 continent, I cannot help asking them to look at 
 home. 
 
 After this exposition of some of the reformed 
 doctrines, you will ask, why should you, Rosaline, 
 object to the church of Rome? I object to it 
 merely on one point. It is not the pope's infalli- 
 bility, which amounts to, without what I shall tell 
 you, to power without contact, which is the same 
 as no power at all. It is not your ritual and cere- 
 monies, which I admire more than those of the 
 protestants. It is not your dogmas, which are the 
 same essentially. It is a part of your discipline, 
 nay, one main point of your discipline. It is the 
 confessional ; the most artful and tremendous 
 engine of power ever invented by man; the 
 greatest lever of the human mind that was ever 
 conceived : this is the corner stone of the whole 
 fabric — this is the key to the whole building ; this 
 locks up the human mind in dogmas and in disci-
 
 56 
 
 pline: without this the pope's and the church's 
 authority would be the same as the authority of 
 other churches, and other popes, that is, protes- 
 tant kings ; but, with this power, authority is not 
 without contact, and it brings it into contact with 
 the most secret feehngs of a man's heart, those which 
 are locked up from his wife, his family and his 
 friends ; it is the counteracting power to all other 
 powers ; no other power can stand an instant in 
 competition with it. In this lies the sting. Take 
 away the confessional, and the catholic religion is 
 but a splendid ceremonial without political power, 
 and with not more spiritual power than the church 
 of England. Other ceremonials delight and feast 
 the senses ; dogmas may or may not influence the 
 mind; but the confessional enters the heart by 
 force and takes it by storm, lays man's will pros- 
 trate, seizes upon and modifies his whole being. 
 Clarinda, beware, you will find it stronger than 
 your confession to me, your friend, or to your 
 lover, when you have one. And this is sufficiently 
 a reason v* hy I should, being thus ousted ; why, I 
 say, I should dislike being second to your con- 
 fessor, and to confess myself to you in this frank 
 manner. Adieu, 
 
 Rosaline.
 
 57 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, December 1st. 
 
 You will have received my last mad letter. 
 But I was in a vein of pleasantry ; and as I detest 
 quacks and mountebanks, when they aim at being 
 mischievous, I think it right to expose them. 
 Methinks I see but two classes of human beings ; 
 those that may be compared to spiders and flies. 
 The former are ever spreading their webs, to 
 catch and devour the latter, and it is the fate of 
 our sex to play alternately the spider and the fly. 
 Which of the two, it is now the object of my aunt 
 Bab to imitate, I shall leave you to guess. Sir 
 Arthur has been with us five days ; and although 
 he passes in the world as an highly accomplished 
 agreeable man, I confess he appears tame and 
 ordinary enough to me. His understanding is of 
 that middle size, which is sure (if it takes a grave 
 turn) to have discretion enough to hide its vacuity, 
 by stufling a great deal of common-place know- 
 ledge in his head. An easy flow of conversation, 
 which is obtained by a certain degree of coolness
 
 58 
 
 of temper, and much habit of the world, and a 
 pleasant turn upon small occurrences, pass, if not 
 for wit, at least for humour, with most people. 
 His knowledge is sufficiently diversified to prevent 
 him from prosing; and his wit not poignant 
 enough to make him dreaded. — He steers just a 
 little a-head of the convoy that he sails with, 
 knowing well rather than distrusting his own 
 power. In great concerns, he affects moderation 
 — he is a moderate friend of liberty, a moderate 
 reformer, a moderate friend of social order, mo- 
 derately attached to party, moderately attached 
 to Church and State, and, Mrs. Barbara thinks, 
 moderately convinced of her charms ; but cer- 
 tainly not moderately selfish. These cold cox- 
 combs are most provoking. The solemnity of 
 their air, the stiffness of their gait, are but scanty 
 cloaks to hide their emptiness ; they pass current 
 in the world for discreet, decorous persons ; they 
 affect taste, because they are too timid to commit 
 themselves ; they sneer, but they cannot bear to 
 be sneered at in return, because their absolute 
 selfishnsss makes them very sensitive; that is, 
 they are sensitive when they themselves are con- 
 cerned, and cold and repulsing when others are.
 
 59 
 
 He certainly has a good taste in the fine arts, has 
 studied them well abroad, and pursues them here. 
 He is made up of negatives ; so that I doubt he 
 will be long before he decides upon so positive 
 an act as to take a wife. He would, however, 
 like the reputation of gallantry, without the risk 
 and trouble ; and he is fonder of avowing that in- 
 clination, than striving to gratify it. Conse- 
 quently, his letters are bolder than his verbal 
 declarations; his pen more energetic than his 
 tongue. But I doubt not, Clorinda, that women 
 in general prefer supplicating words, even hesi- 
 tatingly and somewhat awkwardly expressed, to 
 the mere cold formality of an epistle, even with 
 all its prettiness of style, its balanced sentences, 
 and its quaint conceits. It is a haughty and 
 happy moment for a woman to see the proud lord 
 of the creation, sometimes the tyrant of her sex, 
 abashed and sighing, and confused before her. 
 One of those precious moments in her existence, 
 which gives her the flush of the conqueror's tri- 
 umph, tempered with the luxury of yielding cle- 
 mency : for ordinary lovers cannot write with the 
 energy of Rousseau, but the most burning words 
 on paper have not the inflammable qualities of
 
 60 
 
 burning words poured througli fervent lips, from 
 the furnace of an impassioned heart. The re- 
 served and cautious medium of letters destroys the 
 animation — the play of the soul. No, Clorinda, 
 whenever the fates shall bring you to the goal, 
 insist upon the personal encounter and triumph. 
 Believe me, it will long be remembered, and so 
 much longer will your gentle chains be worn. It is 
 a moment that stamps our authority on the mind 
 of him who tremulously receives his doom. In 
 characters not soon forgotten, what spectacle is 
 more delightful than to see the subdued haughti* 
 ness of those who conceived themselves our con- 
 querors, confused, trembling, hesitating — startled 
 alternately with joy and alarm, — waiting to hear 
 their sentence ? This is the height of exquisite 
 power, — the power to command those who direct 
 the storm of battle, the eloquence of the senate, 
 X>Y the inspiration of poetry, — to be other Helens 
 that fire other Troys. What constitutes the de- 
 light of our life ? — sensations present, in retrospect, 
 and in anticipation. Our highest existence is to 
 live in the sphere of refined sensations ; that is, 
 sentiment purified by fine taste, (such being our 
 habitual condition,) the hurricane of the passions,
 
 61 
 
 let them blow with ever so much violence, can 
 never degrade our being. Our rage becomes then 
 as sacred and refined, as if depicted in a Greek 
 tragedy. It is the exaltation of our being that the 
 antients strove after. It is this refinement of our 
 nature that chivalry sought to accomplish. Its 
 seeds are in pure friendship, the nursery of dig- 
 nified love. Believe me, Clorinda, we may have 
 parents, and brothers, and sisters ; but have we 
 friends ? We may have lovers and husbands, but 
 are they friends? Men may have mistresses and 
 wives, but are they always friends ? Friendship, 
 then, to use a philosophical phrase, carried to the 
 absolute, — that is, abstract friendship, is the 
 highest state of attraction between two indivi- 
 duals ; it is the closest affinity ; it is the most har- 
 monious sympathy, whose laws all lie hid in the 
 darkest recesses of nature, — unsearchable, and 
 hitherto unsearched, when conjoined with the 
 consanguinity of relatives, or the warmer extasies 
 of love, need we go farther in search of pa- 
 radise ? Hope then comes in, and whispers to us, 
 though this will not, cannot last. She, an en- 
 chantress, will transport us into aerial regions. 
 But still a dark cloud here overshadows me.
 
 62 
 
 Clorinda, your absence causes these sentiments 
 to rise in my bosom, for the highest effect that 1 
 have yet felt of the power of attraction, has been 
 towards you. But I know^ not why I have ever 
 dark forebodings of the future, which clouds my 
 rising joy; a mist ever sits on my mind's eye, for 
 it gazes on darkness and uncertainty. I am 
 soothed by retrospects — disconcerted by present 
 sensations — and bewildered by future prospects. 
 My bosom is not full then ! May it not be too full ! 
 You know how often you have chid me for my 
 melancholy anticipations. Yet this is the proof that 
 my being is eminently sensitive. Obdurate be- 
 ings go reckless on through life, and never feel by 
 anticipation. When ill comes upon them, they 
 are indeed cast down ; but sensitive beings live 
 out of the time present, which is ever more 
 selfish ; by reflections on the time past, and anti- 
 cipations upon the time future. I am never 
 positive, as some are, upon the time future. I 
 never say, I will do this, or, I will do that ; but I 
 hope for this, and I trust such will be my des- 
 tiny. In time past, then, we live on reflection ; 
 in time present, on sensation, whether of joy or 
 of grief; in time future, on hope. The time
 
 63 
 
 present Is selfish; the time past, interesting; 
 the time to come, sublime ! And is not this a 
 compensation ? It may, or it may not be one : — 
 if such condition heightens pleasure, it renders 
 pain intolerable. It may place our hearts upon 
 the rack until they burst. Oh ! let me banish 
 the frightful idea ! Why should it have found 
 a way into my brain ? Is it the dark forebodings 
 of the future ? Do the Fates like thus to play 
 with us — to keep us ever on the stretch — to make 
 us run to the length of our tether? But thou, 
 all-powerful goddess of nature, that hast thus 
 formed me in one of thy tender and mystical 
 moods, whisper to the hard-hearted Fates not to 
 make me too much their sport. Are they not 
 already glutted with their many victims ? 
 
 But enough. I will not communicate my me- 
 lancholy to you. Adieu. I ever embrace you. 
 
 Rosaline.
 
 64 
 
 CLORINDA TO ROSALINE. 
 
 Florence, November 15th. 
 
 " We are led by an invisible hand." This, sybil, 
 is one of your oracles. " Fate propels the storm, 
 we are dashed against our doom as the white 
 spray splashes the black rocks." Such are ever 
 your wise sayings. But 1 will lay open my heart 
 to you. Hitherto I have been agitated by two 
 emotions : grief at our separation, and sorrow at 
 my impending destiny. A third emotion has 
 succeeded, which softens the first, and affords a 
 compensation for the latter — -a consolation for the 
 future. I can no longer conceal it from you, 
 though I blush to avow it. Rinaldo has caused 
 the third tumult. My mother spoke seriously to 
 my father upon his having placed about me Pietro 
 Perruvini, as a sort of tutor. He (good man!) 
 conscious of having somewhat violated the exact 
 rules of politeness, by the storm, which I described 
 to you, was anxious to repair his fault. For, with 
 all her haughtiness, my mother can wheedle. The 
 Abbate's dark malignity and insatiable revenge, 
 the true characteristics of his corps, sought only
 
 65 
 
 to destroy a rival ; a most dreaded one. Pietro 
 was formally accused of scepticism, because he 
 displeased a confessor. The scandal of the affair, 
 from the ready and active tongued Florentines, 
 was getting abroad. To preserve domestic peace, 
 my father yielded ; Pietro is gone to inspect some 
 manuscripts in the Bolognese Library ; and I am 
 allowed to be accompanied in my botanical and 
 philosophical studies — by whom? Rinaldo di 
 Rocca Saint Cacciano. So, an old philosopher of 
 sixty is substituted by a young man of thirty. You 
 will exclaim, here is an Abelard and an Eloi'se. 
 Look at the double management of my mother and 
 the priest. This beggarly Roman count, who is 
 an exile for his political opinions, and consequently 
 under the eyes of the police, say they, can do us no 
 harm ; the protection of our house is all that he 
 seeks after; he never can pretend to Clorinda's 
 hand; besides, the girl has the same national feel- 
 ing that we have. He is a stranger ; his estates 
 are under sequestration ; he has not the abiUty of 
 Pietro ; she will soon grow tired of him, and then 
 our scheme will succeed ; besides, if we observe the 
 shghtest partiality, we can alarm her father's pre- 
 judices and pride. — But, Rosaline, " we are led 
 by an invisible hand," and it remains to be proved. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 
 
 How will this end ? My father I never will de- 
 ceive, because he is all openness, all generosity. 
 My mother shall be requited with the same con- 
 fidence that she reposes in me. It is in families 
 as in states ; allegiance and protection are reci- 
 procal in the latter ; in the former, confidence and 
 obedience. Because the parent that places con- 
 fidence in the child will never insist upon force, 
 because the previous confidence supposes con- 
 sultation rather than injunction. You see you 
 have taught me to argue. How infectious are 
 the uses of our wits ! no wonder the despots 
 desire them to be benumbed. Have not I opened 
 my heart to you, with all its emotions ? Oh strive 
 to guide them. Again and again I embrace you. 
 
 Clorinda.
 
 67 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, December 5 th. 
 
 You have often asked me how I have acqmred 
 the knowledge of those things that you seem so 
 much to covet ; and how short my hfe has been 
 to arrive at the conclusions that I am very ready 
 to make. You may accuse me of having as ready 
 and minute a pen as Clarissa Harlowe ; minute it 
 may be ; but the natural impetuosity of my cha- 
 racter will never allow me to be so prolix, I can- 
 not spin out such an intricate web. On the con- 
 trary, not embarrassed with formalism, untutored 
 in the dull and trifling ways of modern education, 
 I have used my wits to discover truth, which, in 
 general, lies buried under the lifeless mass of 
 authority. One fool makes many, is a common 
 sentiment; one bad precedent descends, passes 
 current, and is sealed with the admiration of a 
 succession of fools. These are the prejudices in 
 which we are educated, until we consider it almost 
 impious not to believe in ghosts. To be wdse, 
 then, is to unlearn what we have learnt. Others 
 educate us in falsehood ; we educate ourselves in 
 truth, because others wai*p us to their own pur- 
 f2
 
 68 
 
 pose : every one, giving his own selfishness a cer- 
 tain play, wishes to cast his neighbour in that 
 mould. I have had the blessing bestowed upon 
 me by divine nature to see things without a mist. 
 Well, then, truth is naked. Such then as she is 
 have I discovered her. There is a pedantic word 
 called analysis, which has ever been uppermost in 
 my mind. Aye ! let us analyse ; that is, let us 
 dissolve every thing thoroughly, and then we see 
 what its component parts are made of. This puts 
 us behind the scenes; we are then let into the 
 secret of the puppetshow of human life. What 
 a puppetshow it is ! What a farce often, if we 
 know how to use it ; it is certainly amusing. For 
 there is delight from the palace down to the cot- 
 tage; aye, and sentiment too. Irony and senti- 
 ment possess my breast by turns. Why ? Because 
 I perpetually analyse ; because I see deformities 
 and harmony. You say I am melancholy, because 
 harmony has over me the greater influence. It 
 tempers the soul ; then she becomes tender ; then 
 she is melancholy. The poet says : 
 
 " Melancholy, silent maid, with leaden eye 
 That loves the ground." 
 
 To play between these two inclinations, to be the
 
 69 
 
 pendulum that oscillates between them, is no bad 
 lot of human existence ; it places us out of its 
 petty concerns, for petty passions reach us not, 
 and when we view them we hand them over to 
 irony ; great and noble passions we grapple to our 
 soul. But where is positive Religion ? Is she not 
 sentiment in disguise, fear in disguise, and love of 
 ourselves in disguise ; love of others through love 
 of ourselves, and to promote ourselves ? Where 
 then lies the centre of our existence ? Lieth it 
 in God, or our own breast ? Ah ! now, Clorinda, 
 I am coming to the point. Where is God, if he 
 lieth not in our breast ? For he is not out of the 
 universe, and the universe exists in our breast. 
 Call it mind, heart, pure reason, intelligence, feel- 
 ing, I care not, they are all within us. Do we 
 see things in ourselves or in themselves ? Does 
 the eye receive impressions, or does it throw out 
 a searching glance ? No ; it is the brain then that 
 is the dissolving crucible that smelts these impres- 
 sions. Man then is the centre of his own exist- 
 ence ! Then he is the centre of the universe! 
 For the universe has the non-dimensions of infi- 
 nitude. No measurement can span it. It has 
 neither depth, nor altitude; nor right, nor left; 
 nor high, nor low ; nor east, nor west ; nor space.
 
 70 
 
 nor time ; and still more awful yet, nor cause nor 
 effect. Then it stands naked and alone, the vital 
 principle absolute! whirled about with eternal 
 rapidity, and wrought round with a material form, 
 unconscious of stay or stop, quashing alike creation 
 and destruction absolute ; for it is our ideas that 
 have created the notion of creation, from the 
 experience of reproduction. But where do we find 
 these things in our own minds ? They then are 
 the centre of our own existence— the centre of all 
 existence. Clorinda, these notions, overturning 
 previous form, may instantaneously cause a sweep- 
 ing desolation in your mind. But persist. Con- 
 sider only as existence, what exists in it, and you 
 will find your heart filled again to the brim ; for 
 it will drink as deep as it has capacity to hold, so 
 full that there will neither be room for fear, nor 
 malignity, nor spite, nor envy. These few words 
 have cost me years of labour to acquire. It was 
 long before they would fit into my mind, before 
 my soul was daring enough to embrace them; 
 but being there and convinced of the truth of 
 them, shall they not flow into yours ? I care not 
 how they are scrutinized, sifted and examined. 
 The Goddess of truth, that I invoke,tells me that 
 they are just ; and she has given me a spell which
 
 71 
 
 defies all incantations. The essence then of truth 
 is the first born offspring of pure reason; it is alone 
 generated in the unbiassed unfettered human 
 mind ; in that mind, that stands as single and as 
 much alone on the vital principle absolute, round 
 which are wrapt every form and object that we 
 see or conceive. I shall now give you my golden 
 key. You may unlock every other science, for 
 they are secondary objects. I would not obscure 
 this real transparency of nature by tedious expla- 
 nations. To them who choose to remain in dark- 
 ness, let us not gratuitously force light upon them. 
 And I have said enough to give to your rational 
 mind an insight into its own being ; this having 
 been the purport of this letter, let it for a moment 
 fix your attention. 
 
 Again I embrace you. 
 
 Rosaline.
 
 72 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, December 7th. 
 
 AVe make great mistakes, my dear friend, when 
 we assert, that the existence of things rests upon 
 a variety of principles ; — I see but one, which I 
 must explain. I call it the vital principle abso- 
 lute : — that is to say, universal, or the vital prin- 
 ciple of itself and by itself. We talk of the 
 theory of motion, of the laws of motion, of causes, 
 effects, time, and space. Let us begin by giving 
 them all a negative existence — a flat denial: — 
 and look then only at the vital principle. We 
 shall discover then, that motion is one of its 
 qualities, in fact its essence ; — thus I am an advo- 
 cate for the doctrine of universal impulse. And 
 we see then, after a careful analysis, that all sub- 
 ordinate parts of it, such as we call the laws of 
 nature, the powers of the human mind, and the 
 moral law, are only different signs of the move- 
 ment of the vital principle absolute ; shades of it, 
 if I may so speak, just like the various colours of 
 the rainbow ; indeed I like the simile : — the rain- 
 bow is an arch, so we may figuratively assert the 
 vital principle to be ; because all movement is in a
 
 73 
 
 circle ; the highest exemphfication being on the 
 solar system, then the circle of movement dimi- 
 nishes to the most minute or insignificant existence. 
 When I hear persons talk either of spiritualism 
 or materialism absolute, I blush for their ig- 
 norance ; how little they have condescended to 
 analyse, or to think profoundly, because the uni- 
 versal vital principle will unlock every secret of 
 existence, as clearly as branches of them are un- 
 locked and measured, and explained, by the 
 exact sciences. Our knowledge of this principle 
 is in ourselves ; therefore, I have said, that we 
 are the centre of our own existence : — but you 
 will say, that this is metaphysical. I cannot ex- 
 plain it to you in plainei^ terms ; and I think one 
 simple principle to be easier to comprehend than 
 a variety of contradictory ones. The laws of 
 nature are only the vital principle, assuming a 
 variety of shapes, which our minds class, and call 
 laws — call harmony and discord ; this simple 
 principle, circling, creeping, imperceptibly grow- 
 ing, whirling with extreme rapidity; oscillating, 
 .transforming, assuming new and yet the same 
 appearances ; disappearing, shifting, and re-ap- 
 pearing ; here identical, there diverse ; now at- 
 tracting, now repelling, now sympathetic, now
 
 74 
 
 antipathetic ; exhausting, by its constant immuta- 
 ble motion, its outward and visible forms ; then 
 re-appearing in other forms, as in life and death. 
 This, I say, Clorinda, is my principle of phi- 
 losophy ; it lies in a small compass, but it has cost 
 a large portion of thought to arrive at this. May 
 not the famous Malbranche have had this notion, 
 when he says, that we see all things in God ? 
 And may not this have been St. Paul's notion, 
 when he says, " In him we live and move, and 
 have our being" ? This proves the famous pro- 
 position, that we view all tilings in ourselves and 
 not in themselves, because we are the receptacle 
 of all outward impressions. Our sensations are 
 the receptacle of substances, and our ideas of 
 qualities. All qualities are therefore ideal, that 
 is, they are adjuncts to substances, and are de- 
 monstrated by substances ; virtue, vice, cause, 
 effect, substance, accident, God, immortality, soul, 
 therefore, are qualities, or rather principles re- 
 ceived in our ideas. And when Malbranche saw 
 all things in God, he saw all things in his own 
 breast, filling that breast with power absolute, 
 which he personified and deified; thus he dis- 
 covered the essence of the universe. May not 
 these two philosophers have only intended to
 
 75 
 
 explain the vital principle absolute, that is, uni- 
 versal and positive? So that all philosophical 
 disputes seem to have been mere grammatical 
 ones ; the distinction between the pronoun him, 
 and the particle it. You know that I am an 
 absolute and blind fatalist. This entirely arises 
 from. my having considered all things, that is 
 substance, as subject to the eternal vitality 
 and movement of the universe. Individuals, 
 beings, and things, have a certain degree of 
 play; but the movement of the whole con- 
 stitutes an irresistible necessity. We have all 
 a self-moving power in our own hearts — but the 
 self-moving power of others directs and decides 
 that of oiu'selves. Hence a destiny. What an 
 awful state we are in ! liable each instant to be 
 dashed out of existence ; and worse, to lose our 
 honour — our virtue — our character, to be the 
 sport of fortune ; sacrificed for what we conceive 
 to be our duty, and the highest efforts of good. 
 In short ; whence, or how, can we escape from our 
 fetters ? By death alone ! terrible alternative !— - 
 and yet it is the only one ; for whilst we have life 
 we are fettered, because we are encumbered with 
 a sensitive substance — flesh, bones, and blood — 
 that is subject to the laws of motion ; to cause
 
 76 
 
 and effect. In fact, human life is a substance 
 and accident. Shew me a single instance to the 
 contrary. Were we not fettered should we ever 
 die ? Would we choose any ill to fall upon us ? 
 What drivelling ideot, then, shall assert that our 
 substance is free, though the mind is ? Let us take 
 our own lives, or the lives of any of our acquaint- 
 ances ; and let us examine if they have turned 
 out according to our own wishes or theirs. Either 
 there is certainty or not. Aye, indeed there is a 
 certainty, but hid from our short and feeble sight; 
 until the moment that it strikes us, sometimes with 
 delight but oftener with pain. But still there is a 
 distinction between moral movement and physical. 
 That is, the first is the subjective movement; 
 the second, the objective movement: the one de- 
 clares the other. Just as every thing has two 
 forms — the internal or intelligent forms ; or its 
 material and substantial forms. Let us strive to 
 keep our minds as free as possible from the pres- 
 sure of external circumstances. That alone is 
 wisdom — that alone leads to happiness. Not 
 that I am so cynical as not to admit that there is 
 much happiness in success, — that success is what 
 we desire, — and that hope connects us with the 
 idea of success. But then, what anguish more
 
 77 
 
 terrible than hope deferred ! Am I the happier 
 for indulging in these ideas ? Health, content- 
 ment, and friendship, are the three greatest at- 
 tributes of happiness. But can I avoid thinking ? 
 Alas ! that is without my power : the tremulous 
 anxiety of a sensitive being is as necessary a con- 
 dition to the existence of such a being, as thought- 
 less stupidity is to an insensible one. This brings 
 me to a part, at which I should hke to explain 
 myself. There is, evidently, an apparent contra- 
 diction in our being, which, with all our cunning, 
 we cannot comprehend : and therefore I say, that 
 we oscillate like the pendulum of a clock, in every 
 particular of life. Now, when we view the me- 
 chanical laws of nature and a fraction of the uni- 
 verse, we see no other moving principle but these 
 mechanical laws and that universe. Our mind is, 
 as it were, a receptacle in which outward objects 
 are reflected, and we see no other than mere 
 existence — than the outward appearances of 
 things. Viewing things in this light we say that 
 the directing power is It^ that is, the vital princi- 
 ple in itself; that which demonstrates itself in all 
 outward appearances. Then we make God the 
 universe ; and the universe, God. But then we 
 fly into mere idealism: there we find hope. That
 
 78 
 
 idea carried to the absolute, constitutes immor- 
 tality. Here we find God, that is, absolute 
 cause ; our thoughts, wandering far and near, 
 seemed to be restrained by no power. Here we 
 find free will. Then we arrive at the idea of mo- 
 ral laws — moral duties — final causes and original 
 intention. Thus our being, like the pendulum of 
 a clock, oscillates between realism and idealism. 
 Fatalist then am I, as to all that relates to positive 
 existence ; — free then am I with regard to what 
 relates to idealism.* In this ideahsm is not in- 
 telHgence contained ? This then constitutes our 
 double existence, — our positive and our ideal 
 being ; that within ourselves, that is, within our 
 sensations, and that without ourselves, that is, in 
 our pure intelligence. Hence free will, co-exist- 
 ing with necessity ; — hence co-existing mortality 
 and immortality; — hence bounded views, and 
 boundless ideas. I have said we know not what 
 spiritualism is ; we know not what materialism is. 
 We see spirit wrapt up in matter, for vegetables 
 have a vital principle : so has the earth. What 
 
 * In Idealism we reject the particle It, and transform it 
 into the pronoun Him. Thus when we think, we say God-^ 
 when we look about, we perceive the immediate or secondary 
 cause, then we say nature. God alone exists in the sphere of 
 idealism and not of realism — nature in realism.
 
 79 
 
 keeps it together else? What keeps it aUve ? What 
 constitutes the seasons, and its reproductive facul- 
 ties ? Its centre is not bigger than a pin's head ; 
 and yet on that small centre it turns. Who can 
 describe motion but by its effects ? We feel the 
 effects of a sun-beam, and we hear the wind whis- 
 tle : but we cannot see motion absolute, substance 
 moved — that we can discover. Will our senses 
 give us cognizance, then, of the vital principle 
 absolute? No. But of its effects it will. Because 
 we have cognizance of ourselves, will our senses 
 give us cognizance of God ? No. But of his 
 works. For He, no more than the vital principle, 
 can ever come into space or time. Therefore, 
 space and time, cause and effect, all are cogniza- 
 ble positively by our senses ; our pure intelli- 
 gence, is in pure idealism. There we find God, 
 or the vital principle absolute. What is hope ? 
 It is the anticipation of future good, from the 
 experience of past. When this principle mounts 
 up into pure idealism, it becomes immortality. 
 For hope caried to the absolute can never die ; 
 that is, it escapes from time and space, cause and 
 effect. In space and time, then, we are subject 
 to cause and effect. Then we are bound in fate. 
 But in idealism, we are out of space and time ;
 
 80 
 
 unbound by cause and effect ; whicb must exist 
 in space and time : consequently, unbound by 
 fate. Idealism, which is the region of pure intel- 
 ligence, has no beginning, no middle, no end. 
 We cannot call it an unknown region, because it 
 absorbs our highest sphere of existence. But 
 how few will take the pains to separate it from 
 our real existence ! Thus, when it is asserted 
 that there are no innate ideas, or innate first prin- 
 ciples, an absurdity is asserted. What is an 
 idea, if it be not innate ? An idea is the cogni- 
 zance of a quality of what is out of time and 
 space, and can never come into time and space. 
 Locke asserts, that all principles are taught. 
 Who, then, taught the first man ? Then he puts 
 principles, moral laws, qualities, into time and 
 space ; because, to teach is to act, and to act is 
 to consume time and occupy space. Who first 
 taught moral laws ? God — Immortality. As, if 
 they be not innate, that is, pure ideas, then 
 they must have been taught, and some one must 
 have taught one man before another, and so ou 
 in succession. Locke, indeed, is not a deep me- 
 taphysician. He conducts an argument with dex- 
 terity, but that is all. He confuses all elements, 
 and he knew nothing of handling time and
 
 81 
 
 space,*" God, moral laws, immortality, are all 
 innate principles, which could never have been 
 taught, for they never could have come into time 
 and space. They exist in our ideas. Conse- 
 quently they are innate existences. Not so, 
 objects which strike the senses. Hence our 
 existence is divided between idealism and realism ; 
 free in the first, fettered in the second. Ideas 
 have nothing in common with our sensations, 
 being conclusions of pure intelligence. How few 
 will venture to sport in it ! Take care, Clorinda, 
 not to confound idealism with imagination. They 
 have no reference to each other. Imagination 
 
 * Note by the Editor.— Locke may be said to be a shallow 
 metaphysician; he has not gone into the depths of the human 
 mind. Kant divides the intellectual world into four quarters : 
 the materialists ; — the spiritualists ; — the idealists ; — and the 
 sceptics. They have all their share in it ; and, to a certain 
 extent, all are right. But Locke establishes his system upon 
 the materialists. He then finds the want of a first principle, 
 and jumps to that principle without connecting it with 
 the other parts. Locke embraces a vast variety of subjects ; 
 but he treats them all superficially. It seems to be a law of 
 nature, that deep penetrating minds seldom take so com- 
 prehensive a scope, and vice, versa. Our heroine, having been 
 the pupil of Pietro Perruvino, a mathematician, who was pro- 
 bably a Spinosist, immediately establishes a mixed system of 
 realism and idealism ; which, without going so far as Kant, 
 is at once simple and easy of comprehension, and which any 
 young person of talent could acquire. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 
 
 is the reflection of outward images on our sensa- 
 tions, and the exquisite or painful thrill of those 
 sensations, accordingly as they are susceptible 
 of being excited. But in idealism there is no 
 figure, no form, no passion, no reference to space 
 or time, no affinity to cause or effect, no sub- 
 stance, no accident. It is the symbol of eternity. 
 Here alone we find pure inteUigence ; for here 
 alone are we free ! The great professor Kant 
 defines God to be absolute concurrence. His 
 words are : " Reason forms the idea of God, or of 
 a supreme inteUigence out of nature, by connect- 
 ing action and reaction into infinite or absolute 
 concurrence." 
 
 Have I not spoken clearly enough ? Has not 
 my pen been free enough ? Have I not boldly 
 disregarded precedents ? Such alone is the mode 
 of making acquaintance with our pure intelligence. 
 Whilst others dose, Clorinda, awake. 
 
 Your's, 
 
 Rosaline.
 
 83 
 
 MRS. BELMONT TO MAJOR DE VERE. 
 
 Bath, December 8th. 
 
