A2r

Desmond.

A
Novel,
in Two Volumes.

By
Charlotte Smith.

Volume I.

Dublin:
Printed for P. Wogan, P. Byrne, J. Moore, W.
McKenzie
, H. Colbert, A. Grueber, B. Dornin,
J. Jones, J. Rice, W. Jones, J. Mehain,
G. Draper, R. McAllister
G. Folingsby
. 1792M.DCC.XCII.

A2v A3r

Preface.

In sending into the world a work so
unlike those of my former writings, which
have been honored by its approbation, I
feel some degree of that apprehension
which an Author is sensible of on a first
publication.

This arises partly from my doubts of
succeeding so well in letters as in narrative;
and partly from a supposition, that
there are Readers, to whom the fictitious
occurrences, and others to whom the political
remarks in these volumes may be
displeasing.

a3 To A3v ii

To the first I beg leave to suggest, that
in representing a young man, nourishing
an ardent but concealed passion for
a married woman; I certainly do not
mean to encourage or justify such attachments;
but no delineation of character
appears to me more interesting,
than that of a man capable of such a
passion, so generous and disinterested as
to seek only the good of its object;
nor any story more moral, than one that
represents the existence of an affection so
regulated.

As to the political passages dispersed
through the work, they are for the most
part, drawn from conversations to which
I have been a witness, in England and
France, during the last twelve months.
In carrying on my story in those countries,
and at a period when their political
situation (but particularly that of the latter)
is the general topic of discourse in
both; I have given to my imaginary characters
the arguments I have heard on
both sides; and if those in favor of one
party have evidently the advantage, it is
not owing to my partial representation,
but to the predominant power of truth and A4r iii
and reason, which neither can be altered
nor concealed.

But women it is said have no business
with politics—Why not?—Have they no
interest in the scenes that are acting
around them, in which they have fathers,
brothers, husbands, sons, or friends engaged?
—Even in the commonest course
of female education, they are expected
to acquire some knowledge of history;
and yet, if they are to have no opinion of
what is passing, it avails little that they
should be informed of what has passed, in
a world where they are subject to such
mental degradation; where they are censured
as affecting masculine knowledge if
they happen to have any understanding;
or despised as insignificant triflers if they
have none.

Knowledge, which qualifies women to
speak or to write on any other than the
most common and trivial subjects, is
supposed to be of so difficult attainment,
that it cannot be acquired but by the sacrifice
of domestic virtues, or the neglect
of domestic duties.—I however may
safely say, that it was in the observance,
not in the breach of duty, I became an Author; A4v iv
Author; and it has happened, that the
circumstances which have compelled me
to write, have introduced me to those
scenes of life, and those varieties of character
which I should otherwise never
have seen: Tho’ alas! it is from thence,
that I am too well enabled to describe
from immediate observation,

“The proud man’s contumely, th’ oppressors
wrong;
The laws delay, the insolence of office.”

But, while in consequence of the affairs
of my family, being most unhappily
in the power of men who seem to
exercise all these with impunity
, I am become
an Author by profession, and feel
every year more acutely “that hope
delayed maketh the heart sick.”
I am
sensible also (to use another quotation)
that

“―Adversity— Tho’ like a toad ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in its head.”

For it is to my involuntary appearance
in that character, that I am indebted,
for all that makes my continuance in the world A5r v
world desirable; all that softens the rigor
of my destiny and enables me to sustain
it; I mean friends among those, who,
while their talents are the boast of their
country, are yet more respectable for the
goodness and integrity of their hearts.

Among these I include a female friend,
to whom I owe the beautiful little Ode
in the last volume; who having written
it for this work, allows me thus publicly
to boast of a friendship, which is the
pride and pleasure of my life.

If I may be indulged a moment longer
in my egotism, it shall be only while I
apologize for the typographical errors of
the work, which may have been in some
measure occasioned by the detached and
hurried way, in which the sheets were
sometimes sent to the press when I was at
a distance from it; and when my attention
was distracted by the troubles,
which it seems to be the peculiar delight
of the persons who are concerned in
the management of my children’s affairs,
to inflict upon me. With all this the
Public have nothing to do: but were it proper A5v vi
proper to relate all the disadvantages
from anxiety of mind and local circumstances,
under which these volumes have
been composed, such a detail might be
admitted as an excuse for more material
errors.

For that asperity of remark, which
will arise on the part of those whose
political tenets I may offend, I am prepared;
those who object to the matter,
will probably arraign the manner, and
exclaim against the impropriety of
making a book of entertainment the
vehicle of political discussion. I am however
conscious that in making these slight
sketches, of manners and opinions, as
they fluctuated around me; I have not
sacrificed truth to any party—Nothing
appears to me more respectable than
national pride; nothing so absurd as
national prejudice—And in the faithful
representation of the manners of other
countries, surely Englishmen may find
abundant reason to indulge the one,
while they conquer the other. To those
however who still cherish the idea of our
having a natural enemy in the French
nation, and that they are still more naturally
our foes, because they have dared to A6r vii
to be freemen, I can only say, that against
the phalanx of prejudice kept in constant
pay, and under strict discipline by interest,
the slight skirmishing of a novel writer
can have no effect: we see it remains
hitherto unbroken against the powerful
efforts of learning and genius—though
united in that cause which must finally
triumph—the cause of truth, reason, and
humanity.

Charlotte Smith.


London
A6v B1r

Desmond.

Letter I.

To Mr. Bethel.

Your arguments, my friend, were decisive;
and since I am now on my way—I hardly know
whither, you will be convinced that I attended
to them; and have determined to relinquish the
dangerous indulgence, of contemplating the
perfections of an object, that can never be mine.
Yes!—I have torn myself from her; and, without
betraying any part of the anguish and regret
I felt, I calmly took my leave!—It was five days
ago, the morning after she had undergone the
fatiguing ceremony of appearing, for the first
time since her marriage, at court on the birthnight.

I had heard how universally she had been admired,
but she seemed to have received no pleasure
from that admiration—and I felt involuntarily
pleased that she had not.—Her husband—
I hate the name—Verney; had already escaped
from the confinement, which this ceremony of
their appearances had for a day or two imposed
upon him; and was gone to I know not what
races; she named the place faintly and reluctantly
when I asked after him; and I did not
repeat the question: there was however another
question which I could not help asking myself; Vol. I. B does B1v 2
does this man deserve the lovely Geraldine?—
Alas!—I know he does not; cannot: the sport
of every wild propensity or rather of every prevailing
fashion, (for it is to that he sacrifices rather
than to his own inclinations) I have too
much reason to believe he will dissipate his fortune,
and render his wife miserable.—But is it
possible she can love him?—Oh, no!—it is surely
not possible—when through the mild grace and
sometimes tenderness of her manner, I remark
the strength and clearness of her understanding;
when I observe, how immediately she sees the
ridiculous, and how quickly her ingenuous and
liberal mind shrinks from vice and folly—I believe
it impossible that the hour can be far distant,
if indeed it is not already arrived; when
the flowers, with which the mercenary hands
of her family, dressed the chains they imposed
upon her, will be totally faded; and when, whatever
affection she now feels for him, if any does
exist, will be destroyed by the conviction of
Verney’s unworthiness—Ah! where will then
an heart, like hers, find refuge against the horrors
of such a destiny—would to heaven I had
become acquainted with her before that destiny
was irrevocable—or that I had never known her
at all.

When I was admitted to her dressing-room
the last time I saw her—she was reading; and
laid down her book on my entrance—I was ill,
or had appeared so to her; when I had seen her
a few days before—she seemed now to recollect
it with tender interest—and when, in answering
her enquiries, I told her I intended going abroad
for some months; I should have thought—had
I dared to indulge the flattery of fancy—that she
heard it with concern, “we shall not then see you B2r 3
you this year in Kent,”
said she, “I am very
sorry for it,”
she paused a moment, and added,
with one of those smiles which give such peculiar
charms to her countenance, “but I hope
you will regain your health and spirits—and I
think we shall certainly have you among us again
in the shooting season.”
—I know not what was
the matter with me, but I could not answer her;
and the conversation for some moments dropped.

She resumed it after another short silence, and
asked me when I had seen her brother?—“He
talks,”
said she, “of going to the Continent
also this summer, and I wish you may meet him
there—your acquaintance could not fail of being
advantageous in any country, but particularly
a foreign country, to a young man so new
to the world as he is; and one, so unsettled in
all his plans, from temper and habit, that I am
ever in pain lest he should fall into those errors,
which I every day see so fatal to those who enter
into the world unexperienced like him—without
a guide.—Should you happen to meet with him
abroad, I am sure you have friendship enough
for us all, to direct him.”

I seized with avidity an opportunity of being
serviceable to any one who belongs to her—I had
not seen Waverly for some time, and imagined
he was gone back to Oxford; but I assured her,
that if Mr. Waverly could make it convenient
to go when I did to Paris, I should be extremely
glad to be useful to him, and happy in his company.

Pleased with the earnest manner in which I
spoke, she became more un-reserved on this subject.
“You know a little of my brother,” said
she, “but it is impossible, on so slight an acquaintance,
to be aware of the peculiarities of his B2 temper B2v 4
temper—peculiarities that give me so many fears
on his account. It is not his youth, or the expensive
style in which he sets out, that disquiet
me so much as that uncommon indecision of
mind, which never allows him to know what he
will do a moment before he acts; and some how
or other he always continues, after long debates
and repeated changes, to adopt the very worst
scheme of those he has examined. I may say to
you that this defect originated in the extreme
indulgence of his parents—a very considerable
part of my father’s estate would have gone into
another branch of the family, had he not had a
son—and it happened his six eldest children
were daughters, so that when this long-wishedfor
and only son was born, he became of more
consequence to my father and mother than the
rest of their family: and we, his three sisters,
who survived, have through our lives hitherto
uniformly seen our interest yield to his.—But,
believe me, we should have never murmured,
(at least I can answer for myself)—at whatever
sacrifices have been made, had they contributed
to render him really and permanently happier,
but the continual enquiries that were made of
what he would do, and what he would like, while
nothing was ever offered to him but variety of
gratification, have, I think, coincided with his
natural temper to produce that continual inability,
to pursue any study or even any pleasure
steadily.—My father’s death, and his being of
age, have rendered him master of himself and his
fortune; but he cannot resolve what to do with
either of them, and my apprehensions are, that
he will fall into the hands of those who will determine
for him, and dispose of both, rather for
their own advantage than for his. I have thereforefore B3r 5
encouraged, as much as possible, his halfformed
inclination to go abroad—but he talks
so vaguely about it, and varies so much in his
projects, that I doubt whether he will ever execute
any of them.—If you really would allow
him to accompany you—yet I know not how to
ask it, your society would perhaps determine him
to the journey, and prevent his meeting any of
those inconveniencies to which young travellers
are exposed.”

I believe my lovely friend mistook the expression
which my eager acquiescence threw into my
countenance, for what might be produced by the
embarrassment, of wishing to escape with civility
from an unwelcome proposal—for she hesitated
—yet, without giving me time to reply,
said, “but perhaps I am taking a very improperr
liberty with you—I ought to have recollected,
that in this expedition you probably have a party,
to which any addition may be unwelcome; and
that you have so slight an acquaintance with my
brother”

I interrupted her.—“It is enough for me,
that he is your brother—that alone would make
me wish to render him every service in my power
—even if I had never seen him.”
—I had said
more than I ought; more than I intended to say.
—I felt instantly conscious of it, and I now confusedly
hurried into professions of personal regard
for Waverly, far enough from being sincere;
and assurances, that, as I went for change of air
and scene, which my health and spirits required,
I should make no party, unless it was with one
friend, to whom my society might be useful—
“and when that friend,” added I, “is your
brother.”
—I was relapsing fast into the folly, of
which, but a moment before, I repented.—I saw her B3v 6
her change colour, and for the first time since
the rise of this attachment—which will end only
with my life—I had said, what to a vain woman
might have betrayed it.

Geraldine seemed now solicitous to change the
conversation, but this I would not do, till I had
made her promise to write to her brother, as
soon as she could learn where he was; and mention
to him my intended journey, and my readiness
to begin it with him immediately.

I assured her, that if I met Waverly before
I left London, I would endeavour to fix his departure
with me, and giving her my address, that
he might write to me at Margate, reluctantly,
and with pangs, such as are felt only when
soul and body part”—I bade her adieu!

She looked concerned, and gave me her lovely
hand, which I dared not press to my lips—but,
as trembling, I held it in mine, she wished me
health and happiness, a pleasant journey, and a
prosperous return, in that soul-soothing voice
which I always hear with undescribable emotions.
—More tremulously sweet than usual, it
still vibrates in my ears, and I still repeat to
myself her last words—“Farewell, Mr. Desmond,
may all felicity attend you.”

Now, you will call this wrong, ridiculous,
and romantic.—But spare your remonstrances,
dear Bethel, since I obey you in essentials, and
am going from England, rather because you desire
it, than because I am convinced that such an an
affection as I feel ought to be eradicated.—Do
you know against how many vices, and how
many follies, a passion, so pure and ardent as
mine, fortifies the heart?—Are you sure that
the evils you represent as attending it, are not
purely imaginary, while the good is real?—I expect, B4r 7
expect, however, a heavy lecture for all this,
and it were better not to add another word on
the subject.

Your’s ever, with true regard,

Lionel Desmond.

I forgot to add, that though my journey is
certainly decided upon, because I hope to find,
in the present political tumult in France, what
may interest and divert my attention; yet,
I will not fail to deliver to your relations the
letter you enclosed in your last—and to avail
myself of it as an introduction to Mrs. Fairfax,
and her family, as soon as I arrive at Margate.
—You imagine, that the charms of one or other
of your fair cousins will have power enough to
drive, from my heart, an inclination which you
so entirely disapprove—though I am too well
convinced of the inefficacy of the recipe, I try
it you see—in deference to your opinion—just as
a patient, who knows his disease to be incurable,
submits to the prescription of a physician he
esteems.—As soon as I have delivered my credentials
you shall hear from me again.

Let- B4v 8

Letter II.

To Mr. Desmond.

Yes!—you have really given an instance of
extreme prudence—and, in consequence of it,
you will, I think, have occasion to exert another
virtue, which is by no means the most eminent
among those you possess; the virtue of patience.
—So!—you have really undertaken the delightful
office of bear-leader—because the brother of
your Geraldine cannot take care of himself—
and this you call setting about your cure, while
you continue to dispute, whether it be wise
to be cured or no—and, while you argue
that a passion for another man’s wife may
save you from abundance of vice and folly,
you strengthen your argument to be sure wonderfully,
by committing one of the greatest acts
of folly in your power.—And as to vice, I hold
it, my good friend, to be a great advance towards
it, when you betray symptoms (which no woman
can fail to understand) of this wild and
romantic passion of yours, or, as you sentimentally
term it, this ardent and pure attachment—
an attachment and an arrangement I think are
the terms now in use, I beg pardon if I do not
always put them in the right place.

But seriously—do you know what you have
undertaken in thus engaging yourself with Waverly?
—and can you bear to be made uneasy by
the caprices of a man who is of twenty minds
in a moment, without ever being in his right
mind.—Your only chance of escaping, as you have B5r 9
have now managed the matter is, that he will
never determine whether he shall go with you or
no.—Some scampering party will be proposed
to a cricket match in Hampshire, or a race in
Yorkshire; one friend will invite him to a ball
in the West of England, and another to see a
boxing match in the neighbourhood of London:
and while he is debating whether he shall make
any of these engagements, or which, or go to
France with you, you will have a very fair opportunity
of leaving him—unless (which from
the style of your last letter I do not expect) you
should yourself change your resolution on the
best grounds; and find your romantic and your
patriotic motive for a journey to France, conquered
at once by the more powerful enchantments
of one of my fair cousins.

While, from your fortune being entrusted to
my management by your grandfather till you
were five-and-twenty, I considered myself as
your guardian, I forbore to recommend to either
of these young women, because they were my
relations—But now as you are master alike of
yourself and of your estate, yet are still willing
to attend (at least you say you are) to the opinion
of a friend who has lived fourteen years longer
in the world than you have. I am desirous that
you should become acquainted with them, and
that you should judge fairly, since that must be
to judge favourably, of women who are so universally
and justly admired; who certainly are
most highly accomplished: and have fortunes to
assist whoever they marry, in supporting them in
that rank of life to which they will do so much
honour—this you call an extraordinary style of
advice, from a man who, in the noon of life,
has renounced that world, whose attractions he B5 recom- B5v 10
recommends to you; but that, at hardly nineand-thirty,
I have no longer any relish for it,
arises, not from general misanthropy, but from
particular misfortune, and against those calamities
of domestic life that have embittered my days,
I wish to guard yours—by giving you some of
my dearly-bought experience.

You have talents, youth, health, person and
fortune—a good heart and an ardent imagination
—these, my dear Desmond, are advantages very
rarely united, and when they do meet, all the
first are too often lost by the fatal and irregular
indulgence of the last. This is what I fear for
you—but my lecture must terminate with my
paper—my good wishes ever follow you; let me
hear from you soon—and believe me ever

Yours,

E. Bethel

Let B6r 11

Letter III.

To Mr. Bethel.

My visit to your friends is paid, and I met
such a reception as I might expect from your recommendation
—would I could tell you, that it
has answered all the friendly expectations, or
rather hopes, you formed of it: but you expect
an ingenuous account of my sentiments in regard
to these ladies; and you shall have them.

Mrs. Fairfax has been certainly a very fine
woman, and even now has personal advantages
enough to authorise her retaining those pretensions,
which it is easy to see she would, with
extreme reluctance, entirely resign.—It is however
but justice to add, that her unwillingness
to fade, does not influence her to keep back the
period when it is fit her daughters should bloom
she rather runs into the contrary extreme;
and with solicitude, which her maternal affection
renders rather an amiable weakness, she is
always bustling about, to shew them to the best
advantage; and, as she is perfectly convinced
that they are the most accomplished young women
of the age, so she is very desirous of impressing
that conviction on all her acquaintance
—for the rest I believe she may be a very good
woman; and I have only to object to a little too
much parade about it; and that she talks rather
too loud—and rather too long.