 My Dear Brother, 
 
 I HAVE made a sort of acquaintance, if so it 
 may be called, with your daughter, and I have 
 much to say in her praise. But her pursuits, her 
 opinions, and her ideas on most subjects are so 
 different from mine, and from those that we meet 
 with usually in the world, that I cannot say that 
 I have made much progress. Her manner is very 
 good. She passes with great ease and effect 
 from " grave to gay, from lively to severe." She 
 has an excellent memory, though I could have 
 wished her to have been better read in the poets, 
 and in French literature, which latter, she says, 
 is pedantic and formal, and meagre, and which 
 she cannot abide. She holds, that the French 
 shine only in the exact sciences, and where great 
 precision and exactitude are necessary, and in the 
 lively picture of ordinary occurrences ; such as 
 memoir writing, and comedies and farces — that 
 their tragedies are bombastic, forced, and insipid — 
 that they cannot draw deep from nature, because 
 g2
 
 84 
 
 they have neither true dignity, nor true taste — 
 that they are, in fact, a nation of comedians — that 
 they caricature Hfe — that they understand an ex- 
 act system of poHce — a cheating system of diplo- 
 macy — the art of destroying the human race by 
 war, or exhausting labour by taxation. But that 
 they have no conception of man in an elevated 
 and dignified state. And that under every mo- 
 dification of government, they must be essentially 
 slaves; for they have rather irregular notions of 
 wild honour, than profound ones of justice; and 
 they have more vanity than pride. Such is her 
 criticism upon my dearly beloved French — upon 
 that people that I have lived with so much, whose 
 amusements in the capital of what I think of true 
 taste, Paris, I have so largely participated in. 
 Why is it that all those who have lived so much 
 in Italy, come away so much prejudiced against 
 every thing French ? I asked her. RosaUne, who 
 must give a reason for every thing, answered, 
 " Because the root of the civilization of England 
 is to be found in Italy." This is one of her short 
 oracular phrases, which often she does not con- 
 descend to explain ; and then relapses into her 
 state of meditation, reclining gracefully on the 
 back of her chair, her head a little inchned on
 
 85 
 
 one side, and the fore finger of her right hand 
 touching her hp. No Grecian statue was ever 
 more perfect than RosaHne. The extreme dig- 
 nity and modesty of her deportment is such, that 
 with the most exquisite shape imaginable, she is 
 always enveloped in a shawl. Her usual reclining 
 posture, her hazy, melancholy, interesting eye ; 
 the graceful movement of the action of her arms 
 in speaking carries one back to Athens in the 
 days of Aspasia, the favourite of Pericles. I am 
 told that her language is strong and energetic in 
 writing ; but this is the effect of her deep think- 
 ing. In speaking, her language is beautiful and 
 nervous, but perfectly within the sphere of a 
 woman. The clear and silver tones of her voice 
 ravish every ear. When she is ironical, which 
 she can be, and most severely, too, she speaks 
 extremely quietly, and begins rather in what the 
 French call a niais (simple) manner ; and then goes 
 on with an even, quiet, low tone of voice, de- 
 scribing things and persons minutely, but with so 
 beautiful a shade of ridicule, as to be intensely 
 cutting. When she is more warm, she is always 
 in better humour. When she dislikes her so- 
 ciety, she is then very cool, very civil, and 
 powerfully descriptive, and in such a manner, that
 
 86 
 
 those, against whom this is aimed, feel it to the 
 quick, but cannot call it in question. Such is her 
 skill and dexterity. When, on the contrary, she 
 is more vehement, it is as sure a sign she takes an 
 interest in those whom she addresses, and strives 
 to convince them. She is very tender, for tears 
 come readily into her eyes upon the mentioning, 
 with force, any great, generous or heroic action, 
 or of indignation at any act of baseness or ty- 
 ranny. And here again is a point of separation 
 between us, for I am much inclined to be an ultra, 
 for I love peace and quiet, and social order, and 
 there is no tyranny in keeping things quiet. 
 "What are prisons and halters made for, but to 
 keep people quiet ? "Wliereas, RosaUne takes 
 fire, like a piece of touchwood, at the bare 
 statement of any thing like oppression ; she will 
 not hear of it. I have seen her restrain herself 
 to pain, — her breasts heaving — her visage pale — 
 her nostrils distended, and drawing her breath 
 quite loud. Yet I must say, that this is only oc- 
 casional. She is a most sweet feminine creature, 
 with the prettiest easy manners, and kindest look 
 imaginable, upon all ordinary occasions ; but a 
 volcano, if you work upon her feelings. The men 
 (who are the best judges) admire her exceedingly,
 
 87 
 
 and say, that she has every requisite of a woman. 
 If she could find her equal among men, I am sure 
 she would create a passion, such as we read of in 
 story. But, alas ! we have no Greek tragedians 
 now to celebrate such passions as she would be 
 equal to. I am sorry, my dear brother, that you 
 did not send her over to me six years ago. I 
 should have got rid of those philosophical and 
 eccentric notions that she has received from her 
 preceptor — an old Florentine mathematician ; and 
 she would have been more accomphshed ; but we 
 must strive to make the most of her. Unfortu- 
 nately, she has a will of her own, and it will not 
 be easy to make her marry those whom we may 
 conceive to be suitable. What a provoking thing 
 this is ! I never had another idea, when I was a 
 girl, but that of making a good match, and 
 though it lasted but a little while, still I have one 
 good thing left, that is, a jointure of three thou- 
 sand pounds a year, which gives me many friends, 
 and many admirers ; but I fear that we shall not 
 get this odd girl into any such scheme, even for 
 three times that sum. Besides, she is a dreadful 
 fatalist, which makes her very indifferent about 
 herself. It is a great pity such a fine creature is 
 not more marketable ; we might add greatly to
 
 88 
 
 the importance of our family connections ; and 
 riches and honour are every thing in this Hfe. 
 And this is the secret \vhy I ahvays hke to stick 
 to power. In London, it is the court. Here, I 
 like to be well with the master of the ceremonies. 
 If, in the country, I inquire who is the Lord 
 Lieutenant, or the ministerial member for the 
 county ? Or, if the members are opposition, who 
 are the ministerial candidates? I always say, 
 that every thing is flourishing; and nonsense, 
 when people talk of distress. I confess I should 
 rather like to have the commanding officer of the 
 next regiment quartered near me, frequently to 
 dinner, though old, ugly, and tiresome, than any 
 of the young handsome captains, though the 
 latter might call in a morning. 1 tell you all this, 
 because you have been so long out of England, 
 that you are not aware of the right road to pre- 
 ferment. My dear brother, lay it down as a rule, 
 those in authority can do no wrong. That is the 
 maxim of the constitution, with respect to the 
 King. You will find it mn through the whole. 
 A Bishop is more worthy than a Dean ; a Dean, 
 than a Rector. As for a poor Curate, you may 
 make him a scape-goat, or throw him over- 
 board. A judge must always be supported, right
 
 89 
 
 or wrong; though it may be convenient for 
 country justices to be sometimes sacrificed, but 
 not stipendiary magistrates, because they hold 
 more to the government. My friends tell me 
 this; particularly my cousin Chivers, who has 
 lately purchased two boroughs. When you 
 write to Rosaline, put these sentiments into your 
 own words, and urge them to her. Let us fashion 
 her. Bring her next spring to London, and we 
 may do great things with her. You have an im- 
 mense influence with her. She never mentions 
 you but with a respect and love quite striking ; 
 and it is a pity such a fine creature should be lost 
 for mere whims. Indeed, if we can keep our- 
 selves from being abused in the newspapers, and 
 no glaring fact be brought against us by our 
 friends, and that we can be always depended upon 
 by those in power — to run through thick and 
 thin for them ; what does every thing else sig- 
 nify ? I fear I have wearied your attention ; but 
 observe my request. 
 
 Most affectionately your's, 
 
 Barbara.
 
 90 
 
 MAJOR DE VERB TO MRS. BELMONT. 
 
 December 12lh. 
 
 My Dear Sister Barbara, 
 
 I HAVE received your long letter, and 
 I confess I do not think that you do justice in it, 
 either to me or to Rosaline. What would you have 
 of her? — education? Education is the jargon 
 and song of the day ; as if methods were every 
 thing. All officers and soldiers are drilled alike ; 
 but it is the inborn qualities of some that make 
 them shine above their comrades. The greatest 
 men that history has ever produced have been 
 either self-educated, or have soon got out of the 
 hands of their masters, which has come to the 
 same thing as self-education. But you, sister, 
 think that every one must think alike, and be per- 
 petually worshipping some sort of authority or 
 other ; and, when you can carry tyranny no farther 
 in public matters, invent forms and conventions 
 of society to entrap women and triflers in ; this I 
 remember to have been the case in France before 
 the Revolution — " Is such a person of the so- 
 ciety?" was always asked, as if there were but
 
 91 
 
 one exclusive society on the face of the earth. 
 Then again : " One does not think so ;" " One 
 does not say so ;" " An honest man was a polite 
 man." What, I ask, Barbara, would you have of 
 Rosaline ? For a person to have opinions diffe- 
 rent from those whom we frequent is absurd, if 
 we cannot support them; but, when the argu- 
 ments upon which we sustain our opinions are 
 incontrovertible, then we have a right to hold 
 what opinions we can maintain. Is not truth the 
 pretended object of man ? What is the test of 
 truth ? To know how to discover it and to sustain 
 it. Well, then, no opinion can be erroneous that 
 is founded in truth ; if the contrary, falsehood is 
 the grand aim of mankind. That falsehood may 
 be more convenient than truth no one will doubt ; 
 because, by it, we can cheat others to our own 
 advantage, and it is a main road to preferment in 
 the world ; and this is owing to the falsehood of 
 our early education — familiarly teaching us truth 
 by means of fiction. You mention your cousin 
 Chivers. He, indeed, is a practical illustration of 
 my argument ; bred a lawyer, accustomed there- 
 fore to make falsehood appear truth, and truth 
 falsehood. This has tainted every proceeding of 
 his life ; he has made money by lottery tickets, by
 
 92 
 
 slices of loans by advising cunningly in matters 
 of government contracts; by dabbling in the 
 funds ; from picking up news about the public 
 offices, paying court to the tenth clerk or even 
 door-keeper. Then he buys two rotten boroughs ; 
 two rotten boroughs ! Indeed the grave of the 
 constitution. What is this but a practical posi- 
 tive lie, in law, on the constitution ? To buy the re- 
 presentation of the people — then to call it the real 
 representation ! Is not this to substitute falsehood 
 for truth, and to make a contemptible and auda- 
 cious farce of government, or the constitution ? 
 And so, according as our institutions, and plans 
 of education, and as all laws now stand, we are 
 called upon and punished if we do not support 
 falsehood instead of truth. And how, and with 
 what justice can a revenue officer be punished for 
 allowing smuggling, if a minister of state not only 
 connives at, but traffics in this great smuggling ; 
 which is the smuggling of law and justice ? But I 
 cry your mercy, Sister Barbara. We are to be 
 reconciled to this by our modes of education. 
 Girls are to be brought up in idle accomplish- 
 ments, to trifle away all their time, that they may 
 never examine truth, or even discover it. So that 
 when they become wives and mothers, they are
 
 93 
 
 to breed and educate another race of fools and 
 hypocrites. Thus the object of your civUiza- 
 tion is to drive truth far away from every land, 
 where that harpy has established itself. All strive 
 to do that holy work, which is begun by lawyers ; 
 who do not even pretend to establish their argu- 
 ments or discourses on principles, but upon pre- 
 cedents ; which means, that an act of falsehood or 
 roguery that some of their roguish predecessors 
 have already done, therefore may be done 
 again. Then comes the clergy to sanctify those 
 proceedings, because the church and state are 
 one, and because the king is only God's lieute- 
 nant, and the whole is consummated by the vir- 
 tuous, true, and upright representatives of the 
 people, that we have the glory and happiness to 
 live under. Nay, Sister Bab, this is the case. 
 But why find fault with poor Rosahne, because 
 she thinks for herself ? Ever since she was a little 
 child she always asked the ''why'' of every thing. 
 Let a child ask ivJiy — leave it alone : only give it 
 a true answer, and it will soon analyse ; and then 
 it will find out the truth; or look for it, if it 
 has not the sharpness to discover it immediately. 
 It certainly is much more difficult to teach a child 
 falsehood than truth ; and that is the reason that
 
 94 
 
 they find education so irksome to them in youth, 
 because all they are taught is in opposition to their 
 pure and innocent reason. I have observed the 
 North-American Indians, who are so far-famed 
 for their pithy, and vrise, and witty sayings. 
 Do you think, Barbara, that they are cleverer 
 than European children? Not at all. But 
 they have never to learn and then to un- 
 learn. They are taught truth, and not ex- 
 travagant fables at first ; all which extravagant 
 fables are to bolster up a sort of mock autho- 
 rity. A soldier is open-hearted and brave, solely 
 because the moment he enters into the army he 
 has but one education. His comrades form him, 
 correct his absurdities : he forms friendships — he 
 obeys but one plain command; and the uncer- 
 tainty of his roving life makes him fear less the 
 loss of that life, than of passing it in dull mono- 
 tony. He is not debased by huckstering ; and 
 though he may occasionally storm a city and 
 plunder it; that, with all its horrors, does not 
 degrade his nature equally to perpetually huck- 
 stering : therefore, he is governed by fine feelings, 
 because selfishness will serve him no turn. You 
 accuse me of giving Rosaline no education. Has 
 she not been tausjht to read and write ! What
 
 95 
 
 would you have, you unreasonable woman ? Must 
 we be taught to think ? That is to put Mrs. Bar- 
 bara's conceits into the head of Miss Rosahne de 
 Vere — that is what you call education. Educa- 
 tion is merely, in my sense, a method of acquiring 
 notions and knowledge. Let the method be 
 good ; and if there be capacity, the knowledge 
 will flow in fast enough, unless you have filled up 
 the receptacle with nonsense and lies. I am a 
 plain, rough, old soldier ; and you must take my 
 letters as they are. You will say, they are mess- 
 room conversation ; well, and I have often been 
 in other societies and heard greater folly talked. 
 I am a little ruffled at your letter ; because my 
 child is the only remaining comfort of my unfor- 
 tunate life. I gaze upon her as my idol ; or, as a 
 devotee does upon the Madona. But I excuse 
 you, dear sister. You have only lived in one 
 circle in London ; and you know nothing of the 
 world. Adieu. 
 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 96 
 
 CLORINDA TO ROSALINE. 
 
 Florence, November 20th. 
 
 Yesterday I accompanied my father to the 
 Cabinet of Natural History. Rinaldo gave me 
 his arm. This was the first day of my new lec- 
 turer. He did it most awkwardly ; he mistook 
 one object for another : his wits appeared quite 
 wandering. He looked down; — was absent: — 
 his manner, usually so frank and easy, was ex- 
 tremely embarrassed ; and we made no progress 
 whatever. I saw nothing — heard nothing — nor 
 could understand any thing. How embarrassment, 
 my dear friend, is catching ! I know not what 
 sort of a flutter I felt ; and seemed to be either in 
 another existence, or to be wrapt up in a sort of 
 atmosphere, that gave me a new existence — a sort 
 of swimming of the senses ; a flutter in my side, 
 attended now and then with pain — throbs as it 
 were ; an unsteadiness of eye, and an uncertainty 
 of speech. Yet I felt, for the first time, a sort of 
 all-powerful protection ; that state of anxiety which 
 gives infinite pleasure ; because, it seems to make 
 us independent of every thing, except that which
 
 97 
 
 gives the security. This we lean upon. This 
 unaccountable something renders the rest of the 
 world indifferent, because we do not seem to want 
 it. But all these sensations are attended with 
 some sort of alarm — a gentle alarm I grant. They 
 say, that short absences re-invigorate love ; and 
 that long ones destroy it. But, dearest Rosaline, 
 I am ashamed to write to you in this strain ; it is 
 quite unbecoming. But you have acquired such 
 an ascendancy over me, that I must write to you ; 
 and if I proceed to force ftiy pen, I am sure it 
 would write nothing else. I can neither bear 
 facts now, nor reasoning. I take up my books — 
 think I am reading ; but my eyes gaze on vacancy, 
 and the book falls from my hand. I am uneasy 
 about the time — I count the clock — I walk about — 
 sit down — talk to myself, and all without knowing 
 well what I am about. What does this mean ? 
 Why cannot I collect my wits? You are a great 
 philosopher, Rosaline ; I wish you were at my 
 elbow, to tell me what all this means. You would 
 give me a learned dissertation upon sympathies 
 and antipathies. Why do I loathe the sight of 
 
 , and think of nothing else but ? I 
 
 dare not write the name, because I begin to blush 
 to myself. Blushing is a sure monitor, though 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 
 
 not a secret one ; though I am now alone, I feel 
 a tingle — aye, and as abashed as if a whole socie- 
 ty were looking upon me. Is not this singular ? 
 Sometimes I have felt shame when I have thought 
 of some silly thing that I have said, or of a foolish 
 figure that I have made a year ago. Memory 
 brings the scene present to us again. Oh ! is 
 not this the buds or blossom of that passion that 
 may hereafter devour my whole being ? Its ex- 
 pression is now retained by bashfulness. But 
 when it becomes a full blown sunflower, it will 
 turn upon the sun — its god, that commands it. 
 Novels and romances tell me that women creep by 
 degrees into love ; whilst man, more impetuous, 
 plunges into it at once headlong, reckless of every 
 consequence. But, ah I alas ! when its influence 
 is over with him, it then begins to lay hold of our 
 being ; and if sympathy does not continue, what 
 a frightful chasm yawns between the two ! Oh 1 
 state most horrible ! Not to be endured : — but 
 endured often, until madness or death closes the 
 scene. But I have not that inspiration in me 
 that makes me prognosticate the future. I am 
 sure it is the highest order of beings only that 
 have that faculty ; and that, I have heard you say, 
 is the reason that makes such sensitive people
 
 99 
 
 often so melancholy. I have also heard you say — 
 (but is not this a fancy of yours, Rosaline ?) that 
 there is something melancholy and sinister in the 
 countenance of those who have premature me- 
 lancholy and sinister destinies. I have heard you 
 quote these lines of that feeling poet who says : 
 
 " And coming events cast their shadows before !" 
 
 I think it is Campbell of all your English poets of 
 the present day ; he is the least open to criticism. 
 Because he is the most correct ; and at the same 
 time he possesses an high toned sentiment, that 
 touches the heart and thrills the soul. What is 
 poetry, if it does not accomplish this ? There are 
 many good verse makers, but few poets. I have 
 heard you say, that Milton said of Dryden, " that 
 he was a good rhymer, but no poet ;" and you 
 added, that you did not think that criticism too 
 severe. Dryden argues admirably in verse, but 
 that is not poetry. But you have given me great 
 comfort, you Sybil ; you have said that I resem- 
 ble the Juditha of Alhora in the Pitti Palace, 
 What a compliment ! That I have a principle of 
 warm, strong, sensitive life, that will resist the 
 deepest sinister destinies. You have sighed in 
 making the conti'ast between me and yourself. I 
 u2
 
 100 
 
 have not such a deep reach as you have, nor can 
 I see so far before me : that is, I am not so much 
 in affinity with the high intellectual atmosphere 
 that you always insist surrounds us, but more in 
 a warm sensitive atmosphere. It is not so rapidly 
 perishing as the other ; but I have got into the 
 highest mysteries of nature. You say that all our 
 different beings are modified differently; and 
 that the moral and physical atmosphere that sur- 
 rounds us, does not act with more or less force 
 upon us, but we receive the impressions differently, 
 accordingly as we are formed. Therefore, a per- 
 son like you or like me would receive different 
 impressions from a third person, whether man or 
 woman : that is to say, with regard to the love of 
 one, and the friendship of the other. But love 
 with me is ardent, perpetual anxiety. I must have 
 the object present to me. I cannot love, as you do, 
 in recollection — upon anticipations;, but that per- 
 petual support to lean upon — that truth, and free 
 intercourse — that blind and submissive attention — 
 that obedience to every wish, every caprice must 
 be attended to ; fixed upon one sole object, for the 
 whole world now becomes indifferent to me. But 
 if I lose that object, I lose the world. Well then, 
 this constitutes surely, a necessity — a destiny — a
 
 101 
 
 fate. Then we cannot help ourselves. I mtist 
 hate, and I must like. What can I do ? I must 
 then fear my mother, and I must have a confidence 
 in my father. I must then loathe the very sight 
 
 '. f and delight in the presence of . Well 
 
 then, I cannot help writing to you all I feel. 
 Why should I tease myself? Things will take 
 their course. Not having such an energetic 
 mind as you have, I cannot comprehend the vital 
 principle absolute ; or, that we are the centre of 
 our being. I therefore pray to an all-protecting 
 Providence to take care of me ; and the habits 
 of my childhood direct that prayer through the 
 intercession of the Madona. At all events, philo- 
 sopher as you are, you must admit that we have 
 been happy in the mythology of our religion ; — 
 that we have constantly before our eyes, two of 
 the most beautiful objects in being — a young 
 woman and a young child. They say, this was 
 a continuation of Venus and Cupid. Well, the 
 same idea then struck our Roman ancestors, 
 the Greeks before them ; and the Phoenicians, 
 possibly, b -fore them. I have forced myself 
 into the discussion, to forget a little what my 
 letter began about, and to settle my spirits before
 
 102 
 
 I go to dinner ; because, as he generally dines 
 here, I must neither show him [nor the rest what 
 occupies me most. 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend, 
 
 Clorinda. 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, December 15th. 
 
 Your letter gave me great satisfaction. I 
 highly approve of your choice, in many respects ; 
 although I most anxiously recommend you to 
 precipitate no measures. 
 
 It is certainly, viewing this matter calmly, a cir- 
 cumstance highly praiseworthy and disinterested 
 in you to reject so advantageous a match in every 
 point of view, for your intended has many qualifi- 
 cations, that most women would be dehghted 
 with, and think themselves highly flattered by. 
 He is handsome, young, rich, of an excellent fa- 
 mily ; yet, with all these advantages, you not only 
 reject, but have a perfect aversion for him, and 
 are weaned from the whole of your family and
 
 103 
 
 connexions, who take his part. This latter is 
 natural enough. But I am not surprised that 
 your mother, who is not in love, should be highly 
 displeased. Certainly our sympathies are most 
 unaccountable. I should never have thought 
 that Rinaldo would have ever made an effect 
 upon so lively a girl as you. He is extremely 
 thoughtful and studious — absorbed in politics, I 
 may say devoted to them, — they are his ruling 
 passion. His countenance, though strong and 
 marked, possesses none of the playfulness of his 
 rivals, except being bold and graceful on horse- 
 back. He is utterly devoid of what are called 
 accomplishments, — ^despises music and dancing. 
 There is a steady glare in his eye, that marks an 
 unyielding stubbornness of purpose. Those eyes 
 are the very contrast of his countrymen : instead 
 of being full and black, are sharp and grey. 
 But I own they look as if they would not blink, 
 if he were burning at the stake for his opinions. 
 He seldom speaks upon trifling or amusing sub- 
 jects, and his smile is contemptuous and sarcastic. 
 Though his territory is extensive, his fortune is 
 small ; and as I have heard him say, among the 
 most rugged of the mountains of the Romagna. 
 I fear you will be wretchedly housed in an old
 
 104 
 
 tattered palace at Ravenna. How will the gay 
 Florentine submit to this? Her caro sposo 
 poring all the morning over the German philoso- 
 phers, and the liveliest book in the house, Hobbes's 
 Leviathan; plotting, indeed, all the evening to 
 shake off the yoke under which his country 
 groans, but exposed to become the prey of the fil- 
 thiest vermin that crawl, spies and informers, and 
 who infect all societies, with the humble prospect 
 of the carcere durissimo, or the condemned 
 prison, where he is to end a wretched life, be- 
 cause the cruellest of all despotism is the most 
 dastardly, and dare not attempt a public execu- 
 tion, but murder their victims in a narrow cell, 
 with overpowering chains, mouldy bread, tainted 
 water, mildew and damp. Oh ! Clorinda, what a 
 brave heart thou hast ! to look forward to these 
 contingencies. Oh ! Rinaldo, yonv character is 
 worthy of the sternness of the middle ages. Oh ! 
 dear Italy! despotism and torture must be the 
 stern nurses that will train your rising youth. 
 The steel of their chains must enter into their 
 souls, and nerve their hands to wield the sword 
 of victory or the avenging dagger of defeat. Oh ! 
 that the captive's sighs may, loud and deep, be 
 carried on the bleak north winds from the Alps,
 
 105 
 
 and sweep on every side to the ocean, until their 
 murmurs, rising louder and louder, shall, like the 
 last trumpet, raise a prostrate people from their 
 living tombs, to inflict vengeance on their bar- 
 barous oppressors. Oh ! that then the accents 
 and acclaims of victory may swell, until they drown 
 the fierce tempest of the Apennines, and hush 
 the roar of the surrounding ocean. That Italy 
 may then exclaim, " Oh ! death, where is thy 
 sting ? Oh ! grave, where is thy victory ?" Me- 
 thinks then I shall see the vision of the genius of 
 her ancient glory standing on the headless trunk 
 of barbarian liberticides, the Hght of her bloom- 
 ing countenance dispelling the clouds of the long 
 dark night, during which she has slumbered, 
 fretted, and disturbed by only occasional and 
 partial dreams of liberty. Oh ! Clorinda, these 
 are my orisons, these are my votive offerings. 
 Beware, thou unhappy maiden, what dismal des- 
 tinies you may have to encounter. The quiet 
 and staid government of reason that presides in 
 this land, prescribes for our countryi .en a less 
 brilhant, less hazardous range of exertion. Sel- 
 fishness and corruption are what they have to 
 guard against, and to combat. In England, far- 
 spread intelligence precludes the necessity of the
 
 106 
 
 appeal to arms. The sword here yields to the 
 pen, and to the tongue. Inward shame and pub- 
 lic scorn are the dungeons in which England 
 imprisons liber ticides. The melancholy fore- 
 bodings of my destinies are my future struggle 
 with the hard-hearted fate. For here our state 
 is such, that our greatest misfortunes are domes- 
 tic — whatsoever pride and exultation we have are 
 national. Here our contest is intellectual. With 
 you, I fear you must pass through a fiery ordeal. 
 The priesthood have regenerated you with a 
 baptism of water ; but you must regenerate your- 
 selves with a baptism of blood. Sybil like, I have 
 been oracular; these thoughts oppress me at 
 present ; I can say no more. Clorinda, have you 
 the sternness of Lady Macbeth! Then strive 
 to unite your fortunes to Rinaldo. Read for me 
 that most divine effusion of our divinest poet, the 
 great Milton, must excuse me for this apostrophe ; 
 for though his mighty genius went forth clothed 
 in robes embroidered by the purest gold of antient 
 lore, Shakspeare fires more my fancy, covered 
 with the patchwork tattered garment of nature. 
 But there is surely an era in the moral as well 
 as in the physical world ; there is no accelerating 
 it ; there is no staying it ; it cometh when it
 
 107 
 
 listeth. This era, this end, this determinate 
 moment of time, marking a point on the circle of 
 eternity, — makes its stay at this generation, or 
 at that — rouses this generation, or that — raises 
 the whirlwind of the loftiest passions. Glorious 
 will he the era of Italy! Sweet even for the 
 blessed martyrs of her liberty to obtain their re- 
 generation, though by the baptism of their blood. 
 Adieu, my Clorinda, 
 
 Rosaline. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 Bath, December 17th. 
 
 My letter had already gone, when I found I 
 had omitted to observe on one of the most re- 
 markable points of it. — " Your prayers to all-pro- 
 tecting Providence." This is the most important 
 part in our whole existence ; because, even our 
 existence is contained in it. We are not certain 
 of life for an instant. How, then, can we be cer- 
 tain of what Hfe contains ? The globe that we
 
 108 
 
 stand upon is irresistibly whirled round the sun, 
 and all subordinate motion is as irresistible as that 
 grand one, because all depend upon it. Our vi- 
 tality, nay, the particles that form the globe, and 
 all upon its surface, are held together by that 
 movement. Necessity is thus estabhshed, in all 
 things, except ideahsm. But that dances here 
 and there out of this globe, because our ideas are 
 boundless ; and they flit only and play around our 
 existence, but form no part of its reality ; but that 
 great unknown power that invariably directs all 
 things, is unsearched and unsearchable, whatever 
 its designation may be, whether It or Hhriy or 
 they the fates, we know not. For we can have 
 no experience, but an awful conclusion of its ex- 
 istence. We see it pouring forth life. We see 
 it scattering death. We see it gladdening the 
 heart with joy, desolating it with sorrow, and 
 sickening it with disappointment. Our fancy 
 strives to effect our escape, but our reality is 
 seized every moment by the iron grasp of fate — 
 unsparing, certain, immediate, and irresistible. 
 In realism, we are as free as a stone to roll from 
 the mountain-top, or water to flow downwards ; 
 for the laws which cause this, modify and direct 
 our march. Fate directs the murderer's knife.
 
 109 
 
 and fate the witness's testimony, the juryman's ver- 
 dict, and the judge's sentence ; justice, virtue, and 
 vice, are the colours, then, of our intellectual rain- 
 bow. In the insolence of our fancy, we swell 
 ourselves into demi-gods ; nay, we climb up into 
 Heaven, and sit by the fates themselves. We as- 
 sist at the banquet of the immortal gods, but fate 
 comes and gives us a blow, that stuns us for our 
 presumption, and we discover that we are very 
 mortals. But will the inexorable hand of fate be 
 set aside? Will the earth run off its course, or 
 will the sun cease to shine? Will the eternal 
 stop ? Vain and foolish man ! Keep these fancies 
 for your oratory, but bring them not into social 
 life, to tease and fret your neighbours, to put your 
 foot on their necks, and ^trample them to the 
 earth, and rise upon your own roguery and their 
 baseness. Yes, Clorinda, supplicate the Madona. 
 But she lies between your conscience and the 
 Great Eternal. Bring her not into action, for 
 perchance you may saddle her with your own 
 faults. For even the Eternal has been saddled 
 with the faults of men, and by men ! Who are 
 the blasphemers, then ? They who have made 
 his name the pass-word for their selfishness ; that 
 is, their crimes. Clorinda, on mystical subjects,
 
 110 
 
 our language must be mystical too. Keep your 
 mind free, keep your heart true, and then smile 
 on fate. Believe me, something whispers me, of 
 all our ills, death is the most tolerable, for then 
 we shall gently repose in the bosom of our mother 
 earth. Adieu, Clorinda. When you are per- 
 plexed with these earthly considerations, which 
 are sufficiently humiliating, fly into pure idealism; 
 then riot in your transient fancy ; then find free- 
 dom, and leave fate far behind; then you leap 
 over the bounds of time and space. Adieu, dearest 
 friend. 
 
 Rosaline. 
 
 CLORINDA TO ROSALINE. 
 
 Florence, December 5th. 
 
 My embarrassment increases my difficulties ; I 
 can hardly conceal the one ; how then am I to 
 escape the other ? Rinaldo has found opportuni- 
 ties to open his mind to me. Nothing positive 
 passed; but we understood each other. Alas! 
 that others may not understand us too, and see
 
 Ill 
 
 too clearly into our thoughts. He disclosed to 
 me the cause of his exile. He stands on the fear- 
 ful brink of a precipice ; but I have seized him 
 already by the hand ; if he is precipitated head- 
 long, I follow. Oh Rosaline! my fortunes are 
 more rapidly advancing than yours ; they are less 
 ideal, but they encompass me on every side. I am 
 silent and sullen in society. Whenever I am 
 addressed, I hardly answer ; and when I do, the 
 responses are vague, muttering and unsatisfactory. 
 I artfully mention occasionally Pietro's name, to 
 put them oiF the true scent. But my mother and 
 the Abbate are not such novices in the world to 
 be long deceived. Rinaldo is not his own master ; 
 he is watched by the police ; his fortune is seques- 
 trated ; his means of existence as to money are 
 very limited ; where can he fly, and how can he 
 subsist ? No, I am destined to linger — the very 
 causes of his distress animate me, they heighten 
 the interest that I take in him, and warm my heart 
 that now beats against my side as if it would burst 
 its tenement. 
 