My first introduction to her was not at her
own house, for entering one of the libraries
about two o’clock on Thursday noon, I observed,B6 served, B6v 12
that the attention of the few people who
so early in the season assembled there, was engrossed
by a lady who was relating a very long
story about herself, in a tone of voice, against
which, whatever had been the subject, no degree
of attention to any other could have been
a defence. I was compelled therefore, instead
of reading the paper where I was anxious to see
French news, to join the audience who were
hearing—how her lease was out, of an house she
had in Harley-street, and all the conversation
held between herself, her landlord, and her attorney
about its renewal. But how at last they
could not agree; and so she had taken another in
Manchester Square, which she described at full
length—“The Duchess,” continued she,
“and lady Lindores, and lady Sarah, were all
so delighted
when they found I had determined
upon it—and lady Susan assured me it would
delay at least her winter’s journey to Bath
‘Oh! my dear Mrs. Fairfax,’ said lady Susan, ‘you
have no notion now, how excessively happy we
shall all be, to have you so near us—and your
sweet girls!—their society is a delightful acquisition
——Miss Fairfax’s singing is charming,
and I so doat upon Anastatia’s manner of reading
poetry, that I hope we shall see a great deal
of both of them.’”

Though I at once knew that this was the lady
to whom I was fortunate enough to have a letter
of recommendation in my pocket, it was not
easy with all that mauvais honte with which you
so frequently accuse me, to find a favourable
moment to make my bow and my speech, between
the end of one narrative and the beginning
of another, with such amazing rapidity did
they follow each other: and I should have retiredtired B7r 13
without having been able to seize any such
lucky interval, if this inexhaustible stream of
eloquence had not been interrupted by the sudden
entrance of a young man who seemed to be
one of Mrs. Fairfax’s intimate acquaintance,
and who said he came to tell her, that a raffle,
in which she was engaged at another shop, was
full, and that her daughters had sent him to desire
she would come. “There is nobody now,
madam, to throw,”
said this gentleman, “but
you and I; and Miss Anastatia being the highest
number, thinks she shall win the jars—but as
for me, I cannot go back this morning, for I
am engaged to ride”
“Oh, but I desire you
will,”
replied Mrs. Fairfax, “it wont take
you up a minute, and I will have it decided—
for I hate suspence.”
“Yes madam,” said
another gentleman who had been among the
listeners, “you may hate it—but there is nothing
that Waverly loves so much, if one may
judge by the difficulty he always makes about
deciding upon every thing—and if the determination
of the raffle depends upon him, you will
hardly know who the jars are to belong to this
season.”
“I protest, Jack Lewis,” cried
Waverly, whom I now immediately knew,
though his cropped hair and other singularities
of dress had at first prevented my recollecting
him—“I protest you do me injustice—I am
the steadiest creature in life—and I would go
now willingly—but upon my soul I’m past my
appointment.”

“And what signifies your appointment?”
replied the other.—“What signifies whether
you keep it or no?”
“Why, that’s true,” answered
my future fellow-traveller, “to be sure
it is of no great consequence, neither—so if you desire B7v 14
desire it, I’ll go with you, Ma’am, though really
I hardly know.”
—He was beginning to hesitate
again, but Mrs. Fairfax took him at his word,
and they went out together; however, before
they had reached the place where the possession
of the China jars was to be decided, I saw Waverly
leave the lady, and go I suppose to keep
the engagement, which he allowed a moment
before was of no consequence. As for myself,
as soon as I recovered from the effects of the
first impression made by Mrs. Fairfax’s oratory,
which perhaps the weakness or irritability of
my nerves rendered more forcible that it ought
to be, I collected courage enough to follow her;
and in a momentary pause that succeeded her
losing her raffle, which would now have been
finally settled she said, had Waverly been present,
I advanced and delivered your letter.

She received it most graciously; and even retired
from the groups she was engaged in, to
read it. I took that opportunity of addressing
myself to Miss Fairfax, who is certainly a very
pretty woman; she seemed however cold and
reserved; and, I thought, put on that sort of
air which says—“I don’t know, Sir, whether
you are in style of life to claim my notice.”

These little doubts, however, which I readily
forgave, were immediately dissipated, when her
mother appeared with your letter in her hand—
and said, “Margarette, my dear, this is Mr.
Desmond
—the friend and ward of Mr. Bethel,
I am sure you will be as rejoiced as I am in this
opportunity of being honoured with his acquaintance.”
—I saw instantly, that the young lady recollected,
in the friend and ward of Mr. Bethel,
a man of large, independent fortune.—The
most amiable expression of complacency was immediately 3 B8r 15
immediately conveyed into her countenance;
and, as I attended her and her mother home,
I perceived that two or three gentlemen, who
came with her also, and towards whom she had
before been lavish of her smiles, were now almost
neglected, while she was so good as to attend
only to me.—At the door of their lodgings
I took my leave of them, after receiving the
very obliging invitation to dine with them the
next day. Anastatia was not with them. Miss
Fairfax
told me, that, as soon as she had thrown
for the jars, she went home, “for Anastatia,”
said she, “is excessively fond of reading and reciting
—and, her reading master, a celebrated
actor at one of the theatres, happening to be
here by accident, she would not lose the opportunity
of receiving a lesson.”
“She does excel,
assuredly,”
said the elder lady, “in those accomplishments,
as Mr. Desmond, I think will say,
when he hears her.”
—I expressed my satisfaction
at the prospect of being so gratified, and then
took my leave.

Yesterday morning I saw Waverly, who
seemed to embrace, with avidity, the project of
going with me to Paris—I represented to him
the necessity of his knowing, precisely, his own
mind, as I cannot remain here more than four
or five days.—He assures me, that nothing can
prevent his going, and that he will instantly set
about making preparations.—Indeed, my good
friend, you were too severe upon him.—He is
young, and quite without experience, but he seems
to have a good disposition, and an understanding
capable of improvement.—There is too, a family
resemblance to his sister, which, though slight, and
rather a flying than a fixed likeness, interests me
for him; and in short, I am more desirous of curing
than reckoning his faults.

He B8v 16

He dined with Mrs. Fairfax yesterday, where
I was also invited, and where a party of nine or
ten were assembled. The captivating sisters displayed
all their talents, and I own they excel in
almost every accomplishment.—I have seldom
seen a finer figure taken altogether, than the
younger sister, and indeed, your description of
the personal beauty of both, was not exaggeration.
—To their acquirements, I have already
done justice: yet, I am convinced, that, with
all these advantages, my heart, were it totally
free from every other impression, would never
become devoted to either.

It would be nonsense to pretend to give reasons
for this.—With these caprices of the imagination,
and of the heart, you have allowed
that Reason has very little to do.

One objection however, to my pretending to
either of these ladies, would be, that every degree
of excellence on which you seem to dwell.
—Always surrounded by admiring multitudes;
or, practising those accomplishments by which
that admiration is acquired, they seem to be in
danger of forgetting they have hearts—appearing
to feel no preference for any person, but those who
have the sanction of fashion, or the recommendation
of great property; and, affluent as they
are themselves, to consider only among the men
that surround them, who are the likeliest to
raise them to higher affluence or superior rank.

Of this I had a specimen yesterday—Waverly
seems to have an inclination for Miss Fairfax,
and as he and I were the two young men in the
party of yesterday, who seemed the most worthy
the notice of the two young ladies, I was so
fortunate as to be allowed to entertain Miss
Anastatia
, while Waverly was engaged in earnestnest B9r 17
discourse by Miss Fairfax, who put on all
those fascinating airs which she so well knows
how to assume.—I saw that poor Waverly was
considering whether he should not be violently
in love with her, or adhere to the more humble
beauty, for whom he had been relating his penchant
to me a few hours before, when the door
suddenly opened, and a tall young fellow, very
dirty, and apparently very drunk, was shewn
into the room.—The looks of all the ladies testified
their satisfaction: and they all eagerly
exclaimed, “Oh! my lord, when did you arrive,
who expected you?—how did you come?”

—Without, however, attending immediately to
these questions, he shook the two young ladies’
hands, called them familiaryfamiliarly by their Christian
names: and then throwing himself at his length
on a sopha, he thus answered—“Came!—why,
curse me if I hardly know how I came here—
for I have not been in bed these three nights—
Why, I came with Davers, and Lenham, and
a parcel of us.—We were going to settle a
wager at Tom Felton’s—But, rat me, if I
know why the plague we came through this
damned place, twenty miles at least out of our
way.—How in the devil’s name do ye contrive
to live here, why, here is not a soul to be seen?”

—Then, without waiting for an answer to this
elegant exordium, he suddenly snatched the hand
of the eldest Miss Fairfax, who sat near him,
and cried, “But, by the Lord, my sweet Peggy,
you look confoundedly handsome—curse me if
you don’t.—By Jove, I believe I shall be in
love with you myself.—What!—so you have
got out of your megrims and sickness, eh!—
and are quite well, you dear little toad you,
eh?”
—The soft and smiling answer which the lady B9v 18
lady gave to an address so impertinently familiar,
convinced me she was not displeased with it: the
mother seemed equally satisfied; and I saw, that
even the sentimental Anastatia forgot the critique
on the last fashionable novel, with which she
had a moment before been obliging me; and
cast a look of solicitude towards that part of the
room, where this newly-arrived visitor, whom
they called Lord Newminster, was talking to
her sister in the style of which I have given you
an example—while poor Waverly, who had at
once lost all his consequence, sat silent and mortified,
or if he diffidently attempted to join in
the conversation, obtained no notice from the
lady, and only a stare of contemptuous enquiry
from the lord.—As, not withstanding the favor
I had found a few hours before, I now seemed
to be sinking fast into the same insignificance, I
thought it better to avoid a continuance of such
mortification, by taking my leave; Waverly, as
he accompanied me home, could hardly conceal
his vexation—yet was unwilling to shew it;
while I doubt not but Mrs. Fairfax and the
young ladies wewere happily entertained the rest of
the evening by the delectable conversation of
Lord Newminster.

I shall probably write once more from hence.

Your’s, ever and truly,

L.D.

Let- B10r 19

Letter IV.

To Mr. Desmond.

I am sorry my prescription is not likely to
succeed; I had persuaded myself that the youngest
of my fair cousins was the likeliest of any woman
of my acquaintance, to become the object
of a reasonable attachment.—Surely Desmond
you are fastidious—you expect what you will
never find, the cultivated mind and polished
manners of refined society, with the simplicity
and unpretending modesty of retired life—they
are incompatible—they cannot be united; and
this model of perfection, which you have imagined
and can never obtain, will be a source of
unhappiness to you through life.

I told you in a former letter, that I would
endeavour to give you a little of my dearlybought
experience.―You know that I have
been unhappy; but you are probably quite unacquainted
with the sources from whence that unhappiness
originates—in relating them to you I
may perhaps convince you, that ignorance and
simplicity are no securities against the evils which
you seem to apprehend in domestic life; and
that the woman, who is suddenly raised from
humble mediocrity to the gay scenes of fashionable
splendor, is much more likely to be giddily
intoxicated than one who has from her infancy
been accustomed to them.

At one and twenty, and at the close of a long
minority, which had been passed under the care
of very excellent guardians, I became master of a very B10v 20
a very large sum of ready money, and an estate
the largest and best conditioned that any gentleman
possessed in the country where it lay.—I
was at that time very unlike the sober fellow I
now appear—and the moment I was free from
the restraint of those friends, to whose guardianship
my father had left me, I rushed into all the
dissipation that was going forward, and became
one of the gayest men at that time about town.

With such a fortune it was not difficult to
be introduced into “the very first world.”
The illustrious adventurers and titled gamblers,
of whom that world is composed, found me an
admirable subject for them; while the women,
who were then either the most celebrated ornaments
of the circle where I moved, or were endeavouring
to become so, were equally solicitous
to obtain my notice—and the unmarried part of
them seemed generously willing to forget my
want of title in favour of my twelve or thirteen
thousand a year.—I had, however, at a very early
period of my career, conceived an affection, or
according to your phrase, an ardent attachment
to a married woman of high rank—but I had at
the same time seen enough of them all, to determine
never to marry any of them myself.

Two years experience confirmed me in this
resolution, but by the end of that time I was relieved
from the embarrassments of a large property.
—In the course of the first, the turf and
the hazard table had disburthened me of all my
ready money; and, at the conclusion of the second,
my estate was reduced to something less
than one half.—I then found that I was not, by
above one half, so great an object to my kind
friends as I had been—and, when soon afterwards
I was compelled to pay five thousand pounds B11r 21
pounds for my sentimental attachment—when
the obliging world represented my affairs infinitely
worse than they were, and I became afraid
of looking into them myself, I found the period
rapidly approaching when to this circle I should
become no object at all.

My pride now effected that, which common
sense had attempted in vain; and I determined
to quit a society into which I should never have
entered.―I went down to my house in the
county where almost all my estate lay; sent for
the attorney who had the care of my property,
and with a sort of desperate resolution resolved
to know the worst.

This lawyer, whose father had been steward
to mine, and to whom at his death the stewardship
had been given by my guardians, was a
clear headed, active and intelligent man: and
when he saw himself entrusted with fuller powers
to act in my business than he had till then
possessed, he set about it so earnestly and assiduously,
that he very soon got successfully through
two law suits of great importance: raised my
rents without oppressing my tenants—disposed
of such timber as could be sold without prejudice
to the principal estate—sold off part of what
was mortgaged to redeem and clear the rest;
and so regulated my affairs, that in a few
months, from the time of his entirely undertaking
them, I found myself relieved from every
embarrassment, and still possessed of an estate of
more than five thousand pounds a year. The
seven that I had thrown away gave me however
some of the severe pangs that are inflicted by
mortified pride.—Nabobs and rich citizens
became the ostentatious possessors of manors
and royalties in the same county, which were once B11v 22
once mine; and some of my estates—estates that
had been in my family since the conquest, now
lent their names to barons by recent purchase,
and dignified mushroom nobility.

I fled therefore from public meetings, where
I only found objects of self-roproachself-reproach, and made
acquaintance with another set of people, among
whom I was still considered as a man of great
fortune; and where I found more attention,
and, as I believed, more friendship than I had
ever experienced in superior societies.

More general information and more understanding
I certainly found; and none of my new
friends possessed a greater share of both than my
solicitor, Mr. Stamford—he had deservedly obtained
my confidence, and I was now often at
his house, when his family seemed to vie in trying,
to render agreeable to me.

His wife was pleasing and good humoured,
and he had several sisters, some married, and two
single, who occasionally visited at his house; and
it was not difficult to see, that in the eyes of the
latter, Mr. Bethel, with his reduced fortune,
was a man of greater consequence than he had
ever appeared to the high born damsels among
whom he had lived in the meridian of his prosperity.

I was not however flattered by their attention
or attracted by their coquetry—they were pretty
enough, and not without sense, but they had
both been very much in London; and I thought
too deeply initiated, if not into the very fashionable
societies, yet into the style of those which catch,
with imitative emulation, the manners and ideas
those societies give.—Mr. Stamford seemed desirous
of giving both these ladies a chance of
success with me, for they were alternately brought B12r 23
brought forward for about twelve months—
at the end of which time they were both perhaps
convinced that they had neither of them
any great prospect of it, for then the family
of a widow sister was invited, none of whom
I had ever seen, or hardly heard mentioned before.

The father of this family, a lieutenant in the
army, had married the eldest of Stamford’s sisters,
when he was recruiting in the town where
she then lived—by which he so greatly disobliged
the friends on whom he depended, that though
he had a very large family, they never afforded
him afterwards the least assistance; and about two
years before the period I now speak of, he had
died at Jamaica, leaving his widow and seven
children, with very little more than the pension
allowed by Government to subsist upon.—Of
these children the two eldest were daughters;
who, from the obscure village their mother was
compelled to inhabit in Wales, were now come
to pass the winter at the house of their uncle in
a large provincial town.—On entering one
morning Stamford’s parlour, in my usual familiar
way, I was struck with the sight of two
very young women who were at work there;
the elder of whom was, I thought, the most
perfect beauty I had ever seen.—When I met
Stamford, I expressed my admiration of the
young person I had just parted from, and enquired
who she was—he told me she was his
niece, and briefly related the history of his sister’s
family.

At dinner, as Stamford invited me to stay, I
could not keep my eyes from the contemplation
of Louisa’s beauty, which the longer I beheld
it, became more and more fascinating; the unaffectedaffected B12v 24
innocence and timidity of her manners,
rendered her yet more interesting—she knew
merely how to read and write: and had, till now,
never been out of the village, whither her mother
had retired when she was only six or seven
years old—and her total unconsciousness of the
beauty she so eminently possessed, rivetted the
fetters which that beauty, even at the first interview,
imposed.

Her uncle was not, however, so blind to the
impression I had received; yet he managed so
well, that, without any appearance of artifice
on his part, I was every day at the house; and,
in a week, I was gone an whole age in love. I
soon made proposals, which were accepted with
transport. I married the beautiful Louisa—and
was for some time happy.

Mr. Stamford had immediately the whole
management of my fortune, in the improvement
of which, he had now so much interest; and
in his hands it recovered itself so fast, that, tho’
I made a very good figure in the country, I did
not expend more than half my income.—The
money thus saved, Stamford put out to the best
advantage—and I saw myself likely to regain
the lost consequence I so much regretted: a
foolish vanity, to which I sacrificed my real felicity.

Stamford, who had all the latent ambition
that attends conscious abilities, as a man of business,
had, till now, felt that ambition repressed
by the little probability there was of his ever
reaching a more elevated situation.—But he saw
and irritated the mortified pride which I very ill
concealed—and, by degrees, he communicated
to me, and taught me to adopt those projects,
by which he told me I should not only be relieved C1r 25
relieved from this uneasy sensation, but rise
to greater consequence than I had ever possessed.

“You have talents,” said he, “and ought to exert
them.—In these times, any thing may be done
by a man of abilities, who has a seat in Parliament.
Take a seat in the House of Commons,
and a session or two will open to you prospects
greater than those you sacrificed in the early
part of your life.”
—I took his advice, and the
following year, instead of selling, at a general
election, the two seats for a borough which belonged
to me, I filled one myself, and gave the
other to Stamford, who, conscious as he was of
possessing those powers, which, in a corrupt government,
are always eagerly bought, had long
been solicitous to quit the narrow walk of a
country attorney, and mount a stage where those
abilities would have scope.