 He has given me the whole progress of his opi- 
 nions, his feelings, and consequently his difficul- 
 ties — nay, his persecution ; he has let me into a 
 new scene of life. You, my friend, treated of
 
 112 
 
 these matters in general terms. Your theory he 
 has explained practically, for he is the victim. I, 
 who never heard of tyrants before, but in history, 
 in poetry, now begin to feel that such odious 
 monsters exist. They are more horrible than the 
 monsters which Hercules slew, because they are 
 clothed in the garb of humanity ; they assume a 
 human shape, and they roam about, not for their 
 food, like the tigers and lions of the desert, yet 
 are they as sanguinary, and more malignant. Last 
 night was full of terrors for me; I passed it, 
 feverish and alarmed ; every shaking of the win- 
 dow terrified me. I tossed and turned, and could 
 find no rest. My slumbers were broken, and my 
 dreams startling. I felt that I was falling, falling 
 from an immense height, and that when down, 
 I was stuck so fast in the earth that I could not 
 disengage myself any more. I awoke in a shud- 
 der—a cold sweat overspread my limbs. Is not 
 this a forecast of the future ? Why should we 
 not have presentiments ? I know you believe in 
 surprising turns of fortune : the great science of 
 history instructs us in it. What else is it, says 
 Pietro Perruvini, who is so learned, but a sketch 
 of fortunes ? — he says that men who are fortunate 
 in their youth, seldom are so in their age ; and
 
 113 
 
 early misfortunes end in subsequent happiness. 
 How glorious it is to feel that fortune may ever 
 favour us, that she may take a sudden turn with 
 us at a moment ! An instant since, a dark shower 
 obscured my window, I could scarcely see, the rain 
 pelted against it as in anger ; now I have a gleam 
 of sunshine. This is the picture of my position. 
 Oh ! Sybil, you do say truly, when you say that 
 we are led by an invisible hand. Pardon this 
 digression. Let me go on with my narrative. 
 Why did I shudder ? Morning soon dawned. I 
 determined to seek refuge in the church. I thought 
 it an age until the hour of mass arrived. I took 
 la Josephina, as usual, and went with hasty steps 
 to the Santo Spirito. It is not so frequented as 
 the Santa Trinita, which is more the Sunday 
 church of good company. The obscurity of the 
 situation of the other pleased me more. Rosa- 
 line, for half an hour, I forgot you : I remembered 
 not the oracular Sybil. I substituted providence 
 for fate. I contemplated the Madona ; in warm 
 and fervent strains I implored her intercession; 
 my heart was filled. I fancied the Majesty of 
 heaven heard my pious petition. At all events, I 
 rose from my devotion with a feehng of satisfac- 
 tion and delight that I had not felt for twenty-four 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 
 
 hours before. My heart was hghter as I returned, 
 and I met my mother with a more cheerful coun- 
 tenance ; but not Rinaldo with less embarrass- 
 ment. My happiness was for a while so great, 
 that I did not envy your strength of mind, that 
 can stand unshaken and alone in the midst of 
 human contingencies. Yet the Abbate does not 
 think that I am sufficiently religious, because I 
 cannot give into forms. Mine is the religion of 
 the heart. Yet with the two objects that now 
 affect me most I have sufficient friendship left to 
 subscribe myself, unalterably yours, 
 
 Clorinda. 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, December 19th. 
 
 You do me great injustice in your last, my 
 dearest friend, when you say that you forgot 
 Rosaline for half an hour at the shrine of the 
 Madona. Why should you not forget her ? 
 You mistake her quite. She is not dogmatic. 
 She insists upon none following her opinions, her 
 views. She objects to no flights of fancy, to no 
 ideal speculation ; to no mystical comfort, to no
 
 115 
 
 version of eternal power, or mode of propitiation 
 of that power. Really you do me injustice, and 
 seem to charge the same fault upon me that I so 
 strongly condemn in others ; that is, of being 
 dogmatical, of striving to force my opinions upon 
 others. I never object to any sort or set of 
 opinions that do not interfere with civil or political 
 liberty. I pique myself upon being eminently 
 tolerant : I ask for the same toleration for my own 
 opinions. My views may be different from others. 
 But all mankind in their senses acknowledoe a 
 Superior Power, because their experience teaches 
 them that they are called into life and hurled into 
 death; because they feel ills and benefits for 
 w^hich they cannot account; and because they 
 have daily experience of the uncertainty of human 
 affairs. To deny that Superior Power would be 
 to deny our own existence, which would amount 
 to universal negation. If we possessed power 
 ourselves, we never should choose to die. We 
 should have all benefit, and no ills, and there would 
 be no difiiculties to contend with, because all 
 would be certainty. In fact our reahsm would be 
 as free as our idealism. Now this not being the 
 condition of human nature, and the denying or 
 avowal of God being one and the same thing, 
 
 T ^
 
 116 
 
 seeing every instant that we do acknowledge a 
 Supreme Power, a destiny, why should I object 
 to any one forming, or naming, or conceiving, or 
 modifying that Supreme in any shape that their 
 ideas may choose to give it? Why should I 
 object to the immortal gods of the ancients ; to 
 the Trinity of the moderns ; to the Jehovah of 
 the Jews ; to the Manitou of the North American 
 Indians ; to the grand Lama ; to the cause of the 
 causes of Cicero ; the great unknown of the Chi- 
 nese ; the Madona of Clorinda, and the vital 
 principle absolute of Rosaline ? Does not sound 
 logic teach me that nature, fate, fortune, provi- 
 dence, eternal direction, cause, omnipotent will, 
 are all synonimous terms ; and that mankind have 
 in all ages personified them, sometimes into one 
 deity, sometimes into more, as the symbols of mere 
 terms. The essences then of original power are 
 all of them synthetical, that is, a compound. The 
 personifications are the symbols, and therefore 
 various. So Jupiter was the symbol of the Su- 
 preme Power concluded by the ancients. They 
 then divided and subdivided this primary power 
 down to the gods of cross-ways, then to demigods 
 and deified heroes. These the Christian church 
 adopted, and called martyrs and saints. The
 
 117 
 
 whole, then, is founded upon the same basis, viz. 
 the forced, necessary, immutable acknowledgment 
 by man of superior power to himself, whether he 
 denies God or not, which means, in other words, 
 whether his idea of the supreme power coincides 
 with the ideas of (superior power to himself) con- 
 cluded by another man. Now some Dominican 
 friar, some God-fearing Calvinist, some evangelical 
 methodist will say that I am denying revelation. 
 Let them show me what revelation is ; let them 
 give me a better or a more general definition of 
 revelation than I can give them. I hold, therefore, 
 that revelation is the synthesis between our expe- 
 rience and our reason. Our reason teaching a 
 supreme power ; our experience, the necessity 
 of obeying it. That is, between our practical 
 reason and our theoretical reason; for in our 
 practical reason we personify the synonimous 
 terms of universal eternal power and moral 
 laws. Consequent upon laws are rewards and 
 punishments ; in our practical reason, therefore, 
 we impose conditions; these conditions are de- 
 duced from conventions ; therefore practical rea- 
 son, (viz. that in which is contained our duty) forms 
 a convention, and then a connexion with theoretical 
 reason, where we find the basis whereupon the con-
 
 118 
 
 viention is fixed, that is, God. Let them then 
 trace more clearly the origin of revelation than 
 this. But then they say I do not personify the 
 forms of this argument. I have no objection to 
 the personification of forms ; they render things 
 more easily understood by the multitude, who are 
 wearied and alarmed at abstract deductions. 
 Practical reason has in all ages personified the 
 moral lawgiver, and deified him. Apollo gave 
 the Greeks their laws ; that is, in other words, 
 practical reason has personified theoretical rea- 
 son. Now, as both these sorts of reason are con- 
 tained in our own breast as they emanate from our 
 brain, and are nurtured in our breasts. They 
 have been stamped with our own image. All 
 existence having been stamped in our own ex- 
 istence. For the stupidest blockhead that ever 
 pretended to think cannot assume that we view 
 things out of ourselves, because that would be as 
 much as to say that we thought in other people 
 and in other things, and not in our mind, and ob- 
 tained not knowledge through our own sensations. 
 A thing to exist positively to us must exist in us. 
 That is to say, we must have an intuition of it. 
 One or moreof the senses must come into contact 
 with it. Then we become the receptacles, we re-
 
 119 
 
 ceive it. What is our first impression? — that we 
 meet with power greater than our own. A man 
 then may deny God, but he cannot deny tliis pro- 
 position. Therefore I have proved my proposi- 
 tion, that the denial or avowal of God comes to 
 one and the same thing : that is, we deny the 
 terms on which supreme power is expressed, or 
 the name whereby it is designated ; therefore, 
 though relative atheism may exist, that is, one 
 man denying the god of another man, j^ositive 
 atheism cannot exist, because no man can deny 
 his own god without denying his own existence. 
 Well then, Clorinda, what is the corollary ? Uni- 
 versal toleration. Because who is to decide 
 between one man's symbol or another of Uni- 
 versal Power? that is, between one man's god 
 and another's. If we could go to one common 
 umpire, and ask of him, which symbol was right, 
 then which religion was true, and we were all 
 agreed to abide by his decision, then the conse- 
 quence would be that that decision should be 
 adopted and the others would be rejected. Hence 
 would be the intolerance of them. But there is 
 no such umpire — Where are we to find him? 
 There may be pretenders to such a place, but if 
 we are not all agreed to choose him for umpire,
 
 120 
 
 it is the same as if he did not pretend. The um- 
 pire then hes in every one's own breast. What 
 folly then in civil or political power to peep into 
 our breasts and say, No, the umpire shall not 
 rest here as to religious symbols, but on our laws. 
 This is tyranny with a vengeance. For though 
 the law ecclesiastical of a state is contained in the 
 civil law, yet to vex people with the exertion of it, 
 is to invade their most sacred property, that to 
 which they hold to more than their actual proper- 
 ty. So that every one holds more to his symbol 
 of universal power, to his fears and hopes thereon 
 depending, than he does to his civil liberty or his 
 real property. The first basis of liberty therefore 
 in a state is the recognition of every one's right, 
 not to be disturbed in this particular. So is it 
 persecution for one man to dictate to another 
 what his symbol shall be, and moreover rank folly, 
 because the symbol is there in spite of himself. 
 Then all the men, who have been punished with 
 death on account of their religious opinions, from 
 Socrates down to the present day, were so because 
 their minds could not (because here would and 
 could are one and the same) adopt the symbol of 
 other men. Can any thing more absurd exist 
 among rational or reasoning creatures ? As soon
 
 121 
 
 therefore as mankind have imagined their symbols, 
 and established their system upon the supposition 
 of the existence of these symbols, their personifi- 
 cation and deification of power absolute, they 
 insist on others adopting them, and propagate 
 with fire and sword, and when that cannot be 
 done, with mahgnity, insolence, pride, throughout 
 the world, their systems. They are all alike, and 
 no one can reasonably see the slightest distinc- 
 tion between any one. All are equally intolerant, 
 because they are equally absurd and contradic- 
 tory. For in proportion as they want logic to 
 support them, in the same proportion they appeal 
 to force, they talk of one being more enlightened 
 than another, as if pure feehng could be enlight- 
 ened ! But this would never have taken place 
 had it not been for the roguery of civil govern- 
 ment, and the selfishness of its supporters, and 
 the ignorance of the multitude. Excuse me, 
 Clorinda, you touched me on a tender point. You 
 accused me of intolerance. Proceed — Supplicate 
 the Madona, if she yields you comfort. Follow 
 whatever your feelings dictate — Let every one 
 follow theirs. Beheve me, nothing would shock 
 me more than the least suspicion of intolerance. 
 I shudder at the bare notion. My frame is in a
 
 122 
 
 tremor when I hear of an intolerant person.. Uni- 
 versal toleration is the mother of charity : it is the 
 expansion of the heart. Let the gloomy Calvinist 
 enjoy the delightful pleasure of the thoughts of 
 reprobation and election. Let him feel the ecstatic 
 thrill of eternal damnation. On the other hand, he 
 whose mind misgives him that death is an eternal 
 sleep, finds his comfort also. The Catholic runs 
 the gauntlet through his sins in purgatory, and 
 then escapes into Paradise. Why should they 
 not have all their fancies ? I am a spiritualist, and 
 feel that I belong to that region — we have all our 
 narrow views. They all form part of the univer- 
 sal rehgion, which means that mankind acknow- 
 ledge a power superior to their own, and then 
 personify it. Having so done, from convention 
 with it, and fix its laws in their own breasts. 
 Then from the uncertainty of their lives, from 
 more ills than benefits befalling them, indulge in 
 hope, then carry hope to the absolute — that is, 
 form a sort of notion of hope extended and ab- 
 stracted from our positive being, which imme- 
 diately furnishes the idea of immortality. These 
 then are the seeds of particular religion or posi- 
 tive, as it is so called. But the whole is contained 
 in this proposition, — " That we are led by an in-
 
 123 
 
 visible hand." Now what does all this end in ? 
 Three distinct systems : that of the positive reli- 
 gionists ; that is, those who adhere to some form 
 or dogmas, which is enforced by the laws of states; 
 secondly, the spiritualists, which are the contem- 
 plative philosophers, who understand the essences 
 of things and can separate and distinguish them; 
 thirdly, the materialists, who can do little but from 
 experience, and v.ho do not analyse deeply. So 
 mankind is divided between these three classes. 
 The ignorant, the thoughtless, or the unlearned 
 belong to the first, namely, the positive religion- 
 ists — the contemplative and sentimental, to the 
 second — and the practical, experimental forms 
 the third. The first teach God and immortality 
 and moral laws, from dogmas ; that is, from au- 
 thority. The second teach these three proposi- 
 tions from pure reason and sentiment. The third 
 deny these categories altogether, and hold to no- 
 thing but experience, denying intention or im- 
 pulse, which is that self-moving power that con- 
 stitutes philosophical free-will, and yet the will 
 may be compared to small circles described within 
 the scope of destiny. 
 
 Toleration ! toleration ! toleration is my motto. 
 I am accustomed to these speculations, Clorinda,
 
 124 
 
 and none of them alarm me. The uncertainty of 
 hfe makes it unhappy enough, without adding the 
 additional gratuitous misery to it, of being intole- 
 rant of the ideas of others, because it all comes to 
 ideas at last ; for symbols are contained in ideas. 
 It is full time that my pen should now come to an 
 anchor, after the lecture that I have given you. 
 Notwithstanding which I embrace you with all 
 my heart. 
 
 Rosaline. 
 
 SIR ARTHUR ATHERSTONE TO MISS DE VERE. 
 
 Bath, December 20th. 
 Madam, 
 
 Having the honour and delight to 
 live exclusively in your society, your receipt of 
 this letter will at once intimate to you its purport. 
 I confess that the style of your conversation, your 
 generally reserved and almost solitary deportment 
 has rendered it impossible for me to approach you 
 in any manner at all particular in any other guise. 
 The reverential awe, with which Miss de Vere's 
 talents and mind have hitherto struck me, has pre-
 
 125 
 
 vented me making those advances, which not only 
 the habits of the world require, but which seem 
 to be the most respectful, the most correct mode 
 of offering to lay every thing I possess at her feet, 
 and a heart not only captivated, but an under- 
 standing bewildered by her superior powers. In- 
 dividually, I may not feel worthy of such a prize ; 
 nay, it may be great presumption to pretend to it; 
 yet I feel that I have this satisfaction, that I have 
 rendered the highest tribute, by this offer, to her 
 worth and excellence. Let not the shortness of 
 the time of our acquaintance bar my solicitations. 
 It can only prove rashness ; and rashness in such 
 a cause is enthusiasm ; and eYithusiasm, the high- 
 est devotion. I have attempted the chariot of the 
 sun. My fall will not be inglorious ; the towering 
 height of my ambition will preclude that judg- 
 ment. 
 
 With trembling anxiety, awaiting my doom, 
 I have the honour most respectfully 
 To subscribe myself 
 
 Your most devoted, 
 
 Arthur Atherstone.
 
 126 
 
 MISS DE VERE TO SIR A. ATHERSTONE. 
 
 Bath, December 20th. 
 I SHOULD be guilty of injustice to you, Sir Ar- 
 thur, were I to delay one moment answering a 
 letter that has quite astonished me. For I must 
 observe that after feeling exceedingly flattered 
 and gratified by the high compliment in itself, 
 (which every woman delights in,) after blushing 
 for the very civil, and, I may say, exaggerated 
 compliments contained in the strain of devotion in 
 which it is written — notwithstanding all these 
 circumstances, I must declare that my astonish- 
 ment is great, because this letter is the first, nay, 
 the slightest intimation that I have had, of the 
 most distant inclination on your part, to take so 
 serious a step. Hitherto I have not received 
 the slightest intimation of it, from your manner or 
 opinions, and I must say it is taking me rather by 
 surprize upon the most important procedure of 
 both our fives. Had not I other objections at this 
 moment for so essentially changing the state that 
 I am in, this undoubtedly would induce me to 
 pause. Your offer is as advantageous as it is 
 flattering, and far beyond my poor deserts. But 
 that high independence of soul, which I feel
 
 127 
 
 I possess, makes me strive my utmost to resist 
 new and extraordinary destinies. Alas ! the Fates 
 may overcome me at last, but I have no right to 
 tinge my letter with my habitual melancholy. Ac- 
 cept, my dear sir, my warmest thanks for your 
 high compliment, and my fullest acknowledgments 
 of the handsome form in which they were ex- 
 pressed, and believe me to remain. 
 
 Most truly and sincerely yours, 
 
 ROSALTNE DE VeRE. 
 
 SIR A. A. TO MRS. BARBARA BELMONT. 
 
 Marlborough, December 21st. 
 
 I HAVE to apologise, my dear Mrs. Belmont, for 
 my sudden departure from Bath, without even 
 asking your permission or taking your orders. But 
 an affair that I have been engaged in, taking an 
 unexpected turn, causes me to go to town imme- 
 diately. I slept here last night, and I hasten to 
 acquaint you from this place of the reason of my 
 apparent inattention. 
 
 I remain, &c. &c. 
 
 A. A.
 
 128 
 
 ROSALINE TO HER FATHER. 
 
 Bath, December 21st. 
 
 I ENCLOSE for my dearest father two letters, 
 which are sufficiently plainly written 'to require no 
 fuller explanation. I am aware that he may think 
 I have taken a hasty step in rejecting what the 
 world calls so advantageous a match. A perfectly 
 amiable, well-bred gentleman, good-looking, well- 
 informed, of an excellent family, and fifteen thou- 
 sand a year clear, and an old family estate. 
 Surely, my dearest father, this may startle you, 
 and make you for a moment a little vexed with 
 me. You will say that I am whimsical. No : but 
 my heart was not filled, and our destinies are 
 never accomplished until our heart is full ; then 
 we are irresistibly driven. I have not been driven. 
 Therefore it is clear, that in the book of fate, this 
 step was not marked. Why should I apologise 
 for following my destiny; for submitting to my 
 fate ? I take neither blame nor praise for it. But 
 I should take great blame in not acquainting you 
 with what has passed, even at the risk of dis- 
 pleasing you. For my first duty towards you, is
 
 129 
 
 implicit confidence, no reserve, whatever risks I 
 may incur by such frankness. My aunt is ex- 
 tremely curious to know what has passed, and the 
 reason of Sir Arthur's sudden departure. Of 
 course she shall never know any thing of this 
 from me ; and to you alone the confidence, with 
 propriety, could be made. I have but one re- 
 quest to make to my dearest father ; that is, as 
 my determination is immoveable, to abstain, if 
 possible, from giving me any reply upon this sub- 
 ject, and let it rest for ever in oblivion. This is 
 the earnest wish and hope of his most devoted. 
 Most affectionate 
 
 And dutiful Daughter, 
 
 Rosaline. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 130 
 
 MRS. BARBARA BELMONT TO SIR A. ATHERSTONE. 
 
 Bath, December 22d. 
 
 " What means this tumult in a Vestal's veins ?" 
 what flown, my dear Sir Arthur ? what mishap do 
 you fear, or has occurred? Really I should 
 think, that you had been proposing to marry my 
 niece, and that she had rejected you ; but for one 
 convincing reason: she maintains her usual 
 manner. She neither exults, nor appears agi- 
 tated. She gives no hints ; no little female vanity 
 comes out ; no little mysterious looks ; no inward 
 calculation, counting of fingers, or talking to her- 
 self, — all symptoms, when a woman has a secret 
 which she wishes honestly and discreetly to dis- 
 close. No knitting of brows, or abrupt changing 
 of place, or tosses of the head, or hums, or du- 
 bious looks ; all these are the indications of our 
 minds, when something too strong to be locked 
 up in our breasts is striving to make its escape 
 through the feeble doors of our lips. A lady's 
 discretion is but a bad gaoler, her bosom a weak 
 prison, and her tongue a door, the hinges of 
 which are but too well oiled. By the way, let me
 
 131 
 
 give you a piece of advice. Never tell a secret to 
 a married woman, for if she is on good terms with 
 her husband, he is sure to know it. If not, then 
 she has a favourite flirt or admirer, who will ex- 
 tract it. A single woman is more trust-worthy, 
 for we can keep our own secrets from each other. 
 But we like to show superiority in conferring such 
 obhgations upon the men. And telling any thing 
 new and secret gives the narrator a great supe- 
 riority at the moment ; and a reputation either 
 of penetration or confidence reposed in him or 
 them. Kings, they say, have the greatest delight 
 in this particular, and such is their vanity, that 
 they occasionally sacrifice their interests to it, and 
 many a state secret has escaped from this motive. 
 But why are you mysterious with me ? why did 
 you write your note from Marlborough ? I know 
 of no affair that has taken a turn, that should 
 oblige your sudden departure. Indeed I cannot 
 boast of much of your confidence, except as to 
 things most indifferent. You are ready enough 
 to make long dissertations upon your great ac- 
 quirements. Now you have become a great col- 
 lector of books. I must say, for a man of your 
 reputed sense, this is the most expensive and 
 trivial of all pursuits. Great readers are seldom
 
 132 
 
 great collectors of books. They take those that 
 elucidate their studies, and they wisely conclude, 
 that the last edition is the best. Have you flown 
 to town in search of an old manuscript that you 
 will never be able to decypher, or a black-letter 
 first edition of some unintelligible trash that issued 
 from the press, the first year of its invention, and 
 which you are to have cheap for one thousand 
 pounds ? Or do you wish the world to measure 
 the size of your understanding by the size of your 
 library ? I am out of patience with you, Sir Ar- 
 thur. You have such a dawdling uncertainty 
 about you. You are spun out like a modern novel, 
 until all point or pith is lost. 
 
 By the bye, from a word or two that I heard 
 you let fall, I think you would like to marry my 
 niece ; that is to say, you would like to possess 
 her, because she is something superior, as you 
 would one of the most celebrated Claudes, or a 
 Corregio, or a Raphael, or one of your first Dutch 
 editions, to excite the envy of others. Your 
 vanity would be flattered in hearing of Lady 
 Atherstone's praises ; your artists would be more 
 comphmentary than usual, and the making her sit 
 to painters under various characters, would fill up 
 the tedium of a London morning. For you want
 
 133 
 
 excitements even where others find amusements. 
 Eut she will not be your doll, I assure you. And 
 I begin to think that is the principal point of view 
 in which you consider a wife. No, my dear 
 friend, the Sybil, the Cassandra, the Eloise, will 
 require a httle more energy to decide her choice. 
 I know you better than you know yourself, and 
 you never will marry, but for vanity, to hear the 
 praises of your excellent discrimination in your 
 ears. I wish that you were more natural ; but do 
 not attempt roguery, and particularly with me, 
 who know you by heart ; but here I am exciting 
 that very vanity, that I accuse you of having too 
 large a share of. Because you must think, after 
 this letter, that I take a great interest in you. 
 No, indeed, I am only amusing myself. You are 
 an excellent subject to exercise my pen upon, and 
 as we have here a sharp black frost, my pen par- 
 takes a little of the weather. Do not think that 
 you have at all excited my curiosity by your mys- 
 terious note from the road. Far be it from me 
 to pry into your profound secrets, or more pro- 
 found views. I have no doubt but that your 
 schemes will be carried with the success that the 
 eminent projector of them deserves. Whenever
 
 134 
 
 you shall condescend to honour me with your 
 notice or protection, I shall feel highly honoured. 
 In the mean time, believe me, 
 
 Your's truly, 
 
 B. Belmont. 
 
 SIR A. ATHERSTONE TO MRS. B. BELMONT. 
 
 London, December 26th. 
 
 What can your extraordinary epistle mean? 
 Your raillery, dear madam, is rather spiteful. 
 Have I deserved it? Mystery indeed ! Who is 
 mysterious now ? " What means this tumult in 
 a Vestal's veins !" who is the Vestal ? am I ? The 
 metaphor does not fit, methinks. Are you? 
 Doth it fit now ? 
 
 I will answer you as Fainall does to Mirabel : 
 " No, I'll give you your revenge, another time 
 when you are not so indifferent ; you are think- 
 ing of something else now, and play too negli- 
 gently ; the coldness of a losing gamester lessens
 
 135 
 
 the pleasure of the winner. I'd no more play 
 with a -man that slighted his ill fortune, than I 
 would make love to a woman that undervalued 
 the loss of her reputation ;" for, as Mirabel says, 
 *' I have a taste extremely delicate, and am for 
 refining on my pleasure." Dear Mrs. Barbara ! 
 what a strange jumble now perturbs your heated 
 brain! Proposals rejected! No symptom, how- 
 ever, in the lady. Do you think that my 
 memory is so short ? Is all your gay raillery on 
 the marriage state sunk, with me, in oblivion? 
 But I have provoked you. Blessed and happy 
 moment ! Who is indifferent now ? Who wants 
 decision now ? I think the soft zephyrs which 
 fan your swelling breast, waft to my ear these 
 emphatic words, "insolent and provoking crea- 
 ture." I am contented. A despairing admirer 
 of your sex hears these words with as much 
 pleasure as an author reads the bitterest abuse of 
 his work in a review. So we are making some 
 way now. I smitten indeed! with your stoical 
 niece ! I admire her as I do a statue, as an oracle. 
 But marriage has not been set down in my horo- 
 scope. No, Mrs. Belmont, that is our last refuge. 
 Let me first run the risk of being shipwrecked in 
 the storm of love, before I cast anchor in that
 
 136 
 
 haven. I am not yet in such a state of despair 
 as to be driven into the harbour of wedlock. 
 Boys marry for want of experience, whilst young 
 desire fans high love's flame. Men marry through 
 despair, when love's zephyrs begin to blow coldly 
 on them. I steer a middle course. Too old to 
 catch fire; too young to have become jaded. 
 You have put me on my mettle, and I am become 
 epigrammatic. This fencing suits me well ; but I 
 fear a rejoinder from you will demolish me quite. 
 Take my quotation from Congreve, as suits best 
 your humour. In jest or earnest, ironical or true. 
 But whatever fencing we may have, whatever 
 upon this matter my speculative opinions may be, 
 believe me in truth. 
 
 Your most devoted, 
 
 A. Atherstone.
 
 137 
 
 MRS. BARBARA BELMONT TO SIR A. ATHERSTONE. 
 
 Bath, December 28th. 
 
 Your last letter deserves a reply of unmeasured 
 reprehension. It is written in all the insolence of 
 anticipated triumph. You have played between 
 two projects with me — marriage and love ; that is, 
 honour and disgrace. It is come to this pass. 
 Indignation and rage forbid me longer to dis- 
 semble. You have laboured to interest me ; you 
 have drawn me out into a protracted correspon- 
 dence. You are in possession of letters of mine, 
 written with the most innocent freedom. Nay, in 
 some of the first, not doubting the uprightness of 
 my own heart, I may have permitted myself a 
 warmer strain than propriety could justify. Alas! 
 this is ever the case, when a woman of warm feel- 
 ings allows her pen the slightest license. It is 
 but too rapid a conductor from her heart. Her 
 tongue falters and hesitates. Her eyes may 
 sometimes be hypocritical, but her pen is ever 
 true. Not so with the cold-blooded calculating 
 villainy that directs that of the man of gallantry. 
 For his is a very special pleader, takes her at an
 
 138 
 
 advantage, fences with her, and disarms her. 
 The woman who writes is surely undone, for 
 shame, modesty, embarrassment, all which neu- 
 tralize the intensity of personal declarations, here 
 are lost. The unconscious paper blushes not ; 
 the burning words remain. They are flown. 
 How^, then are they to be recalled? How are 
 they to be effaced ? What ungenerous use may 
 be made of them ! The victory is half obtained, 
 for half the shame stands confessed. How we 
 like to put ourselves in your power, to gratify our 
 little vanity, to break in upon the monotony of 
 our existence by sentimental excitation. It is 
 our accursed vanity that sets these springes for 
 us ; we are caught like birds ; then to demand the 
 surrender of these evidences of our foibles ; that 
 is, to break at once, or to have the dreadful alter- 
 native of being refused, that is, to offend, and 
 leave the power of our own punishment in the 
 hands of the offended party. Oh ! ungenerous 
 man ! You would not have written your last in- 
 solent letter, had you not had in your possession 
 those records of my former folly. I broke off; 
 you consented, — submitted, — was respectful ; but 
 you held the records fast. The arrival of my 
 niece renewed the correspondence ; and here am
 
 139 
 
 I again, taunted — insulted. Marriage made a 
 jest. The most sacred ties, — a snare for youth, 
 or a refuge for the destitute in love. This written 
 to me ! — to me indeed ! To one of spotless re- 
 putation — of unblemished purity of conduct. 
 But, alas ! what shall I say ? One, whose over- 
 weening vanity has permitted her to sport with 
 love's most dangerous arrows — unreserved letters. 
 How am I to recal them, or how to forget them ? 
 Is there no honour — no generosity left ? No ap- 
 peal to justice ? Ah ! indeed, where did justice 
 and love ever come together ? Are they ac- 
 quainted? Yes, when the magistrate tacks the 
 sheepish clown to his teeming mistress. I can 
 no more ! Shame, rage, and disappointment swell 
 
 my breast, and arrest my pen. 
 
 B. B. 
 
 m
 
 140 
 
 SIR A. ATHERSTONE TO MRS. B. BELMONT. 
 
 London, December 30tli. 
 
 Ah ! is the gay coquet fixed at last ? Is the 
 flaunting beauty become sober ? Has the ilkision 
 vanished ? So we may he interested. The easy, 
 gay Epicurean, who teaches friendship as a virtue, 
 -finds that it will not always remain " the boundary 
 of the range" of her heart. Friendship! Friend- 
 ship! Thou gay deceiver! Art thou always on 
 an equality? Wilt thou never demand 2i pledge ? 
 Platonics are sickly and moon-stricken ; but your 
 Epicurean friendship will have its pledge. This 
 is nature, dear Madam. Friendship between men 
 ceases to be so when the pledge is demanded. 
 But shew me first, in every particular, the equality 
 of the sexes — the identity of the sexes ; then I 
 will assert friendship without a pledge, or friend- 
 ship will be lukewarm indeed. But it seems you 
 are for withdrawing these pledges — these LftVe's 
 arrows that you have skirmished with. Be it so ; 
 they shall be surrendered : but only by my hands 
 into your hands — face to face shall you receive 
 them, and only from your own lips will I receive
 
 141 
 
 my doom, a conge for ever. With your own hands, 
 and in my presence, you shall light Love's pyre. 
 Forgive me : it is you that have given it the sa- 
 cred name — from your lips has the hallowed 
 word escaped. Charge not me with insolence, 
 for your own confession. Thus it is ever with 
 the wayward nymph ; bewildered and distracted 
 she makes her confession. She unlocks the se- 
 crets of her heart ; her disordered mien — her 
 unmeasured words betray her. Then ! O Justice, 
 hear ! We are charged with insolence, forsooth. 
 " What means this tumult in a Vestal's veins ?" 
 The tumult then is the swain's insolence. Admira- 
 ble logician, you are ! Methinks I watch you when 
 you shall have scanned these words. First " rage 
 will flush your cheeks, swell in your breast, and 
 sparkle in your eyes," — biting of lips — doubting — 
 hesitating — recalling past passages — conning over 
 new expedients. Shall I break ? But oh ! what 
 a blank in our existence. Then sentiment ex- 
 cited ; then extinguished. Symbol of death ! 
 Frightful idea ! Shall I go on ? — Where then 
 is my wounded pride ! Shall I have my revenge ? 
 Oh ! that is sweet : but how come at it ! Shall 1 
 submit? No, death first; disgrace, dishonour. 
 Do I love? No, I hate. Then, welcome the
 
 142 
 
 conditions; but they are immoveable — never to 
 meet again. Already to have exposed my weak- 
 ness, to make a desperate enemy. No hopes of 
 future conciliation, and thus left. What a horrid 
 notion — to be left abandoned ! Oh ! this is in- 
 deed intolerable : nothing can soothe it. Let me 
 quench it in a flood of tears. Yes, this veill be 
 the soliloquy. You see I save you trouble. I 
 anticipate the future. Are you not a coquet con- 
 victed ? Do you desire quarter ? No. But I 
 will punish you no further. Then you have your 
 choice: the alternative is in your hands — no 
 more letters, but my summons. Before your bar 
 I must appear. I shall strive to bear the hard 
 sentence, but I must have it from the voice of my 
 judge. No letters, no distant equivocal messages. 
 I must be struck into nought by her basilisk eyes. 
 If she be that heartless coquet, then the sentence, 
 and I plead guilty too, must be carried into exe- 
 cution. But if the gay coquet was but the outward 
 manner, covering over the true and honest heart 
 within, then I am saved. But how ? In your 
 niece's constant phrase, I leave that to the active 
 Fates, for I see not my way through Cupid's 
 mysteries. 
 
 A. Atherstone.
 
 143 
 
 MRS. B. BELMONT TO SIR A. ATHERSTONE. 
 
 Bath, Jan. 3d. 
 
 What have I done to be so treated — mock- 
 ed — insulted — scorned? What a fearful pre- 
 lude ! This is, however, our sex's lot. We are 
 goddesses vrhile the fit is on you. Put but 
 the slightest stay, or clog to your inclinations, 
 Oh ! what jilts ! what coquets ! False hearted- 
 cold ; any punishment, no matter what. We 
 deserve it all. Then you heap insult on mockery, 
 and riot in the savage malignity of your disappoint- 
 ment. But we become more tender. The for- 
 tress surrenders at discretion : possession soon 
 cools the fiery appetite, whetted by vanity, and 
 stimulated by resistance. Cold and chilling neg- 
 lect follows. We are left to weep over the 
 wrecks of our hopes, and our reputation. The 
 first cankers our heart : the second bhghts our 
 fame ! Shame, soitow, or repentance close the 
 scene unless, indeed, plunged into the depths 
 of despair, we seek another trial of skill. Here 
 we may indeed be victors : because, we have vanr 
 quished in the first. All elasticity of the heart ; 
 all its freshness, its wild joy. It becomes cold
 
 144 
 
 and weary, and more fit to contend with your's. 
 This then is a true picture. BeUeve me, you 
 have overstretched the mark ; you have out- 
 witted yourself. Abandoning the path of true 
 feehng, you are but a sorry adept in the wily 
 intercourse of stratagems. They have failed you. 
 I told you vanity was your ruling characteristic ; 
 here you have shown it : Here is the rock upon 
 which you have shipwrecked your hopes. Your 
 springes were set, but too plainly. You were not 
 sufficiently advanced to threaten. Your bluster 
 proves you a very bully, never to be feared. I will 
 have my terms now, an unconditional surrender 
 of my letters. I am neither reduced to accept 
 even in the particular of a capitulation, nor you 
 to demand one. Confess, then, that vanity has 
 marred greater projects than your head is capa- 
 ble of conceiving. I have you on the hip now. 
 You are vexed, and lost your vantage ground ; 
 for you will now discover, that you are forced to 
 capitulate with me, even for my friendship. You 
 have not that volatility of spirits, that, like a but- 
 terfly, can flit from flower to flower. Your 
 shyness — your sloth, remove all rivals far away. 
 You have made your spring like the tiger ; and, 
 having missed your aim, you must slink away
 
 145 
 
 abashed. Look into your conscience, and ask, 
 has your conduct been honest ? Look into my 
 penetration of it, and ask yourself if it has been 
 wise. You have attempted an enterprise the 
 most difficult in the scope of love — a single 
 man to engage the love of a youthful widow 
 without marriage. Here there can be no excuse, 
 but her infatuation. How is she to be charmed 
 into such a state? By clumsy artifice, by 
 mockery and insult, before she had laid aside half 
 her prudence. The pretension of a lover here is 
 divested of all disinterestedness. Here is a great 
 lee-way to make up ; for we are caught by gene- 
 rosity, and here it is thrown overboard. You 
 know now the terms. Next post must bring the 
 unconditional surrender : it will then be for me to 
 
 dictate our future position. 
 
 B. Belmont. 
 
 VOL.
 
 146 
 
 SIR A. ATHERSTONE TO MRS. BELMONT. 
 
 London, June 5th. 
 
 Oh ! let me curse my stars, my fortune, and my 
 fate ! Your will is done. This packet proves 
 my honesty. Recall your former thoughts : be- 
 lieve not my words : wretched infatuation ! How 
 could I have written them ? I am true. No, my 
 clumsy raillery has brought this on me. You have 
 not seen through my purpose, but misconceived 
 my meaning. I confess your superiority of wit. 
 Fool to strive to compete with it : it was but a 
 trial of skill at best. Oh ! take not what has 
 passed to heart ! — think me not dishonest. You 
 have evidence that I have not power to deceive. 
 Think me not that vain fool, who has pretensions 
 where he feels he has no power. I have com- 
 plied with your terms ; and here I remain, unal- 
 terably remain until a further order changes my 
 position. Is obedience proof of submission ? And 
 is submission proof of repentance ? Has not a wo- 
 man's breast that highest attribute of heaven? — joy 
 over the repentant sinner ! Will you belie your na- 
 ture and withhold it now ? Take these few sincere 
 words, they are the earnest of the future.* 
 
 A. Atherstone. 
 
 * All her letters were enclosed within one.
 
 147 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, December 6th. 
 
 I AM anxiously waiting to hear from you. Your 
 position requires the utmost prudence. Your 
 happiness, nay, your existence is, as it were, wrapt 
 up in the political circumstances of your country. 
 All I can wish you is, in the words of our criminal 
 trials, " may God grant you and Rinaldo a good 
 deliverance." Yet how unphilosophical is this! 
 Am I farther out of the reach of the inexorable 
 fates than you ? Appearances may he delusive. 
 Who knows what trials we both may have ? How 
 many crosses, as the methodists say, may befal us ? 
 and which of us shall surmount them ? — we can- 
 not see the invisible hand that leads us blindfold. 
 A Scottish lassie once said to me, " "We may ken 
 what happened yesterday, but cannot ken what 
 may happen to-morrow." Aristotle, and all your 
 learned sages down to the present day, did you 
 ever say a wiser thing, or make a more profound 
 remark — one pregnant with more truth and pith, 
 and less vanity than this ? This is, indeed, acknow- 
 ledging a Supreme Power, and is worth all the 
 l2
 
 148 
 
 fulsome quackery with which that supreme power 
 is addressed. It is my vanity, Clorinda, that makes 
 me give you advice. I give advice, indeed ! Have 
 the Fates whispered me what direction to take ? 
 have they let me out of my prison house to take 
 any direction at all ? The Parcce, forsooth ; 
 those who spare ; fine irony of the ancients ; how 
 happy are those who are led blindfold, whose 
 seared eyes see not whither they are going, or 
 rather know not whither they are led ; for they 
 are frisking in a fool's paradise. Yet I jflutter 
 like a bird in a cage, and drown my sorrow by 
 warbling my eternal melancholy note. But why 
 call it sorrow, because I am clear sighted ? I see 
 we cannot help ourselves; — precious babes! we 
 are still in leading-strings, and our grim nurses 
 twitch and lift us about, and snap our necks in 
 two at last. Oh ! that they may not break our 
 hearts first ! for that is cruel indeed. Is my heart 
 first to be broken, and then quenched for ever ? 
 Oh ! this is the grand secret. It has no reliance 
 but in pure intelligence, that is, in pure idealism, 
 that is in justice absolute — the subhmest reach of 
 thought. Yet, God and Immortahty, you rest in 
 pure idealism; we need not search for you in 
 nature, that is known to us by our senses, and
 
 149 
 
 you come not into the region of sense. How 
 I like to run to the end of my tether, to be 
 perpetually getting to the termination of my 
 scope, to ask, will the vital spark stop here, or 
 will it leap over time and space, and twinkle 
 in eternity? But how? aye, how is it here? 
 can we tell? have we found it out? what do 
 we know ? As to these things, we are perpe- 
 tually in a waking dream. Where is the world ? 
 aye, the universal world? In our own bosom. 
 Where do we wander most ? In our own closet. 
 When do we see most clear ? When we shut our 
 eyes. We run about the globe, but then we are 
 checked and imprisoned every instant by circum- 
 stances. In our closet we soar far and high, with- 
 out stay or stop. Our visual organs are uncon- 
 fined. We scan eternity, and on every side scope 
 immeasurable, that is, no time, no space ; then no 
 cause, no effect ; because here is no substance, no 
 accident. Here then is the supreme and eternal 
 will absolute. In my mind's eagle-eye, I dare 
 contemplate him. But, Clorinda, this is a high 
 and haughty flight, for here viewing the Eternal, 
 I become kindred to him in this sublime abstrac- 
 tion. Away petty passions — petty fears ! What 
 is fear, ignorance, dulness, that feels not the invi-
 
 150 
 
 sible hand that leads us ? Poor timid, cringing 
 mortals! — how you go, creeping and bewailing 
 and croaking about, bleating like sheep. Now I 
 am ashamed of my sorrow ; it has surprised me 
 in a feeble, dreaming moment. I looked upon 
 my feet, I thought I could walk ; upon my hands, I 
 thought I could direct them. Then I saw not 
 the invisible hand that led me. Now the invisible 
 has become visible. Then I agree with our famous 
 preacher ; aye, when he is general, but not when 
 he is particular. So do I agree with the rabbi, 
 with the mufti, and with the priestesses of the sun 
 too. Let them be general, I am with them ; let 
 them be particular, I despise them. They make 
 conversations, indeed ! with whom ? With pure 
 intelligence, with heaven, with hell. Where is 
 heaven and hell ? In our own heart ; no where 
 else. Fly through the eternal range of the eternal 
 starry canopy ; go high, go low ; go right, go 
 left ; for ever you carry with you heaven and hell ; 
 for the divine nature clings to you. If you follow 
 me, Clorinda, I will lead you an intellectual dance. 
 For what is life ? — a craving or a surfeit. What 
 is mankind? — brutes that wallow in the senses, 
 or visionaries that dream in air; realism and 
 idealism absolute ; and hfe is the pendulum of our
 
 151 
 
 clock, and we are wound up for some sixty and 
 seventy years, and then our wheels decay, and 
 then it stops, and we mourn and howl when it is 
 about to stop. Little souls! they cannot leave 
 behind them the tinsel baubles and gew-gaws 
 with which their clock was adorned. But go they 
 must to the foul charnel-house at last. Nor do 
 they know when. With me that is not the worst, 
 for I fear it not. Nor hope nor fear touch me 
 there; for hope and fear belong to the senses, 
 and stop in the charnel-house with them. Pure 
 intelligence, which then may escape, knows nor 
 hope nor fear. Clorinda, you live more in the 
 senses than I do ; your blood is hot and quick, so 
 it obscures the vision of your mind ; so you are 
 tossed between hope and fear. My atmosphere 
 is more ideal, where hope and fear have less con- 
 troul, where pride expels vanity. Adieu. In the 
 words of Hamlet's mother, " I sprinkle cool 
 patience on you." 
 
 Rosaline.
 
 152 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 Bath, January 17th. 
 
 I AVAS yesterday, dear Clorinda, in one of my 
 mystical, melancholy, metaphysical moods, that I 
 love so much to indulge in, and which stamp, from 
 the highest to the lowest, the character of the 
 EngHsh people. Witness the grave-digger in 
 Hamlet, which forms so much the strongest part 
 of their character, which has given them the ad- 
 vantage, in most things, over other nations, and 
 which will prevent them from ever becoming 
 slaves, or from ever being exposed to a sort of 
 community of vices, though it may sprinkle among 
 them occasional crimes. This is the main cause 
 of the diversity of our characters ; the reason why 
 you find in England, Ireland and Scotland the 
 best and the worst men in the world. But I will 
 moralize no more with you. A people who mora- 
 lize, go great lengths in the play of the passions ; 
 it is difficult to enslave them. A people who fol- 
 low doctrinal authority are already enslaved — they 
 seldom fall into such great crimes, for that requires 
 strength of mind, but solace themselves in petty
 
 153 
 
 vices. My aunt pleases me more since she has 
 fallen into some affliction, because it has brought 
 out more the hghts and shades of her character : 
 the picture is more striking. She has had a despe- 
 rate quarrel with Sir Arthur ; and for three days 
 her pretty soft eyes have twinkled through floods 
 of tears ; her volubility has been abated, and her 
 speech contracted more to the range of her ideas. 
 In short, she is an altered person. It is only in 
 the rubs of life that we show what we are made 
 of, as sailors prove their skill and courage in 
 storms. Your fair-weather people, who look on 
 perpetual sunshine, are an insipid race. Are they 
 a happy race? I doubt it. Are our slumbers 
 sweet when we go to bed surfeited ? I say a little 
 transient sorrow becomes Barbara ; it is so unusual 
 with her, it gives a pretty childish innocence to 
 her manner. Her parts are quick, and now and 
 then she does not want strength of expression. 
 She is a gay jocund beauty, and very graceful, 
 and perfectly understands the drapery of dress, 
 all which render her very interesting. Her mind 
 is very pure, though her volubility and her vanity 
 often bring her to the brink of a precipice. But 
 even here she has security. A passion will never 
 take possession of her heart, and master her soul.
 
 154 
 
 These women are like the will o' the wisp which 
 we have read of so much in our childish days in 
 English fables, they twinkle and glimmer, and 
 then disappear, then appear again, to lead the 
 men a weary dance; or a prettier comparison 
 would be to your own Itahan fire-flies, that light 
 up your dehcious nights with their brilliant spark- 
 ling ; we strive to catch them, we grasp them in 
 our hand; what are they then? or where are 
 they? Nought. The strongest minds are the 
 truest hearted — strong minds alone love truly. 
 Clorinda, therefore, I fear, poor girl, for your hap- 
 piness, for you are linked to desperate fortunes 
 and desperate purposes, and surrounded by des- 
 perate circumstances. This, however, is the first 
 misfortune that my aunt has had. I pass over, 
 not uncharitably I hope, the loss of her husband; 
 for I fancy that event did not make much impres- 
 sion on her. Indeed, my dear friend, this, in 
 general, is the great scandal of our sex, and has 
 caused us to be often underrated by men. My 
 feeling is, that widows recover much sooner than 
 widowers ; the loss of a wife causes a desolation 
 in a man's heart, that, if he be worth any thing, 
 he can hardly replace ; he loses at worst his pro- 
 perty, at best, his mistress, often a friend, always
 
 155 
 
 a companion, sometimes a real partner. These 
 losses are great. A wife, you will say, loses all 
 these also. But she views them in another light. 
 I own, when she is a mistress, her loss is great 
 indeed. But the slight difference is, that she is 
 the property. She does not possess it. A little 
 fluttering liberty comes and wipes her eyes. But 
 I like not to dwell on these subjects. It is taking 
 too great a liberty with the awful fates, I never 
 trench on their ground. When I speak of them, I 
 whisper softly, that they may not overhear me, and 
 pounce down upon me with some cruel destiny. 
 
 But to return to Mrs. Barbara. 
 
 There is a character in one of Congreve's plays 
 that gives an excellent idea of her manner, though 
 not of her mind. A sort of manner that encou- 
 rages men ; then her mind sets her right again, 
 and they are repudiated. It is the scene between 
 Foible and Lady Wishfort. Lady Wishfort says : 
 " But art thou sure that Sir Rowland will not fail 
 to come, or will he not fail, when he does come ? 
 Will he be importunate. Foible, and push ? For 
 if he should not be importunate, I shall never 
 break decorum. I shall die with confusion ; or, 
 if I am forced to advance — Oh ! no. I can never 
 advance. I shall swoon if he should expect ad-
 
 156 
 
 vances. No, I hope Sir Rowland is better bred 
 than to put a lady to the necessity of breaking 
 her forms. I won't be too coy neither — I won't 
 give him depair — but a little disdain is not amiss, 
 a little scorn is alluring." 
 
 " Foible. — A little scorn becomes your lady- 
 ship.'^ 
 
 " Lady. — Yes, but tenderness becomes me best. 
 A sort of a dyingness. You see that picture has 
 a sort of — ha! Foible, a swimmingness in the 
 eyes — Yes, I'll look so — My niece affects it, but 
 she wants features." She concludes afterwards 
 by declaring that she has a mortal terror against 
 offending against decorum. This is her picture. 
 As I am not in her confidence, I know not what 
 she writes ; but I think she could write with more 
 energy than she could speak : for her very exact 
 breeding and polished manners would, even in the 
 storm of an altercation, neutralize much of the 
 force of her sentiments, and appease her indigna- 
 tion. Indeed I have always heard that England 
 is much the country of decorums ; offend them 
 not, and any thing else is allowed. I fear this 
 win lead ultimately to a dreadful hypocrisy. The 
 methodists and saints have introduced the religion 
 of outward decorum ; which is said to cover over a
 
 157 
 
 horrid licentiousness among them. Of all vices, 
 hypocrisy is the most contemptible; and the 
 wretched, deluded, and deluding people, as the 
 great Marquis of Montrose called them, strive all 
 they can to introduce this dangerous plant into 
 England, which is so foreign to its natural growth. 
 I think no quarter should be given them ; they 
 should be considered as poisoners of every manly 
 sentiment and every virtuous feehng; and be 
 spurned as a poor, mean, sneaking, quibbling, con- 
 temptible set. For the most mischievous leaven 
 that can fret and worry the happiness of mankind, 
 is the leaven of religious fanaticism. Let it ever 
 creep into a family, and then, farewell all comfort ; 
 nay, justice and fair dealing. At length it expels 
 even common honesty. To introduce it, is to 
 introduce disorder instead of order — persecution 
 instead of charity — to overturn both the rules of 
 practical and theoretical reason. In fine, to re- 
 verse our being. And when we feel that the 
 greater number of fanatics are base hypocrites, 
 that they are seeking their own advantage, we 
 cannot but wish to see such vermin exterminated. 
 I hope my aunt will not be infected by them. She 
 is too young and handsome yet, and too gay ; but 
 a. few more disappointments, a little more, aye
 
 158 
 
 other belles springing up in her place, and she 
 may retreat upon methodistism, and finish as 
 great a ranter as any of the fancy, as they are 
 called in Ireland ; which country seems destined 
 to be the shuttlecock, that is, to fly perpetually 
 between the two battledores of a kindred fanati- 
 cism. For you know I have often read to you 
 our inimitable Swift's Tale of a Tub ; and there, he 
 says, that Lord Petre was frequently mistaken for 
 Jack. But if I can have any influence over my 
 aunt, I will take especial care that she falls not ill 
 of that sad distemper. Swift says, " that religion 
 is the spleen of the soul :" a strong expression 
 truly. He must have meant the fancy then, for 
 in general it sits easy enough upon mankind, 
 until they want to use it as an engine either of 
 despotism or corruption. With my aunt it would 
 be spleen and nothing else, arising from disap- 
 pointment. She seems to have set her heart upon 
 catching that of Sir Arthur. I think she has a 
 deeper reach than he has, and then she will pro- 
 bably succeed, as they both appear to me to be 
 playing a game. You and I, thank our stars, are 
 more simple, and scorn to play any such game. 
 Indeed all your schemers are persons of a mid- 
 dling sort of understanding. I should have but
 
 159 
 
 a poor opinion of a man who trifled away his 
 time in pursuing a hopeless passion. Such tri- 
 fling indeed ruins the dignity of real love. We 
 never read of it in any great tragedy or epic : the 
 best subject for even the drama of real life is 
 when the passion is at once reciprocal, when infe- 
 rior objects intervene to prevent its accomplish- 
 ment, but not resting on the waywardness of the 
 parties, just as your's is now, you honest girl; 
 and I must say of the women of Italy, they are 
 not coquets ; whatever they are, they are true to 
 this passion. I trust this may tend to amuse you. 
 In the mean time, believe me. 
 
 Rosaline.
 
 160 
 
 CLORINDA TO ROSALINE. 
 
 Florence, December 20th. 
 
 Think only, my dearest friend, whither my 
 destiny is hurrying on. — Think upon the perils 
 with which I am surrounded. View me quitting 
 the easy, nay, luxurious path of ordinary life, un- 
 der splendid circumstances, to involve myself in 
 fortunes that may destroy my comfort, break my 
 heart, and wreck my hopes. Yet " I am led 
 blindfold by an invisible hand." I am at open 
 war with my mother, and what is worse, in secret 
 war with the malignant priest, her confessor. I 
 have boldly resisted my intended's hand, strength- 
 ened by your arguments and my own feelings ; I 
 have declared that they shall drag me only by 
 force to the altar, and there I will protest both to 
 God and man. I have told the Sposo, it was 
 mean and base in him to try to force a woman, 
 contrary to her consent, to marry by the authority 
 of her parents ; that it would be the worst spe- 
 cies of violation on his part, and the worst species 
 of prostitution on mine. And I have secretly ad- 
 vised him, as he is such an ultra, to go to beloved 
 Turkey ; beloved, I mean, by your social order
 
 161 
 
 people, and there buy a wife in the slave-market. 
 My mother, instigated by that viper the Abbate, 
 talks of sending me up the Val d'Arno, to the 
 Hermitage,* then to a convent. But my father 
 would not hear of it, and has given me all the 
 Carnival to decide. Unlike other Florentine young 
 ladies, I am to have an unusual degree of liberty, 
 but as I shall always be in mask, it will not be 
 known; and they have tried to gain me with 
 splendid trinkets, as if a piece of shining char- 
 coal, which Pietro tells me a diamond is, will alter 
 my way of thinking. No, Rosaline, I will die 
 first. What does a woman exist for, except it be 
 not to be forced in her inclinations ? I can remain 
 single. I can give myself up to literature, to sci- 
 entific pursuits, to good offices, to country amuse- 
 ments. But two things I had rather die than 
 submit to — To have a husband forced upon me — 
 or become a nun. And what is the cause of so 
 many scandalous marriages and unfaithful wives 
 in Italy, in Spain, and old France, but on account 
 of the terrible alternative, a husband or a con- 
 vent—prostitution or prison ? Oh ! heavens ! and 
 how should it be otherwise! That children should 
 
 * A villa of the Marquis di Torri. 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 
 
 be brought up slaves, when these are the happy 
 auspices under which they are born ? Neglected, 
 or considered as playthings by their mothers — 
 their tempers consequently ruined, educated by 
 that vermin called priests, fashioned for ignorance 
 and despotism, taught falsehood instead of truth, 
 handed over to the police if they breathe one 
 manly thought, eager to cringe at court, and 
 hiding their real chains by the trumpery gew- 
 gaws of decorations. Excuse me, Rosaline, if I 
 have exhaled Rinaldo's sentiments till they be- 
 come my own, and that I breathe them to you 
 again — 
 
 The only book that interests me now is Clarissa 
 Harlowe ; formerly I gaped and yawned at the 
 very sight of it. I was obliged to praise it for 
 fashion's sake ; now I devour it. Instead of her 
 wicked sister Bella and her atrocious brother, I 
 have my charming Abbate and an odious old 
 French emigrant R * "*, who is always croaking 
 through his snufF-distended nostrils. This con- 
 temptible wretch sneaks and pays his court to 
 every one in the house, only to betray them. He 
 is the fomenter of all mischief and dissensions. I 
 have heard your father say that England was full 
 of them, and that their ingratitude is now siojnal.
 
 163 
 
 That I coulcl pardon, were it not for the confusion 
 that they must create in every family where they 
 are admitted, for their system is spying and lying ; 
 the one a consequence of the other. I am warm, 
 excuse me, Rinaldo's life may be in jeopardy. I 
 have some of your melancholy anticipations. 
 
 I am calmer now. A flood of tears, that has 
 blotted the paper, has eased my bursting heart. 
 It is a frightful thing for a young girl like me, even 
 to resist my parent's wishes and the habits of my 
 country ; this enough would upset me, without 
 every other alarming chance that threatens my hap- 
 piness. But why did I live with you six years, 
 Rosaline ? You have been my guide, my instruc- 
 tress. From your lips dropped godlike truths, 
 that have given me a new existence. And do 
 they think that they now will be able to put me 
 under the yoke of the Abbate again ? Oh, I hear 
 some one coming. They are calling me. May 
 that unknown Supreme Power, whatever it is, 
 whomsoever he is that you treat of in such gene- 
 ral terms — may it that gave me life, guide and. 
 protect me through that life, according to my 
 wishes, seeing how pure my heart is ! 
 
 Oh! is it a crime to love? Is that love the sa- 
 cred mantle that envelopes the moral being of a
 
 164 
 
 woman, that supports her through hfe, that pro- 
 tects her from the chiUing blasts of envy, hatred, 
 mahce, and detraction ? Or is it not sometimes — 
 I shudder at the notion — the poisoned shirt of 
 Nessus, that the monster treacherously gave to 
 Dejanira for the destruction of Hercules — that 
 envenoms her existence when not requited ? Is 
 the chilling frost of forms to nip it in its beau- 
 teous and healthful blossom ? This divine pas- 
 sion that transports us into a sphere of middle 
 existence betwixt heaven and earth. Oh ! for- 
 tune ! Fortune, like Aurora, open with thy ro- 
 seate fingers the bright morning of a joyous life 
 for me ; strew flowers in my path. I will worship 
 thee ; I will sacrifice my scruples upon thy altars. 
 Adieu, I can no more, 
 
 La Clorinda. 
 
 MAJOR DE VERE TO ROSALINE. 
 
 January 6th 
 
 So, you mad girl, what a match you have re- 
 fused! But you knov>A best. Never shall thy 
 poor old father counteract thee. I have but a
 
 165 
 
 sliort time to crawl about, and thou shalt be the 
 queen of my affections. Go thy ways for a way- 
 ward brat. Thou mayest have vagaries in thy 
 brain, which I cannot reach, but thine heart will 
 always keep thee true. But I grow childish and 
 chatter impertinence — true hearts indeed now-a- 
 days ! where are they to be found ? Once on 
 a time they clustered like grapes in England, 
 until they well nigh snapped the stem of the tree. 
 Hypocrisy ! hypocrisy is now the order of the 
 day. Old hearts, old books, old good faith, aye, 
 even old plays, are all thrown upon the shelf with 
 all their wit and true humour, and mawkish trash 
 is substituted. But vice is grown dainty, forsooth, 
 and squeamish as she becomes ripe and prurient. 
 She won't bear to hear herself joked with, or 
 named even. Lips are pinched and pursed up, 
 while eyes are gloating. Our novels, too, spoil 
 history and fiction both, by mixing them up to- 
 gether, and put us to sleep with their dull jumble. 
 We have copious wine and water draughts of 
 these that suit a French palate better than a Bri- 
 tish stomach. Vv^e have abundance of political 
 writers and economists, I think they call them, 
 who have economised us out of our estates. These 
 jack-o'-lanterns, these will-o'-the-wisps, who frisk
 
 166 
 
 before our benighted wits and plunge us into the 
 inextricable quagmire of their own dulness. We 
 have churches without congregations ; laws with- 
 out justice ; parliament without representatives — 
 I will not go any farther. — Sentimental psalm- 
 singing, and a free grace to He, cheat, and sin in 
 private with a long-drawn pharisaical visage, bawl 
 about liberty and support tyranny. These are 
 modern manners. But, young hussy, you and 
 your aunt are rivals. Egad ; so, so, she will not 
 catch Sir Arthur. A coquet is every man's game, 
 particularly if a widow. A young widow is as 
 wanton as an old maid is spiteful — She plays fast 
 and loose — likes the flirtation well, but fears the 
 drawing tight of the noose. She has felt it once. 
 Like a young colt, half broken, and then turned 
 out to grass, she is difficult to catch again. Aye, 
 indeed, wantonness comes as naturally to a young 
 widow as a bribe does to an elector — a job to a 
 Member of Parliament, or the love of power to a 
 churchman — or to punish the man and not the 
 offence to a judge, or a place to a wrangling, 
 bawling patriot lawyer ; aye, as natural as it is for 
 an apostate to hang his former associates and rise 
 to an infamous eminence on their gibbet, on which 
 he himself ought to have swung.
 
 167 
 
 Well ! well ! things must be as they are, I sup- 
 pose. We run in a circle, and then turn about 
 and run back asjain. So thinas mav come back 
 after all. Honesty in our hearts and wit on our 
 tongues. A fig for your snivelling hypocrisy. 
 My toast shall ever be — Honest hearts ! Though 
 I fear if we would get drunk in drinking them in- 
 dividually now, it must be in brandy^ they are so 
 rare ! But thou art an honest girl ! and though 
 it would have pleased me to have seen thee allied 
 to wealth, yet it seems wealth and our family have 
 sworn an eternal divorce. Yet that speaks for 
 our wits. Two classes only are the legitimate 
 allies of wealth — your knave and your dull jack- 
 ass. The first attracts all to himself. The se- 
 cond keeps all by himself; for he has neither the 
 spirit nor the wit to spend. So goes the world. 
 We cannot have all : therefore I am reconciled. 
 God bless you, child. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 168 
 
 PIETRO PERRUVINI TO RINALDO, COUNT DE ROCCA 
 ST. CACCIANO. 
 
 Bologna, January 20th. 
 