In consequence of this arrangement, I took
a large house in town; where Stamford and his
family had apartments for the first four or five
months.—At the end of that time, he had managed
so well, that he hired one for himself.—
Artful, active, and indefatigable, with a tongue
very plausible, and a conscience very pliant, he
soon became a very useful man to the party who
had purchased him. Preferments and fortune
crowded rapidly upon him, and Stamford, the
country attorney, was soon forgotten, in Stamford
the confident of ministers, and the companion
of peers.

I was not, however, entirely without acquiring
some of the advantages he had taught me
to expect.—I obtained, by what I now blush to
think of, (giving my voice in direct opposition
to my opinion and my principles,) a place of Vol. I. C six C1v 26
six hundred pounds a year: which, though it
did little more than pay the rent of my house in
town, was, as Mr. Stamford assured me, the
foretaste of superior advantages.—But, long before
the close of this session of Parliament, I
discovered, that far from being likely to recover
the fortune I had dissipated, I was, in fact, a
considerable loser in pecuniary matters.—Alas!
I was yet endeavouring to shut my eyes against
the sad conviction, that I had sustained, a yet
heavier and more irreparable loss; domestic happiness,
and the affection of my wife.

Dazzled and intoxicated by scenes of which
she had till then had no idea, Louisa, on our
first coming to town entered, with extreme avidity
into the dissipation of London—and I indulged
her in it, from the silly pride of shewing
to the women among whom I had formerly lived,
beauty which eclipsed them all.—They affected
to disdain the little rustic, whom they maliciously
represented as being taken from among the
lowest of the people.—The admiration however
with which she was universally received by the
men, amply revenged their malignity, but, while
it mortified them, it ruined me.

Louisa lived now in a constant succession of
flattery, by which perhaps a stronger mind might
have become giddy.—She had princes at her toilet
and noblemen at her feet every day, and from
them she soon learned to imagine, that had she
been seen before she threw herself away on me,
there was no rank of life, however exalted, to
which such charms might not have given her pretensions.
—That love, which till this fatal period
she seemed to have for me—that gratitude of
which her heart had appeared so full (for I had
provided for all her family) even her affection for C2r 27
for her children, was drowned in the intoxicating
draughts of flattery, which were every day
administered to her—and when the time came
for our returning into the country, she returned
indeed with me, but I carried back not the ingenuous,
unaffected, Louisa; whose simplicity,
rather than her beauty had won my heart.―
Ah! no!—I saw only a fine lady eager for admiration;
willing to purchase it on any terms, and
sullen and discontented when she had not those
about her from whom she had been so accustomed
to receive it.—That happiness was lost to me for
ever. I had long been conscious, but I still
hoped to preserve my honor—and that I might
detach my wife from those whose assiduity it
seemed to be the most endangered, I determined to
make a journey into Italy.—She neither promoted
or objected to the scheme, but a few days
before that, which I had fixed on to begin our
journey, she left the house, and put herself under
the protection of a man who disgraces the
name he bears.

I pursued the usual course in these cases; I
challenged and fought with him—I was slightly,
and he was dangerously wounded; and by way
of further satisfaction I heard, that my wife attended
him in his illness, and as soon as he was
able to travel, accompanied him to the South of
France.

I then thought of pursuing that method of
vengeance, which had some years before been
successfully employed against myself, and had
begun the preliminary steps towards it, when
Stamford, the now prosperous uncle of my wife,
undertook to dissuade me—he represented to me
that any money I could obtain, would only be
considered as the price of my dishonour—and C2 that C2v 28
that such a publication of misconduct in the
mother of my children would be very injurious
to them, particularly to my little girl―that
therefore it would, upon every account, be better
to suffer him to negociate an accommodation
with—I stopped him short, without hearing to
its close, this infamous and insulting proposal—
and desired him to leave my house; no longer
doubting, from comparing this with other instances
that now occurred to me, that he had
sold the person of his niece to her seducer, with
as much sang froid as he had before sold his own
conscience to the minister.

Impressed by this opinion, and being too
well convinced of the futility of those chimerical
plans with which he had lured me from independence
and felicity, I determined never more
to hold converse with him: and to divest myself,
as soon and as completely as possible of all regret,
for a worthless and ungrateful woman.—I therefore
took all my affairs into my own hands, accepted
the chiltern hundreds, and selling my seat
for the remainder of the seven years, I resigned
at once my place at court, and my place in parliament;
for by the latter I now felt, that I had
unworthily obtained the former.—Then, letting
the family house where I had resided in the neighbourhood
of Stamford, I settled myself at this
smaller place; the only property I possess at a
distance from my native county.

Here I have now lived nearly eight years, and
between the education of my children, and the
amusement afforded me by my farm, I hope I
shall end those years at least not so unhappily as
they began.—Of the woman once so beloved, I
can now think with sorrow and pity rather than
resentment, for she is dead—and I wish her errors C3r 29
errors to be forgotten and forgiven by the world,
as I have forgiven, though I cannot forget them.
—Though released by her death from any matrimonial
engagement, I have no intention again
to hazard my happiness, but apply all my time
in improving the remains of my estate for my
son; to render him worthy to enjoy it—and to
educate my daughter in such a manner, that
although she promises to possess her mother’s
beauty, she may not be its victim.—For this
purpose it will soon be necessary for me to
quit occasionally the solitude where I have regained
my peace, and return to those scenes
among which I lost it; for I am determined my
little Louisa shall see the world before she is settled
in it; that she may learn to enjoy it with
moderation, or resign it with dignity.

In looking forward, my dear friend, to this
period, now not very remote, I have thought
that a wife of yours would be the person to
whom I should best like to entrust so precious
a charge as my charming girl on her first entrance
into life.—Thus you see that I had, in recommending
a wife to you, no very just claim to the
disinterestedness of which I have sometimes
boasted—but so goes the world. I have tired
myself, and exhausted my spirits, by this detail
of what I always avoid recalling, when it can
serve no purpose but to renew fruitless regret—
May, however, the narrative which has cost
me some pain, serve to convince you, that such
woman as the two Fairfaxes, are much less
likely to sacrifice their honour on the altar of
vanity, than the rural damsel from the Welch
mountains or northern fells. I hope to hear
from you, as you promise, once more before
you depart——It is impossible to help again C3 offering C3v 30
offering my congratulation on your fortunate
choice of Waverly for a travelling companion
—nor can I avoid admiring the effect of family
likeness

Adieu! your’s ever,

E. Bethel.

Let- C4r 31

Letter V.

To Mr. Bethel.

You are very good to have taken so much
trouble, and to have entered on a detail so painful
to yourself for my advantage—be assured,
my good friend, I feel all my obligations to you
on this, and on innumerable occasions; and that
I should pay to your opinion the utmost deference
were not my marrying now, perhaps my
ever marrying at all, quite out of the question
—for I believe I shall never have an heart to
bestow, and without it I can never solicit that
love, which, so circumstanced, I can neither
deserve nor repay.

You tell me, Bethel, that I vainly expect to
meet the cultivated mind and polished manners
of refined society, united with the simple and
unpretending modesty of retired life, while the
idea I have thus dressed up as a model of perfection,
will embitter all my days—It will indeed!
—but it is not the search that will occupy, or
the idea that will persecute me—it is the reality,
the living original of this fair idea, which I
have found—and found in possession of another
—yes my friend—Geraldine unites these perfections
—and adds to them so many others, both
of heart and understanding, that were her person
only an ordinary one, I could not have
known without adoring her. I will not, however,
dwell upon this topic—for it is one on
which you do not hear me with pleasure, and it is C4 not C4v 32
not fit that I indulge myself in what I feel while
I write about her—though I can only do so
while I write to you, for no other person on
earth suspects this attachment, nor do I ever
breathe her name to any ear but yours.

I force myself from this subject then; though
there is not in the world another that really fixes
my attention an instant; not one that has any
momentary attraction, unless it be the transactions
in France.—I am waiting here for Waverly,
who is gone to Bath, to take leave of his
mother: a measure which, on her writing to
him to desire it, he adopted with only two debates
—whether he should go round by London,
to bid adieu to his dear Nancy, a nymph who
lives at his expence; or proceed directly to
Bath.—As I foresaw that his dear Nancy might
chuse to visit the Continent too; or might apprehend
his escape from her chains, and therefore
prevent his going himself, I most strongly
enforced the necessity of his obeying his mother’s
summons in the quickest way possible;
declaring to him, that, if he detained me above
a week, I must absolutely go without him.—
This, as he is now very eager for the journey,
and speaks no French, so that he would be
subject to many difficulties in travelling alone,
at length determined him to go straight to Bath
and return immediately; on which conditions
I agreed to wait a week where I am, though,
since I must go, I am extremely impatient to
be at Paris—and would have made this sacrifice
of time to nothing but the service of Geraldine
in serving her brother.

Since I wrote to you last, I have passed part
of several days with Mr. Fairfax’s family,
without seeing any cause to change my opinion of any part C5r 33
part of it.—But all my observations tend rather
to confirm that which I formed on my first introduction.
—The foolish vanity, whence originates
so many stratagems to heighten their consequence,
that affectation which carries them
into the superior ranks of life, to applaud and
flatter there, that they may acquire, in their
turn, greater superiority over that class where
fortune has placed them, and be looked up to
as the standards of elegance and fashion, because
they lifelive so much with the nobility, and the sacrifices
they are ever ready to make of their own
dignity, in order to obtain this: such conduct,
I say, has something in it so weak and so mean,
that no accomplishments, beauty or fortune
could tempt me to connect myself with a woman
who had been educated in such a course of
unworthy prejudice.—Surely, my friend, if you
have ever remarked this mal de famille, you,
who have not much reason to venerate the influence
of aristocracy in society, would not have
supposed that either of these ladies, even if they
would deign to accept my fortune in apology for
my being only Mr. Desmond, (with hardly a
remote alliance to nobility) could have given
me in marriage that felicity, which I am sure
you wish I may find.―You have probably,
therefore, suffered this trait of character, though
it strongly pervades the whole family to escape
you.

Yesterday morning Miss Fairfax was so obliging
as to invite me to be of a party she had
made to ride out: or rather allowed me to attend
her, together with Waverly and another
gentleman, who neither of them came—I however
waited on her by her own appointment at
the hour of breakfast, and found her sitting at C5 the C5v 34
the tea-table with her mother, her sister, and
the Lord Newminster; who, notwithstanding
his complaints of the dulness of the place, had
returned hither after having settled his wager.—
He was stretched upon a sopha—with boots on
—a terrier lay on one side of him, and he occasionally
embraced a large hound, which licked
his face and hands, while he thus addressed it.
“Oh! thou dear bitchy—thou beautiful
bitchy—damme, if I don’t love thee better than
my mother or my sisters.”
—Then, by a happy
transition, addressing himself to the youngest
Miss Fairfax, he added, “Statia, my dear, tell
me if this is not a divinity of a dog—do you
know that I would not part with her for a thousand
guineas.”
“Here Tom,” speaking to
the servant who waited, “give me that chocolate
and that bread and butter”
—the man obeyed,
and the noble gentleman poured the chocolate
over the plate, and gave it altogether to the
divinity of a dog—“was it hungry?” cried
he—“was it hungry, a lovely dear?—I would
rather all the old women in the country should
fast for a month, than thou shouldest not have
thy belly full.”
—The ladies, far from appearing
to think this speech unfeeling or ridiculous,
were lavish in their praises of the animal; and
Miss Fairfax, who seems more desirous than
her sister to attract the attention of its worthy
owner, said, “my Lord, do you think she has
had enough?—shall I give her some more chocolate?
——or send for a plate of cold meat?”

She then caressed the favourite, and fed it from
her fair hands; while I, who had been a silent
and unnoticed spectator since my first entrance,
contemplated with more pity than wonder, this
sapient member of our legislature: who having, at C6r 35
at length, satisfied the importunity of one of the
objects of his solitude, turned to the other, and
hugging it with more affection than he would
probably have shewed to the heir of his titles,
he cried, “my poor dear Venom when will you
pup?—Peggy!—will you have one of her puppies?
—they are the very best breed in England.
—Damme now, do you know, my cursed fellow
of a groom lost me the brother to this here bitch
a week or two ago—and be cursed to his stupid
soul—and now I have got none but Venom left
of that there breed.”
At this period his lamentation
was suddenly suspended by the doors
being opened; and the entrance of a figure who
gave me the idea of a garden roller set on its
end, and supported by two legs: I found it,
however, on a second view, a person I had often
seen; and immediately recognized to be General
Wallingford
; who, as soon as he could recover
his breath, which seemed to have been
lost for a moment by exertion and agitation,
thus began:

“So Madam!—so!—this is astonishing—
this last news from France.—This decree fills
up the measure of that madness and folly which
has always marked the conduct of that beggarly
set who call themsevesthemselves the National Assembly!
—The evil is however now so great, that it
must, it must absolutely cure itself; this decree
is decisive—they have crushed themselves.”

Mrs. Fairfax now enquired what it was?
“Why—I have letters, Madam,” replied the
General, “from my friend Langdale, who was
passing through Paris on his way to Italy, (for
as to making any stay there now, it is impossible
for a man of fashion so far to commit himself as
to stay in such a scene of vulgar triumph and popular C5v 36
popular anarchy) Langdale, saw too much of it
in three days; and his last letter states, that by
a decree passed the nineteenth of June, these
low wretches, this collection of dirty fellows,
have abolished all titles, and abolished the very
name of nobility.”
“The devil they have?”
cried Lord Newminster, raising himself upon
his elbow, and interrupting a tune he had been
humming, a mezza voce; “the devil they have?
—then I wish the King and the Lords may
smash them all—and be cursed to them—I wish
they may all be sent to hell—now damme—do
you know if I was King of France for three
days, I would drive them all to the devil in a
jiffy.”

The more sagacious General cast a rueful
look at the wise and gallant projector of an impossible
exploit: and then, without attempting
to demonstrate its impracticability, he began
very gravely to descant on the shocking consequences
of this decree. Sentiments in which
Mrs. Fairfax very heartily joined.—“It will
be impossible, I fear,”
said the General, “at
least, for some time, for any man of fashion to reside
pleasantly at Paris, which I am extremely
sorry for, for it is a place I always used to love
very much; and I had great inclination to pass
the autumn there.—For my part, I’ve never observed,
but that the people had liberty enough—
Quite as much, I am convinced, as those wrongheaded,
ignorant wretches, that form the canaille
ought to have, in any country; ’tis a very terrible
thing when that corrupt mass gets the
upper hand, in any country; but, in the present
instance, the misery is, that certain persons
among even les gens comme il faut, should be
absurd and senseless enough to encourage the brutes, C7r 37
brutes, by affecting a ridiculous patriotism, and
calling themselves the friends of the people.”

“Rot the people,”—cried the noble Peer:
“I wish they were all hanged out of the way,
both in France and here too.—What business
have a set of blackguards to have an opinion
about liberty, and be cursed to them? Now
General I’ll tell you what, if I was a French
nobleman now, and had to do with them, damme
if I did not shew the impudent rascals the difference.
—By Jove, Sir, I’d set fire to their
assembly, and mind no more shooting them all,
than if they were so many mad dogs.”

Though it was used on behalf of his own
system of politics, the extreme ignorance and
absurdity which this language betrayed, made
the General decline answering or approving it;
but he was infinitely attentive to the more pathetic
lamentations of Mrs. Fairfax, which were
thus expressed.—“Well! I really think, my
dear General, that in my whole life, I never
was so shocked at any thing, as at what you
tell me: Heavens! how my sympathising heart
bleeds, when I reflect on the numbers of amiable
people of rank, compelled thus to the cruel necessity
of resigning those ancient and honorable
names which distinguished them from the vulgar
herd! and who are no longer marked by their
titles from that canaille with which it is so odious
to be levelled.—ThyThey might, in my mind, as
well have robbed them of their property, and
have turned them out to perish in the streets, if
indeed that is not done already.”

“No;” replied the General “that has not
happened yet, but doubtless it will, and, indeed,
they might as well have done it at once,
for they have made Paris so insupportable to people C7v 38
people of fashion, that it must, of course, become
a mere desert.—Nobody of any elegance
of manners can exist, where tradesmen, attornies,
and mechanics have the pas.—The splendour
of that beautiful capital is gone: the glory
of the noblesse is vanished forever.”

“Come, come, my dear General,” answered
the lady, “let us hope not; a counter-revolution
may set all to rights again, and we may
live to see these vulgar people punished for their
ridiculous ambition, as they deserve. My heart,
however bleeds to a degree for the noblesse, particularly
for two most intimate friends of mine,
women of the highest rank, who are, without
doubt, included in this universal bouleversement.
—It was only this last winter, when one of them,
la Duchesse de Miremont, who was then in
England, said to me—‘Ah! ma très
chere & très aimable madame Fairfax, je vous en
reponds que’
—”

The Lady, had in an instant, forgotten the
calamities of her foreign friends in her eagerness
to display her own consequence; but I
found it impossible to attend, with patience, to
the rest of the dialogue between her and the
General, and was meditating how, with the
least appearance of rudeness, I could make my
escape, when Miss Fairfax’s horses were brought
to the door, and my servant immediately afterwards
arrived with mine.—She rose to go; and
turning towards Lord Newminster said, with
extreme softness—“Does not your Lordship
ride this morning?”
“No, my dear Pegg,”
answered he, yawning in her face as he spoke;
“I cannot undertake the fatigue, for I was up
at eight o’clock to see a set too between the
Ruffian
and Big Ben, who are to fight next week C8r 39
week for a thousand.—I sparred a little myself,
and now I’m damned tired, and fit for nothing
but a lounge; perhaps I may meet you in my
phaeton an hour hence or so, that’s just as the
whim takes me.”
—The Lady then, in the same
gentle tone cried—“Oh creature! equally idle
and ferocious!”
—while he folded his arms, and
re-settling himself, with his two dogs upon the
sopha, declared, that he felt himself disposed to
take a nap.

The old General, more gallant and more
active, notwithstanding his gout and his size,
now led Miss Fairfax to her horse; and, as he
assisted her to mount it, he seemed to whisper
some very tender sentence in her ear; if I could
guess by the peculiar expression of his features,
while I had nothing to do but wait while all
this passed, and when the ceremony was finished,
to ride silently away by her side.—We had
hardly, however, quitted the town, when the
young Lady thus began:—“This is really very
frightful news, Mr. Desmond, that General
Wallingford
has brought us to-day.—Do you
not think it extremely shocking?”
“No, Madam,
not at all; I own myself by no means
master of the subject, but from all I do know, I
feel myself much more disposed to rejoice at,
than to lament it.”