 My Dear and Excellent Friend, 
 
 This letter will be delivered to you by a safe 
 hand, for we must still lie quiet in our hiding 
 places, like mice ; for before every hole is a watch- 
 ful cat, that intercepts us if we take a stride. 
 Nothing can exceed the intense activity of the 
 police, excepting the universal and intense hatred 
 of the galling yoke that we groan under. Indeed 
 one of the agents of the police avowed to me the 
 other day, so universal is the detestation of the 
 present political system, that it is only maintained 
 by the correct intelligence of our spies — the 
 activity of our police, and the terror of our dun- 
 geons — of these latter you are aware that there 
 are three sorts — the carcere simplice ; the carcere 
 duro ; and the carcere durissimo. The last is the 
 modern refinement of condemning state ^jrisoners 
 to death. The prisoner is chained down ; and 
 cold, damp, vexations, bad and insufficient provi- 
 sions — despair, sometimes torture, finish him. 
 Some last one or two, or three months, more or
 
 169 
 
 less. This wise expedient prevents the scandal 
 of a public execution, and strikes more terror, 
 because he may be transferred to this cell, without 
 any trial, and under pretence of forcing him to a 
 confession; for many die in this manner, who 
 would be even acquitted by hired or corrupt 
 judges, who try in secret, as is the custom, for 
 against most there is not a shadow of ground of 
 accusation, except it be the shadows of the fears 
 of our cruel oppressors. But shadows have more 
 fears for the cruel (who are always cowardly) 
 than realities. Witness the fear of ghosts, or of 
 hell. Therefore the most innocent, "because they 
 may be men of wisdom, and probity, and discre- 
 tion, are the first suspected, and the first to ex- 
 piate the sins of their virtue, for the high treason 
 of making the galling contrast between those 
 virtues, and the vices of their oppressors, visible 
 by their correct mode of life. The wicked, in 
 every age, cling to arbitrary power ; for it is the 
 only mode by which they can rise to riches and 
 distinctions. A good man, unless he be a fool, 
 and then made a stalking-horse, is ever unwel- 
 come to any arbitrary government ; but a rogue is 
 always acceptable, for he will run into any mea- 
 sures. The most efficient agents of police are
 
 170 
 
 the most cowardly, because their fears make them 
 vigilant, and their cowardice causes them to be 
 cruel. Hence, after a country is conquered, it is 
 always delivered up to the government of the 
 basest and the most malignant and cowardly 
 knaves that can be found. Many of the clergy, 
 individually, are excellent, and think well, and 
 have not forgotten the ties of humanity in the 
 ties of the priesthood; but, collectively, they 
 have what the French term the esprit de corps, and 
 they cling to power, their own power, if they could 
 safely keep it superior or independent of the civil 
 power ; if not, they call in the civil power to aid 
 them, and vice versa. Then they lose sight of 
 justice and humanity : and it is strange to see 
 how great an affinity there is then between them ; 
 those of the most opposite sects, who would have 
 each other burnt at the stake, will all join, if the 
 general order is touched, to burn all the country. 
 Thus, at this instant, they play fast and loose. 
 What is most to be feared is, that the Jesuits, who 
 are now re-established, will again get possession of 
 the education of youth : then the evil is irremedi- 
 able. They are so clever ! — understand the hu- 
 man mind so perfectly ! — draw out its power so 
 completely ! But then they give it their own in-
 
 171 
 
 fernal direction. And surely what would the 
 blind supporters of authority have ? Are they 
 fools or knaves, if they desire to be victims 
 of their detested system, or its dupes, or do 
 they deserve to profit by it ? What is authority ? 
 Analyse it. It is merely law, or the adminis- 
 tration of law, for the well-being of a community ; 
 but these wretches convert it into an engine 
 of base gain for the few. The secret is, that 
 under pretence of it, they desire to plunder 
 and regulate the mass of mankind. What an 
 insolent paradox is arbitrary government! What 
 brutish beasts men are to submit to it ! Arbitrary 
 government, indeed ! that is, many millions of men 
 bending the knee to Baal ; worshipping their own 
 shame — their own dishonour ; pouring forth be- 
 fore the altar of Baal their wealth, the product 
 of their industry, to obtain — what? Insult — 
 insult — ^insult. And if they question their own 
 base and cowardly folly, and strive to get rid of it, 
 then come dungeons — halters — and extermina- 
 tion by the armed banditti in Baal's service, whom 
 the wretches pay to murder themselves. Oh ! 
 enlightened age ! Oh ! divine wisdom ! Says 
 Boileau : — 
 
 '' De Pekin a Paris, de Paris a Rome, 
 
 " Le plus sot animal, a raon avis, c'est rhommc."
 
 172 
 
 Yes indeed this is true ; from Paris to Pekin, 
 from Pekin to Rome, the most foohsh animal is, 
 indeed, man — stupid, base man ! the sport of a 
 handful of cowardly tyrants, who individually 
 would not dare to stand before hardly one man 
 of the millions they trample upon in the mass. 
 
 I write this for your government; but our 
 greatest hope is, that the despots will be jealous 
 of the power of the church, and then that colli- 
 sion will neutralize the insanity of the malignity 
 of both. There is another hope, that fanaticism 
 will caricature itself, and then the result will be 
 ridicule and indifference, the ultimate conse- 
 quences. Toleration is, of all remedies, the best ; 
 because it leads to indifference: and then the 
 wind or storm of controversy can no longer puff 
 up or fan the flames of fanaticism. Europe 
 seems, at this moment, big with the seeds of 
 combustion : it seems, the epoch is fast approach- 
 ing of a new direction of the human mind : it is 
 the struggle between light and darkness — night 
 and day — joy or misery — virtue or vice — know- 
 ledge or ignorance. This great cause, like all 
 great causes, can never come to pass without much 
 individual misery, and many glorious martyrs ; and 
 we must all make up our minds to bear with heroic
 
 178 
 
 firmness, our martyrdom. I have but half the 
 cause for exertion that you have. I am colder, 
 I own, and despise fame more than you do, 
 as an empty sound : but still I am doomed to 
 suffer, for there is something delightful to think 
 that we have done our duty, at the expense of 
 great personal sacrifice : and what sacrifice can 
 there be so noble as that of our life for the good 
 of others ? I think we shall ultimately have the 
 advantage, because our party is in earnest ; be- 
 cause we feel and think that we are right. The 
 others are not truly in earnest, because they know 
 that selfishness is their only object. So the contest 
 resolves itself into selfishness against disinterest- 
 edness ; that is to say, of vice against virtue. 
 Adieu; be prudent, yet bold — be cautious, yet 
 determined. 
 
 PlETRO.
 
 174 
 
 RINALDO TO PIETRO PERRUVINI. 
 
 Florence, December 25th. 
 
 I HAVE received yours from Bologna, and I re- 
 turn this by the same safe hand. It is of the 
 utmost importance to our friends in the quarter 
 where you now are, that they should be rightly 
 and fully informed of all that passed in La Ro- 
 magna, up to the period of the breaking up of 
 our lodge. We had vainly conceived that the 
 soundest heads and the truest hearts had been 
 firmly united. But the most critical of all politi- 
 cal operations was destined to be wrecked by the 
 same means as most conspiracies have been dis- 
 solved by. We are none of us without our sus- 
 picions, which however we dare not even breathe 
 one to another. This is the most heart-rending 
 circumstance of the most exalted, the most diffi- 
 cult and the most daring enterprize that can ex- 
 cite human nature. A conspiracy to obtain good 
 government, to overthrow bad — comes fully under 
 that description. Its manifold difficulties and 
 dangers enhance its glory. The successful actors 
 in it have achieved the most sublime of all human 
 destinies. Look throughout the pace of history,
 
 175 
 
 and see how many have failed, and how few have 
 succeeded ; and then contemplate the amazing 
 glory, the dazzling fame, that belongs to them 
 who succeed — The everlasting gratitude of the 
 best of mankind await upon their desperate, ha- 
 zardous temerity. No doubt but that they should 
 have been sanctified in all eyes. — If they persist, 
 they are the real martyrs — They are not martyrs 
 for shadows, but for realities. Now that I con- 
 template the scenes in which I have been engaged 
 during the last year, my mind is perfectly asto- 
 nished at the recollection; yet how much more 
 have we yet to go through! Yet nothing like 
 conspiring to whet and invigorate the understand- 
 ing. Nothing makes men so wary and so cau- 
 tious — Nothing gives them so sharp an insight 
 into character, or causes them so justly to appre- 
 ciate merit and direct it — The fearful rocks, quick- 
 sands, shoals, with which we are surrounded in 
 the perilous navigation of this awful sea ; the 
 storms which we ourselves are brewing, place our 
 being in a state of excitement more than human 
 power can bear. What a close parallel can be 
 maintained between a conspirator and a devotee! 
 The first strives for earthly regeneration, the se- 
 cond for heavenly. The conspirator risks his
 
 176 
 
 existence, that of his family, disinterestedly, for 
 the happiness of all around him. His eternity is 
 the fame which he shall have acquired, and which 
 imperishable shall descend to the latest posterity, 
 wherein he shall eclipse the renown of conquerors ; 
 for who glories not more in the fame of Brutus 
 than of Caesar ? Ask every rational being, before 
 their fine and honest impressions of virtue are cor- 
 rupted by selfishness, and you will see their coun- 
 tenance glow, their breast swell, and their eye 
 sparkle at the bare mention of the name of the ever 
 glorious Brutus. His one God-like stroke in the 
 heart of the tyrant transcended in glory all Cae- 
 sar's victories. The martyr is burnt at the stake 
 for his opinions. The patriot perishes more 
 ostentatiously on the scaffold, or more gloriously, 
 because more painfully, in a condemned dungeon. 
 Both prove their devotion, their duty. Devotion 
 and duty, two most sacred words, the two crutches 
 upon which the most shattered and enfeebled 
 frame may be supported. Were I, like you, Pie- 
 tro, to have the instruction of youth, these are 
 the two holy spells that I would engrave in their 
 hearts. They are spells that chase away all 
 death's terrors. Duty and devotion! Hear, 
 ye noble youths ; breathe these sacred sounds
 
 177 
 
 as your morning and evening orisons, and ask 
 your noble hearts ever to interpret them. Yes, 
 our hearts are the only true interpreters of them. 
 Their magic is a talisman against all fear, because 
 against all selfishness. Ah ! Pietro ; but we must 
 have no flinchers. Yet base alloy will ever be 
 mixed up in pure metal. So, I fear, has it been 
 with us. Take then the following narrative : — 
 " The military fire, the chivalrous sentiments of 
 Barbantio, were ever for precipitating measures. 
 His warm and sanguine temper, and proud cou- 
 rage, made him see no difficulties ; nor could any 
 danger deter him. Accustomed to military com- 
 mand, he expected to find organization and obe- 
 dience everywhere; and he calculated only the 
 seizure of certain points, precisely in the same 
 manner as if he had been with an army. He cal- 
 culated not upon the diverging of all the passions 
 of the human heart upon various points ; he was 
 not aware of the whole circle of affections which 
 were to be put into action — the good and the 
 bad — those that excite — those that draw back. 
 He calculated not on truth and falsehood, courage 
 and cowardice, in the abstract, and how these 
 qualities shift and fly from one breast to another, 
 and re-appear, and re-occupy the same breast by 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 
 
 turns. Nor had he a foresight upon the concur- 
 rent drift of general events, all of which modify 
 and change our individual resolutions. Lastly, 
 the nobleness of his soul made it impossible for 
 him to conceive treason. In fine, Barbantio was 
 fitter for the field than for the cabinet ; to exe- 
 cute, rather than to deliberate. 
 
 Superior to him in intelligence, though infe- 
 rior in enterprize, in greatness of soul, came next 
 Blandino. More supple, more adroit, endowed 
 with the most rare and splendid eloquence, he 
 unfortunately had been bred a lawyer, which at- 
 tached him to forms. He saw all principle in 
 forms, and all reason in a technical arrangement. 
 An excellent husband, an incomparable father, 
 surrounded with all the tenderness of life, he 
 shuddered at the necessary plans for carrying 
 our great purpose into execution. His love of 
 liberty, which he had imbibed from the classics, 
 in which he is a great proficient — his eloquence 
 at the bar, brought Cicero perpetually before his 
 eyes ; and he would have been more fitted to 
 have consummated a scheme of liberty, than to 
 have established it. For here, my dear Pietro, 
 let me venture to affirm, that the spirit of liberty, 
 which constitutes a perfect conspirator, is not of
 
 179 
 
 the bland or amiable kind; it is founded on a 
 fierce love of independence — on a haughty pride, 
 conscious of its own great power — in disdain of 
 others, contempt of life — if life cannot coincide 
 with our wishes to the utmost — and on an invin- 
 cible repugnance to all the little low arts of go- 
 vernment. Hence a conspirator of that class, if 
 he finds not afterwards the people whom he has 
 emancipated worthy of that emancipation, and 
 then cling round him like so many briars, that 
 contempt of others, which first excited him to 
 throw off* the yoke, may cause him to fix another 
 yoke upon the necks of those whom he has deli- 
 vered, though it will be tempered with justice. 
 Indeed he will excuse himself by asserting, that 
 there is no tyranny in directing men, and forcing 
 them in a good direction. Blandino, therefore, 
 often counteracted the more desperate councils, 
 for which I was an advocate, and which Barbantio 
 always seconded. Besides, he had always a com- 
 promise in his eye. This is like a sailor having 
 a port under his lee. But the true conspirator 
 should look but to two contingencies — success or 
 death. In that case, parties would succeed much 
 more frequently than they do now. Richard the 
 Third says, in Shakspeare, " Slave, I have set 
 N 2
 
 180 
 
 my life upon the hazard of a die, and I will stand 
 the cast." This sentence should be engraven on 
 the hearts of all those who strive to become the 
 deliverers of their country : the glorious de- 
 stroyers of tyrants and usurpers. The others 
 were men of less note, but many of them of stern 
 and rugged tempers and flinty hearts, well fitted 
 to such desperate purposes. I gained an invinci- 
 ble ascendancy, because I was more metaphysical 
 than the rest, dealt more in generals — conse- 
 quently knew the road better into the inmost re- 
 cesses of the human heart ; though I could not 
 compete with either of the other two I have men- 
 tioned, whether in respect to eloquence, or that 
 commanding brilliant, chivalrous overflow of sen- 
 timent. But I seldom failed of worming myself 
 into a corner of their hearts, and then seizing 
 that lever, I roused up their whole body and soul. 
 But looking narrowly to success, and recommend- 
 ing the means of obtaining it positively, I alarmed 
 them often in clashing with their prejudices ; for 
 your metaphysicians look to the end, and not to 
 the means. There was too much good logic in 
 my reasonings, as to success. I prescribed to 
 them the pill, but I did not condescend to gild it. 
 The draught was simple, bitter as gall, and un-
 
 181 
 
 compounded with honey. In the prescription, 
 all admitted me to be a skilful physician, but an 
 unpleasant apothecary. Then my reply was, a 
 conspirac2j is conspiracy. What is our object? 
 the most glorious in human life, to deliver our 
 oppressed and groaning country. The minor is 
 contained in the major ; therefore, the means 
 whereby this is to be accomplished, are contained 
 within the end. We only deceive ourselves by 
 following forms. It is well for them, who are 
 already in power, to follow forms. They can 
 murder legally, and put up prayers for such mur- 
 der. We cannot. We have the forms against us. 
 Success will be the test if we are fortunate — The 
 means will be forgotten or overwhelmed by that 
 success. If, on the contrary, we fail; one of the 
 penalties of our temerity is the obloquy which 
 must be necessarily thrown upon our character — 
 But success will make our reputation whole. 
 
 Without being poetic or wishing to write a 
 romance, I could describe to you the many sleep- 
 less nights that I have passed in agonizing thought 
 after the faction had left me ; for the meetings 
 were usually held at my house. Two grand ap- 
 prehensions disturbed my rest : the fear of being 
 betrayed by one of our own party, and the sus-
 
 182 
 
 picion that we should not be supported by the 
 fanatical people. For had we had the priests on 
 our side, no doubt then of our success. For 
 priests are perpetual conspirators; that is, they 
 serve an imperium in imperio, and are only auxili- 
 aries of the government. Most efficient, I grant. 
 But their mysterious connexion with their parish- 
 ioners, being the depositaries and channels of 
 mystic or spiritual power, necessarily give them 
 an influence that nothing can counteract. In this 
 they are diametrically working against us, and we 
 have only the good wishes of a few of the lower 
 ones, whom poverty or ambition, or indifference 
 towards the priesthood, may induce to join our 
 side. I have carefully examined the History of 
 Factions, and I find what a deep part priests 
 play, either for or against them. Sometimes one 
 rehgion is oppressed by another, and though the 
 more liberal rehgion is uppermost, yet it becomes 
 illiberal ; and the iUiberal one that is oppressed, 
 becomes the most liberal. So that, so far from 
 producing peace and concord, religions are the 
 very hot-beds of turbulence and faction. I have 
 often wondered at the shortsightedness of princes 
 who encouraged them so much as if to have a 
 double rank of magistrates — The temporal ma-
 
 183 
 
 gistrates in the foreground, and the sph'itiial 
 magistrates in the back ground. One in the first 
 Hne, and the other in the second fine. Princes, 
 by this means, think that their power is more 
 secured, and their authority more readily en- 
 forced. But they recollect not that they are 
 nourishing the seeds of the dissolution of their 
 own power. For instance, wherein lies the great- 
 est power ? The civil magistrate condemns a man 
 to death — He is carried to the place of execution. 
 This is terrible ! It is striking and awful ! And 
 yet the spectators know that a man rnnst die; 
 and this ordinary event is soon forgotten. But 
 the spiritual magistrate mounts up beside the cul- 
 prit — He exhorts him, and he seems on that oc- 
 casion to hold the keys of paradise; he offers 
 the culprit heaven. Here then is a power much 
 greater than the civil magistrate can exert, 
 much greater than that of the prince, inasmuch 
 as eternity is longer than time. What power can 
 we offer to counteract this? The people may 
 groan under the most debasing slavery ; they 
 may be treated worse than the beasts of the field. 
 The worse they are treated, the greater their 
 chance of everlasting happiness is then perpetually 
 dinned into their ear by the priesthood. Nay,
 
 184 
 
 the instant a person is executed, do not the crowd 
 loudly exclaim : "All' ora in paradiso.' * The friars 
 encourage this. So that the inference is, that a 
 culprit who has been guilty of the blackest crimes, 
 if he be executed, has the best chance of rewards. 
 How can we resist this ? By holding the keys of hea- 
 ven, the priests can lock the padlock of the fetters 
 on earth. How can we overcome divine right? and 
 when they choose, they leave no debtor side to the 
 book, because they can give a receipt in full for 
 all crimes. The fact is, that, by such a system, a 
 man is governed by his hopes and fears ; that is, 
 by the most base and selfish motives. The ob- 
 ject, then, of all mystical systems, however modi- 
 fied, is to enslave and degrade us. It is curious, 
 however, to observe, how little religion ultra- 
 royalists have. Authority, authority is all they look 
 at. Religion is with them a secondary consider- 
 ation, only so far as it supports blindly authority. 
 Obedience is the first of virtues, and servility the 
 height of wisdom. The whole scheme between 
 God, kings, and men, is thus cemented by selfish- 
 ness. The secret is, how to elicit as much obe- 
 dience from the mass of mankind as possible, in 
 
 * " Now he is in paradise."
 
 185 
 
 order to plunder them at their ease, and with im- 
 punity. Hence, with these ultras morality is as 
 %ero^ whilst superstition (an admirable method 
 of authority) is as one hundred. Patience, obe- 
 dience, * and submission — Submission, obedience, 
 and patience, is the eternal chorus of their song. 
 We are to sit patiently in the front of the theatre, 
 and not to presume to look behind the scenes, and 
 see all the ropes and puUies — the worn out scenes, 
 tattered and bespattered, the clumsy carpenters 
 that patch them up. Nor can we well distinguish, 
 with the glare of lights, the several false stones 
 which bedeck the actors : we take them, from the 
 illusions of our sight, for real. We think senti- 
 ments flow from the hearts of kings and queens, 
 heroes and heroines, when they are only got by 
 rote, or suggested by the hasty prompter ; thus 
 full grown babies are amused with the drama of 
 politics ; sometimes a tragedy — comedy ; some- 
 times a farce. I look, therefore, to the safeguards 
 of liberty, and not to the form of government. 
 There may be more tyranny in a nominal repub- 
 hc, than in a monarchy. What is it to me that 
 the chief of the state is called President, or Con- 
 sul, or King, or Emperor ? These are mere forms 
 that wise men regard little, and that fools only ad-
 
 186 
 
 mire. The checks and safeguards against man's 
 odious love of power is what I consider. Indeed, 
 mankind appear to me to exemphfy the fable of 
 the dog crossing the water with a piece of meat 
 in his mouth, which he drops in order to grasp 
 at the shadow ; and these shadows fix their 
 destiny here on earth. This was our greatest 
 difficulty. Few men examine, or this would not 
 be the case, and the mysteriousness of spiritual 
 power makes it greater than temporal. Let 
 princes beware. They had better govern by 
 temporal laws. In a catholic country, the confes- 
 sional is a great bar to conspiracy, unless the 
 priests are the conspirators ; then it does not sig- 
 nify. But if it be the interest of the Church to 
 support the existing tyranny, and any rash con- 
 spirator goes to confession, the whole is blown. 
 For, although the priests vapour much about the 
 sacredness of the confessional, ask any minister 
 of state, or council of any catholic country, what 
 use they have not made of it? Hints may be 
 given indirectly. This alone has supported the 
 Church for so many ages. For it is their high 
 secret police ; for the ultimate aim and end of all 
 positive religions are temporal power. Hobbes, 
 in his great work of the Kingdom of Darkness,
 
 187 
 
 (which every one, who wishes to be rightly in- 
 formed upon these subjects, should read,) says, 
 " that, by means of the confessional, they (the 
 " Church) know every one's secrets, whilst no one 
 " knows theirs." He concludes with a most eloquent 
 and pow erful comparison between the priests and 
 the kingdom of the fairies, which I shall some day 
 communicate to you. Another impediment to 
 our hopes are the formalists among the liberals; 
 that is, the conceited part of them. They consist 
 of the pragmatical part, — the learned, the half 
 learned, and the sentimental conspirators — those 
 who wish to achieve revolutions, without spilling 
 blood ; who conceive, that, to effect a scheme of 
 liberty, certain declarations alone are necessary, 
 and a few high-sounding words ; and that an old 
 dynasty may be preserved under a revolution. 
 How absurd ! And that equality is liberty ! 
 Whereas, as we are not masters of our destinies, 
 how can equality exist ? Since no two men are 
 born equal. As to the common people, they 
 must ever be labourers ; for, in every age, they 
 have the liberty of choosing between working and 
 starving. So that, under every form of govern- 
 ment, there must be working classes. But what 
 interests them is, whether they will not gain more
 
 188 
 
 under a scheme of liberty, than under a scheme 
 of despotism, and have a chance of rising greater 
 and higher. As to the middUng and higher 
 orders, despotism is moral death to them, and 
 liberty moral life. But your formalists think, 
 that liberty consists in words ; and the word Re- 
 public is associated with liberty ; and Monarchy, 
 with despotism. Whereas, look to the United 
 States of America, and ask the free citizens thereof 
 how many millions of slaves they have ? And if 
 negro slavery is not as cruel and severe there as 
 possible ? This at once renders their theory of 
 liberty ridiculous ; because it is inconsistent. 
 Liberty consists in habit and chartered rights ; 
 and a due balance of power between the three 
 orders of a state — those existing upon labour — 
 those acquiring — and those who have acquired, 
 and who rest satisfied. Every civilized state falls 
 into three orders — the people, the middle class, 
 and the aristocracy. The last require distinctions ; 
 the first aim at becoming the second ; the second 
 at finishing their career as the third. Here, then, 
 we have a state, and we must give all three their 
 due weight in its government ; that is, liberty. 
 But we must rest assured, that no despotic king 
 will ever consent to that. Therefore, in England
 
 189 
 
 they had not accompUshed their scheme, until 
 they changed their dynasty, and elected the Pre- 
 sident of a foreign republic to be their king, 
 -which was a promotion. But no family will sub- 
 mit to a degradation ; that is, after they have com- 
 manded absolutely, to be mere administrators ; 
 consequently, these formalists, who conceive that 
 an oath to a constitution will fix a despotic king, 
 are fools, and know nothing of human nature. If 
 revolutions are to succeed, kings must first be de- 
 posed, and others elected ; for the mass of the 
 people of a state love monarchy, though seldom 
 the monarch individually, because they think that 
 it is a sort of perpetual umpire to settle their dif- 
 ferences, and to quash individual aspirers to 
 power. They love the crown as the symbol of 
 their own power ; though they may often grumble 
 at the wearer of it. This they do often, because 
 they do not think he wears it well. They think 
 the crown is the servant of all, which was exem- 
 plified in the reply of the old woman to a Roman 
 emperor, on her importuning him with a petition ; 
 he said, " Do you think I shall be troubled with 
 your petition ?" She replied, " Then, for what 
 are you emperor ?" This, in a phrase, explains 
 the whole economy of the office. But the for-
 
 190 
 
 malists understand neither the theory nor issue of 
 revolutions. They are to be learnt in the passions 
 of mankind. 
 
 Some of the more incautious of our party 
 have been arrested. Others are watched. As 
 for me, they had no proofs against me, but a 
 violent suspicion, that made it prudent for me, 
 even on account of others, and the good cause, 
 to withdraw. I am aware that I am a marked 
 man, — more from what I may do, than for what 
 I have done. I do not blame them. Despotism 
 is a very snug, comfortable thing, as long as it 
 lasts. What more delightful than irresponsible 
 government ? What more pleasant than to ex- 
 tract as much money as we think proper from 
 a hard working people? Indeed, is not this 
 stimulating their industry? The higher they 
 are taxed, the more industrious they must be- 
 come. A diplomatist once said to me, " Large 
 revenues, standing armies, and loans, were the 
 luxury of diplomacy." What means of glory! 
 I do not blame them, more than I blame the 
 brigands, who rob and murder on the highway. 
 The principle is precisely the same. The 
 brigand is hanged, when he is caught, and so 
 is despotism sometimes overthrown. The one
 
 191 
 
 are robbers with force on a grand scale, the 
 other are robbers without force on a small scale. 
 Their plan, practice, and principles are one and 
 the same. To bring both to justice is praise- 
 worthy ; but we risk our lives equally, from the 
 brigands that take us up into the mountains, or 
 the brigands who occupy large towns and for- 
 tresses. The only difference is, that the one are 
 wanderers, the others stationary. It is my busi- 
 ness to strive to destroy both, and to keep myself 
 from being murdered by the one, or thrown into 
 a dungeon by the other. Adieu ! 
 
 RiNALDO. 
 
 CLORINDA TO ROSALINE. 
 
 Florence, January 1st. 
 
 I CANNOT well express the ill humour I feel at 
 this moment. I never before experienced such 
 disquietude. It is more irritating than all the 
 dangers and difficulties that environ me. It in- 
 deed comes more home into my bosom. Rinal- 
 do's indifference causes these feelings. Yet he is 
 not indifferent. Why do I call it so ? It is that
 
 192 
 
 he seems occupied with other objects. I have a 
 dangerous rival in his love of his country. Yet 
 should not that increase mine for him ? Yet why 
 does he not return it with more ardour ? What 
 a difference there is between his attentions and 
 those of my intended ! Yet how I loathe the 
 latter. How a woman detests the attentions of 
 one man, when she is taken by another ! Fool 
 that I am to think that I can conquer Rinaldo's 
 stubborn heart. A man who has such vast pro- 
 jects, who is hourly risking his liberty, his life, 
 can he be occupied by a love-sick girl ? Ah 1 
 Rosaline, 1 blush for the expression. But your 
 divine Shakspeare so describes us ! What 
 is Juliet? How well he knew Italy. Juliet is 
 the type of an Italian girl. You say that our 
 sympathies are unaccountable. They are indeed. 
 So is also our happiness and our sorrow. Why 
 should I look to peace and wealth ? Are they 
 the main sources of happiness ? If so, misers are 
 the happiest of mortals. They enjoy peace and 
 wealth. This is what my mother is perpetually 
 dinning in my ears. Not that misers are happy, 
 but that their principle is good. Avarice is a 
 mixture of caution and selfishness founded on the 
 fear of want ; and a love of peace is timidity. But
 
 193 
 
 give me the storms of life. If they be frightful 
 at one moment, they are dehghtful at another. It 
 may be that I shall love Rinaldo more for his 
 apparent indifference. What misery can be so 
 great as to have nothing to do, no occupation ? 
 And this Rinaldo tells me is the curse of despotic 
 government. This is why all active spirits love 
 free governments, and strive to obtain them. Ac- 
 tive spirits when restrained I am sure become 
 sullen. Rinaldo says this is the reason, that the 
 best books are written either in exile or in prison. 
 If we had every path smooth before us we should 
 be like monks &nd nuns ; the only active move- 
 ment in their breasts being hatred, envy, and ma- 
 lignity. The heart left to itself preys upon itself, 
 and consequently preys upon others. My philo- 
 sophy, Rosaline, is not of so high a reach as 
 yours, but it relates more to my own observation 
 in life. After this, do not think that I am pre- 
 paring you to hear of my running away with Ri- 
 naldo. No, I trust I have too much dignity to 
 take such a step ; too much influence in my own 
 family to render it necessary ; and Rinaldo will 
 not divorce himself from his country and his 
 party, to espouse me solely. Alas ! I am but se- 
 cond in his affections. His country has the first 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 
 
 place. Well! well! I shall never have another 
 woman for a rival at any rate. That is a sweet 
 consolation ! Oh ! if I had, I should become 
 tragic; I should think of the dagger and the 
 bowl. But what an horrid idea ! How came it to 
 slip from my pen ! As a lioness is fierce in the 
 protection of her whelps, so is an Italian fierce in 
 her jealousy. Love's torments are love's dehghts, 
 because they are mutually complimentary. But 
 jealousy only belongs to true love. Would it 
 gnaw our heart, if that heart did not feel a greater 
 craving ? Oh ! Sibyl, tell me my fortunes — look 
 into futurity—dive into the dark recesses of fate. 
 What tutelar deity shall 1 implore ? Will the 
 Madona listen to me ? She looks coldly on all 
 alike. Oh ! no celestial holy flame warms my 
 heart now. I might as well woo the cold incon- 
 stant moon as the Madona. Her placid visage 
 is repulsive to love's emotions: yet she is not 
 without mystical tenderness. She is the emblem 
 of the highest cast of creation — mother of the 
 divinity, and queen of heaven ! Oh ! that I could 
 propitiate her. To an Italian heart what a de- 
 lightful symbol of divine grace ! Yes, Rosaline, 
 she is my propitiatory symbol. In her is love 
 divine and universal. Oh ! that she could breathe
 
 195 
 
 grace especial upon her truest votaries. Look at 
 the ideal modesty with which those of the greatest 
 genius have pourtrayed her superhuman form. 
 Can the bad passions approach her ? Will they 
 sympathise with her tenderness ? Who, leaving 
 her adoration, rising devoutly from before her 
 sacred shrine, illuminated by all the celestial rays 
 of her countenance, could sink into wickedness. 
 Impossible! For she is the emblem of purity. 
 Ah ! Rosaline, what a comfort have you lost in 
 not knowing the Madona. You who gaze on 
 naked power absolute, without form or fashion. 
 Who substitute for her gentle and gracious tute- 
 lacre the chilling hand of fate. How can you 
 stand alone in the midst of existence universal, 
 without one moment rechning your head on the 
 bosom of some symbol, personified and deified ? 
 Oh ! you will ever be a prey to your own sensa- 
 tions. Without a help, they will overcome you 
 and devour you at last. To you, Rosaline, I 
 pour forth my unreserved and most secret 
 thoughts. I will tell you my dream of last night. 
 Methought I beheld two majestic and beautiful 
 goddesses ; one rising from the sea, the other 
 from the earth. The one surrounded with sport- 
 ing dolphins, with sea-nymphs ; the other rising 
 o2
 
 196 
 
 in the midst of a luxuriant corn field, surrounded 
 with fruit trees and flowers : they approached 
 and embraced. On the one was written Venus — 
 she who springs from the sea ; on the other Na- 
 ture. They embraced again, and their attendants 
 hailed them as twin sisters. They approached, 
 and each gently took me by the hand. Nature 
 pointed out all the riches around, and offered to 
 seat me in the midst. Venus shewed me her ele- 
 ment, the lashing waves discovered the storm 
 that was rising. The thunder rolled, and the 
 lightning flashed. I was transported with awe 
 and delight — I seized the goddess by the gar- 
 ment, and she instantly flew with me over the 
 waves into the midst of the storm. Oh ! Sibyl, 
 is this dream prophetic ? You see that I have 
 made here Nature the goddess of the earth. I 
 do like that designation of her better than a more 
 general one. Tell me if you approve of the con- 
 ceit of Venus and Nature being twin sisters. That 
 may be without any violation to the rules of 
 poetry, if we make earth the mother of both. You 
 see how silly I am. Pardon me, and give me what 
 comfort you can. Adieu ! 
 
 Ever yours. 
 
 La Clorinda.
 
 197 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, January 16th. 
 
 Ah ! Clorinda, how your heart has become 
 entangled, and with kindred passions — love and 
 devotion. You call on me to tell your fortunes ; 
 I look forward, and I shrink from the task, because 
 I look back and shudder at the past. Who can 
 follow the wild flights of Fortune, even in their 
 mind's eye ? Who can look about in the moral 
 world, and not be bewildered and stupefied at 
 unceasing inconsistencies? Can I tell you why 
 successful villainy uprears his brazen front and 
 rides us down in broad day ; why bashful virtue, 
 a threadbare starveling, shrinks into every bye 
 corner ; why fools kiss the rod of power ; why 
 honest men are chained to the damp floor of a 
 sickly dungeon ; why pious fraud throws her 
 saintly garment over the hideous deformity of 
 reckless vice — aye, and of grim oppression too ; 
 why man buys and sells his fellow man, to minister 
 to his avarice, and lashes his back till the parched 
 earth is soaked with his streaming blood ; why 
 the black offspring is torn from its sun-born 
 mother's warm breast, and sold a devoted victim ;
 
 198 
 
 why do the worst passions here phick up by the 
 roots the tenderest affections, making rehgion a 
 farce, morahty an hypocrite and justice an insult, 
 and reason the most flimsy sophistry, harrowing 
 up our feehngs of humanity, then plunging our 
 moral existence in despair; and, more terrible 
 than all, why the fiend Hypocrisy should catch 
 sacred truth in her vile birdlime, and besmear us 
 with her nauseous slime ? Ah ! hypocrisy, thou 
 art like a splendid mausoleum. We are giddy in 
 looking upon thy awful doom; we admire the 
 beauty and symmetry of thy chaste peristyle, thy 
 Corinthian pillars delight our eyes ; — we open the 
 narrow door to thy interior ; we are blasted with 
 the foul and stinking breath of the putrid charnel- 
 house within. 
 
 Unriddle me the riddle of life, and I will tell 
 thee thy fortunes. Do I hold the wires that make 
 the puppets dance? When tormented by the 
 contemplation of untoward circumstances; with 
 the awful efforts of the wicked ; with the hopeless 
 efforts of the good — I exclaim : Such is the decree 
 of Fate ! Others twitch me by the sleeve, and 
 cry: No, the will of Providence. Well, let us 
 not quarrel about terms ; be it so. The will of 
 Providence, or the deciccY of Fate. The end is
 
 199 
 
 the same. No matter how we designate the cause, 
 we feel the effects, whether we are propelled by 
 the necessary impulse of eternal movement, gene^- 
 rated by the vital principle absolute, which must 
 constitute an irresistible fate, or whether we are 
 subject to the irresistible decrees of an all ruUng 
 providence ; still, I say, we are led by an invi- 
 sible hand. Let that hand then be the hand of 
 God. But here you cannot humanize the divi- 
 nity, and give him two natures ; here we cannot 
 play fast and loose ; his nature must be one — 
 power absolute. You say what a providential 
 escape you had. Aye ! from what did you es- 
 cape ? Was that without the influence of pro- 
 vidence ? If your escape was providential, your 
 risk must have been providential also. The ma- 
 riner exclaims, oh ! I have escaped the storm ! 
 Was the storm then independent of providence ? 
 The same power that brewed the storm, conduct- 
 ed the mariner safe through it, and vice versa. 
 Well then, bring down the immortal gods here 
 upon earth ; let us feast our vanity in assimilat- 
 ing their nature to our own ; still the results 
 will be the same ; pov/er absolute, to which all 
 things are subjected. We must submit, because 
 we do submit. We fret, and fume, and scold ;
 
 200 
 
 what does it avail us ? Only additional torture. 
 With all our learning, we cannot read in the 
 dark book of fate, except day by day, and then 
 it is past, and of no use but to make us howl and 
 mourn. Oh ! ye puppets that fancy that ye are 
 the governors of mankind ! Ye conquerors that 
 conquer air, wliat else is the bubble glory ; who, 
 filling up our vision with your gigantic form, 
 assuming to wield the thunder-bolts of Jove, are 
 at least chained to a rock to have your entrails 
 torn by the vultures of disappointed ambition. 
 My mind loves to contemplate the awful grandeur 
 of power absolute, which I dare not deck out 
 with symbols or personification. Yes, Clorinda, 
 this is a true inspiration, the inspiration of truth. 
 Still I admire the fervour of your devotion ; sub- 
 stitute nature for the Madona, and I will join 
 in your prayers. She is indeed my goddess; 
 such as she has made me, so I adore her. This 
 is dark enough ; that is, I feel nature as she is 
 presented to me in my own bosom. As she thus 
 has framed that bosom, so do I conceive her, and 
 conceiving her, I worship her. The affections, 
 purely natural, are my code of morals ; not man's 
 interpretation of them. Toleration universal 
 would go to annihilate selfishness particular.
 
 201 
 
 Every object in nature is with me nature's sym- 
 bol. My heart, striving to keep within the circle 
 of pure natural affections, moves in its true sphere. 
 I am not yet so decrepit as to want a crutch to 
 lean upon. I repose upon the universe ; I rest 
 upon the eternal tide of the concurrent movement 
 of things. But, like the mariner who cannot di- 
 rect the storm, he strives to console himself with 
 hope. Hope, like the sleepy poppy-juice, allays 
 the anguish of pain, though it cannot banish all 
 apprehension. Some have the faculty of swal- 
 lowing larger draughts than others ; you, Clo- 
 rinda, more than I, and the Madona is the phy- 
 sician that hands you the cup ; swallow it to the 
 dregs, maiden, if it gives you consolation, for we 
 are surrounded by so many disappointments, and 
 hope so often promises, and so seldom performs 
 her promises, let us fancy her an intoxicating 
 draught, and quaff her off. Adieu. 
 
 Rosaline.
 
 202 
 
 CLORINDA TO ROSALINE. 
 
 Florence, January 5tli. 
 
 I PROMISED you the story of the Genevra, 
 and you shall have it. It favours much the doc- 
 trines of your fatalists. I say it was a visible 
 interposition of Providence ; and you say that 
 and fatalism is the same thing, because such an 
 interposition constitutes fate. 
 
 Well, I think it was about the early periods 
 of the Florentine republic ; certainly in the very 
 early periods, that the story goes, that Genevra 
 was the most beautiful maiden in Florence. Of 
 course she did not want admirers. But she 
 fixed her choice upon one, who was every way 
 suitable to her, and who loved her tenderly, and 
 whose love was as tenderly returned. But un- 
 fortunately, her father and mother did not in 
 this accord with her wishes, and they pointed 
 out another suitor, whom they supported in his 
 pretensions to her hand, and who was superior 
 in wealth to his rival. This courtship attracted 
 the attention of the city ; and all the parties 
 being neither of ordinary birth, or situation, ne- 
 cessarily caused an interest generally to be felt 
 
 i
 
 203 
 
 for them. She postponed, as long as she could, 
 her fatal marriage with the suitor, whom her 
 parents recommended, until she was wearied out, 
 and could resist no longer. The patriarchal 
 authority was at its height in the republic at 
 that period, and although I am aware it is the 
 best depository of power in general, and infi- 
 nitely superior to civil police, yet every mode of 
 power is liable to abuse. In this instance, the 
 poor Genevra fell a sacrifice to the obduracy 
 and the avarice of her parents. Her real de- 
 voted lover was in a state of distraction when 
 he heard that the fatal marriage-day was fixed ; 
 he could not follow her to the altar, but he, in 
 his phrenzy, desired to follow her to the tomb. 
 The maiden was brought forth, bedecked in her 
 splendid bridal garments, and garnished with 
 gems, which the wealthy patricians of the then 
 modern Tyre could well afford to display on 
 their wives and daughters. Though a sump- 
 tuary law of the republic soon after reduced their 
 magnificence more to a level with their trading 
 pursuits. Oh heavens ! I can fancy the poor 
 Genevra tottering with uncertain steps to the 
 altar, supported by the sympathetic hearts and 
 arms of her bride's maids. Her cheeks paler
 
 204 
 
 than their virgin robes; the flowers that they 
 strewed before her were not redolent; what 
 odour can soothe anguish ? She seemed to tread 
 on thorns and nettles that stung her feet ; every 
 wavering step leading to her grave. Oh ! who 
 can feel the anguish of her heart, drooping amidst 
 all the pomp and pageantry ! The deep drawn 
 sighs, which heaved from her tortured bosom, 
 pierced her real lover's attentive ear, and sunk 
 him, like lead, to the ground. The trad- 
 ing-base husband seizes her reluctant hand, 
 thrust forward by the haughty father. Her 
 unfeeling mother bridles up her head; as a 
 token that poor Genevra should raise hers, 
 already sunk upon her swelling breast. The 
 priests perform their office. Tears alone flow 
 down the innocent cheeks of the bride's maids. 
 Oh God ! this is too much ! such misery cannot 
 profane thine holy altars in tranquillity. The 
 ceremony proceeds — the bridegroom puts on her 
 withdrawing hand the fatal ring, symbol of eter- 
 nity of joy or woe. To her it is an adder sting, 
 that nips in the bud her every hope : it thrills its 
 deep anguish through her quivering heart ! In vain 
 the priest blesses the pledge. Hark ! she shrieks, 
 she shrieks, and then swoons — she falls. Her
 
 205 
 
 bridal bed became .her bier,* mocking woe by its 
 splendour. The next night the awe-striking 
 vault is opened : the same priest who united her 
 living hands to those whom she loathed, now 
 sings her requiem. Her bridegroom becomes 
 chief mourner in the pageant. Ah ! but who is 
 the real mourner ? That pale figure who glides 
 along, emblem of the ghost that he may soon be- 
 come, they descend into the tomb, which is hastily 
 closed. It was in the month of October, when 
 the refreshing breezes that are wafted over the 
 rugged Appenines, cool feverish, but beautiful 
 Florence. The clear silver bell struck one : 
 it vibrated through the clearer atmosphere, and 
 called to her to awaken from her trance. She 
 rose. Oh ! who can describe her fright ? Let 
 him hear your divine Juliet's rage before she takes 
 the love-sleeping potion. My pen here stops. 
 She rose, stripped of pomp ; her fine form was 
 shrouded in virgin white — still analogous to her 
 real state. Oh ! what a combination ! A buried 
 virgin-bride. To whom did she belong? Has 
 not the tomb the power of divorce ? Aye, this 
 idea refreshed her more than all the autumnal 
 Alpine zephyrs that come from the distant 
 Rhcetian alps. An aperture had been left in the 
 "^ She was not buried in a coffin but laid on a bier.
 
 206 
 
 hastily cIosqcI vault. The kind moon, here kind 
 indeed, because she was inconstant, lit her with 
 her mild countenance, and marked a long bright 
 line for her to tread in. Oh ! she struggled hard 
 to force her way. Oh ! she dreaded to look back, 
 lest the disturbed spirits of her grim forefathers 
 should pull her down again and stop her from 
 teUing the dismal tale of their prison house. Yet 
 she struggled, and struggled hard. Love, true 
 Love was before her, and Death, dismal Death 
 at her heels ! She fled from her bier to the real 
 nuptial couch of her constancy. Who then would 
 not struggle? She gained the upper air. Oh! she 
 found herself under the majestic walls of the noble 
 dome of Florence. Instinct guided her chilled, 
 bare, marble feet : her silent footsteps strayed to 
 her true love's mansion. Then distracted with grief, 
 he too had thrown himself upon his couch before 
 his open casement, fanned by the northern breeze 
 to cool his phrenzied brain ; when, in the delirium 
 of his grief, he heard the soft accents of her well- 
 known voice, he started up, and from his balcony 
 he beheld her shrouded form. Horror seized him. 
 Ah ! blessed soul, cried he, rest in peace, — 
 Anima beneditta resta in pact. — Haunt not me, I 
 am thy true love. Oh ! I deserve it not ! Drive 
 me not to distraction. Art thou some fiend that
 
 207 
 
 has assumed that saint-like form, to entrap me 
 into eternal woe, was his reply ; when he beheld 
 her open her fine turned ivory arms and gently 
 beckon him to descend. Oh ! sorceress, away ! 
 away ! he cried, Oh ! Holy Virgin preserve 
 me. — Oh! Holy Mary all hail! sanctify me. — 
 Oh! my patron saint, guide me. In vain she 
 cried, It is thy Genevra, thine own true Ge- 
 nevra, that calls thee down, to warm her frozen 
 frame in thy feverish arms : come down ; come 
 down. Long was the struggle before the youth 
 complied: with trembling, uncertain hand he 
 unbarred the ponderous portal ; raising his lamp, 
 stretching and crawling on, until he heard her 
 quick drawn breath : then he seized her chilled 
 form, hurrying her swiftly to his mother's chamber, 
 in whose warm bed she might recover. Oh ! what 
 was the mother's joy when he placed the buried 
 bride in her own warm bed, trembling — chilled — 
 exhausted — palpitating in every limb, raised from 
 the dead, and starting from her bier : the middle 
 position between heaven and earth. With her 
 returning circulation, what a combination of 
 ideas rushed upon her bewildered brain ! Her 
 former blighted love, sealed with all the pageantry 
 of solemnized nuptuals ; then transient death ;
 
 208 
 
 the grave ; then awoke, as at the last great day — 
 to rise to paradise ! Who now shall say, that Hope 
 is not sometimes the rainbow that chases away the 
 fleeting clouds of black and stormy Despair. The 
 kind mother arose and carefully administered to her 
 God-ordained daughter cordials and fruits ; such 
 things as the women, when weak and sickly, de- 
 light in. Her youth — her healthful, quick flowing 
 blood soon restored her elastic step. Soon her 
 blooming visage irradiated the love and beauty of 
 a contented mind ; enhancing thus the glory of a 
 despaired of prize. But some days elapsed before 
 she could venture to pay the homage of the obla- 
 tion of her gratitude to the Virgin of the most 
 Holy Ammnciation, in whose porch hangs all the 
 votive offerings, for such as have recovered from 
 grievous ill from danger by land or sea. Here 
 the grateful heart pours forth its fervent thanks, 
 and seals those thanks by hanging up the repre- 
 sentation of the escaped peril. Thither she 
 met her mother. Ah ! cried she, anima hene- 
 ditta resta in pace — oh! rest in peace blessed 
 soul. The Genevra passed on. The follow- 
 ing day, again her mother accosted her: Did 
 I not know that she was wrapt in her eternal 
 rest, I should take you to be my daughter. To
 
 209 
 
 which the other lepHed : I am your daughter. 
 Holy vh'gin, defend us ! quoth the mother. And 
 now meekly and humbly, on her knee, she the 
 awful tale unfolded ; but return she would not. 
 I am the bride of my first love — the solemnized 
 nuptials have been dissolved by the grave — the 
 dead mass has cancelled the living contract. 
 Little agreeing they departed. The haughty mo- 
 ther still wished to have her as her prey. But 
 now the holy mother church took cognizance of 
 the whole affair ; the Pope's nuncio received his 
 orders from Rome to examine into it. A day of 
 solemn trial was fixed, and the two suitors both 
 preferred their claims. The Genevra, more 
 fresh than the morning vapour in the deepest 
 valley of the wild Abruzzi, or in far Calabria, 
 more modest than the lilies of the Val d'Arno, 
 shaded by her veil, appeared between the two, 
 to be a second time brought to the mart of 
 selfishness, or restored to the plenitude of joy. 
 The holy doctors did not leave her long in doubt. 
 They declared that the solemnization of funeral 
 rites cancels every worldly tie ; — that the church 
 is infallible, and that its rites cannot be profaned 
 by falsehood, which would be the case, had not 
 divorce taken place even with this earth ; — that 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 
 
 they devoutly acknowledged a present miracle : — 
 a miracle ! a miracle ! all exclaimed. A miracle, 
 then, cut this Gordian knot. All hailed the mi- 
 racle — all hailed the holy discovery. The Gene- 
 vra was pronounced to be divorced by death : — 
 she was restored by the omnipotence of God to 
 life : — she w^as again a virgin bride that day ; and 
 the same authorities joined her hand to his, for 
 whom she had manifested constancy unto death ; 
 and that ring that suspended life, given from the 
 one hand, that had stung her to that transient 
 death, now becomes the pledge of perpetual love, 
 as its form was the symbol of eternity. 
 
 Well, Rosaline, would not I make a good 
 novel writer ? Have not I given you high 
 flown language enough, in this pretty story? 
 How many romantic maids would like to play the 
 part of the Genevra ? I wish you to write to me 
 something upon the wonderful turns of fortune. 
 But give me hopes. I do not like your perpetual 
 gloom ; but I am now fatigued, and I must con- 
 clude. Adieu. 
 
 Clorinda.
 
 211 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, January 2d. 
 
 I AM delighted with the story of the Genevra. 
 It not only proves fatalism, but so does every 
 story, so does every history, so do the lives of all 
 our acquaintances. And yet we never meet a 
 person in the street by accident, though in our 
 slip-slop we say so. There is no accident in the 
 vulgar acceptation of that term. Every thing 
 that has form, that is a substance, is in space and 
 time. — Therefore all its accidents, movements, 
 predicaments, are necessary, because space and 
 time are the necessary predicaments to its exist- 
 ence ; and things then pass through them in suc- 
 cession. To be free, therefore, we must be out 
 of space and time. That is, our ideas are free ; 
 but when the result of our ideas or desires act 
 upon our frame, then we are fettered. So my 
 ideas, my dear Clorinda, are now with you. But 
 my person cannot be with you, unless a variety 
 of circumstances should occur, all flowing one 
 from another, and all chained together, which 
 should cause me to meet with you, and then there 
 would be no accident in the case either, but we 
 p2
 
 212 
 
 might minutely trace up every link in the chain, 
 which would prove that we necessarily come to- 
 gether. Will, therefore, is free, positively, as far 
 as regards to will alone — But embodied will, that 
 is our person, is fettered by absolute positive ne- 
 cessity — So our intentions often accord not with 
 our acts. A man's actions may be bad, and his 
 intention good — and the contrary. If our actions 
 could accord with our will, should not we be all 
 rich and happy, and who would do any work in 
 the world? — Therefore, constituted as our being 
 is, there is an overruling destiny, that is the main 
 spring of the watch that winds it up. Free will, 
 then, is as the minor springs and wheels. Now I 
 will try, on this intricate subject, to explain myself; 
 for it only wants a little common sense, and to 
 disembarrass ourselves of previous prejudices, to 
 come at a right understanding of it. All man- 
 kind admit two circumstances drawn from pure 
 experience. That is, that birth and death are 
 the necessary contingencies of living beings. 
 Well, then, here we have two necessary cardinal 
 points — Birth, the point of departure ; and death, 
 the termination of life. So both these are neces- 
 sary, there is no avoiding them, because birth is 
 necessary to constitute life — Without birth there
 
 213 
 
 could be no life — And death must, from our ex- 
 perience, terminate life. Therefore both these 
 circumstances are in space and time. That is, a 
 man is born in a certain locality, and dies in ano- 
 ther certain locality. And he is also born in that 
 particular portion of eternity, which is designated 
 by man as time. There appears to be a succession 
 of time : but time stands still. We, who perish, 
 succeed each other — Therefore the illusion is as 
 when we sail down a river ; the houses, trees, and 
 fields on the banks appear to fly — whereas it is 
 our bark that flies, and they stand still. Now 
 infancy, youth, manhood, age, are thus flying, as 
 it were, through life, all ending in death. There- 
 fore I have established my two points : birth and 
 death. And then I tie them together with a chain, 
 which chain I call destiny. Therefore the length 
 of this chain is the destined length of life. Now, 
 we say, the death was occasioned by such a cause. 
 That is erroneous. It was caused by the birth — 
 because, take any death, and trace from the im- 
 mediate cause of that death, the cause of that 
 cause, the cause then of that other cause, and so 
 on, you will arrive up to the birth. Always 
 trace it backwards. So that free will was one of 
 the working subordinate springs, which caused
 
 214 
 
 the rolling on of the being, the whole length of 
 the chain. But the death originated in the birth. 
 Now if this be true, and it is difficult to overturn 
 this reasoning, what contingency of life is free ? 
 That when the act appears to coincide with the 
 will. I will do a virtuous action, and I do it. I 
 will do a vicious action, and I do it. Well, this 
 would be all very well, if any action, or feat, call it 
 what you will, were insulated, if it had no previous 
 motive, or did not act in concert. But what was 
 the antecedent — and the antecedent again ? Here 
 then is a great dilemma. Now let us go first and 
 examine the birth. This is a large question — The 
 birth is the fountain from whence the streamlet of 
 life flows. First, the sex is to be considered ; 
 then the parents, then the nation, then the posi- 
 tion in the particular person, high or low, rich or 
 poor. Then since the figure of the person, then 
 the original qualities. Now, how all these are 
 developed, in whose hands the person falls. "What 
 miUions of contingencies are cross of other be- 
 ings ! Now she or he may be entangled in the 
 destinies of another, as in marriage, for instance. 
 What milhons of accidents fall every moment, all 
 of them necessary, all of them may be traced ! 
 All this proves that, as far as existence, that is.
 
 215 
 
 physical existence, goes, we are downright abso- 
 lutely necessary beings, each having a destiny, 
 each thrown into a line, each born on a certain 
 day, and dying on a certain day, as nothing could 
 have prevented the death taking place on the day 
 appointed by the eternal series of positive causes. 
 It is this dark destiny, that I call " being led by 
 an invisible hand," which is a poetic phrase. 
 Now when we come into the sphere of religion, 
 out of that of nature, we find all religious persons 
 terming God Providence. That, that is his first 
 attribute — Then we term him the Almighty Dis- 
 poser of events — Then surely man does not dis- 
 pose of events, if God does. Then all divines 
 and theologians insist on the prescience of the 
 Divinity, that is, that he foreknows what is to 
 happen, from all eternity. Surely this constitutes 
 a necessity that things must happen as they do, 
 otherwise God would foresee what would not 
 happen, which would be to foreknow a falsehood; 
 that is impossible. So God foresaw, from all eter- 
 nity, that Louis the Sixteenth would be put to 
 death early in the French revolution. Therefore 
 it necessarily occurred that he must be put to 
 death. But then, logicians admitting this, at the 
 same time assert, that it does not take away from
 
 216 
 
 the wickedness of the people, who thus put him 
 to death. And the whole argument amounts to 
 this, namely, that God foresaw two things that 
 would happen. First, that such a prince as 
 Louis the Sixteenth would be born, would live a 
 certain number of years ; then, that he would be 
 put to death. The other contingency that God 
 foresaw was, that certain wicked rebellious sub- 
 jects of this prince would rise up and put him to 
 death. Now this having been foreseen long ages 
 before the birth of the parties, has nothing to do 
 with the wickedness of the deed ; but it is con- 
 clusive of my argument of destiny. Because the 
 foreknowledge of God in this instance is a proof 
 of the destiny — Therefore Louis was destined to 
 be put to death; and the Abbe Sieyes to say, 
 la mart sans phrase. Therefore, from all time or 
 eternity, call it what you will, Louis was destined 
 to be a martyr, and the Abbe Sieyes to assist at 
 the martyrdom, by a cruel, unfeeling, brutal 
 speech ; which, admitting even that the king de- 
 served his fate, was cowardly and unnecessary. 
 Therefore destiny has nothing to do with future 
 rewards or punishments ; and here I confess I 
 caimot conceive how, in a religious point of view, 
 the doctrines of election, reprobation, and pre-
 
 217 
 
 destination of the Calvinists, can be got over — 
 Because if God foresees and foreknows what men 
 will do in this life, he must foresee and foreknow 
 what their doom will be in the next ; seeing that 
 their doom in the life to come depends upon what 
 they have done of good or evil in this life. Now 
 God knows from his prescience what they will do 
 in this life, and therefore he must know what their 
 doom will be in the next. And another argu- 
 ment, which will elucidate this, is, that as though 
 life to come is consequent upon this, therefore it 
 is in succession. Any thing in succession must 
 be necessary, because succession is a string of 
 motives to a continued action. So if I set off 
 from London to go to York, I must necessarily 
 pass over two hundred miles of England, in order 
 to arrive there by the shortest route. So, if I go 
 on to Edinburgh, I proceed on another journey, 
 succeeding to the one that I have taken to York. 
 Therefore if the happiness or misery of the life 
 to come is consequent, and to follow this life ; 
 God, who has foreseen what will occur to each 
 individual during this life, must foreknow also 
 what will take place in that life which is to suc- 
 ceed. Is there any divine who is ready to deny 
 God's foreknowledge ? — And if he admits it, can
 
 218 
 
 he restrict that foreknowledge to this life ; that 
 would be to say, that God sees what will happen 
 to us in this life, but he does not see what will hap- 
 pen to us in the next. Then God is not omnipo- 
 tent — Virtue and vice are beauty and deformity — 
 Moral beauty and deformity, just like physical 
 and personal beauty and deformity. That is the 
 only way of getting over the question ; unless, in- 
 deed, we admit the notions of the pure spiritual- 
 ists, that idealism has nothing to do with real- 
 ism; and that the soul's immortahty is in the 
 sphere of pure reason or idealism, and not in 
 space or time. Now, Clorinda, I think I have 
 rapidly given you some insight into the famous 
 problem. Now you will ask when is there free 
 will? Ah ! that is a more difficult question — that 
 is indeed very metaphysical — that is beyond na- 
 ture. Free will, then, hke impulse, is a quality. 
 It has a relative signification, and is relative to 
 itself, and not to the whole contingency of our 
 being as far as life goes ; it does not interfere 
 with destiny. Free will is in the sphere of ideal- 
 ism, and in that sphere we find God, immortahty, 
 soul, moral laws, the perfection of beings, happi- 
 ness, abstract good, abstract cause, concurrence, 
 and a variety of other qualities that never can
 
 219 
 
 come into time or space ; that can neither be 
 proved or demonstrated — that we can only have 
 a glimpse of — that we cannot thoroughly under- 
 stand in our present modification ; for who can 
 define any one of these except by feeling ; even 
 when a person's destiny is most visibly active, 
 free will appears to oppose it, but it is only an 
 illusive appearance. The destiny marches on as 
 steadily as we think time marches — whereas time, 
 like the sun, stands still, and we slip through it. 
 Take up Clarissa Harlowe, which, though thought 
 tedious, is a most minute philosophical proof of 
 cause and effect. It is a species of epic poem. 
 The poet here traces the free will of two beings, 
 good and bad. Lovelace is the height of bar- 
 barous, insolent, vanity. Clarissa unites every 
 virtue, meek and gentle, she is still firm ; but the 
 overruling destiny of both conquered, and this is 
 finely delineated step by step, every motive is 
 traced. So that we cannot find a work in which 
 the doctrine of necessity is more fully confirmed, 
 though I am convinced that Richardson did not 
 intend that ; but no one can write a detailed his- 
 tory of the passions, without proving necessity. 
 You will, in tracing the persecution that Clarissa 
 met with from her own family, from the activity
 
 220 
 
 and cunning of Lovelace, from his brutal vanity — 
 from her original high-toned feeling, that all the 
 catastrophes v^^ere natural. It is a great study of 
 human life. What then is the moral that I draw 
 from all these instructive fables ? That our 
 destiny is overwhelming, and that it is folly to 
 repine, that we should submit to the will of Pro- 
 vidence with resignation, to the decrees of fate 
 with calmness, and to the irresistible march of 
 events with courage. 
 
 But then persons not acquainted with this sub- 
 ject cry out, Oh! pretty doctrine. That is, if 
 every one thought as you do, Rosaline, what a 
 fine disorder there would be in the world. Every 
 one would feel that they would be at liberty to 
 follow their own inclinations. .Ah! I reply al- 
 ways : This is begging the question with a ven- 
 geance; this is asserting free-will. If my doctrine 
 can influence any one's opinion, then the will is 
 free, and you assume it to be so whilst I am prov- 
 ing the contrary ; therefore nothing can be more 
 absurd than to assert, that my saying that there is 
 a destiny, which I think every rational person 
 feels, will immediately give free-will to commit 
 disorders; whereas those disorders that have been 
 committed, have already been foreseen by the
 
 221 
 
 Deity, and permitted ; and whereas I hold that no 
 more disorders will be committed than those that 
 have flowed down from antecedent causes. All I 
 contend for is over-ruling destiny ; and to deny 
 this you must begin by denying birth, life, and 
 death ; for these three constitute the destiny. 
 Giving in a philosophical sense credit or discredit 
 to a man, is like giving credit or discredit to a pic- 
 ture, and not to the painter. Now, necessity, 
 fate, and God, is what paints the man's life, and 
 not himself; because his birth is not voluntary. 
 If we could born ourselves (I use a child's phrase) 
 we could dead ourselves, then we could life our- 
 selves ; then we might be free. But all springs 
 fi'om the simple fact, that our birth was not of our- 
 selves but from our father and mother, and theirs 
 from their parents, and so on. 
 