“Impossible, Mr. Desmond!—Surely I misunderstand
you!—What! are you disposed to
rejoice that nobility and fashion are quite destroyed?”

“I am glad that oppression is destroyed;
that the power of injuring the many is taken
from the few.—Dear Madam, are you aware of
the evils which, in consequence of the feudal
system, existed in France? A system formed in the C8v 40
the blindest periods of ignorance and prejudice;
which gave to the noblesse, not only an exemption
from those taxes which crushed the people
by their weight, but gave to the possessors of
les terres titrés,every power to impoverish and
depress the peasant and the farmer; on whom,
after all, the prosperity of a nation depends.—
That these powers are annihilated, no generous
mind can surely lament.”

“I hope,” replied Miss Fairfax, with more
asperity than I thought my humility deserved—
“I hope, Sir, I am not ungenerous, nor quite
ignorant, neither, of the history of France
But I really must own, that I cannot see the
matter in the light you do.—Indeed, I can see
nothing but the most horrid cruelty and injustice.”

“In calling a man by one name, rather than
by another!—My dear Miss Fairfax, the cruelty
and injustice must surely be imaginary.”

“Not at all, in my opinion, Sir,” retorted my
fair antagonist.—“A title is as much a person’s
property as his estate; and, in my mind, one
might as well be taken away as another—And
to lose one’s very birth-right, by a mob too, of
vulgar creatures.—Good Heaven! I declare the
very idea is excessively terrific; only suppose the
English mob were to get such a notion, and in some
odious riot, begin the same sort of thing here!”

“Perhaps,” replied I (still, I assure you,
speaking with the utmost humility) “perhaps
there never may exist here the same cause; and,
therefore, the effect will not follow.—Our nobility
are less numerous; and, till within a few
years, that titles have became so very common,
they were all of that description which could be
ranked only with the haut noblesse of France; they C9r 41
they are armed with no powers to oppress, individually,
the inferior order of men; they have
no vassals but those whose service is voluntary; and,
upon the whole, are so different a body of men
from that which was once the nobility of France,
as to admit no very just comparison, and no
great probability of the same steps ever being
taken, to annihilate their titles; though they
possess, in their right of hereditary legislation,
a strong, and to many, an obnoxious feature
which the higher ranks in France never possessed.
—However, we will, if you please, and
merely for the sake of conversation, suppose that
the people, or, if you please, the vulgar, took
it into their heads to level all those distinctions
that depend upon names—I own I see nothing
in it so very dreadful, it might be endured.”

“Yes, by savages and brutes, perhaps,”
replied the Lady, with anger flashing from her
eyes, and lending new eloquence to her tongue,
“but I must say, that I never expected to hear
from a man of fashion, a defence of an act so
shamefully tyrannous and unjust, exercised over
their betters by the scum of the people; an act
that must destroy all the elegance of manners,
all the high polish that used to render people,
in a certain style, so delightful in France. By
degrees, I suppose, those who can endure to stay
in a country under such a detestable sort of government,
will become as rude and disgusting
as our common country ’Squires.”

I saw by the look with which this speech was
delivered, that I was decidedly a common country
’Squire.—“Unhappily,” replied I, “my
dear Miss Fairfax, the race of men whom you
call common country ’Squires, are almost, if
not entirely annihilated in England; though no 3 decree C9v 42
decree has passed against them—A total change
of manners has effected this.”
I was going on,
but with great vivacity she interrupted me.—

“So much the better, Sir, they will never
be regretted.”

“Perhaps not, Madam, and as we are merely
arguing for the sake of conversation, let me just
suppose that the same thing might happen, if all
those who are now raised above us by their
names, were to have no other distinction than
their merits.—Let me ask you, would the really
great, the truly noble among them (and that
there are many such nobody is more ready to allow)
be less beloved and revered if they were
known only by their family names? On the
other hand, would the celebrity of the men of
ton be much reduced? For example, the nobleman
I had the honour of meeting at your house
to-day.—He is now, I think, called Lord Newminster.
Would he be less agreeable in his
manners, less refined in his conversation, less
learned, less worthy, less respectable, were he unhappilly
compelled to be called, as his father was
before he bought his title, Mr. Grantham?”

I know not whether it was the matter or the
manner that offended my beautiful aristocrate,
but she took this speech most cruelly amiss, and
most inhumanely determining to avenge herself
upon me; she replied with symptoms of great
indignation in her countenance, “That she
was truly sorry to see the race of mere country
’Squires did still exist, and that, among those
where, from fortune and pretensions, she should
least have imagined they would be found.”

(This was me.) That as to Lord Newminster,
by whatever name he might at any time be
called, she should, for her part, always say and think, C10r 43
think, that there were few who so completely
filled the part of a man of real fashion among
the nobility; and not one, in any rank of life,
who, in her mind, possessed a twentieth part of
his good qualities.

The manner in which this was uttered, was
undoubtedly meant to crush at once, and for
ever, all the aspiring thoughts, that I, presuming
on the strength of my fortune, might peradventure
have dared to entertain.—Overwhelmed
by the pretty indignation, as much as
by the unanswerable arguments of my angry
goddess, I began to consider how I might turn
or drop discourse where I was so likely to suffer
for my temerity, when I was relieved by the appearance
of a carriage, at a distance, which, she
said, she knew to be Lord Newminster’s phaeton;
and, without any further ceremony than
slightly wishing me good-morrow, she cantered
away to meet it—leaving me, as slowly I trotted
another way, to congratulate my country on the
pure notions of patriotic virtue with which even
its women are impressed; and, on such able
supporters of its freedom, as Lord Newminster
in the upper, and General Wallingford in the
lower House.—Alas! my opposite principles,
however modestly and diffidently urged, have
lost me, as I have since found, for ever, that
favour, which without being a man of fashion,
I was once so happy as to enjoy from your fair
relations: for whenever, in the course of the
next two or three days, I happened to meet
them, I was slightly noticed, that I apprehend
our acquaintance will end here.—Condole with
me, dear Bethel; and, to make some amends,
let me soon hear from you.

I have C10v 44

I have had, very unexpectedly, a letter from
Mr. DangbyDanby, my mother’s sole surviving brother;
who, absorbed in his own singular notions
and amusements, has hardly seemed to recollect
me for many years.—He has heard, I
know not how (for I have long had no other
communication with him, than writing him an
annual letter, with an annual present of game
and venison since I became of age) that I am
going to France; and he strongly remonstrates
upon the danger I shall incur if I do, both to my
person and my principles.—He entreats me not
to try such a hazardous journey; and hints, that
his fortune is too large to be despised.—I don’t
know what this sudden fit of solicitude means,
for though I am the only relation he has, I never
had any reason to think I should benefit by his
fortune; and your care, my dear Bethel, has
precluded the necessity of my desiring it. I shall
answer him with great civility, however, but
certainly make no alteration in my plan.

Adieu! my friend—fail not to write if you
hear any thing of the family of Verney.

Your’s ever,

Lionel Desmond

Let- C11r 45

Letter VI.

To Mr. Bethel.

I had waited for Waverly the week I had
promised to wait—the last day of that week was
come: and I was going to enquire for a passage
to Calais or Dunkirk, when I met Anthony,
his servant, in the street. The poor fellow was
covered with dust, and seemed half dead with
fatigue; “Well Anthony where is your master?”
“Oh! lord sir,” answered he, “my master
has changed his mind about going to France,
and sent me post from Stamford in Lincolnshire,
Sir, where he is gone with some other
gentlemen, to an house, one Sir James Deybourne
has just by there;—Sir, I have hardly
been off the saddle for above six-and-thirty
hours; and we had no sooner got down there,
than master sent me off post to your honor; to
let you know, Sir, that he could not, no how
in the world, go to Paris with you at this
time.”

“But did he not write;” “why, no Sir, he
was going to write I believe, but somehow his
friends they persuaded him there was no need of
it; so, Sir, he called me, and bid me, that I
should deliver the message to you, about his not
coming, the soonest I possibly could: and so,
Sir, I set off directly, and he told me to say that
he should write in a very little time; and he
hoped he said, that I would make haste, to prevent
your honor’s waiting for him.”

I had at this moment occasion to recollect,
how nearly Waverly was related to Geraldine;
to prevent my feeling some degree of anger and resent- C11v 46
resentment towards him.—I sent, however, his
poor harassed servant to my lodgings, where I
ordered him to refresh himself by eating and
sleeping; and then went to see about my passage
to France.

I afterwards sauntered into one of the libraries,
and took up a book; but my attention
was soon diverted, by a plump, sleek, short,
and, altogether, a most orthodox figure; whose
enormous white wig, deeply contrasted by his
peony-coloured face, and consequential air, declared
him to be a dignitary, very high, at least
in his own esteem.—On his entrance he was
very respectfully saluted by a thin little man in
black; whose snug well-powdered curls, humble
demeanor, and cringing address, made me
suppose him either a dependent on the plump
doctor, or one who thought he might benefit by
his influence—for he not only resigned the newspaper
he was reading, but bustled about to procure
others;—while his superior, noticing him
but little, settled himself in his seat, with a magisterial
air—put on his spectacles, and took
out his snuff-box; and having made these arrangements,
he began to look over the paper of
the day; but seeing it full of intelligence from
France, he laid it down, and, “As who should say I am Sir Oracle,”
he began an harangue, speaking slowly and
through his nose.

“’Tis an uneasy thing”, said he, “a very
uneasy thing, for a man of probity and principles
to look in these days into a newspaper.—
Greatly must every such man be troubled to
read of the proceedings that are going forward in C12r 47
in France.—Proceedings, which must awaken
the wrath of heaven; and bring down upon
that perfidious and irreverent people its utmost
indignation.”

The little man took the opportunity the solemn
close of this pompous oration gave him to
cry—“very true, Doctor, your observation is
perfectly just; things to be sure have just now
a very threatening appearance.”
“Sir,” resumed
the grave personage, “it is no appearance,
but a very shocking reality. They have
done the most unjust and wicked of all actions
in depriving the church of its revenues.—
’Twere as reasonable, Sir, for them to take my
birth-right or your’s.”

“I thought, Doctor,” said a plain looking
man, who had attended very earnestly to the
beginning of this dialogue—“I thought, that
the revenues and lands of the church, being the
property of the state, they might be directed by
it into any channel more conducive, on the opinion
of that state, to its general good; and
that it appearing to the National Assembly of
France
, that this their property was unequally
divided; and that their bishops lived like
princes, while their curates Curées-rectors had hardly the
means of living like men,—I imagined—”

“You imagined, Sir?—And give me leave
to ask what right you have to imagine?—or
what you know of the subject!—The church
lands and revenues the property of the state!—
No, Sir—I affirm that they are not—That they
are the property of the possessors, as much, Sir,
as your land and houses, if you happen to have
any, are your’s.”

“Not quite so, surely, my good Doctor,”
replied the gentleman mildly—“My houses and C12v 48
and lands—if, as you observe, I happen to
have any, were probably either acquired by
my own industry, or were my birth-right.—
Now Sir”
—He would have proceeded, but
the Divine, in an angry and supercilious
manner interrupted him—“Sir, I wont argue,
I wont commit myself, nor endeavour to
convince a person whose principles are, I see,
fundamentally wrong.—But no man of sense
will deny, that when the present body of French
clergy took upon them their holy functions—
that they then became, as it were, born again
—and—and—and by their vows—”

“But, my worthy Sir, those vows were
vows of poverty.—They were vows, by which,
far from acquiring temporal goods; the means
of worldly indulgencies, they expressly renounced
all terrestrial delights, and gave themselves
to a life of mortification and humility.—
Now, it is very certain, that many of them not
only possessed immense revenues, wrung from
the hard hands of the peasant and the artificer,
but actually expended those revenues.—Not in
relieving the indigent, or encouraging the industrious;
but in gratifications more worthy
the dissolute followers of the meretricious scarletclad
lady of Babylon, than the mortified disciples
of a simple and pure religion.”
Then, as
if disdaining to carry farther an argument in
which he had so evidently the advantage against
the proud petulance of his adversary, the gentleman
walked calmly away, while the Doctor,
swelling with rage, cried, “I don’t know who
that person is, but he is very ignorant, and very
ill-bred.”
“’Tis but little worth your while,
Doctor,”
cried the acquiescent young man, “to
enter into controversial discourse with persons so D1r 49
so unworthy of the knowledge and literature
which you ever throw into your conversation.”

“It is not, Sir,” answered the Doctor; “it
were indeed a woeful waste of the talent with
which it has pleased heaven to entrust me, to
contend with the atheistical pretenders to philosophy,
that obtrude themselves but too much
into society.—However, Sir, a little time will
shew that I am right, in asserting, that a nation
that pays no more regard to the sacred order,
can never prosper:—but, that such horrible sacrilegious
robbery, as that wretched anarchy,
for I cannot call it government, has been guilty
of, will draw down calamities upon the miserable
people; and that the evil spirit, which is let
loose among them, will prompt them to deluge
their country with blood, by destroying each
other.”

“So much the better, Doctor,” cried a fat,
bloated figure, in a brown riding wig, a red
waistcoat, and boots—so much the better—I
heartily, for my part, wish they may.”
This
philanthropic personage, who had till now been
talking with an old lady about the price of soals
and mackarel that morning at market, now
quitted his seat, and squatting himself down
near the two reverend gentlemen, proceeded
briskly in his discourse, as if perfectly conscious
of its weight and energy.—“Yes Doctor, I
vote for their cutting one anothers throats, and so
saving us the trouble—The sooner they set
about it, the better I shall be pleased, for, as for
my part, I detest a Frenchman, and always did.
—You must know, that last summer, I went
down to Brighton, for I always go every summer
to some of these kind of watering places.—
So, as I was observing, I went down to BrightonVol. I. D ton D1v 50
in the month of August, which is the best
part of the season, because of the wheat ears
being plenty; but, I dont know how it happened,
I had an ugly feel in my stomach: what was
the meaning of it I could not tell: but, I quite
lost my relish for my dinner, and so I thought it
proper to consult a physician or two on the case;
and they advised me to try if a little bit of a sail
would not set things to rights; and told me,
that very likely, if I went over the water, I
should find my appetite.—So, Sir, I determined
to go, for riding did me no good at all; and so
of course I was a little uneasy.—So, Sir, I even
went over the herring pond.—I was as sick as a
horse, to be sure, all night; but however, the
next morning, when we landed on French
ground, there was I tolerably chirruping, and
pretty well disposed for my breakfast.—Oh, ho!
thinks I, this will answer, I believe.—However,
I thought I would lay by for dinner, for the
Monsieur at the inn told us he could let us have
game and fish.—But lord, Sir, most of their
provisions are nothing to be compared to ours;
and what is good they ruin by their vile manner
of dressing it.—Why, Sir, we had for dinner
some soals—the finest I ever saw, but they were
fried in bad lard; and then, Sir, for the partridges,
there was neither game gravy, nor
poiverade, nor even bread sauce.—Faith, I had
enough of them and their cookery in one day;
so, Sir, the next morning I embarked again for
old England. However, upon the whole, the
thing itself answered well enough, for my appetite
was almost at a par, as I may say, when
I came home. But for your French, I never
desire to set eyes on any of them again—and
indeed, for my part, I am free to say, that if the whole D2r 51
whole race was extirpated, and we were in possession
of their country, as in justice it is certain
we ought to be, why, it would be so much the
better—We should make a better hand of it in
such a country as that a great deal.—I understand,
that one of the things these fellows have
done since they have got the notion of liberty
into their heads, has been, to let loose all the
taylors and tinkers and frisseurs in their country,
to destroy as much game as they please.
Now, Sir, what a pity it is, that a country
where there is so much, is not ours, and our
game-laws in force there.—And then their
wine; I can’t say I ever saw a vineyard, because,
as I observed, I did not go far enough up
the country: but, no doubt, we should manage
that matter much better; and, upon the whole,
considering that we always were their masters, my
opinion is, that it would be right and proper for
our ministry to take this opportunity of falling
upon them, while they are weakening each
other; and, if they will have liberty, give them
a little taste of the liberty of us Englishmen;
for, of themselves, they can have no right notion
of what it is—and, take my word for it, its
the meerest folly in the world for them to think
about it.—No, no; none but Englishmen, freeborn
Britons, either understand or deserve
it.”

Such was the volubility and vehemence with
which this speech was made, that the Doctor
could not find any opportunity to interrupt it.—
Whatever were his opinions of the politics of the
orator, he seemed heartily to coincide with him
in the notions he entertained on the important
science of eating. He therefore (though with
an air of restraint, and as if he would cautiously D2 guard D2v 52
guard his dignity from the too great familiarity
with which the other seemed to approach him)
entered into another dissertation on the French
revolution, anathematising all its projectors and
upholders, with a zeal which Ernulphus might
envy; and, in scarce less charitable terms,
branding them with the imputation of every
hideous vice he could collect, and ending a
very long oration with a pious and christian
denunciation of battle and murder, pestilence
and famine here, and eternal torments hereafter,
for all who imagined, aided, or commended
such an abomination.

The gentleman who had visited France for
the restoration of his appetite (and who had
formerly, as I learned afterwards, kept a tavern
in London, and was now retired upon a
fortune) seemed unable or unwilling to distinguish
declamation from argument, or prejudice
from reason—He appeared to be delighted by
the furious eloquence of the churchman, whom
he shook heartily by the hand.—“Doctor,”
cried he, “I am always rejoiced to meet with
gentlemen of your talents and capacity; you
are an honour to our establishment; what you
have said is quite convincing indeed; strong,
unanswerable argument: I heartily wish some
of my acquaintance, who pretend to be advocates
for French liberty, were to hear you—I
believe they’d soon be put to a non-plus—You’d
be quite too much for them, I’m sure. Pray,
Doctor, give me leave to ask, what stay do you
mean to make in this place? I shall be proud
to cultivate the honour of your acquaintance; if
you are here next week, will you do me the favour
to dine with me on Wednesday—I’ve a
chicken-turtle, which promises well—the first I’ve D3r 53
I’ve received this season, from what I call my
West-Indian farm; a little patch of property I
purchased, a few years since, in Jamaica.—As
to the dressing of turtles, I always see to that
myself, for I am extremely particular; though,
I must say, my negro fellow is a very excellent
hand at it—I have lent him more than once to
perform for some great people at t’other end of
the town.—If you’ll do me the pleasure, Doctor,
to take a dinner with me I shall be glad;
and, indeed, besides the favour of your company,
I would fain have the four or five friends that
I’ve invited for that day, to hear a little of your
opinion upon these said French matters.”

Though the Doctor had, till now, hesitated
and seemed to doubt whether he did not descend
too much from his elevated superiority,
in encouraging the forwardness of his new acquaintance;
this proposal, flattering at once
his pride and his appetite, was irresistible.—
He, therefore, relaxing from the air of arrogant
dignity he usually wore, accepted very graciously
of the invitation to assist in devouring the
chicken-turtle, and then these two worthy
champions of British faith and British liberty,
entered into conversation on matters, which,
seem as it should, were neither last nor least in
their esteem. This was an enquiry into the
good things for the table, that were to be found
in the neighbourhood; in praise of many of
which, they were extremely eloquent.—The
Doctor complained of the scarcity of venison,
but added, that he expected an excellent haunch
in a few days, from a nobleman, his friend and
patron; of which, Mr. Sidebottom (for such
was the name of this newly acquired friend)
was requested to partake.—This request was, of D3v 54
of course, readily assented to, and they, at length
left the shop together, having settled to ride to a
neighbouring farm-house, where Mr. Sidebottom
assured the Doctor, that he had discovered
some delicate fat ducks and pigeons, of peculiar
size and flavour.—“I even question,” said he,
“whether there will not be, in about a week’s
time, some nice turkey powts.—The good woman
is very clever about her poultry, and if she
has had tolerable luck since I saw her, they
must now be nearly fit for the dish.”
—In this
pleasing hope, the two gentlemen departed together;
I followed them at a little distance, and
saw them accosted by a thin, pale figure of a
woman, with one infant in her arms and another
following her; her dress was not that of a
beggar, yet it bespoke extreme indigence; I
fancied she was a foreigner, and my idea was
confirmed when I heard her speak; she stepped
slowly, and, as it seemed, irresolutely, towards
the two prosperous men, who were going in
search of fat ducks and early turkeys; and, in
imperfect English, began to relate, that she
was a widow, and in great distress. “A widow,”
cried Mr. Sidebottom, “why you
are a Frenchwoman; what have you to do
here? and why do you not go back to your
own country? This is the time there for beggars
—they have got the upper hand. Go, go,
mistress; get back to your own country.”

The poor woman answered, that she had travelled
towards Dover with her two children, in
hopes of getting a passage to France; but that
they having been ill on the road, her little stock
of money was exhausted; “and therefore,”
said she, “I was advised to come hither, Sir,
in hopes of procuring, by the generosity of the D4r 55
the company who frequent this place, wherewithal
to pay my passage to France; for unless
I can produce enough for that purpose, no commander
of a vessel will take me.”

“And let me tell you, they very properly
refuse,”
said Mr. Sidebottom, “you had no
business that I know of in England, but to take
the bread out of the mouth of our own people;
and now I suppose you are going to join the fish
women, and such like, who are pulling down
the king’s palaces.”
—The unhappy woman cast
a look of anguish on her children, and was
quietly relinquishing this hopeless application,
when the Doctor, more alive to the tender solicitations
of pity than Mr. Sidebottom, put his
hand into his pocket, and then in a nasal voice
and in a magisterial manner, thus spoke:—
“Woman! though I have no doubt but that
thou art a creature of an abandoned conduct,
and that these children are base born; yet, being
a stranger and a foreigner, I have so much
universal charity, that, unworthy as I believe
thee, I will not shut my heart against thy petition.
If thou art an impostor, and wickedly
imposest upon that charity, so much the worse
for thee; I do my duty in bestowing it, and the
wrong rests with thee! Here! Here is—sixpence!
which I give thee towards thy passage!
Go, therefore, depart in peace; and let me not
have occasion to reprove thee to-morrow for
lingering about the streets of this place: where,
as people of fortune and consideration come for
their health, they ought not to be disturbed and
disgusted by the sight of objects of misery. I
don’t love to see beggars in these places; their
importunity is injurious to the nerves.—Let me
hear of you no more—Our laws oblige us to provide
for no poor but our own.”

The D4v 56

The Doctor having thus fulfilled two great
duties of his profession, those of giving advice,
and giving alms, strutted away with the worthy
Mr. Sidebottom; who wisely considered that
the turnpike through which he must pass in his
tour after good dishes, would demand the small
money he had about him, he therefore forebore
to add to the bounty of the Doctor towards the
unfortunate petitioner, who, feeling some degree
of alarm from the remonstrance she imperfectly
understood, remained for a moment gazing
on the six-pence, which she yet held in her
hand. She then clasped the youngest of her
children to her breast, took the hand of the other
as he clung to her gown, and burst into tears.
In a moment, however, she dried her eyes, and,
leaning against the rails of the parade, she cast
a despairing look towards the gay groups who
were passing, yet seemed examining to which
of them she might apply with most hope of
success. At this moment I approached nearer
to her; but she did not see me till I spoke to her
in French, and inquired, how I could assist her.
The voice of kindness, in her own language,
was so soothing, and I fear so new, that she
was for some moments unable to answer me;
the simplicity of the narrative with which she
at length satisfied my inquiry, convinced me of
the truth of all she related.

She told me that her husband, the son of a
reputable tradesman at Amiens, had married
her, the daughter of a very inferior one, against
his father’s positive injunctions, who had thereupon
dismissed him from the business to which
he had been brought up, and left him to the
world. That thus destitute, with a wife, and
soon afterwards a child to support, he had acceptedcepted D5r 57
the offer of an English gentleman to accompany
him to England, “where he behaved
so well,”
continued she, “that his master, who
was a good man, became much his friend, and
hearing he had in France a wife and child, whom
he loved, he not only gave leave, but money to
have us fetched over. Some months after, Sir,
the gentleman married a very rich lady from the
city, who wished him to part with his French
servant; but though he prevailed upon her to
let him keep a person who had been very faithful
to him, the lady never liked him. In less
than a twelvemonth after his marriage, my husband’s
master was taken ill of a fever and died.
My husband sat up with him many nights, and
by the time his master was carried to the grave,
he fell ill himself of the same distemper; and
his lady being afraid of the infection, hurried
him out of the house to the lodging where I
and my children lived. There he lay dreadfully
ill for three weeks, during which time the lady
sent a physician to him once or twice, but afterwards
went into the country, and thought no
more about him; so that we had nothing to support
this cruel illness, but what my husband
had saved in his service; which, with a wife
and two children to keep out of his wages, to
be sure, could not be much. He got through
the fever, Sir, but it had so ruined his blood,
that he went almost immediately into a decline;
and it is now three weeks since he died, leaving
me quite destitute with these two children. I
applied for help, in this my utmost distress, to
the widow of his late master, in whose service
he certainly lost his life. After waiting a great
while for an answer, she sent a gentleman to me
with a guinea, which was, she said, all she D5 should D5v 58
should ever do for me; and she advised me to
get back to France. This, by the assistance of
the gentleman that brought me this money, who
touched with pity for my situation, raised for
me, among his friends, above a guinea more,
I attempted to do; but on the road my children
fell sick, and my money was all expended in
procuring them assistance: so that now I have
no means of reaching France, where, if I could
once get, I hope my parents, poor as they are,
would receive me, and that I should be able
some way or other to earn my bread and my
children’s.”

I hope it is unnecessary to say, that I immediately
set the widow’s heart at ease on this
score; and undertook to pay for her’s and her
children’s conveyance.

Yesterday evening then I embarked. The
wind was against us, and the sea ran extremely
high; but I was impatient to be gone; and
though the master doubted whether he could
cross to Dunkirk, I was impatient, and pressed
him to get under weigh, which he did, notwithstanding
the unpromising appearance of the weather.

I sat upon deck, looking towards the shore,
when I saw, though we were by this time at a
considerable distance from it, a group of people
who seemed to be making signals to the men in
the vessel. I bade the master observe them, and
he distinguished, by his glass, a boat attempting to
put off, in which he told me he imagined some
other passengers, who had arrived after we had
come on board, might be. He requested, therefore,
that I would give him leave to lay to and
wait for it, which I readily granted; and as the
waves were now extremely high, we continued, with D6r 59
with some apprehensions, to watch the boat,
which was a very small one, and which often entirely
disappeared.

At length by the great exertion of the fishermen
who were in it, the boat came along side,
and one of the men hailing the master, told him
he had brought a gentleman and his two servants,
who were but just arrived from London in great
haste, for a passage to France.

Three rueful figures did indeed appear in the
boat; and in the first of them that was helped
up the side of the vessel, I recognised Waverly!

Sick to death, wet to the skin, and I believe,
not a little frightened by the tossing of the boat,
he could not immediately answer the questions I
put to him. At length he told me, that the day
after he had sent off Anthony he altered his
mind, and set out post to overtake me before I
sailed. “But now,” said he, “I wish somehow
I had not come till next week; for setting off
in such a hurry, I have not brought my horses
and carriages as I intended; and have only that
portmanteau of cloaths with me.”
I was almost
tempted to tell him he had then better return
on shore, and wait for the accommodation he
thus regretted; but I thought of Geraldine,
and detesting myself for my petulence, began
to condole with, instead of blaming the halfdrowned
Waverly, whom I immediately advised
to change his cloaths and go to bed, for he suffered
extremely from the motion of the vessel,
and again wished himself on shore. On the
shore, however, to which, in less turbulent
weather, a little encouragement might have sent
him, he had now no inclination to venture, but
took my advice and retired to the cabin; from
whence Anthony came up in a few moments
with a letter in his hand, which he said his masterter D6v 60
had forgot to give me. I looked at the direction
—it was the writing, the elegant writing,
of Geraldine. I opened it with trembling hands,
and a palpitating heart. Heavens! does she
write to me? Dare I hope she remembers me?
—I have employed every moment since in reading
and in copying it, that you may see how
elegantly she writes, though I cannot part with
the original. With what delight I retrace every
word she has written; with what transport kiss
the spaces between the lines, where her fingers
have passed. But you have no notion of all this,
and will smile contemptuously at it, as boyish
and romantic folly.——My dear Bethel, why
should we call folly that which bestows such
happiness, since, after all our wisdom, our felicity
depends merely on the imagination? I feel
lighter and gayer since I have been in possession
of this dear letter, the first I ever received from
her! Waverly’s little foibles disappear before its
powerful influence. It acts like a talisman, and
hides his faults, half of which I am ready to
think virtues, since without his indecision I
should never have received it. Oh! with what
zeal will I endeavour to execute the charge my
angelic friend gives me to watch over the conduct
of her brother. He is really not a bad
young man; and I particularly rejoice at his
being here, as I have learned from him, this
morning, that the people with whom he went
from Bath into Lincolnshire are gamblers,
who have won a considerable sum of money of
him. From such adventures, I hope to save
him in future; and admitting it possible that his
unsettled temper may sometimes occasion me
some trouble, I shall remember that he is the
brother of my adorable Geraldine, and the task will D7r 61
will become a pleasure.—Farewell, my friend,
you know my address at Paris. I shall go on this
evening to Amiens, where I shall, perhaps, be
detained a day by the affairs of my poor protegée
and her children, who must be put into some way
of subsistence before I leave them.

I am, ever, my dear Bethel,

Faithfully your’s,

Lionel Desmond.

Let D7v 62

Letter VII.

I have now, my dear Bethel, been some
days in this capital, without having had time to
write to you; so deeply has the animating spectacle
of the 14th, and the conversation in which I
have been since engaged, occupied my attention.
—I can now, however, assure you—and
with the most heart-felt satisfaction, that nothing
is more unlike the real state of this country,
than the accounts which have been given of it
in England: and that the sanguinary and ferocious
democracy, the scenes of anarchy and
confusion, which we have had so pathetically
described and lamented, have no existence but
in the malignant fabrications of those who have
been paid for their misrepresentations.

That it has been an object with our government
to employ such men; men, whose business
it is to stifle truths, which though unable to
deny, they are unwilling to admit; is a proof,
that they believe the delusion of the people necessary
to their own views; and have recourse
to these miserable expedients, to impede a little
the progress of that light which they see rising
upon the world. You know I was always interested
in this revolution; (you sometimes
thought too warmly) and I own, that till I came hither, D8r 63
hither, I was not sufficiently master of the subject,
to be able to answer those doubts which
you often raised, as to the permanency of the
new system in France—But I think, that candid
and liberal as you are; and with such principles
of universal philanthropy as you possess,
I shall now have no difficulty in making you as
warmly anxious, as I am, for the success of a
cause which, in its consequence, involves the
freedom, and, of course, the happiness, not
merely of this great people, but of the universe.
I had letters of introduction to several gentlemen
here; among others, to the ci devant Marquis
de Montfleuri
—A man, in whom the fire
of that ardent imagination, so common among
his countrymen, is tempered by sound reason;
and a habit of reflection, very unusual at his
time of life, to a native of any country, but
particularly to one of this, where corruption
has long been a system, from the influenceinfluence of
which, it was hardly possible for young men of
property and title to escape.—Montfleuri, however,
though born a courtier, is one of the
steadiest friends to the people—and it is from
him that I have heard a detail of the progress of
this great event, on which, I believe you may
depend; and I will, in my two or three next
letters, relate it in his own words.

In the mean-time, my friend, I have infinite
pleasure in describing to you the real state of
Paris, and its neighbourhood—Where there is
not only an excellent police, but where the natural
gaiety of the people now appears without
any restraint, and yet, certainly, without any
disorder.—Where the utmost care is taken of
the lives of the commonalty, of whom a great
number perished yearly in Paris, by the furious
manner in which the carriages of the noblesse were D8v 64
were driven through the streets, where there are
no accommodations for the foot passenger—and
where the proud and unfeeling possessors of those
splendid equipages (the disappearance of which
has been so much lamented in England) have
been known to feel their rapid wheels crushing
a fellow creature, with emotions so far from
those of humanity, as to have said, “tant mieux,
il y à toujours assèz de ces gueux” “So much the better, there are always enough of those
shabby rascals.”
I know not whether, in the numerous anecdotes of this kind,
that have been collected, it has ever been related, that a very
few years since, a young Frenchman of fashion—one of “the
very first world,”
was driving through the streets of Paris, with
an Englishman, his acquaintance, in a cabriolet, in the rue St.
Honoré
, which is always extremely crowded, his horse threw
down a poor man, and the wheels going over his neck, killed
him on the spot.—The Englishman, with all the emotions of
terror, natural on such an incident, cried out—Good God, you
have killed the man!—The charioteer drove on; saying, with
all possible sang froid“Eh bien, tant pis pour lui”—Well
then, so much the worse for him.
Is it not natural
for a people, who have been thus treated,
to retaliate with even more ferocity than has
been imputed to them?—and can it appear surprizing,
that when the remark has been made,
that there are now fewer magnificent carriages
in the streets of Paris than there were formerly,
they have answered, “mais il y en a encore
trop.” “But there are still too many.”

One of the greatest complaints which the discontented
here have made—One, on which the
eloquent declaimers among us have the most
loudly insisted, is the levelling principle which
the revolutionists have pursued.—Certainly, it
is a great misfortune to the nobility to be deprived
of the invaluable privilege of believing themselves D9r 65
themselves of a superior species, and to be compelled
to learn that they are men.

I was assured, in London, that I should find
Paris a desert—How true such an assertion is,
let the public walks, and public spectacles witness;
places, where such numbers assemble, as
are hardly ever seen collected in London (unless
on very extraordinary occasions;) yet, where
even in the present hour, when the ferment of the
public mind cannot have subsided, there is no
disorder, no tumult, nor even that degree of
disturbance, which the most trifling popular
whim excites among us.

It is, however, at these places, the people
are to be seen, and not their oppressors.—And
if it is only these latter that constitutes an inhabited
country, Paris will remain, perhaps,
deserted, in the eyes of those who are described
by General Wallingford and Mrs. Fairfax—as
“people of fashion”les gens comme il faut
While the philosopher, the philanthropist, the
citizen of the world; whose comprehensive mind
takes a more sublime view of human nature than
he can obtain from the heights of Versailles or
St. James’s, rejoices at the spectacle which
every where presents itself of newly-diffused
happiness, and hails his fellow man, disencumbered
of those paltry distinctions that debased
and disguised him.

Such a man—with heart-felt satisfaction repeats
that energetic, and in regard to this
country, prophetic sentence of our immortal
poet.

“Methinks I see in my mind a noble and
puissant nation, rousing herself like the strong
man after sleep; and shaking her invincible
locks.—Methinks I see her, an eagle mewing her D9v 66
her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled
eyes at the full mid-day beam; purging and unscaling
her long abused sight at the fountain itself
of heavenly radiance, while the whole flock of
timorous and noisy birds, with those that love
the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she
means, and in their envious gabble, would
prognosticate a year of sects and schisms.—” Milton on the liberty of unlicensed printing.

After this, my friend, I will now add a word of
my own.—My next letter will give you some of
the conversation of Montfleuri. When shall I
hear from you.—And when will you indulge me
with some account of your neighbours.—Pray
forget not what, even in this scene, is still nearest
the heart

Of your’s,

L. Desmond.

Let- D10r 67

Letter VIII.

To Mr. Bethel

Montfleuri, with whom I have
passed many pleasant and instructive hours since
I have been here, has desired me to go with him
to his estate on the banks of the Loire, about
fifteen miles from Lyons, where business will
soon call him. From thence, he proposes taking
me to the chateau of his uncle, the ci-devant
Count d’Hauteville in Auvergne, where I am
to witness the pangs of aristocracy, reluctantly
and proudly yielding to a necessity which it execrates;
and my friend, afterwards, accompanies
me to Marseilles, where, I believe, I shall
embark for Italy, or, perhaps, for the Archipelago
—I know not which—It depends on I
know not what. (There is a sentence a little
in the Waverly style)—I was, however, going
to say, that it depends on the state of my mind,
whether my absence from England shall be
longer or shorter:—If I could return to see Geraldine D10v 68
Geraldine happy, and not to regret that she is
happy with Verney.—If I could feel, when I
behold her, all that disinterested affection, which
the purity of her character ought to inspire,
without forming wishes and hopes that serve only
to torment me, I would return through Italy in
a few months to England. You tell me absence
will effect all this, and restore me to reason.—
I rather hope it than believe it; and even,
amidst this interesting scene, I catch myself continually
carrying my thoughts to England; and
imagining where Geraldine is—and enquiring
whether she has not new sources of uneasiness
in the encreasing dissipation of her husband.