 Now for the analysis of the Genevra. Here 
 you see at once the apparently contradictory prin- 
 ciples of free-will and necessity. The Genevra 
 was born with a strong impulse in her bosom ; her 
 system of affinities were great and pure, and the 
 spring of her internal movement pushed her to em- 
 brace affinities that were of the same stamp. Why 
 did she not fall in love with the man her parents 
 designated? Because her system of sympathy
 
 222 
 
 was repugnant to his. Then you will say, here 
 she shewed free-will. Well, call it so if you 
 please. But her dislike of him was a great destiny, 
 and led to a great destiny. Well, her antipathy 
 towards him increased in proportion as her sym- 
 pathy increased towards her real lover. For what 
 is love, but the highest sympathy ? You say it is 
 voluntary. I say not ; because we cannot com- 
 mand it. We can no more love indiscriminately 
 than we can hate indiscriminately ; but we do not 
 know why we love or why we hate. This is the 
 darkest part of our being. We can never dis- 
 cover exactly why one man forms a friendship for 
 another man, or one woman for another, or love 
 between the sexes. This we can never find out 
 a priori, as metaphysicians say, that is before- 
 hand ; we know it posteriori, that is afterwards ; 
 when we have the experience. Then we know 
 not the exact reasons why one person should be 
 endowed with better qualities than another. All 
 this arises from the original impulse of their 
 being, and not from education, which only deve- 
 lops these original faculties, and expands them, 
 and gives force to them, but cannot create them. 
 Thus the children of the same family, though they 
 may have the same leading characteristics, yet all
 
 223 
 
 vary, though their education is precisely the same. 
 Education merely gives form and method to ori- 
 ginal instinct. What is law ? Merely the form 
 of instinct. What is religion ? Merely sentiment. 
 Disembarrass these things of the authority which 
 we have been taught belongs to them, and then 
 you will discover impulse, instinct, and sentiment, 
 to be the three primary principles of our being, 
 and the play of these constitute our destiny. All 
 things that have movement must have a fixed des- 
 tination ; because that movement must depend 
 upon original impulse, or be assisted by successive 
 impulses. Therefore there is an imperative im- 
 pulse in our being that we think is free-will; 
 whereas that depended upon the force of the 
 original vital principle, the direction that it 
 takes afterwards as it continues in a straight line or 
 a curve, (I mean morally,) and the lateral pressure 
 of other impulses. We say mere accident caused 
 such a marriage or such a death, or made such a 
 one's fortune ; whereas, in the common accepta- 
 tion of the word, mere accident never occurred ; 
 but what occurred was brought on by a million 
 of combinations of accidents, that brought these 
 accidents to fall. Over all these accidents hang 
 the destiny of the particular person or thing ; that
 
 224 
 
 is, what course he or she should take, and whe- 
 ther it should be good or bad. Now, when it is 
 good, we are enchanted, and cry aloud I Oh ! 
 how lucky ! Whereas it was as sure and as cer- 
 tain from the beginning that such would be the 
 course of him or it, as that he or it existed ; be- 
 cause what followed was a condition of existence. 
 Now the Genevra's warm attachment to her real 
 lover, co-operating with her warm feelings, over- 
 powered her. What was here thought a miracle 
 was only a singular combination. Then she was 
 entombed according to the rites of sepulture of 
 her country: not being dead, she awoke from 
 her trance ; the moon shewed her the aperture, 
 and the whole impulse of her being led her to 
 make her escape : having made it, she naturally 
 follows that same impulse — that attraction — that 
 affinity — and goes to the house of her real lover. 
 In all this march of events I see a chain, a regular 
 chain, and this constituted her destiny, because 
 from the concurrent concourse of combinations, it 
 could not have been otherwise. Therefore our 
 destiny is inevitable. We may rave, and stamp, 
 and weep, but come it will, and we must submit. 
 Those are the strongest minded who submit with 
 calmness, which is also a gift — it is a mercy in our
 
 225 
 
 original formation. But when I hear grave peo- 
 ple really blame themselves or others for their 
 evil destiny, I say, with the French, " that 
 makes pity," (cela fait pitie.) We may lament 
 ill fortune, but we cannot blame it. Then 
 they say, why punish? The answer is; that 
 is a mode of life which is as imperatively 
 necessary as any other mode of life ; as clothing, 
 manners, laws, regulations of any kind. Then 
 they go on, and ask, why should God punish 
 them ? as we are told in church every Sunday. 
 The answer is, does he not punish every day ? 
 How many of the best famihes are plunged into 
 the deepest affliction by death! How many 
 honest men become bankrupts! How many 
 knaves thrive ! How can we account for all this ? 
 Such is the march of our destiny. Besides, we 
 have no experience that he will punish in after life. 
 Many rehgious sects deny that dogma altogether. 
 For instance, the Unitarians, who are a most re- 
 spectable sect in point of manners, habits, and 
 wealth, and education, in England, deny future 
 punishments altogether. Many sects leave it in 
 doubt. Nothing is certain on this head. There 
 seems to be, on the part of mankind, a universal 
 feeling of immortality, which I feel with the rest. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 
 
 But there seems to be no further dogma beyond 
 what each one lays down, and which is denied by 
 another. Therefore the doctrine of future pu- 
 nishments is by no means an universal one among 
 enlightened persons, and on all these things there 
 are so many interpretations, that the wisest heads 
 are puzzled to see their way through them. 
 Thus I have referred all things, that I cannot de- 
 monstrate, to feeling. For when we examine the 
 human mind clearly, we find every thing to be 
 referable either to demonstration, or to feeling ; 
 and what we cannot demonstrate, we must feel, 
 and so the contrary. Now there is no demon- 
 stration of what we have not yet the experience, 
 therefore we must refer it to feeling. Those, 
 therefore, who feel that there will be eternal pu- 
 nishments, feel those punishments in advance; 
 therefore, they are punished during their lives, 
 which, to them, is an eternity. I fear, Clorinda, 
 that I am wearying your attention ; but you will 
 see, from the hints that I have given you, that, if 
 you examine yourself or your friends, you feel 
 that destiny is unalterable and inevitable. Let 
 us now analyze fortune; she who, as Lord 
 Bacon says, '' ivill consign a king from a throne 
 to the halter, and will place a peasant upon the
 
 227 
 
 throned Each person has his particular destiny. 
 It must be observed, that the highest intellectual 
 destinies seldom attain great wealth. The destiny 
 to fame is by truth. The destiny to riches is 
 often through falsehood. I mean not here in the 
 contracted idiom of falsehood, that of telling a lie — 
 I mean acting a lie through life — pursuing a false 
 system. Mean, sneaking, grovelling souls live in 
 the sphere of perpetual falsehood — great ele- 
 vated souls the sphere of perpetual truth. A 
 system of despotism is a system of falsehood. 
 No part of it is in harmony with truth. Systems 
 of positive religions, if taught exclusively by au- 
 thority, leave no room for truth to intervene, be- 
 cause they will not allow the blind authority upon 
 which they are established to be questioned. 
 These systems lead to great wealth in the pro- 
 fessors; because wealth in these professors, though 
 not the ostensible object, is the secret object. So 
 is a system of arbitrary government ; it is a sys- 
 tem of wealth to a few. Great souls cling to fame, 
 and despise wealth ; they usually die poor. Hence 
 a destiny to wealth is not the highest destiny. 
 Look at two boys at school — a Tom Jones and 
 a BHfil. Mark their progress through life; the 
 first will have a destiny to fame ; the second to
 
 228 
 
 wealth. The first, if he enters Parliament, or 
 meddles with government, will take the popular 
 side of the question — will question authority, and 
 watch it. He will nobly defend the rights of his 
 countrymen ; he will be indignant at any act of 
 oppression, and swell with pride and exultation at 
 the glory of the victims to it. View the conduct of 
 the other. He will support authority at all ha- 
 zards, and upon all occasions. He will rack his 
 brain to find excuse for tyranny, plunder, and 
 fraud. He will esteem all happiness great in 
 proportion as it leads to power and riches — that 
 is, not power of his countrymen over others ; but 
 his own mean, base power, to enable him to be- 
 come rich. Analyse this, and it arises from a 
 downright selfish feeling to be far removed from 
 want, farther than others. This passion is quickly 
 acquired by churchmen, because it is inherent 
 in thir order; the object being to render that 
 body as rich as possible, because they say that 
 they hold the keys of Heaven. Therefore 
 they ought to have greater power than those w ho 
 hold the keys of earth ; therefore they ought to 
 be better paid. But mankind ought now and 
 then to inquire into their title to such arrogant 
 pretensions. They have, therefore, a great des-
 
 229 
 
 tiny to riches; for positive religion and wealth 
 are synonimous. What wealth Constantine the 
 Great, the founder of the most modern system of 
 religion, found in the overthrow of the preceding 
 one ! So, likewise, did Henry the Eighth. But 
 still overthrow these systems as often as you will, 
 they spring up again, in a new form ; therefore, 
 I may say the church is a direct destiny to riches, 
 for it may be overthrown and lie fallow for ages, 
 still it springs up again, for its destiny is to wealth. 
 Man will pay highly for what he is most igno- 
 rant of; and ignorant and imaginative terrors 
 are always more alarming than real ones. The 
 old proverb is true ; every thing unknown is 
 magnificent ; then we must pay for it. But for- 
 tune is sometimes just. Sometimes, when she has 
 frowned upon us in our youth, she will smile 
 upon us in our more advanced age ; and v/e sel- 
 dom see men prosper at every period of their 
 lives. Those who acquire great fame and power 
 when young, die at an early age. Those who 
 have had a stormy youth, beset with difficulties, 
 have a delightful mild sunshine in the evening of 
 their lives. How pleasant it is to contemplate 
 these things, and to watch the sudden turn of 
 fortune ; to witness all her capricious frohcs !
 
 230 
 
 How whimsical she is, how coy, then how lavish ! 
 How like our own sex ! Do not we, Clorinda, 
 love to play fast and loose ? Not me, nor you, for 
 we are both downright, and have had the same 
 sort of education men usually have, with some of 
 their power superadded to our own. But the 
 generality of women, what a singular way they 
 have of viewing things ! What fancy ! How much 
 outward objects influence their imagination ! How 
 little they examine with care, and how very nar- 
 row their scope is ! But how fortunate we have 
 been to have had another system of education I 
 Dean Swift, that great master of the science of 
 human nature, says, " that he never knew a wo- 
 man that was worth any thing, that did not prefer 
 the society of men to that of her own sex." But 
 if such a system as that that ive have been edu- 
 cated in, that of analysing every thing, were to 
 be more general, we should be too powerful, for 
 we should unite the advantages of both sexes. 
 You see what a powerful influence queen Eliza- 
 beth's age had on society. What a great mmt 
 (if I may so speak) she was ! I am convinced, 
 from what I have observed of history, that the 
 system of education of the women of that age, 
 was the cause of the resistance to Charles the
 
 231 
 
 First, which estabUshecl the Hberty of England. 
 The destinies of the nation were not then so 
 much to riches as to hberty and fame. It is very 
 rare that riches can at all coincide with either 
 liberty or fame ; because they create selfish- 
 ness, which is the parent of cowardice. Still we 
 all covet wealth, because we all covet power. 
 To those who have wanted it, it comes with dou- 
 ble advantage, and even gratification. You never 
 have wanted it ; I have ; therefore, you will not 
 bear misfortune either so calmly, or so devotedly 
 as I shall. Ordinary misfortunes will not then 
 sink deep into my heart, because I have not been 
 pampered, and I am shielded against vanity, and 
 a great misfortune would take my life, because it 
 has never been supereminently valuable to me, 
 for I should leave little behind me worth regret- 
 ting. Soldiers of fortune have always been brave 
 for that reason. What do they leave behind 
 them to cause them to regret life ? And, after 
 all, excepting with some weak-minded bigot, the 
 terror of death centres itself into the mere sor- 
 row for the loss of life. But I shall urge you no 
 more ; you know how fond I am of running on ; 
 on this subject my pen would never stop. I 
 strive always to console myself, and you, and
 
 232 
 
 other , by canvassing fate and fortune. Adieu ! 
 Excuse this long unmerciful epistle. 
 
 Rosaline. 
 
 MRS. BELMONT TO SIR A. ATHERSTONE. 
 
 Bath, January 25tb. 
 
 I RECEIVED, my dear Sir Arthur, your obliging 
 message by our friend. Lord L*^*, as well as 
 several letters, which he brought me from Paris, 
 and one from my old friend, the Marquise de B. 
 You have often heard me say what a delightful 
 creature she was ; but rather affecting too much 
 sentiment, which is hardly ever safe, coming 
 from so pretty a woman. She has not a particle 
 of coquetry in her whole composition ; and Lord 
 L### tgiis j^g ^j^^^ |.]^g Count de Montvaliant, 
 whom you may remember last year in our society 
 in the Rue de Varennes, pays her great attention. 
 This is a pity. Montvahant is handsome, has 
 great address, and is daring to audacity. But 
 he is a vile profligate, vanity is his ruling prin- 
 ciple. He has seduced more women, and killed
 
 233 
 
 and maimed more men in duels, and ruined more 
 dupes at the gaming table, than any man at 
 Paris. He affects to be the champion of France 
 in these three detestable pursuits. His insolence 
 is unparalleled, for I have seen him in society 
 knit his black brows, and curl his mustachios, 
 and frown many a quiet woman into submission. 
 The men view him with distrust, and as a general 
 enemy, with whom they may have each instant 
 to measure swords, and the women crouch with 
 fear of him. Yet he can assume gentle manners 
 at times. His anecdotes, particularly of the 
 wars, which he has much frequented, though 
 more I believe in the spirit of a knight-errant, 
 than an efficient officer, are entertaining enough ; 
 and I blame myself in having given him the 
 encouragement to have often listened to him. 
 Certainly he would give one the notion of a Don 
 Galaor, the profligate brother of the chaste 
 Amadis de Gaul, or a Gaston de Foix, orany of 
 the old knights in Beaumanoir, if he had not 
 that self-sufficient vanity that one can never feel 
 entirely at one's ease with. For no woman can 
 guess how far the man will not go, who has long 
 made a reputation upon setting all public opinions 
 at defiance. His fatal dexterity with sword and
 
 234 
 
 pistol ensures him the transient respect that an 
 Algerine corsair receives from merchant vessels, 
 when they appear at sea. A discreet woman is 
 obliged to listen to this man's insolence, or run 
 the risk of having her next kinsman's or friend's 
 throat cut by him. 
 
 But, however, we have a young man from the 
 sister kingdom here, that can match him ; aye, 
 and out-do him too, as much as the modest and 
 chaste Amadis could out-go Galaor. He is 
 'yclept Sir Reginald Lascy : his fortune — his dis- 
 position — the tout ensemble, so much resemble 
 my niece, that I must try to be particular. As 
 she is the lineal representative of the house of 
 the De Veres ; so is he of the De Lascys, both 
 great Norman leaders under William ; the one 
 family settled in England, the other in Ireland : 
 both the pink and rose of chivalry for centuries ; 
 the very quintessence of aristocracy, and both 
 features are strongly marked in their descendants. 
 Like Rosahne, Sir R. has preserved only a few 
 hides of land (to speak like an antiquary) of the 
 immense domains of his ancestors ; but he has 
 preserved all their fire — their generosity — their 
 ardour undiminished in his breast. He is about 
 thirty years of age, and, though young, was emi-
 
 235 
 
 nently distinguished in the late wars. At sixteen 
 he led a forlorn hope. Twice, with small bands 
 of men, he covered perilous retreats. He has 
 been praised by his commanding - officer until 
 he has been put out of countenance; and he 
 has declined foreign decorations, lest he should 
 appear a charlatan. His education has been 
 scanty, but he makes up for it by a great 
 deal of vivacity, tempered by the most po- 
 lished and urbane manners I ever saw. There is 
 a chaste romantic gallantry in his manner and 
 sentiments, that render him particularly captivat- 
 ing to women, although he is very lame, having 
 come here to have a wound cured in his leg. 
 This accident impedes the quickness of his motion, 
 but does no harm to the general effect. By 
 stageing him a little, I have been thus particular, 
 for he is the only man that Rosaline seems to take 
 an interest in since she has been here: pre- 
 cisely because she should not. A great name, 
 high blood, and a small fortune ! enough already 
 on her side without allying herself with her 
 double in every respect, and to produce a race of 
 Don Quixotes. Do not suppose, Sir Arthur, that 
 I am her rival : indeed, were I but twenty, I think 
 I well could be interested ; but I am grown a
 
 236 
 
 little more staid now. This Sir Reginald is come 
 at the most inopportune time possible ; because 
 Lord L^** is much taken with Rosaline, and in 
 a fair way of being smitten. Here are large pos- 
 sessions with a vengeance. I wish I could send 
 Sir R. to Paris, to dispute poor Madame De B.'s 
 heart with Montvaliant ; that would make a fine 
 match between these fighting cocks. But I am 
 talking like our rattling friend, Sir Harry, in the 
 language of the cock-pit. Really I am in a fair 
 way of being in the centre of a romance. Will 
 you come again and take a part in it ? Oh ! do. 
 You will see my philosophical, moralizing niece in 
 love. How dehghtful ! Che grande piacere per 
 noi. But, seriously speaking, with all her moral- 
 izing, there is one thing, and only one thing, that 
 shocks me about her ; with the exception of the 
 day I took her to hear the great preacher, I can 
 never get her withinside of a church. She has a 
 thousand excuses : " What can they teach me that 
 I do not know already?" she says. "I know more 
 of religion than half the parsons do. My life is a 
 continual state of prayer, for I tremble at impend- 
 ing fate : those who endeavour to explain theolo- 
 gical mysteries only get deeper into the mire. 
 Milton never attended divine worship. I pro-
 
 237 
 
 fess," she always adds, " the religion of Milton, — 
 that of Fenelon — of Butler ; — the religion of the 
 heart, (quietisme,) inward intensity of feeling." 
 These are her excuses. Lord L^*^, who is scepti- 
 cal, and well read in the German authors, occupied 
 Rosaline very much, until Sir Reginald arrived, 
 at my evening parties ; and then we had disqui- 
 sitions upon Professor Kant's system, with other 
 learned theories upon the human mind. Lord 
 L#*# is a very agreeable person ; but his travels in 
 Germany have spoiled him. All our young men, 
 who have resided there long, come back liberals and 
 sceptics, which terms are now synonimous : and 
 now-a-days, even women are beginning to reason, 
 and unfortunately reason always makes people 
 sceptical ; and I shudder at what the world will 
 come to. Chemistry has done a great deal of 
 harm; and as for geology, it is downright 
 heathenism. Cuvier, I think, infers eight de- 
 luges, and talks of the milHons of years that the 
 globe has already lasted. This comes of the rage 
 of examining every thing ; analysing, as my niece 
 calls it. You, Sir, have escaped these pernicious 
 snares, by being a dilettante of the fine arts : how 
 much more preferable ! I am sure poor Rosaline 
 has been bit by some mad German philosopher,
 
 238 
 
 or their unintelligible books, which has quite un- 
 settled the girl's wits upon religion. On every 
 other subject she is a perfect creature : but here 
 she fancies that she has taken a higher flight than 
 Mahomed or St. Paul. What does she mean? 
 Does she intend to set up a new religion ? I made 
 her laugh the other day: there was a Baptist 
 chapel shut up and a bill on it, to be let, " There, 
 Rosaline," said I, as we were driving past, " hire 
 that conventicle and preach ; your doctrines, I 
 warrant, will ensure you great fame." She took it 
 very pleasantly ; and said, " I do not come from 
 a land where they deal in brimstone. My system 
 would be too tame." 
 
 You see, Sir Arthur, whenever I write to you, 
 how my pen runs on. You have made your 
 peace, and I will allow you to come down now ; 
 we are all very gay. Adieu. 
 
 Ever yours. 
 
 Barbara.
 
 239 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, January 26th. 
 
 I HAVE felt more interest here, my dear friend, 
 this last fortnight, than any time since I have left 
 your charming society ; and the only alloy is the 
 uneasiness that I feel at your tremulous position, 
 and the fears I entertain from the knowledge of 
 Rinaldo's fearless character, that his safety may 
 be in jeopardy. You and I certainly love daring 
 characters. Indeed, so most women do ; when- 
 ever it is tempered with mildness of manners, then 
 it becomes exquisite chivalry ; because such men 
 have a high devotion towards our sex. This is 
 the reason, they feel the full force of their being ; 
 they riot, as it were, in the energies of nature. 
 Cruel and malignant men are seldom manly or 
 generous ; and no tyrants to our sex equal to 
 mean and pitiful bigots. Rinaldo is none of 
 these. I have made an acquaintance here with a 
 young man whom you would like, who may have 
 the energy of Rinaldo's character ; but with more 
 enthusiasm, with more vivacity. He is, however, 
 very difficult to describe. He has been bred a
 
 240 
 
 soldier, which to me, born as it were in a camp, 
 with all my early impressions, among military 
 men, is particularly pleasing. Certainly, the 
 foundation of his character is prominently military, 
 but he partakes much of the best characteristics 
 of his native land — Ireland — that ill-fated land of 
 genius and of sorrow. His eloquence is warm, 
 rapid, and overwhelming. The words leap from 
 his heart — escape through his mouth, without 
 passing through the crucible of his head. He 
 shines in a storm of eloquence, a Ciceronian ap- 
 peal, as in Catiline. These burasche or storms 
 are terrible ; the thunder of his voice, and the 
 lightning of his sentiments astound his audience. 
 I will repeat to you one verbatim, as he poured it 
 forth last night. It was in reply ; he burst forth, 
 like a Roman orator, thus : " Oh, Ireland ! Oh, 
 my unhappy country ! How many centuries past 
 hast thou been strtigghng against that despotism 
 and fanaticism which have generated an op- 
 pression, such as Lord Clarendon, in his day, 
 tells us, no people, the Jews excepted, ever yet 
 groaned under ; a people, whose tenacity of the 
 vital principle has been such, as not to have been 
 quenched by habitual proscription, extermina- 
 tion, fire, sword, and famine ! The Romans
 
 241 
 
 respected, and embraced to their bosoms, the 
 Samnites and other daring neighbours, who had 
 most stoutly resisted their arms ; they became 
 the most favoured citizens. But the Romans 
 knew not fanaticism; they felt no religious 
 bigotry. Their legions protected all religions ; 
 their warlike eagles spread out their fostering 
 wings over valour, wheresoever they discovered 
 it. It was reserved for fanaticism, vainly boast- 
 ing of charity, pretending light, and covered 
 with the thickest darkness, to draw from under its 
 hypocritical cloak the black bowl of poison, 
 and the brand of discord, faintly glimmering at 
 first, until blown upon by the furious breath of 
 exasperated sects, and then rising into flames, 
 which have scorched humanity. The funereal 
 pile of justice, and reason, and liberty, has been 
 long burning in Ireland, lit up by the fiend-like 
 hand of fanaticism. Its subtile ministers, assuming 
 opposite sides, have revelled for centuries in its 
 most intoxicating orgies, with the brand of dis- 
 cord to light their path, in their left hand, and 
 the sword of persecution, and often of extermi- 
 nation, in their right. They have ransacked 
 every corner of the land, impiously calling itself 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 
 
 that of saints — saints, who have baptised their 
 offspring in blood, and swathed them in chains, 
 — a land, where man's folly, corruption, and 
 cruelty have been more conspicuous than even 
 in the country of the Incas — the hunting 
 grounds of the human blood hounds of Spain. 
 Fanaticism, (blush, oh ye, her bUnd votaries!) 
 is the teeming mother of these horrors. Her 
 throne is seated in the midst of the king- 
 dom of darkness ; her empire extends over the 
 kinsfdom of terrors; shadows and visions are 
 the instruments of her vengeance, and epidemic 
 madness the ground-work of her deadly rule. 
 That mystic fanaticism, engendered by fraud 
 and maUce, founded on credulity, and adopted 
 as state policy, which has revelled in the orgies 
 of Bacchus, which has offered up human victims 
 in the forests of the Druids and on the scaf- 
 folds of the Inquisition, which has armed the 
 mahgnant tongue of the cynical Knox, and 
 sharpened the exterminating sword of the hypo- 
 crite Cromwell, which has spit forth its venom 
 in the penal code, and now forms the pillars 
 that support the temple of legitimacy !" But I 
 shudder at the frightful picture which I present
 
 243 
 
 to you from his colouring. Why has my pen so 
 run away with me, in telling you of this ? Am I 
 infected ? Have I had a new scene opened to my 
 wondering eyes, that has struck me so much 
 aghast ? Has Sir Reginald Lascy infected me 
 with his warm feelings for his v/retched country ? 
 Am I interested for him, or for his country, or for 
 both? Do I mix them up together? Whither 
 am I going ? What am I saying ? Ah, Rosaline ! 
 you may find subjects to arouse your warmest 
 feelings of indignation and sorrow, without fan- 
 ciful grief, in your vain struggle with the fates ! 
 Every day I grow older, I find more real objects 
 of fearful interest, which rather increases the 
 terrors of impending fate, as it renders my ex- 
 istence more complicated. 
 
 Clorinda, this last week a new subject has 
 been opened to me. This frank, this generous, 
 this eloquent soldier has detailed to me a short 
 history of his unhappy country. His education 
 has not been finished ; but he possesses a sound 
 mind, and an overflowing heart; and what do we 
 require more ? Am I the more happy from my 
 youthful years having been passed in intense 
 study and reflection — in being thirty years of age, 
 although I have completed but twenty ; in having 
 R 2
 
 244 
 
 been up late and early — in the many wakeful 
 vigils which my tormenting thirst after knowledge 
 has prompted me to exhaust my health with? 
 Ah, Clorinda ! why all this labour, to unlock the 
 secrets of nature, or to discover the invisible hand 
 that leads us. But I cannot, after all, tear the 
 bandage from off my eyes. I can no more ascer- 
 tain the future, than I can account for the past. 
 If there be a mystic world of spirits, surely I 
 have been a most zealous candidate for their 
 sisterhood.* — I who have looked with so much 
 anxiety to discover the way thither; but who, 
 baffled and disappointed, have been left as much 
 
 * Rosaline was too sensitive and too intelligent a being 
 not to feel that inward impulse which declares the immor- 
 tality of the soul ; though she knew not the way of it. Kant, 
 the great Kant, thus asserts immortality : " But the moral 
 law, which commands every rational being to realize the 
 IDEAL of moral goodness, would have neither meaning nor 
 force, did not man exist for ever, since an eternal existence is 
 necessary to this infinite progression. The moral law, there- 
 fore, were irrational, but for the assumption of the immor- 
 tality OF THE soul. By facts, by the wonderful construction 
 of the external world, by the voice of the moral law within us, 
 and moreover by the necessity, so universally felt, of a belief 
 in something higher and eternal, reason is compelled to form 
 the religious ideas of God, Providence, and immortalityy — 
 Critic of Pure Reason, page 167. London, 1824.
 
 245 
 
 in the dark as the sable African, who basks in 
 
 his sultry desert. I trust, my next may be in a 
 
 gayer strain. But you, dear Clorinda, have the 
 
 picture of my mind. My letters are an inward 
 
 lookins-glass. 
 
 Adieu, dear friend. 
 
 Rosaline. 
 
 'o ©
 
 246 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 Bath, January 26th. 
 
 I HAVE taken the first step, dearest Clorlnda. 
 You must prepare now for a personal description 
 of Sir Reginald Lascy. He is about thirty years 
 of age, tall and well shaped. Exercise, fatigue, 
 and an early military life have formed him strong 
 and muscular, and have bronzed his face, though 
 he is fair ; having curling chestnut hair, and dark 
 blue eyes, subject to various expressions, often 
 melancholy, often extremely lively, and sometimes 
 fierce. He is both choleric and impatient of 
 contradiction. Roused to fury and indignation 
 at the bare mention of any act of baseness and 
 oppression, his descriptions are lively, and his 
 enthusiasm unbounded. He has a singleness of 
 purpose, quite admirable ; and no child was ever 
 so incapable of deceit — This proves the keenness 
 of his courage, which is conspicuous in every 
 turn. His soul knows no fear, because it knows 
 no selfishness. His sentiments are perfectly libe- 
 ral, though his manners are those of a cavalier. 
 When alone or absorbed, his carriage is haughty, 
 betraying a consciousness of superiority ; but in
 
 247 
 
 addressing others, assumes a most winning cour- 
 tesy. There is not the least alloy of vanity in his 
 whole composition ; yet he is not without his 
 weaknesses. He is extremely flattered by the 
 attention of women. He has not only art and 
 perseverance to become a man of consummate 
 gallantry ; but he even commands, like a dictator, 
 the whole sex. And I fear that his greatest fault 
 is, that he is indiscriminate in his attention to 
 them. Suffice it to be a woman, old or young, of 
 high or lov/ degree, he pays them equal attention. 
 She must be a superior one indeed to fix him. 
 His affections she may fix, but I doubt whether 
 any of the sex can fix him entirely. His genero- 
 sity, in every sense, is unbounded. Thus he has 
 been idolized both by soldiers and women. His 
 greatest fault in society and manners is, that he 
 is too much occupied with the subject that at the 
 moment interests him the most. In this parti- 
 cular he is a little overbearing ; but he is so sin- 
 cere and enthusiastic, that one readily excuses 
 him. He is extremely proud of his name and 
 family ; and likes to recount how many of his an- 
 cestors perished upon the scaffold, or on the field. 
 He does not regret the vast possessions which 
 have passed away from them ; but is rather proud
 
 248 
 
 of that circumstance, as it shews that they were 
 men of energy or spirit. " Your dull rogues," he 
 observes, " have never a break in their dull lives 
 or lineage. We have been beheaded, drawn, 
 quartered, slain in battle, proscribed, and exiled, 
 and confiscated. Our ready swords have ever 
 sprung from their scabbards to avenge our own 
 honour, our countrymen's rights, or the nation's 
 interests. No man is a rebel, when justice is on 
 his side, and conscience dictates the moment to 
 draw." He has never thought much about reli- 
 gion or politics, in the abstract ; and he is guided 
 more by warm and generous sentiments of honour, 
 than any fixed principles of obedience to autho- 
 rity.. Such men are more dangerous to arbitrary 
 power in a state, than more calculating ones ; be- 
 cause they act upon the impulse of the moment, 
 and that impulse is often irresistible. It is the 
 same with him in private hfe. He takes a woman's 
 heart by storm, before she is aware of him. I 
 had almost forgotten to say, that his voice gives 
 him great power ; it is rich, full, and harmonious ; 
 he manages it with dexterity. His expressions 
 are forcible and correct, though his arguments 
 are rather entangled, when they are not what is 
 termed argumentatively assertive. But there are
 
 249 
 
 various modes of argumentation, the most power- 
 ful when well managed, like that of Hobbes — 
 the argument descriptive — and there the hearers 
 draw the conclusion. Of all arguments, those in 
 use with lawyers are the worst, the most entan- 
 gled, the most obscure and tiresome. His port 
 is noble, and air very graceful, although a very 
 severe wound in the right ancle renders him very 
 lame. But my aunt and I both think this is no 
 disadvantage, as it pulls him back, and his occa- 
 sional extreme vivacity might derogate sometimes 
 from his dignity. I do not describe him to you 
 as perfect. There are too many lights and sha- 
 dows in his character — His gusts of passion are 
 unjustifiable — His admiration of women appalling 
 to a wife — His chivalry apt to engage him in 
 quarrels, both personal and political — And his 
 warmth in the latter would, in dangerous times, 
 affect his character for discretion, and compro- 
 mise his safety. I assure you, he is no ordinary 
 person ; and if the fates so decree, he may yet 
 shine at the head of an army, and wear the wreath 
 of laurel as gracefully as an Alexander, whom he 
 much resembles. You see I have carried him up 
 to an high comparison. You will say, it is my
 
 250 
 
 partiality. Nay, my love, be it so. " Still I am 
 led by an invisible hand." Adieu ! 
 
 Rosaline. 
 