What attractions for me has her very name.—
It is with difficulty I recall my pen, and my
wandering spirits, to endeavour to recollect,
whether I told you how much disturbed poor
Waverly was at the French post-horses and carriages,
with which we travelled from Dunkirk;
and how often he cursed his improvident haste,
which had made him set out without his own
horses and carriages.—At Abbeville, he seemed
strongly disposed to have sent Anthony back to
have fetched them; and, at Amiens, still more
inclined to return and bring them himself; nor
had he quite settled the debate when I came
back from an absence, that was occasioned by
the settlement of my poor protegée and her children,
which I managed with less difficulty than
I expected.—All this trifling I could bear from
Waverly, and forgive it as boyish folly.—
But it provokes my spleen to see a fellow have
no more idea of the importance of the present
period in France—If ever he can be brought to
think about it at all, it is only to raise a debate,
whether he should have resigned his title calmly, had D11r 69
had he been a French nobleman?—which usually
terminates in the wise declaration, that he should
have thought it a little hard.

Now will you pique yourself upon your sagacity
in foreseeing that I should be sometimes
peevish at the foibles of my fellow-traveller; it
is, however, merely a transitory displeasure, and
one thought of Geraldine dissipates it at once.—
Since we have been at Paris, there is so much
to engage him, that he has been very little with
me; and here are several Englishmen of his
acquaintance, who have taken the trouble of
deciding for him, off my hands; all my care
being to help to keep him, as much as possible,
from the gaming houses, in obedience to his
sister’s wishes, which are my laws.

While he saunters away his time in a morning
in the Palais Royal, and in the evening at the
theatres, and in suppers with the actresses I
am deeply, and more deeply interested by the
politics of the country.—Montfleuri passes
much of his time with me; and, therefore, I
will give you a sketch of his character and his
history.

He is now about five-and-thirty, a fine manly
figure, with a countenance ingenuous and commanding.
—He has been a fop, and still retains
a something of it in his dress and manner, but
it is very little visible, and not at all disgusting;
perhaps, less so than that negligence which
many of his countrymen have lately affected, as
if determined, in trifles, as well as in matters
of more consequence, to change characters
with us. The father of Montfleuri died
in America, and as an only son, he was the
darling of his mother; who, being anxious
that her daughters, of whom she had four, might not D11v 70
not be an incumbrance on an estate which his
father had left a good deal embarrassed, compelled
the second and youngest of them to become
nuns; and married the eldest and the third, who
were remarkably beautiful, to the first men who
offered—Montfleuri had no sooner the power by
the new regulations, than he took his youngest
sister, who is not yet eighteen, from the convent,
where she was on the point of taking the
vows; and, to the second, who has taken them,
he offers an establishment in his own house, if
she will leave her monastery, which is near his
estate in the Lyonois.—To conquer her scruples
and to prevail upon her to return to his house,
is part of his immediate business in that country
—His mother, whose mistaken zeal he reveres,
and for whose fondness, however unjust,
he is grateful, has been dead a few months, and
left him at liberty to follow the generous dictates
of his heart.

It is not so easy for him to break the cruel
bonds which that fatal partiality put on his other
sister; I mean the third, for the eldest is a widow.
—This third sister, who is called Madame
de Boisbelle
, I have seen; and, in finding her
a very lovely and interesting woman, have, with
extreme concern, heard that her husband is one
of the most worthless characters in France;
where, however, he is not at present, being a
fier aristocrate, and having quitted his country
rather than behold it free.

Madame de Boisbelle, is now, therefore, at
the hotel of her brother, with Mademoiselle
Montfleuri
, his younger sister; and they are to go
with us to Montfleuri in a few days.

I was yesterday with Montfleuri at a visit
he made to a family of fashion, where, in the evening,ing, D12r 71
people of all parties assemble; and where
the lady of the house piques herself upon being
a bel esprit, and giving to her guests the utmost
freedom of conversation. When we went in,
a young abbé, who seemed to have an excellent
opinion of his own abilities, was descanting on
the injustice of what had been done in regard
to the clergy.—The sneering tone in which
he described the National Assembly, by the
name of “ces Messieurs qui ont pris la peine
de nous reformer,” Those gentlemen who have taken the trouble to reform us.
and the turn of his discourse,
made it evident, that under a constrained
or, at least, an affected moderation and candour,
he concealed principles the most inimical and
malignant to the revolution.—His discourse was
to this effect.

“In every civilized country, there is no
doubt of the supremacy of the church; more
especially in this, where, ever since the baptism
of Clovis, it has made one of the great principles
of the state.—All eccelesiastical property,
therefore, ought undoubtedly to be sacred;
and, to invade it, is to commit sacrilege.
I will not go into scriptural proofs of this axiom,
I will only speak of the immorality and injustice
of those measures which have been taken against
it. It is well known, that much of the revenues
of the church arise from gifts; from legacies
given by Clovis and his pious successors;
or, by other high and illustrious persons, to
raise houses of piety, where the recluse and
religious might pray for the repose of the souls
of these eminent persons.—To fulfil these purposes,
a certain number of men, renouncing
the honours and emoluments of the world, have given D12v 72
given their lives to this holy occupation; and
is it not just they should enjoy the lot they have
thus chosen in peace? Is it not just that, if they
have resigned the pleasures of this world, they
should be allowed its necessaries, while they are
smoothing the passage to, or securing the happiness
of the other, for those, who trust to their
sanctity and their prayers?—Besides, permit me
to remark, that many of the monastic estates
have been waste lands, which have been cultivated
and reclaimed by their former possessors;
that, among the various societies of religious
men, many have well earned their support, by
undertaking the education of youth, while others
have been employed in the charitable office of
redeeming slaves from captivity.—Perhaps there
might be some little disproportion between the
emoluments possessed by the superior and inferior
clergy; but it was always possible for these latter
to rise by their zeal and good conduct; and,
I must be permitted to think, that messieurs nos
reformateurs
, have not enough considered what
they were doing; when instead of rectifying,
with a tender hand, any little errors in the ecclesiastical
order, they have destroyed it; instead
of pruning the tree, they have torn it up forcibly
by the roots.—If the nation was distressed
in its revenues, by—by—by I know not what
cause, the clergy offered four hundred millions
of livres Making upwards of sixteen and an half millions sterling. towards its assistance—a generous and
noble offer, which ought to have been accepted.”
—The abbé ceased speaking with the air of
a man, who thought he had not only produced
arguments, but such as it would be impossible to E1r 73
to controvert.—Montfleuri, however, who
seemed of another opinion, thus answered him.

“You have asserted, Sir, that in all civilized
countries, the church forms a supreme
branch of the legislature.—This is surely not the
fact: I will not, however, enter into a discussion
of how far it is so in other countries, or
how far it ought to be so in any, but reply to the
arguments which you have deduced from its
power in our own.—You must allow me to remark,
that the antiquity of an abuse is no reason
for its continuance—And if the enormous
wealth of the clergy be one, it ought not to be
perpetuated, unless better reasons can be brought
in its favour, than that it commenced at the conversion
and baptism of Clovis; who, guilty of
horrible enormities, and stained with blood, was
taught to hope, that, by erecting churches, and
endowing monasteries, the pardon of heaven
might be obtained for his crimes: and, in doing
so, he certainly did not make a bad bargain for
himself; for it cost him only that of which he
robbed his subjects. It was with their toil and
misery he thus purchased the absolution which
the monks gave him for murder and oppression
—It was their tears, and their blood, that cemented
the edifices he raised . Some sentences here are drawn from a little French pamphlet,
entitled Lettre aux Aristo-theocrate Français.
I believe the same may be said of the foundations
made by those monarchs, whom you call
his pious successors. The weak bigot Louis
the Seventh
—the ferocious sanguinary monster
Louis the Eleventh, are, I suppose, among the
most emininent of the list.—Of what efficacy
those prayers might be, that were thus obtained, Vol. I E I shall E1v 74
I shall say nothing, since that is matter of opinion.
—It is plain, however, that the nation
does not now believe them useful to its welfare,
and therefore, with great propriety, turns into
another channel, that wealth, which it no longer
deems beneficial in this. I think you will not
deny that the most useful of the clergy are the
curés, who live on their cures; whose time
should be given up to the really christian and
pious purposes of instructing the poor, visiting
the sick, and relieving the temporal necessities
of their parishioners, by such means as they
possess; though it too often happened that they
had hardly wherewithal to supply themselves
with the necessaries their humble manner of life
required.—An error, in the distribution of money
appropriated to the church, which in the
present system, will, I apprehend, be remedied.
I cannot agree with you, that the tree is torn
up by the roots: I should rather say, that its
too luxuriant branches, which prevented the
production of wholesome fruit, are reformed;
and the whole reduced nearer to the proportion,
which may secure it from being destroyed by
the storms that pass by, through the disproportion
of its head.—You have, Sir, declined entering
into those scriptural proofs of their sacred
nature, which you intimated were to be brought
in support of the ancient establishments; a fortunate
circumstance for me, as on that ground
I must have felt my inferiority.—But, from what
I know of the subject, I have always supposed,
that whatever spiritual resemblance there might
be between the primitive fathers of the church
and their present successors, there was certainly
very little in their temporal conditions. It does
not appear ever to have been the expectation of the E2r 75
the saints and martyrs, that those who followed
them in their holy calling, should become temporal
princes, or possess such immense revenues
as the higher clergy enjoyed in this country, of
whom, you know, Sir, that there were some
whose yearly incomes amounted to eighty, an
hundred, two, three, four hundred thousand
livres a year.
As to that rank of them who lived in convents,
I will not enquire whether piety or idleness
decided their vocation—I will believe that
it may, in numerous instances, have been the
former motive—and that in others, the unhappy,
or the guilty, might seek, in these retreats, shelter
from the miseries of life, or leisure to make
their peace with heaven.—But men, carried into
religious retirements by such motives, would
probably be content with mere necessaries of
life, which are not taken from them; it is not
therefore these men who complain.—To the
monks, I am disposed to allow all you can urge
in their favour, as to thee ducationthe education of youth, and
the redemption of prisoners, though these merits,
and particularly the latter, have been much
disputed (probably from the misrepresentation that
have been made of the manner of executing these
charges)—I will go farther, and enumerate one
obligation the world owes them, which you have
over-looked, or do not think it of consequence
enough to mention.—I mean, that to them we
are indebted for the preservation of those precious
relicts of antiquity, which, but for the
security which superstition enabled them to give,
would have perished in the ferocious turbulence
of the dark ages. But, Sir, with all the disposition
imaginable, to allow the monastic institution
all the honour they can assume, I still E2 cannot E2v 76
cannot be of opinion that the good works they
have given birth to, even in their utmost extent,
balance the various evils which these communities
occasion to the nation that supports
them. As to the mendicant orders, surely the
suppression of them cannot be complained of.—
The vow of poverty taken by capucins, recollets,
&c. &c. may now be executed in humble privacy,
for which the state will provide during
the lives of those have taken these vows, and
they will no longer be in a degraded condition
of life, which must be a continual tax to the
pious, while it gave to the light-minded a subject
of ridicule, and to the indifferent, of disgust.
I need hardly insist on the miseries to
which monastic vows, made at a time of life
when no civil contract would be binding, have
condemned individuals of both sexes.—Wretches,
who having thus thrown themselves, yet
living, into the tomb, have afterwards existed
only to curse their being.—I will not retouch
the disgusting pictures that have been so frequently
exhibited, of the wretchedness, or the
vices that have prophaned these dark recesses,
built for far other purposes; nor enlarge upon
the deluges of blood, the variety of tortures by
which the monks have established their power
over the ignorance and apprehensions of mankind.
—What then should prevent a nation from
re-assuming grants; which, admitting they were
originally given to good purposes, have long
since been perverted? Certainly, Sir, you cannot
assert, that le haut clergé, the higher rank of
ecclesiastics in our day, whose declined authority
and lessened revenues you regret, resemble, in
any instance, those apostles who professed poverty
and humility, and went about doing good? E3r 77
good?—Though I am, on the other hand, ready
to admit of their resemblance to their more immediate,
though still remote predecessors, the
bishops who lived as long ago as the reign of
Louis le Debonnair. One of our historians Millot.
speaks of them as being, at that period, ‘men
who were, for the most part, become great lords,
possessing vast domains and many vassals; and,
while they governed the minds of the people,
entirely devoted to a court.—Men, whose ample
revenues enabled them to gratify every
worldly inclination, and to enjoy luxuries
which soon made them lose sight of their spiritual
duties, and neglect their original vocation.’
—”

A young man, whom I had not till now noticed,
took advantage of a pause to interrupt
Montfleuri.―“Well,” said he, in English,
“and what then? it proves that those worthies
knew how to live; and, I am sorry with all my
soul, that their successors, the old bucks of our
own times, are thrown out as they are.—When
I was at Paris last, I was always sure of a couvert
at the table of an archbishop, and an excellent
table it was; then, at that time, there were
many of the haut clergé who gave comfortable,
and even elegant establishments to two or three
pretty women, to whose parties one was always
welcome.—Now there is an end of all that—
the poor bishops are gone upon their travels, and
their chere amies upon the town; which, in regard
to its society, I am sure is very far from
being improved; for, instead of the agreeable sort E3v 78
sort of people one used to converse with, one
now only meets queer fellows; who bore one to
death with long preachments about their freedom,
their constitution, and the rights of the
people; and, after all, I don’t see that any of
these things are much changed for the better.—
As to people, that is, the canaille, of whose happiness
there is so much talk, I don’t think, myself,
that they are so much happier than they
were before; indeed, I have heard it affirmed
by those who are much more interested in the
matter, and more acquainted with it than I am,
that they are not at all happier since this boasted
revolution, nor at all better off.”

Montfleuri, who had, I saw, conceived a
very mean opinion of this individual, of a nation
he loves and esteems, answered very calmly
“The objection you have made, Sir, to the
reduction of the higher clergy; the evils you have
deduced from it are certainly most convincing.
—In regard, however, to the opinions which
have, you say, been delivered by good judges of
the subject on the happiness of the people; perhaps,
the best way of ascertaining the justice of
those remarks, would be to refer you to the people
themselves, as being alone competent to decide.

Enquire of them, whether they are not
better for being relieved from the taille, from
the gabelle, from the imposts levied at the gates
of every town, on every necessary of life; for
the relief they have obtained from those burthens
that were imposed upon them, because
they were poor; while their illustrious compatriotstriots E4r 79
were exempt, because they were noble. “Ce gouvernement serait digne des Hottentots,” says Voltaire,
“dans lequel il seroit permis à un certain nombre d’hommes
de dire, c’est à ceux qui travaillent à payer—Nous ne devons
rien payer, parceque nous sommes oisifs.”

Ask the aged peasant, who is no longer able to
labour for his own subsistence; ask the mother of
a group of helpless children, if they are not the
happier for being assured, that the son, the husband,
on whom their existence depends, cannot
now be torn from the paternal cottage; and, to
execute some ambitious scheme of a weak king
or a wicked minister, be enrolled against their
inclination in a mercenary army?—Let the soldier,
who is now armed for the defence of his
country, a country sensible of the value of the
blood he is ready to shed for its freedom, tell
you whether he is not happier for the consciousness
that he cannot be compelled to carry devastation
into another land as a slave, but shall
hereafter guard his own as a freeman; ask the
husbandman, whose labours were coldly and
reluctantly performed before, when the fermiers-
general
, and the intendants of the provinces,
devoured two-thirds of their labour, if they do
not proceed more willingly and more prosperously
to cultivate a soil from whence those locusts
are driven by the breadth of liberty? Enquire
of the citizen, the mechanic, if he reposes
not more quietly in his house from the certainty
that it is not now liable to be entered by the
marechaussées, and that it is no longer possible
for him to be forcibly taken out of it by a lettre
de cachet
, in the power of a minister, or his secretary,
his secretary’s clerk, or his mistress?
Let the voice of common sense answer, whether
the whole nation has gained nothing in its dignity,nity, E4v 80
by obtaining the right of trial by jury, by
the reform in the courts of judicature; where,
it is well known, that formerly, every thing
was given to money or to favour, and to equity
and justice, nothing?—As to the prejudice that
all these alterations have been to the manners of
society, to that, indeed, I have nothing to say.
I must lament that, in shaking off the yoke, we
have been so long reproached for wearing, we
have not taken care to preserve, unfaded, all
those elegant flowers with which it was decorated.
The complaint, perhaps, is well founded,
for I have heard it before; and, particularly
from the ladies of your country, Sir; to whom,
I am afraid, the name of a Frenchman will
hereafter give no other idea than that of a savage;
a misfortune which, as I greatly admire
the English ladies, nobody can more truly regret
than I shall.—But I shall tire you, Sir, by thus
dwelling on a subject which you have just observed
is very ennuyant; and, therefore, will leave you
to Monsieur l’Abbé de Bremont, whose ideas,
on public matters, seem more happily to meet
your own.”

Montfleuri then walked away, and, with me,
joined the party of the lady of the house, who
was at play in another room.—The conversation,
round the table, took another turn, and we
soon afterwards went away; and, as the evening
was warm, strolled into the Luxembourg Gardens,
where my friend continued, as I will relate
in a future letter, to speak on the predisposing
causes of the revolution—and on its effects.

I am so late now, as to the post, that I have
only time to entreat you to write to me immediately,
that I may receive your letter before I leave E5r 81
leave Paris, which will be within these fifteen
days.—The ten last have passed without
my receiving a single line from you.—Adieu!
dear Bethel,

Your’s truly,

Lionel Desmond.

E5 Let- E5v 82

Letter IX.

To Mr. Bethel.

It is very uneasy to me, my dear Bethel, to
be so long without hearing from you.—I am
willing to believe, that you are absent from
Hartfield, and wandering with my little friends,
Harry and Louisa, on one of your usual summer
tours; and that, therefore, you have not
received my letters, and know not whither to
direct.—I would, indeed, rather believe any
thing than that you have forgotten me, unless
it be, that illness has prevented your writing.
Waverly has had only two letters from his
youngest sister since he left England; and they
hardly mention the Verney family, as Fanny
Waverly
is with her mother at Bath, where
they usually reside.

Were my heart less deeply interested for my
friends in England, I should be quite absorbed
in French politics; and, could those friends be
even for a little while supplied by foreign connections,nections, E6r 83
the family of Montfleuri would be
that where I should chuse to seek them.—But
the tender interest I feel for some individuals in
England, no time, no change of scene can weaken;
my heart

“Still to my country turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.” Goldsmith.

I will not indulge this train of thought; it
will be better to continue to relate the conversation
I had with Montfleuri in the latter part of
that evening, of which I described the beginning
in my last letter.

As we walked together towards the Luxembourg
Gardens
, he asked me if I knew the
young Englishman, whose argument, in defence
of the enormous revenues of the bishops, was
so very convincing. “Not even by name,”
answered I; “and so far I am from wishing to
enquire, that I would I could forget having
heard such frivolous folly in my native language.”
Montfleuri smiled at the warmth with
which I spoke. “I can forgive,” said he,
“the short view of an unexperienced boy just
come from his college, or the trifling inconsequence
of a mere petit maitre, who knowing
nothing beyond what the saunterers in a coffeehouse,
or the matrons of a card-table have taught
him to repeat by rote; talks merely as a child
recites his lesson, without being capable of affixing
one idea to the sentences he utters.—Such
people are perfectly harmless, or rather bring
into ridicule the cause they attempt to defend;
but, when I meet, as too often I have done, English- E6v 84
Englishmen of mature judgment and solid abilities,
so lost to all right principles as to depreciate,
misrepresent, and condemn those exertions
by which we have obtained that liberty they
affect so sedulously to defend for themselves;
when they declaim in favour of an hierarchy so
subversive of all true freedom, either of thought
or action, and so inimical to the welfare of the
people, and pretend to blame us for throwing
off those yokes, which would be intolerable to
themselves, and which they have been accustomed
to ridicule us for enduring: I ever hear
them with a mixture of contempt and indignation,
and reflect with concern on the power of
national prejudice and national jealousy, to
darken and pervert the understanding.

All, however, that I have ever heard from
such men, has served only to prove to me, either
that they fear for their own nation the too great
political consequence of ours, when our constitution
shall be established; or know and dread,
that the light of reason thus rapidly advancing,
which has shewn us how to overturn the massy
and cumbrous edifice of despotism, will make,
too evident, the faults of their own system of
government, which it is their particular interest
to skreen from research and reformation.—But
how feeble are all the endeavours of this political
jealousy on one hand, and the yet obstinate
prejudices of papal superstition on the other, to
obscure this light in its irresistible and certain
progress; more rapid and more brilliant from
the vain attempt to intercept and impede it.—
‘Ne sentez vous pas,’ says Voltaire very justly
‘—Ne sentez vous pas, que ce qui est juste, clair,
évident, est naturellement respecté de tout le monde, & que E7r 85
& que des chimeres ne peuvent pas tojours s’attirer
la même vénération?’ “Are you not sensible, that what is just, clear, and evident,
must be naturally attended to—And that chimeras cannot always
be held in veneration?”

The sudden change that has taken place in
this country, from the most indolent submission
to a despotic government, to the adoption of
principles of more enlarged liberty than your
nation has ever avowed, appeared so astonishing,
and so unaccountable, to those who beheld
the event at a distance, that they believed it
could not be permanent. Our national character,
a character given us by sar, and which
we are said still to retain—That vehement,
fierce, and almost irresistible, in the beginning
of an action, we are soon repulsed and dismayed
—Encouraged the persuasion, that the revolution
would prove only a violent popular commotion;
and that when our first ardour was
abated, the spirit of our ancient government,
taking advantage of this well-known disposition
of the French people, would gradually resume
its influence; and perhaps, by a few concessions
of little consequence, induce us to submit again
to that system, which a momentary frenzy had
suspended. But I, who, though as dissipated
as most men, was neither an unobserving or
disinterested spectator of what was passing, have
for some years seen, that our government was
approaching rapidly to its dissolution, and, that
many causes unknown, and unsuspected, were
silently uniting to accelerate its ruin.

The advocates for despotism consider the
reigns of Henry the Fourth, and Louis the
Fourteenth
, as evidences in favor of their system;tem; E7v 86
but allowing, that the former was an excellent
man, and worthy to be entrusted with
the power of governing a great people (which
can hardly be allowed to Louis the Fourteenth),
what a black and hideous list of regal monsters
may be brought to contrast the most favourable
pictures that can be drawn of these monarchs.
The various murders and assassinations which
stain the annals of the last princes of the House
of Valois; and, above all, the massacre of St.
Bartholomew
, reflect disgrace on a nation,
which, even at that dark period, could tolerate
and obey such forociousferocious tyrants, and still more,
on the sanguinary superstition which gave them
a pretence to commit these enormities. The
same bigotry, however, delivered his insulted
country from the last of this odious race; Henry the Third. but
it opposed, in his successor, a man who seemed
born for the political salvation of his people,
and who became afterwards the best king that
France ever boasted.—Brought up like the
mountaineers, over whom only it was once
likely he should reign, his heart had never been
hardened, nor his frame enervated by the flatteries
or luxuries of a court.—He had not been
taught, that to be born a king is to be born
something more than man.

The admirable dispositions he had received
from nature, were so much improved in the
rigid school of adversity, in which so many
years of his life were passed, that his character
was fixed, and prosperity and power could not
destroy those sentiments of humanity and goodness
which made him, throughout his whole
reign (even amidst the too liberal indulgence of some E8r 87
some weaknesses and errors) consider the happiness
of his people as the first object of his government.
But his life was embittered, and his
endeavours for the good of his subjects continually
opposed, by the restless suspicion, and
encroaching ambition of the priests of that religion,
to which, to save the effusion of his people’s
blood, he was a reluctant, and perhaps,
not a very sincere convert. Till at length the
same execrable fanaticism raised against him the
murderous hand of Ravaillac, and with him
perished the hopes of France; a nation that,
had he lived, would probably have possessed
prosperity and happiness, with a considerable
portion of political liberty.

The treasure that the wise œconomy of the
Duc de Sully had amassed for him, to carry on
his projects, which would have secured a long
and universal peace, were instantly, on his death,
dissipated among the hungry and selfish nobility
that surrounded his widow. Mary of Medicis.

The early part of the reign of the weak
and peevish bigot his son, Louis the Thirteenth,
was marked by a faint attempt to restore something
like a voice to the people, by a convocation
of les etats généreaux. The last assembly of that description that was called in
France.

But this was rather an effort of the nobility
against the hated power of the Italian favourites,
the Conchinis, than meant to restore to
the people any part of their lost rights.

The whole of this reign was rendered odious
by the continual wars on the subject of religion, which E8v 88
which deluged the country with blood; by the
factions, which existed even in the family of the
prince upon the throne; where the mother was
armed against her son, the son against his mother;
and the brothers against each other.—All
practising, in turn, every artifice that perfidy
and malignity could imagine; and sacrificing
every thing to their own worthless views.—
When to these ruinous circumstances was added
an ambitious aristocracy, ready on every occasion
to take advantage of the weakness of the
monarch, and the discord in his councils, it is
easily seen that nothing but the resolute courage,
and strong talents of Richelieu could have prevented
the total destruction of France as a monarchy;
it would, but for him, have been broken
into small republics, and small principalities;
the first would have been possessed by the
Huguenots, and the latter by the principal nobility;
who, whenever they opposed the court,
and flew into rebellion, revolted not against measures,
but men.—It was the favourites of Louis
the Thirteenth
that provoked them, and not the
encreasing oppression of the people.—The unhappy
and plundered people, who equally the
victims of the monarch, the nobles, and the
priests, were pillaged and destroyed by them all.

But the thick cloud of ignorance which covered
Europe, was yet but slowly and partially
rolling away: it was during this period that
Galileo was imprisoned in Italy “There I visited,” says Milton, “the celebrated Galileo,
then poor and old, and a long time a prisoner in the dungeon
of the Inquisition, for daring to think otherwise in astronomy
than his Franciscan and Dominican licensers thought.”
for his discoveries
in astronomy; and that the Descartes
was accused of impiety and atheism.

“The E9r 89

The reign of Louis the Fourteenth was
more propitious to knowledge.—His encouragement
of science and literature has, in the immortality
it has conferred upon him, led many
writers to forget the ostentatious despot, in the
munificent patron.—Fascinated by his manners,
dazzled by the magnificence of his public works,
and elated by his victories, his people felt for
him the most enthusiastic attachment, and loved
even his vices; vices which the servile crowd
of nobles around him, found it their interest to
imitate and applaud; while the priests also made
their advantage of these errors, obtaining by
them the means of dictating to a man who was
at once a libertine and a devoté.—The revocation
of the edict of Nantz; the cruel and absurd
persecution of the Protestants, were among
the follies that they led him to commit; and
depopulated and impoverished his country,
which, at his death, soon after the close of an
unsuccessful war, was in a state of almost total
bankruptcy; yet, so bigotted were we then to
the system of passive obedience, so attached to
unlimited monarchy, that throughout the long
reign of his great-grandson, Louis the Fifteenth. the murmurs of
the people were feeble and disregarded; though
their burthens were intolerable, though they
were imposed by a prince who, without any of
the virtues of his predecessor, had more than his
vices; and, though the sums thus extorted from
the hard hands of patient industry, were either
expended in disgraceful and ill-managed wars,
or lavished in the debaucheries of the most profligate
court See la Vie privée de Louis XV. that modern Europe has beheld. From E9v 90
From the infamous means that to support all
this, were then practised to raise money; from
the heavy imposts that were then laid on the
country, France has never recovered; but perhaps,
in the discontents which these oppressions
created, silent and unmarked as they were, the
foundation was laid for the universal spirit of
revolt, to which she is now indebted for her
freedom.

In the mean-time, the progress of letters,
which Louis the Fourteenth had encouraged,
was insensibly dispelling that ignorance that
alone could secure this blind obedience.—The
president, Montesquieu had done as much as a
writer, under a despot, dared to do, towards developing
the spirit of the laws, and the true principles
of government; and, though the multitude
heeded not, or understood not his abstract
reasoning, he taught those to think, who gradually
disseminated his opinions. Voltaire attacked
despotism in all its holds, with the powers
of resistless wit.—Rousseau with matchless eloquence:
—and, as these were authors who, to
the force of reason, added the charms of fancy,
they were universally read, and their sentiments
were adopted by all classes of men.

The political maxims and œconomical
systems of Turgot, and the application of these
principles by Mirabeau, excited a spirit of enquiry,
the result of which could not fail of being
favourable to the liberties of mankind; and
such was the disposition of the people of France,
when the ambitious policy of our ministry sent
our soldiers into America to support the English
colonists in their resistance to the parent
state.”

I here E10r 91

I here interrupted my friend, by remarking,
that so deep is the resentment which the English
still entertain against his nation for this interference,
that I had heard many rejoicing over
the most unpromising picture they could draw
of the present state of France; and, when they
have imagined the country deluged with blood,
and perishing by famine, have said—“Oh! the
French deserve it all for what they did against
us in America.”

“And yet, my dear Sir,” answered Montfleuri,
“these good countrymen of your’s are
a little inconsiderate and inconsistent: inconsiderate
in not reflecting, that the interference
which seems so unpardonable, was the act of the
cabinet, not of the people, who had no choice,
but went to be shot at for the liberties of America,
without having any liberty of their own;
and, inconsistent inasmuch, as they now exclaim
against the resolution we have made to deprive
our monarchs of the power of making
war; a power which they thus complain has
been so unwarrantably exerted—These are some
of the many absurdities into which a resolution
to defend a pernicious system, betrays its ablest
advocates. However, our court has found its
punishment; blinded by that restless desire of
conquest, and their jealousy of the English,
which has ever marked its politics, our government
did not reflect that they were thus tacitly
encouraging a spirit subversive of all their
views; nor foresee, that the men who were sent
out to assist in the preservation of American
freedom, would soon learn that they were degraded
by being themselves slaves; and would
return to their native country to feel and to assert
their right to be themselves free.

“I was E10v 92

I was then a very young man; but my
father, who was a colonel in the regiment of
Nassau, and who died in America, took me
with him in despite of the tears and entreaties
of my mother—I saw there such scenes as have
left an indelible impression on my mind, and
an utter abhorrence for all who, to gratify their
own wild ambition, or from even worse motives,
can deliberately animate the human race
to become butchers of each other.—Above all,
it has given me a detestation of civil war, for
the fiercest animosity with which the French
and English armies have met in the field, was
mildness and friendship in comparison of the
ferocity felt by the English and Americans,
men speaking the same language, and originally
of the same country, in their encounters with
each other. I saw, amidst the almost undisciplined
Americans, many instances of that enthusiastic
courage which animates men who
contend for all that is dear to them, against the
iron hand of injustice; and, I saw these exertions
made too often vain, against the disciplined
mercenaries of despotism; who, in learning
to call them rebels, seemed too often to
have forgotten that they were men. How little
did I then imagine, that a country which seemed
to be devoted to destruction, could ever be
in such a state as that in which I have since beheld
it.—Yes, my friend, I revisited this country
two years since, in which fourteen years
before I had served as an ensign, when it was
the seat of war.—I see it now recovered of those
wounds, which its unnatural parent hoped were
mortal, and in the most flourishing state of political
health.

What E11r 93

What then becomes of the political credit
of those who prognosticated, that her productions
would be unequal to her wants; her legislatures
to her government.—I know not how
far the mother-country is the worse for this disunion
with her colonies—but, I am sure, they
are the better; and nothing is more false than
that idea of the veteran statesman, that a country
under a new form of government, is destitute
of those who have ability to direct it.—
That they may be unlearned in the detestable
chicane of politics, is certain; but they are
also uncorrupted by the odious and pernicious
maxims of the unfeeling tools of despotism;
honest ministers then, and able negociators
will arise with the occasion.—They have appeared
in America; they are rising in France
—they have, indeed, arisen; and, when it is
seen that talents and application, and not the
smile of a mistress, or a connection with a parasite,
give claims to the offices of public trust;
men of talents and application will never be
wanting to fill them.”

Montfleuri here paused a moment; and a
sentence of Milton’s, of whom you know I
am an incessant reader, immediately occurred
to me as extremely applicable to what he had
been saying; I repeated it to him in English,
which he understands perfectly well.

“For, when God shakes a kingdom, with
strong and healthful commotions, to a general
reforming, it is not untrue that many sectaries
and false teachers are then busiest in seducing:
but yet more true it is, that God then raises,
to his own work, men of rare abilities and
more than common industry; not only to look
back and revise what hath been taught heretofore,fore, E11v 94
but to gain further, and go on some
new and enlightened steps in the discovery of
truth.” Milton on the Liberty of unlicensed Printing.

Here our conference was ended for this time,
at least, on politics. We took a few turns
among the happy groups who were either
walking, or sitting, to enjoy the most beautiful
moon-light evening I ever remember to
have seen; and I then returned to my hotel, and
went to my repose, determined to indulge the
pleasing hope of having letters from England
on the morrow, as it was post day; but, I am
again most severely disappointed.—Waverly,
however, has letters from his sisters—they lay
on the table in the room where we usually sit,
for he is gone with, I know not what party, to
Chantilly.—I see that one of them is directed
by the hand of Geraldine.—I have taken it
up an hundred times, and laid it down again—
It is sealed with an impression of the Verney
arms—It is heavy, and seems to contain more
than one or two sheets of paper; perhaps there
is a letter in it for me.—Yet, why should I
flatter myself?—The other letter is from Fanny
Waverly
—I recollect her hand, for it a little resembles
her sister’s.—Would to heaven Waverly
was come back—He went on a sudden, and named
no time for his return; and my time, these last
two days, has been wasted in the most uneasy
expectation; for I can think of nothing but the
purport of these letters.—If they assure me
of the health and content of Mrs. Verney, for I
will try to break myself of calling her Geraldine
(because I always long to add my to that
beloved name)—I will endeavour to account, dear E12r 95
dear Bethel, for your silence, by believing that
you are travelling with your children; and set
out as cheerfully as I can, with Montfleuri and
his sisters, on Monday, which is the day fixed
for our departure.—I hoped, a few days ago,
that I had determined Waverly to go with us,
but he has since made some new acquaintance,
and has probably some new schemes.

Adieu! You know me to be ever
most faithfully your’s,

Lionel Desmond.

Let- E12v 96

Letter X.

After being once more compelled to
change my plan on account of the indecision of
Waverly, who did not return to Paris till some
days after he had written to me to say he should
be there; he arrived, and I saw these letters,
which alone would have induced me to wait.—
But I was extremely mortified to find, that instead
of an account of Geraldine herself, it was
only a long letter about health and prudence,
which Mrs. Waverly, who has the gout herself,
has employed her daughter to write for her to
her son. In a postscript, however, she adds
some trifling commissions on her own account,
which, as Waverly set out the next day for
Rheims, with the same scampering party with
whom he was just returned from Chantilly, he
left for me to execute: judge whether I did not
undertake them with pleasure, with delight, and
whether I regretted the two days longer that
were thus passed in her service at Paris.—This
circumstance gave me an opportunity of writing
to her.—And so, my dear Bethel, I shall have
a letter from her before I quit this place, whither
I have entreated her to direct. Do not
now give me one of your grave, cold lectures— 1 and F1r 97
and blame me for the inconsistency of flying
from my country to conquer a passion which I
still take every opportunity of cherishing.—
Without this affection, I feel that my life would
sink into tasteless apathy; and I cannot, my
rigid Mentor, discover the immorality of it, in
its present form. On the contrary, I am convinced,
that my apprehensions of rendering
myself unworthy of the esteem, which, I now
believe, Geraldine feels for me, acts upon me
as a sort of second conscience.—What ought
not that man to attempt, who dares hope ever
to become worthy of her heart?—But I dare
not; nor do I ever trust myself with so presumptuous
a thought.—Her friendship, her esteem
may be mine—But I am getting into regions,
where your cold and calm philosophy
cannot, or will not follow me.