 P. S. As I could not send my letter yesterday, 
 I must add another sheet to it. I have now two 
 more declared admirers, Sir R. L*^"' and Lord 
 L###^ You have had the description of the 
 first, hear that of the second. My lord is a very 
 great man in many respects, in this country. He 
 is of an old stock — great family connexions, 
 and vast possessions. He is not quite so old 
 as Sir Reginald — has travelled much, and pro- 
 fited much by these travels. He brought away, 
 I understand, a great stock of Greek and Latin 
 from Oxford, and a great deal of metaphysics 
 from Germany. Knows the politics of Europe 
 well — he is liberal in sentiments, and is very am- 
 bitious to become a man of business, in which no 
 doubt he would shine, with the many advantages 
 that surround him — if those many advantages (I 
 love a seeming paradox) would not give him hin- 
 dering assistance, because they impede the inten- 
 sity of exertion upon one point, and there are no 
 encyclopedic great men. They must shine in one
 
 251 
 
 particular alone. No doubt that, by becoming 
 his wife, I might place myself very high in society 
 in London ; but that to me is a paltry ambition. 
 It is what every landlady of a popular inn, on a 
 frequented road, attains to — to see many faces — 
 exchange two words of civility, and then it drops. 
 The fine lady keeps an inn without profit. I 
 adore the goddess of liberty, wherever she is to 
 be found — in public, in private life, in the affec- 
 tions. Why should I imprison my affections ? 
 To marry without my heart being full, every cre- 
 vice of it occupied, is to impi*ison the affections, 
 to a woman of sentiment ; and no woman is a real 
 one, that is not so, even down to the washer- 
 woman ; a marriage that has any reserve is the 
 prison of the natural affections. Are chains less 
 fetters because they are made of gold ? Is a pa- 
 lace less a prison if we barter it for our liberty in 
 the highest sphere, that of our affections, in which 
 Hberty can reside? No, my heart yearns to be 
 full, because my mind dwells on uncertainty. I 
 spurn the tyranny of selfishness, the tyranny of 
 vanity, of ambition, of forms, of conventions. I 
 bow down to that only of self-dignity, the self- 
 reverence of Pythagoras. Well, then, welcome 
 liberty in the sphere of the affections. Let me
 
 252 
 
 fill my heart up to the brim. I have no hesita- 
 tion in the choice. Rosaline will never he incon- 
 sistent. Sir R. Lascy shall have my hand, for 
 this simple reason, because he possesses my heart. 
 I hold that reason to be the foundation of all vir- 
 tue. Let us carry home this most important and 
 interesting contingency of our existence, into 
 every other. Truth would assume undivided 
 empire among men. If a woman is false in this 
 particular, how can she be trusted in any other ; 
 for nothing will keep her true, but the full occu- 
 pation of her heart. Neither the poppy juice of 
 sermons, nor the terrors of the level lake of brim- 
 stone, nor the fear of shame, nor expulsion from 
 society. Her heart alone must be occupied, or it 
 will be filled by peevish resistance — stubborn con- 
 tradiction. Abandoned to the full play of my in- 
 telligence and feelings, I dare not do otherwise, 
 lest I should endanger my self-reverence ; because 
 I am assailed by no terrors, exterior or interior. 
 All I fear is the loss of moral dignity. I consult 
 my reason, and I dash formalism under my feet. 
 I consult my heart, and I follow its yearnings, 
 corrected only by self-reverence. Thus, Clorinda, 
 I have accounted to you for my choice. Many 
 will reprove it, but do they feel in my bosom. I
 
 253 
 
 told you before, we are all the centre of our own 
 existence ; this is one of the sayings of my dark 
 metaphysics. Here is an explication of it. My 
 heart is its own centre — it seeks that which is 
 necessary to it, and spurns the rest. Thus there 
 is unity in its action. It is true to its sympathies. 
 True, though admitting fully the doctrine of im- 
 pulse, consequently of free will. You will ask, 
 how can I be fettered in my march through life? 
 Here there is no inconsistency. Our will does 
 not always coincide with our destinies. For it is 
 the affirmation or negation of this contingency 
 that constitutes happiness or unhappiness. The 
 ancients held, that destiny controuled the gods — 
 Destiny controuls the freedom of the will, be- 
 cause the outward phenomenon of man, that is, 
 his appearance, is subject to eternal laws, to suc- 
 cession, and to positive power. But his will is 
 subject only to the force of his individual impulse. 
 Pope expresses it neatly enough : " and, 
 
 Binding nature fast in fate, 
 Left free the human will." 
 
 I wish every luckless maiden could read this let- 
 ter. How many more happy marriages would 
 there be — How many more children educated in 
 truth — How much less formalism, the parent of
 
 254 
 
 oppression, would then exist. Wives would then 
 be men's mistresses, instead of being their yoke 
 fellows or their slaves — and harmony, existing in 
 families, would be extended to the state. But I 
 am getting speculative. I am about, Clorinda, to 
 do almost as daring an act as you, with the ex- 
 ception of the dangerous political contingencies 
 which threaten your comfort. Money, after a 
 decent competency, I despise ; fame was never 
 acquired by it — on the contrary, riches are the 
 grave of fame, because the stay of exertion. I 
 wed the noblest aristocracy — that of fame and 
 recollections, rendered sublime by antiquity and 
 military achievements, which are more glorious 
 than present honours — Power shifts like the wea- 
 ther ; it is in the hands of the busy fates. Above 
 all, my heart will be full — not a crevice left unoc- 
 cupied. Hence, lead on, ye fates — I am ready. 
 
 Rosaline.
 
 255 
 
 CLORINDA TO ROSALINE. 
 
 Florence, January 17th. 
 
 I ENCLOSE for my dearest friend a letter from 
 Rinaldo. He had received hints that it would 
 be necessary for him to shift his position; and 
 however unhappy I might feel at his absence, I 
 was obhged to consent. He sent the letter by a 
 mountaineer from Genoa ; the faithful peasant I 
 have well rewarded. His letter was sewed up in 
 the lining of his jacket, and he waited to inter- 
 cept me going to prayers, to hand it to me. I 
 copy it for you, for I am sure you will read it with 
 interest. 
 
 Genoa, Jan. 9th. 
 
 A safe hand will deliver you this letter, which 
 I trust for the present will calm all your appre- 
 hensions for my immediate safety. I am here 
 lodged in the house of a friend, and that I may 
 not be troublesome or useless, I have insisted 
 upon working in his mercantile office : he gives 
 me invoices to make out, papers to copy, and cal- 
 culations of profit and loss to draw up. If my
 
 256 
 
 ancestors, of some seven or eight centuries ago, 
 whose banners floated on the walls of Jerusalem 
 in the Holy Wars, could peep out of their graves, 
 and see a Count de St. Rocca Cacciano a volun- 
 teer clerk to a Genoa merchant, hunted from his 
 estate, driven into exile, because he strove to re- 
 gain the privileges which they enjoyed, and the 
 same liberties for the people that they had sup- 
 ported, they would indeed cry out : Oh ! the days 
 of chivalry are past. — If they cast their eyes and 
 beheld what wretched things the continental kings 
 of the present day are ; the mean and cowardly, 
 and contemptible instruments of bloody usurping 
 corrupt factions; the drivelling fools of some 
 knave of a minister: what comparison would they 
 make between the valiant and heroic kings that 
 led them to battle and these perjured scarecrows? 
 Perjury is now part of the rehgion of these regal 
 tigers called the continental despots. If some of 
 the old kings were tyrants, at least they were not 
 perjured, and the patriot's steel could reach their 
 heart. But now the pyramid of corruption is 
 reared on the shoulders of a debased, priest-rid- 
 den, bigotted people, and the machine is directed 
 by some score of vile clerks. The whole plan 
 propped up by Jews and money-lenders. The
 
 257 
 
 Jews and the priests are the buttresses of the 
 whole system. Let us knock them down or shake 
 their foundation, and then the whole fabric of tyran- 
 ny and corruption comes tumbling to the ground 
 with a crash. I have thought much of govern- 
 ment, and am convinced that it ever assumes 
 three forms. The best is, as in England, where the 
 three elements are combined — monarchy, aristo- 
 cracy, and democracy — for the principle of mo- 
 narchy is depression, the principle of aristocracy is 
 prudence, the principle of democracy is violence. 
 The first will reign exclusive, the second desires 
 to preserve, the third to acquire : this is what I am 
 exiled and forced to become a mercantile clerk with 
 a chance of being hanged for. But Italy is rich ; 
 therefore she is a prey to her neighbours. Her 
 wealth, her luxuries, her soft enjoyments, make 
 her chng to peace. Peace ! oh ! humble peace ! 
 the peace of the grave ! Her ancient monuments 
 are venerated — her arts, her sciences. All the 
 ornaments of age that constitute her boast and 
 pride are so many securities for her tranquillity. 
 Oh ! luxurious slavery, how thou enfeeblest our 
 hearts ! Who will stir first ? Who can stir ? Can 
 we rely on a simultaneous effort to strike off our 
 golden chains? Shall we tear off the chaplets that 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 
 
 adorn our brows to supply a laurel wreath. I 
 know that ladies like a minute narrative better 
 than any thing like reasoning — therefore you shall 
 have it. 
 
 I got very safe to the bay of Aspetzia, but here 
 I had some suspicion that a pursuit was on foot. 
 In a village between that place and Borgetto my 
 horse lost a shoe. I was standing in the forge, 
 my guide had gone into the house, when I per- 
 ceived a woman with some impatience leaning 
 over a door opposite beckon to those behind her, 
 and cry, " Venga, venga subito 1"* and look with 
 a countenance of alarm and anxiety. I guessed 
 she saw the sberri.f I immediately hid within 
 the forge, and looking through a hole, I saw the 
 blacksmith take off his hat respectfully. Presently 
 I came out : I asked who had passed ? He said 
 two sberri, who had arrested several on that road 
 lately. Fortunately, the smith had thrown his 
 cloak over my horse's back, as he was warm, 
 M'hich hid the saddle-holsters and his appearance, 
 otherwise they would have discovered me. I 
 found fault with all the shoes, and made him re- 
 move them, in order to gain time. My guide was 
 
 * Come, come quick. f Police officers.
 
 259 
 
 drinking. I then sallied forth, and I found out 
 from a boy that was driving goats home, that the 
 two men on horseback had gone into an inn, and 
 put up for the night. As it was not on the road, 
 I passed on, and in an hour arrived at the place 
 where I intended to sleep — having gone fast, 
 meaning to be off early next morning. Here I 
 regaled myself with wine — sour mountain wine — 
 black bread and chestnuts. Presently I heard 
 horses' feet at the door. The guide who was 
 with me cried, " Siamo perduti !"* Down stairs 
 he ran, and rushed out between the sberri. They 
 called out to him to stop — he ran down the road, 
 and one of them after him, firing a brace of pis- 
 tols at him. In the mean time the other came up 
 stairs with a pistol in his hand. He kicked open the 
 door, but seeing me standing up with a pistol 
 ready cocked in my right hand, and a dagger in 
 my left, he started back, and fired at random. I 
 sprang forwards — he fell on his knees, crying out, 
 " Eccelenza, eccelenza, perdona, misericordia 1" 
 I struck him with the hilt of the dagger a blow 
 on the head that made him stagger, and told him, 
 " You have your life. I will make your fortune 
 
 * We are lost. 
 
 s2
 
 260 
 
 on condition that you accompany me." He pro- 
 mised he would. " Swear," cried I, " by the 
 Madona and by all the saints in the calendar, and 
 by your patron saint." He did so. I threw a 
 piastre on the table — we rushed down stairs. My 
 saddle was not removed, but I mounted the horse 
 with his collar only, and on we rode. I kept close 
 to the fellow, with the pistol at his head, until we 
 had proceeded two miles. " Villain," said I, " if 
 " we do not arrive safe at Genoa, you die, contrive 
 " it how you can— either by sea or by land. The 
 horses were fresh, and could well march all night; 
 at day-break we reached the sea. Here was the 
 puzzling thing : what I was to do with my com- 
 panion ? I found that he was a true prototype of 
 an agent of continental government — cowardly, 
 cruel, and superstitious. I found, therefore, I 
 could only trust to his fears and avarice. I pro- 
 mised him largely, and got from him all he knew, 
 which was little, respecting the motives of my ar- 
 rest. He said that his companion was the supe- 
 rior, and the one who was entrusted with the di- 
 rection of it. He declared that it occurred in 
 casual conversation that I was at the forge, which 
 he had heard up at the inn, that he had inquired 
 into it, and then had pursued me. By this time
 
 261 
 
 I got to the sea-side. Here I sold my horse to a 
 peasant, and obliged him to do the same, and also 
 his pistols. He was now committed, and in my 
 power. He felt it. The peasant lived far off the 
 mountain, and was on his return from having 
 brought down a cargo of hides: so that there 
 was no fear of the horses remaining in the country 
 to discover us. This bargain was made on the 
 road, and not near any house ; the horses went 
 for a third of their value. I then got into a boat, 
 and by taking advantage of the boatmen's advice, 
 contrived to get into Genoa without notice. The 
 sberro is fully committed, and has become my 
 servant, and is perfectly well contented. I may 
 hereafter make great use of him, and at present 
 there is no fear of my being discovered. But I 
 confess to you that I think for the present, that 
 our hopes are shipwrecked — there will probably 
 be three or four sets of victims before we may 
 succeed. The aristocracy is destroyed by the 
 laws for the division of property among the chil- 
 dren at the father's death. No longer can they 
 feel an interest in their famihes, because those 
 families cease to exist. Consequently, all oppo- 
 sition from them is null, and they in future must 
 seek places at least to supply the deficiency. The
 
 262 
 
 middling orders are watched by police, and spies, 
 and informers — ruined and sent to prison. The 
 common people consigned to priestcraft and su- 
 perstition, and mihtary execution if they stir. 
 Thus the despots have made all slaves alike. 
 Equality we certainly have, an equality of slavery. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 RiNALDO.
 
 263 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, January 30th. 
 
 I WISH you joy, a thousand times, my dearest 
 friend, upon the happy escape of Rinaldo. He 
 may he concealed any length of time in such a 
 great busy commercial city as Genoa. I wait 
 the progress of events (which, indeed, we all 
 must) ; but, I think, you need be under no ap- 
 prehensions for his immediate safety, and you 
 must be constrained to await the good pleasure 
 of the fates. I am convinced that the liberties 
 of Europe will never be established, until you 
 have the full co-operation of the middling and 
 common people ; or, until some great man, sur- 
 rounded by a handful of devoted patriots, should 
 strike such a terror, by some great operation, 
 that he will gain over to himself public opinion. 
 This can only be done by one bold stroke ; then 
 the people are driven in a new direction. But a 
 revolution made by theorists, by philanthropists, 
 by speculative lawyers, never yet succeeded. I 
 write to you upon the most famous day in the 
 annals of English liberty. The beacon-day,
 
 264 
 
 when it blazed forth to the uttermost parts of the 
 earth; the ever memorable and fatal 30th of 
 January, when Charles fell. This was the era 
 of freedom, so celebrated by our immortal Mil- 
 ton. That fatal stroke, however, enabled the 
 parhament to come to their famous declaration, 
 " that the people, under God, are the original of 
 all just power." But our liberties have ever 
 been preserved by the same bold means. Henry 
 of Lancaster drove out the faithless effeminate 
 Richard the Second, and he ended his contemp- 
 tible career in Pontefract castle. Richard the 
 Third perished in the field, a glorious, happy, and 
 redeeming death. His courage, and Shak- 
 spere's divine pen, have thrown a sort of lustre 
 over him, that shades, as it were, his crime. The 
 bigot James was driven from his throne, but the 
 modern mode seems to be, to compromise with 
 tyrants, as if these hyenas could ever be re- 
 claimed. The lion is a noble and generous 
 animal, and with him, if you feed him well, you 
 may be safe. But no gorging will ever subdue 
 the appetite for blood of the hyena or the tiger. 
 This our ancestors well knew, and they acted 
 accordingly. Why is a murderer, a ravisher, a 
 housebreaker, always executed? Not only for
 
 265 
 
 the sake of example, but because society cannot 
 tolerate such a one guilty of these crimes ; they 
 must be lopped off, like a rotten branch in a tree. 
 Well then, why should a people harbour whole- 
 sale murderers, ravishers, and housebreakers, 
 which tyrants are, for some of them have hun- 
 dreds of thousands of well armed men in their 
 bands. Clorinda, I feel that I am using strong 
 language for a w^oman, but it is come to this 
 pass. Women must now exert their influence 
 in the society of men, and strive to stop the sa- 
 vage rage of tyrants and their followers. How 
 many widows are there now weeping their incar- 
 cerated husbands, who are either dead, or dying 
 a cruel, lingering death ! How many sisters and 
 mothers covered with sad cypress wreaths ! 
 Oh, Clorinda ! let women preach a new crusade. 
 Let us laugh at the mock philanthropists, who 
 have attempted their mock reforms, and have 
 disgracefully failed. Let us, as in the times of 
 chivalry, refuse our favour, our hearts or our 
 hands, to any but the chivalrous men who will 
 embark in the cause of liberty. A woman's 
 Syren charms should not be polluted to support 
 these tyrants and their base followers. Oh, ever 
 blest chivalry, rise again ! Shake off the polished
 
 266 
 
 sloth of this false age ; mount your barbed steeds 
 and ride down oppression. We want more of 
 the stamp of the aspiring " youth that fired the 
 Ephesian dome." See mock piety, led by credu- 
 lity and terror, hobbling in the train of despot- 
 ism, appealing to a God whom they ever in- 
 sult, making him impiously a God of vengeance, 
 of robbery, and of murder, calling on their pre- 
 tended saints to intercede. What can shock us 
 more than such insulting hypocrisy — such daring 
 and shameless priestcraft? Oh, Ireland! how 
 long will you, seeing these things, be the victim 
 of such absurd and wicked systems, and cruel 
 delusions ? Oh, man ! will these clashing ele- 
 ments of discord never elicit from your flinty 
 heart the true fire of intelligence ; must you 
 be ever seeking how to crush it ? I can no more, 
 the bare thoughts of these great things cause 
 such a palpitation in my breast, that my feeble 
 frame cannot bear it. Oh ! my heart was never 
 made to be contained in so feeble a frame ! It 
 will burst or waste to death its tenement at last, 
 but its sentiments will remain. I appeal now to 
 hearts — brave hearts — and not to heads. Oh, 
 that I could electrify them all ! Courage, cou- 
 rage, is the first quality in men, and our business
 
 267 
 
 to create it. No law, no constitution of govern- 
 ment, no habits, will ensure liberty, if there be 
 not courage in the mass of the people to enforce 
 it. If the people are tamed down, they will ever 
 be trampled upon, because justice never yet ex- 
 isted with rulers. They are ever striving to 
 become absolute, and there is no guarantee for 
 liberty but courage. Were not men kept in awe 
 of each other by duels, what society would exist? 
 How could women stir abroad ? Man is natu- 
 rally usurping, rapacious, tyrannical, and unjust, 
 and he can only be kept in order by others as 
 violent as himself. Oh ! but the fates — the fates 
 call me back to my prison house. Poor truant 
 that I am, I have skipped about for some half 
 hour ; they have allowed me the liberty to frisk 
 only to twitch me back, and I feel how their cord 
 cuts my neck. Whenever I see a poor beast 
 fettered, I think of human kind. Adieu ! For 
 you shall not partake of my melancholy. 
 
 Rosaline. 
 
 P. S. — Excuse this fervent strain. My new 
 society has thrown me into the sphere of angry 
 politics. How we take impressions from quar- 
 ters where we are interested ! He has been more
 
 268 
 
 particular. He has pressed my consent : I have 
 given him the same reason I have done to another ; 
 but, alas ! I fear it will not be available— I must 
 yield : but I am ashamed to surrender so quietly — ■ 
 I shall blush when I see his rival ; I fear there is 
 now an end of my philosophy. Well, it has sup- 
 ported me hitherto : the ardour with which I 
 have embraced it has carried me out of a woman's 
 sphere of existence. Indeed, I find now that I 
 am a very woman. Away go all the fine workings 
 of the brain when the heart is captivated. " Thou, 
 Nature, art my goddess ! to thy laws myself I 
 dedicate." Indeed, Clorinda, she is mistress. 
 She forces me to acknowledge, that though my 
 education and head have been those of a man, 
 my heart is truly a woman's. Eloisa was a philo- 
 sopher : splendid were her talents — deep her re- 
 searches — vigorous her fancy — and overpowering 
 her language ; but Eloisa's heart was not full ; 
 when it was, the energy of her head was trans- 
 ferred into her bosom. The description of her 
 passion has alone created a great poet. Yes, the 
 warmest, the most splendid, the most impetuous 
 flow of elegiac verse in our language. I can no 
 longer reach these haughty flights of reason : I 
 am, indeed, subdued. I adore nature, and you
 
 269 
 
 the Madona, which is but Nature's most beauteous 
 symbol. Call me no longer Sibyl, nor call me 
 Eloisa ; call me after my namesake, Rosaline, and 
 
 say : — 
 
 " There is a gentle lady : 
 " When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name, 
 " And Rosaline they call her ; ask for her : 
 " And to her white hand see thou do commend 
 " Tliis seal'd-up council." 
 
 Yes, Rosaline returns to her true sphere. She 
 has been truant : she has, indeed, been a very in- 
 tellectual vagabond ; but now she is fixed at last. 
 Oh ! joyous prison. Oh ! happy fetters. May 
 they last for ever ! Oh ! what have I heard ? — 
 a whisper from the grim Fates. Haste, thee ! 
 Haste, thee, in thy sportive vein! it shall not 
 last : Maiden, we are at thine elbow ! Beware ! 
 Alas ! alas ! how cruel ! Adieu, Clorinda, you 
 are not haunted by your evil destiny.
 
 27Q 
 
 SIR A. ATPIERSTONE TO MRS. B. BELMONT. 
 
 Paris, February 4th. 
 
 With tremulous hand I opened your letter. 
 My first resolution on reading it was, to fly to 
 Bath : the second to fly thither. I cannot return 
 to the former footing of pure friendship : These 
 are your conditions : with the terms of this capi- 
 tulation I cannot comply ; and yet I durst not trust 
 myself to remain in London. A few hours would 
 have served to have broken my resolution. I 
 have surrendered the most sacred deposits that 
 I ever could have possessed — the testimonies of 
 your favourable opinion of me. A momentary 
 ebullitionof joy transported me out of the verge of 
 discretion, and has quenched my hopes. Your 
 lively civility cuts me to the quick. How can you 
 dissemble so ? I cannot libel your feelings so much 
 as to think that you are in earnest. This, though, 
 is my cursed vanity. But, I am trenching upon 
 the terms of our capitulation. No rather let me 
 imitate you — you who have given me the first ex- 
 ample ; let me rally you — divert you with the de- 
 tails of the diversion, the scandal of tliis gay city.
 
 271 
 
 Let me plunge into all its dissipation. My fortune 
 is considerable enough to run a splendid, though 
 possibly a short career. This suicide of fortune, 
 decency and reputation, shall be made to appease 
 your former wrath ; for your present indifference, 
 I swear by all the sacred altars of the most sacred 
 passion, is fictitious. Thus, when I am immolated, 
 you will possibly pity me. I will throw myself at 
 the feet of any gay nymph that may smile upon me. 
 She shall, in a golden chaUce, hand to me the 
 water of oblivion, which to your health I will 
 quaff off. Adieu. 
 
 A. Atherstone.
 
 272 
 
 ROSALINE TO CLORINDA. 
 
 Bath, February 3d. 
 
 In the new sphere in which my being is agi- 
 tated, I fall at once into the deepest reflections. 
 Away with former logic — with reasoning and phi- 
 losophy. All is impulse in me now. I do not 
 ask myself, ' Have I a soul V but I feel that soul. 
 I do not seek to discover what it is ; but I ex- 
 claim, * Here it is !' for I feel it. Aye, it fills my 
 heart until it makes my brain giddy. Who can 
 define the soul ? He who can define God ! Who 
 knows where the soul is ? He who knows where 
 God is ! Is it free ? What can restrain its flight ! 
 How rapid its transitions from grief to joy — from 
 rapture to despair ! Has it a form or mould ? Is 
 it tangible or visible ? Can we grasp it in our hand 
 or imprison it in our bosom ? Clorinda, it is with 
 you — with Reginald. Then it is driven back by 
 a frown of the cruel Fates, and it sinks hke lead 
 into my own bosom. Ah ! was it lead that sunk 
 then, or the stroke of a dagger ? The fates hover 
 ever over us with their poniard pointed : yet free 
 and sportive as may be the soul, it fears to quit
 
 27e3 
 
 its accustomed tenement, trembling and doubting 
 where again it may be housed. Will it fly through 
 the arch of heaven and find no resting place, no 
 hospitable orb where it may ahght ; or, will it be 
 lost absorbed in the soul universal ? Where does 
 my own soul end, and that universal one begin ? 
 Tell me that, Clorinda. Mark well, gentle dam- 
 sel, the partition between mine and yours ; and 
 mine and Reginald's. Do you know the partition 
 between your own gentle soul and Ri-ialdo's ad- 
 venturous spirit ? How then are we mingled into 
 one intellectual existence ? for we know not how to 
 separate our souls ; and when the fates tear them 
 asunder, they quench our sensitive being. No 
 one yet has seen the soul ; no one yet has seen 
 God — yet dWfeel both. Both then exist, because 
 we feel them ; both then are free^ because we can 
 neither grasp nor even touch them. Love, gentle 
 god, what art thou ? The invisible mingling of 
 kindred souls. True Religion, what art thou? 
 The invisible mingling of our soul with the soul 
 universal. Are our own souls, then, controlled by 
 Fate ? Ah ! that secret lies in the darkest ca- 
 vern of the deep unfathomed ocean. But Fate 
 hangs over our enslaved bodies. His icy hand is 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 
 
 ever stretched out to seize his prey; for our 
 hody is a constant debtor, and he will be paid 
 forsooth. 
 
 Pity it were, Clorinda, that the noble essence 
 of our souls should ever be incumbered with this 
 sorry debtor to dame Nature ; and yet, can it 
 escape? If it be not imprisoned here, it can 
 hardly be so when the body is dissolved. Oh ! 
 that it may then soar far and wide, free as the 
 sun-beam that dances and spangles in the morning 
 dew. 
 
 Love is one high discovery of the soul ; the 
 intellectual spring of existence universal. From 
 the love of God sprang all existence ; from our 
 own love sprang one and another : for why do our 
 offspring partake of the character of their parents' 
 kindred souls ? Attraction, affinity and sympathy ! 
 You cold philosophical phrases, that once in- 
 terested me, you have no place in Love's vocabu- 
 lary. Nor will I contaminate love, sacred love, by 
 either a definition or a quality ; for love is the soul 
 in its highest form, when it most emulates the 
 divinity. How easily, when roused by love, the 
 soul concludes its own immortality, for it would 
 then live for ever. Am I a sceptic now? I told 
 you when the heart is full, the head doubts not ;
 
 275 
 
 for then our being is complete. Some fill it with 
 real, and some with ideal devotion, and I now with 
 both ; for my ideal devotion devolves upon that 
 power, which has formed my heart capable of 
 such real devotion. Oh ! Clorinda, I now can 
 understand you ; and, understanding, how I can 
 feel for you ! 
 
 Rosaline. 
 
 T^
 
 276 
 
 CLORINDA TO ROSALINE. 
 
 Florence, January 18th. 
 
 My dearest friend, I have another letter from 
 Rinaldo, and I trust that my coldness will have 
 in time disgusted my intended. I am so much 
 my father's favourite. Pietro Perruvini is still at 
 Bologna — Rinaldo is gone away too : so that my 
 mother and the Abbate, having every thing agree- 
 able to their wishes, leave me alone, and strive to 
 see what time can effect. I insult the Abbate 
 whenever I meet him — am cross to him — contra- 
 dict him flatly — ridicule him — and when he be- 
 gins his dissertations, I observe : " Abbate, you 
 would not be so eloquent if Pietro were here to 
 answer you." My mother is boiling with rage ; 
 but she does not speak because she fears an open 
 rupture, and my father is very much annoyed at 
 the great ascendancy that she has assumed in the 
 house, and that all his friends are driven away. 
 Sometimes he does not speak for two or three 
 days together to my intended — Turns his back 
 upon him in public, and is but coldly civil to him 
 in his own house. All these are encouraging cir- 
 cumstances. Rinaldo's letter I enclose, or rather
 
 277 
 
 the extract, that will interest you ; for, in other 
 parts, he says such kind and civil things to me, 
 that I blush when I read it. And I have read it 
 over ten times, and blushed so much every time 
 that I dare not communicate it to you — However, 
 enough of this trifling. 
 
 " Genoa, Saturday. 
 
 " Yesterday as fine, noble, and daring an act 
 of devotion took place in this city, as ever has 
 illustrated the patriotism of ancient Rome. 
 
 " A young man, who was deeply in the secrets of 
 the late events, who had been entrusted with the 
 most dangerous secrets, and held even a list of 
 names, all of whom would have been prosecuted, 
 met his mistress coming out of church. This 
 young woman was a wife of the secretary of the 
 police, and consequently well informed. With an 
 agitated countenance she whispered in his ear, 
 ** Tutto t perdutoT She then assured him that 
 an order w^as issued to seize him and his papers ; 
 and that he must make his escape. What did 
 this brave young man do ? He fled : but to his 
 own lodgings ; which he entered just before the 
 officers sent to arrest him. He fastened his door, 
 and replied to their demands of entrance, Al'ora —
 
 278 
 
 Al'ora. He deliberately burnt every paper, left 
 no vestige that could be traced ; and then, either 
 that they should not have the satisfaction to seize 
 and torture him — or that he should not hereafter 
 be induced to make any discovery, under the im- 
 pression of illness, fear, imprisonment, or torture, 
 he opens the window and plunges from the fourth 
 piano into the street. Here indeed was a patriot. 
 This glorious sacrifice must one day or other be 
 appreciated, when the history of these sad times 
 shall lie before the world. The black deeds of 
 tyranny, and its miscreant partizans — Partizans 
 of tyranny ! Heavens I what a notion ! Yet such 
 wretches, degraded below the level of the most 
 brutish of brutish beasts, are to be found in every 
 age, and in every country. They are brutish 
 beasts — the vilest vermin — and should be rooted 
 out. With them there should be no convention. 
 They abandon their prerogative of men, in be- 
 coming the bloodhounds that hunt down and 
 worry men; and should not be treated as men, 
 but exterminated like wolves." You see, Rosa- 
 line, how strongly he writes — Indeed, I am terri- 
 fied when I read his letters ; and ask myself, why 
 such things are? You, who know more, have often 
 told me, because we all desire power — And then
 
 279 
 
 the extension of that power is equal to the selfish- 
 ness, the malignity, and the cowardice of our own 
 disposition. I have heard you say, that you could 
 discover the disposition of a child, from its amuse- 
 ments. I have often heard you say, also, when 
 you have been reading history, how much you 
 pity princes, for the bad education that they have 
 had ; and who must, by being so much fostered, 
 have rendered them selfish and cruel : and that 
 they are surrounded by courtiers, who are natu- 
 rally more slavish than other nobles ; by the worst 
 of priests and women, who never having a chance 
 of having their persons exposed, are selfish and 
 cowardly, and consequently cruel. Princes are 
 indeed to be pitied; always surrounded, from 
 their youth, by such persons; duped, flattered, 
 every frailty blurred over or extenuated — every 
 foible praised — Jealousy inspired in their bosom 
 against virtue, because it is rugged — Taught that 
 they alone are the statCy the people ; and that, by 
 conquests, they may become the world — Never 
 allowed to analyze their own power ; persuaded 
 by the clergy, that it is held in trust from the Al- 
 mighty, and to be exercised according to certain 
 forms — that to question it, in any guise, is blas- 
 phemy — Both priests and princes abhorring ana-
 
 280 
 
 lysis. Both loving darkness rather than light — 
 because power ever holds her stern rule more 
 absolutely in the kingdom of darkness. You 
 praise the education of youth in England, be- 
 cause it is in public schools, where they feel a 
 practical equality, and are knocked about. And 
 you say, that you owe your own popular feelings 
 to having had such an hard infancy— moved 
 about from garrison to garrison, by sea and by 
 land, and exposed in your most tender years to 
 every privation and hardship ; and, that your 
 first impression was in the West Indies, where 
 you were born — in the midst of slavery — where 
 men are bred as brutes to labour, divested of the 
 common rights of humanity. I have also heard 
 you say, that you always heard, and your mother 
 pointed out to you, that the slaves on a woman's 
 estate were treated more cruelly than on any 
 other. This is your grand argument for the ex- 
 tensive instruction of women : that if women are 
 not either enlightened early or very tender by 
 nature, if they have power they always misuse it; 
 and that the greatest miseries that affect coun- 
 tries, arise from the pernicious advice of women ; 
 the mistresses of kings, the wives of ministers 
 and the chiefs of party. And you have said, that
 
 281 
 
 SO inveterately inclined to oppression is our sex, 
 that when a woman is not bigoted in religious 
 matters, and liberal in political feeling, it is much 
 more a proof of a strong head and a good heart, 
 than the manifestation of the same feelings in a 
 man. I throw back all your wise sayings in your 
 teeth, madam, for I feel the force of them. 
 
 Your's ever, 
 
 Clorinda. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 London : Printed by C. Rowoith, 
 Bell Yard, Temple Bar.
 
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