I return, therefore, to mere matter of fact;
and to thank you for your long-expected and
long wished-for letter.—It is tolerably interspersed
with lectures, my good friend—but I
thank you for them, because I know they are
the effusions of anxious friendship—and still
more, I thank you for the account you give me
of yourself, your children, and all other friends,
for whom you think I am interested, except the
Verneys, whom you cruelly leave out of the
list—and relative to them, therefore, I form
many uneasy conjectures, so that, instead of
saving me from pain, you have inflicted it; my
apprehensions, probably, go beyond the truth;
but Geraldine is unhappy, I know she is.—In
every English newspaper that I have seen since
I left London, there is some account of Verney’s
exploits upon the turf—and of his winning
or his losings.—Some of Waverly’s acquaintance,Vol. I. F quaintance, F1v 98
whom I accidentally conversed
with at Paris, spoke of him in terms of high
approbation, as to use their own cant, “a devilish
dashing fellow—a good fellow”
—and such
epithets as convinced me he is sacrificing the
happiness of that lovely woman to the glory of
being talked of——The only species of fame
which seems to give him any pleasure.

I am now at Montfleuri, in the Lyonois.—
Had I not felt, as I travelled hither, a strange,
uneasy sensation, which I acknowledged to be
a weakness, in reflecting on the encreasing distance
between me and Geraldine; and had I
not very uneasy apprehensions about her brother,
who is gone with a set of very dissipated boys,
they hardly know whither themselves, my journey
to this place would have been one of the
most agreeable I ever made.

I have twice before travelled the direct road
from Paris to Lyons.—Montfleuri, who is the
most cheerful companion in the world, has himself
a great taste for rural beauty, and therefore,
though every part of this country is, of
course, well known to him, he had particular
pleasure in turning out of the road to shew me
any view, or building, which he thought worth
my observation, Our journey, by this means,
was of eight days continuance—and eight days
have been seldom more pleasantly passed.

I have said very little hitherto of Montfleuri’s
two sisters, who are with us; and who are by
no means objects to be passed in silence, in the
account you wish to have of my wanderings.—
Though I, you know, “bear a charmed heart,”
and therefore cannot, like our friend Melthrope,
enliven my narrative with details of my own
passions for a sprightly French woman, or an elegant F2r 99
elegant Italian. I am persuaded, that were I
to be shewn, in succession, the most celebrated
beauties in all the kingdoms through which I
shall pass, I thus should still apostrophise Geraldine:
“I scorn the beauties common eyes adore, The more I view them—feel thy charms the more.”
But I am talking of her instead of Madame de
Boisbelle
, who is very beautiful and very unhappy,
two circumstances that cannot fail to
make her extremely interesting; perhaps she is
rendered yet more so by the unfailing variety of
her manner.—There are times when her naturally
gay spirits sink under the pressure of misfortune;
sometimes her ill-assorted marriage,
which has put her into the power of a man
altogether unworthy of her; the embarrassment
of his affairs, and the uncertainty of her fate,
recur to her in all their force; and she escapes
from company, if it be possible, to hide the
languor and depression she cannot conquer.—
During our journey, however, this was not
easily done, and I often remarked with pain,
these cruel reflections fill her fine eyes with
tears, and force deep sighs from her bosom.—
But this disposition was as a passing cloud obscuring
the brilliancy of the summer sun.—The moment
her attention is diverted from this mournful
and useless contemplation, by some new object,
or yields to the tender raillery of her brother,
who is extremely fond of her, the gayest
smiles return again to her expressive countenance;
her eyes regain their lustre, and she
passes almost instantaneously from languid dejection,
to most brilliant vivacity.—Without F2 having F2v 100
having ever had what we call a good education,
Josephine (for I have learned from her brother,
and at her own desire, to drop the former appellation
of Madame de Boisbelle) Josephine has
much of that sort of knowledge which makes
her a pleasant companion; and a fund of native
wit, which, though it is rather sparkling than
impressive, renders her conversation very delightful.
—She has a pretty voice, and plays well
on the harp.—Yet all she does has so much of
national character in it, that it would become
only a French woman, and I think I should not
admire one of my own countrywomen, who
possessed exactly the person, talents and manners
of my friend’s sister.—I do not know whether
you perfectly understand me, but I understand
myself; though, perhaps, I do not explain myself
clearly.

The little mild Julie is yet too young to have
any very decided character.—The religious
prejudices which she received in her early infancy
(for at nine years old her mother determined
to make her a nun) have sunk so deeply
in her mind, that I much doubt whether they
will ever be erased. This has given to her disposition
a melancholy cast, which, though it
renders her, perhaps, interesting to strangers,
her brother sees with concern.—I perceive that
there is, at times, a very painful struggle in her
mind, between her wish to obey and gratify
him in entering into the world, and her fears of
offending Heaven by having failed to renounce
it; and, I am afraid, there are moments which
any absurd bigot might take advantage of, to
persuade her, that she should yet return to that
state whither Heaven has summoned her.

Julie, F3r 101

Julie, however, is extremely pretty, though
quite in another style of beauty from her sister.
Waverly admired her, on first seeing her, as
much as it is in his nature to admire any woman;
and, for three days, I fancied it possible
that the fair and pensive nun might fix this
vagrant spirit. I even began to consider, how
(if the affair should become more serious) Geraldine,
as much as she wishes her brother married,
would approve of his chusing a woman
of another country, and another religion from
his own; and, I had settled it with myself, to
give no encouragement to the progress of his
attachment, till I knew her sentiments.—
I might, however, have saved myself all my
wise resolutions, for Waverly immediately afterwards
making some fortunate additions to his
number of English acquaintance (Mr. Chetwood,
the able advocate for episcopalian luxury
is one) has since passed all his time among
them; and seems to have lost, in their company,
every impression that the gentle Julie, and her
fascinating, though very imperfect English, had
made.—He has promised, either to come hither
within ten days, or to meet me at Lyons in
the course of a fortnight; but I do not expect
that he will do either the one or the other.

I do not know whether you love the description
of places, or whether I am very well qualified
to undertake it, if you do.—However, I
will endeavour to give you an idea of the habitation
of Montfleuri, and of the country round
it, where his liberal and enlightened spirit has,
ever since he became his own master, been occupied
in softening the harsh features of that
system of government, to which only the poverty and misery F3v 102
misery of such a country as this could, at any time,
be owing
.

The chateau of Montfleuri is an old building,
but it is neither large nor magnificent—for
having no predilection for the gothic gloom in
which his ancestors concealed their greatness,
he has pulled down every part of the original
structure, but what was actually useful to himself;
and brought the house, as nearly as he
could, into the form of one of those houses,
which men of a thousand or twelve hundred a
year inhabit in England.

Its situation is the most delicious that luxuriant
fancy could imagine.—It stands on a gentle
rise, the river there, rather broad than deep,
makes almost a circuit round it at the distance
of near half a mile.—The opposite banks rise
immediately on the south side into steep hills of
fantastic forms, clothed with vines.—They
are naturally indeed, little more than rocks; but
wherever the soil was deficient, the industry of
the labourers, who are in that district the tenants
of Montfleuri, has supplied it; and the wine
produced in this little mountainous tract is particularly
delicious. These pointed hills suddenly
sink into a valley, or rather a narrow pass,
which thro’ tufts of cyprus that grow among the
rocks, gives a very singular view into the country
beyond them.—Another chain of hills then
rise; and these last were the property of a convent
of monks, whose monastery is not more
than a mile from the house of my friend.—In
the culture of these two adjoining ridges of
vineyards, may be seen the effects of the management
of the different masters to whom they
belong.—The peasants on the domain of Montfleuri
are happy and prosperous, while in the line F4r 103
line of country immediately adjoining to his,
though the good fathers have taken tolerable
care of their vineyards, has every where else
the appearance of being under a languid and
reluctant cultivation.—On the top of one of
the highest of these hills is the ruin of a large
ancient building, of which the country people
tell wonderful legends. I have never yet explored
it, but it is a fine object from the windows
of this house; and I rejoice, that Montfleuri,
who has purchased the estate of the convent,
will now be able to preserve it in its present
romantic form, from the farther depredations
of the neighbouring hinds, who, whenever
their fears yielded to their convenience,
were in habits of carrying away the materials
for their own purposes; and have, by those
means, done more than time towards destroying
this monument of antiquity.—I, who love, you
know, every thing ancient, unless it be ancient
prejudices, have entreated my friend to preserve
this structure in its present state—than which,
nothing can be more picturesque: when of a
fine glowing evening, the almost perpendicular
hill on which it stands is reflected in the unruffled
bosom of the broad river, crowned with
these venerable remains half mantled in ivy, and
other parasytical plants, and a few cypresses,
which grow here as in Italy, mingling their
spiral forms among the masses of ruin.

The whole of the ground between the house
and the river, is the paternal estate of Montfleuri.
—It is now divided, the lower grounds
into meadows, and the higher into corn inclosures,
nearly as we separate our fields in England.
—The part most immediately adjoining to
the house he has thrown into a paddock, and
cut those long avenues, which in almost every direction F4v 104
direction pointed towards the house into groups
of trees: breaking as much as possible the lines
they would yet describe, by young plantations
of such trees as are the most likely, by their
quick growth, to overtake them in a few years.
—But, I am not quite sure, that I do not wish
he had left one vista of the beautiful and graceful
Spanish chestnut remaining.—I know this
betrays a very gothic and exploded taste, but
such is the force of early impressions, that I
have still an affection for “the bowed roof”
the cathedral-like solemnity of long lines of tall
trees, whose topmost boughs are interlaced with
each other.—I do not, however, defend the purity
of my taste in this instance; for nature certainly
never planted trees in direct lines.—But
I account for my predilection, by the kind of
pensive and melancholy pleasure I used to feel,
when in my childhood and early youth, I walked
alone, in a long avenue of arbeal, which led
from a very wild and woody part of the weald
of Kent, to an old house my father, at that
period of my life, inhabited. I remember the
cry of the wood peckers, or yaffils, as we call
them in that country, going to roost in a pale
autumnal evening, answered by the owls, which
in great numbers inhabit the deep forest-like
glens that lay behind the avenue.—I see the
moon rising slowly over the dark mass of wood,
and the opposite hills, tinged with purple from
the last reflection of the sun, which was sunk
behind them.—I recall the sensations I felt,
when, as the silver leaves of the aspins trembled
in the lowest breeze, or slowly fell to the ground
before me, I became half frightened at the encreasing
obscurity of the objects around me,
and have almost persuaded myself that the grey trunks F5r 105
trunks of these old trees, and the low murmur
of the wind among their branches, were the dim
forms, and hollow sighs of some supernatural
beings; and at length, afraid of looking behind
me, I have hurried breathless into the house.

No such sombre tints as these, however,
shade the environs of Montfleuri’s habitation.
Ever since he became master of this place,
which, till then had been very much neglected,
he has been endeavouring to bring it as near as
possible to those plans of comfort and convenience
which he saw were followed in England,
and of which, it must be acknowledged, the
French, in general, have not hitherto had much
idea. In this pursuit, he has succeeded much
better than I ever saw it done in France before;
and were it not for a few obstinate and prominent
features that belong to French buildings,
which it is almost impossible for him to remove,
it would be easy for me to imagine myself in
some of the most beautiful parts of England.—
A little fancy would convert the vineyards into
hop-gardens (if hops could be supposed to grow
on such eminences); nor would they be much
injured by the comparison; for, when the vine
of either is in leaf, the hop, seen at a distance
has the most agreeable appearance.—At other
times, neither the one or the other are, as far
as the beauty of the landscape is considered,
very desirable objects.

At this season, however, when the peasantry
around the chateau of Montfleuri are preparing
for the vintage—when the people, happy
from their natural disposition, the effect of soil
and climate—happy in a generous and considerate
master; (and now more rationally happy,
from the certainty they enjoy, that no changes F5 can F5v 106
can put them, as once it might have done, into
the power of one who may not inherit his virtues)
when they are making ready to avail
themselves of this joyous season. The expression
of exultation and content on their animated
faces, is one of my most delicious speculations.

Montfleuri, whose morality borders, perhaps,
a little on epicurism, imagines, that in this
world of ours, where physical and unavoidable
evil is very thickly sown, there is nothing so
good in itself, or so pleasing to this Creator of
the world, as to enjoy and diffuse happiness.—
He has therefore, whether he has resided here
or no, made it the business of his life to make
his vassals and dependents content, by giving
them all the advantages their condition will allow.
—The effect of this is, that instead of
squalid figures inhabiting cabins built of mud,
without windows or floors, which are seen in
too many parts of France (and which must continue
to be seen, till the benign influence of
liberty is generally felt). The peasantry in this
domain resemble both in their own appearance,
and in the comfortable look of their habitations,
those whose lot has fallen in those villages of
England, The English have a custom of arrogantly boasting of the
fortunate situation of the common people of England—But let
those, who, with an opportunity of observation, have ever had
an enquiring eye and a feeling heart on this subject, say whether
this pride is well founded. At the present prices of the
requisites of mere existence, a labourer, with a wife and four
or five children, who has only his labour to depend upon, can
taste nothing but bread, and not always a sufficiency of that.
—Too certain it is, that (to say nothing of the miseries
of the London poor, too evident to every one who passes
through the streets) there are many, very many parts of the country,
country, where the labourer has not a subsistence even when
in constant work, and where, in cases of sickness, his condition
is deplorable indeed—realized in the melancholy, but just picture,
drawn in Knox’s Essay, No. 150, entitled, A Remedy
for Discontent.
—Yet we are always affecting to talk of the
misery and beggary of the French—And now impute that
misery, though we well know it existed before, to the revolution.
——To the very cause that will in a very few years remove
it.
where, the advantages of a good landlord F6r 107
landlord, a favourable situation for employment,
or an extensive adjoining common, enable the
labourers to possess something more than the
mere necessaries of life, and happily counteract
the effects of those heavy taxes with which all
those necessaries of life are loaded.

Oh! my friend! let those of our soidisant
great men who love power, and who are, with
whatever reluctance, compelled at length to see,
and the hour is very rapidly approaching, when
usurped power will be tolerated no longer:—
Let them, if nothing but the delight of governing
will satisfy them, have recourse to the method
Montfleuri has pursued; and then, the
best and sincerest of all homage, the homage of
grateful hearts may be theirs.—I am convinced,
that not even the family pride which, in feudal
times, actuated the Irish and Scottish clans, could
produce, in the cause of their chieftains, a zeal so
ardent and so steady, as that with which the dependants
of Montfleuri would defend him at
home, or follow him into the field, were there
occasion for either.

It is, indeed, a singular sight, to observe the
mutual attachments that exist between this gay
and volatile man, and his neighbours, whom
he will not allow to be called dependents, since
no beings, he says, capable of procuring their
own subsistence are dependent.—He enters, however, F6v 108
however, with rational but warm solicitude into
the interests of the humblest of them, and should
not, he says, be happy if there was among them
an aching heart which he had neglected to put
at ease, whenever it depended on him.

The neighbourhood, however, of the seignory
which belongs to the monks, was, till now, a
great impediment to all the plans which his benevolence
suggested to him.—These reverend
fathers encouraged in idleness, those whom
Montfleuri was endeavouring to render industrious;
and, the alms given away at the gates
of the convent, without affording a sufficient
or permanent support to the poorer class of his
people, was yet enough to give them an excuse
for indolence, and a habit of neglecting to seek
their own subsistence; in many other instances
too, the influence of the monks has counteracted
that of Montfleuri.—It is not quite three
years since he lost near a third of the adults, and
a fourth of the children of his villages, by a
malignant small-pox that broke out among
them; for the monks had taught the people to
believe, that inoculation, which he had long
earnestly wished to introduce, was an impious
presumption offensive to heaven.

These men, however, are now dispersed;
those who adhere to the monastic vows, are gone
into other communities; others have taken advantage
of the late change to return to that
world which they had reluctantly renounced;
and one only, among two-and-twenty, accepted
the offer which Montfleuri made to those
whom he thought the most respectable among
them; and whom he, therefore, wished to save
from any inconveniencies that might attend an
involuntary removal—This proposal was to fit up F7r 109
up one of the wings of the house (which he
had destined for other purposes) for the reception
of those who chose to stay; and of supplying to
them, at his own expence, every gratification
to which they had been accustomed, that their
reduced income did not enable them to enjoy.—
Most of those to whom this generous offer was
made, treated it either with resentment or scorn:
father Cypriano, a Portuguese, who has lost all
attachment to his own country, or for some
reason or other does not wish to return to it,
accepted the proposed accommodation, with
some little changes, according to a plan of his
own.—He told Montfleuri, that though he had
no great attachment to any of the members of
the society, yet that there would be something
particularly comfortless in residing alone, where
he had been accustomed to see so many of his
brethren around him; and that, though he in
reality courted solitude in preference to society,
it was not exactly there he wished to enjoy it;
but, that if Montfleuri would allow the workmen
employed about the house to raise for him,
in a sequestered spot which he pointed out, a
sort of hermitage after a plan of his own, he
would be happy to avail himself of his bounty,
and to end his days on his estate.—I need hardly
say, that my friend most readily acceded to his
wishes; and, during his late absence, father
Cypriano
has, on the rocky borders of the river,
which are there concealed by some of the thickest
woods I have seen in France, built an hermitage
exactly corresponding to the ideas I had formed
of those sort of habitations from Don Quixote
or Gil Blas.—It is partly an excavation in the
hard sand rock that rises above the river; it is
situated about two hundred yards from it, and is partly F7v 110
partly composed of hard wood, which supports
the roof, and enlarges the scite of the building
(if building it may be called.) The outward
room is paved with flat stones, and the inner is
boarded; there, is his little bed, his crucifix,
and two chairs.—The other apartment contains
only a table; the seats of turf and moss, that
surround it, and a sort of recess where he puts
his provisions, which are furnished him daily
from Montfleuri, with an attentive liberality,
of which the good anchoret even complains,
though he never refuses it.—Montfleuri tells me
that there is something singular in the history of
this venerable man, with which he is not acquainted;
but that, as he seems very communicative,
he will endeavour, some day when we
are together, to engage him in an account of
his life.

This anchoret, as a being to which we are
never accustomed (unless it be to a hired or to a
wax hermit in some of our gardens) has led me
away strangely from what I was going to tell
you of the use to which Montfleuri has destined
the dissolved monastery.

He has fitted it up as a house of industry;
not to confine the poor to work, for he abhors
the idea of compulsion, but to furnish with easy
and useful employment, such as by age, or infirmity,
or infancy, are unfitted for the labour
of the fields.—And here he also means that the
robust peasant may, when the rigour of the season,
or any other circumstance deprives him of
occupation abroad, find something to do within;
nothing, however, in the way of manufactures
is to be attempted, farther than strong coarse
articles, useful to themselves, or in the culture
of the estate.—I think the sketch Montfleuri has F8r 111
has given me of his plan an admirable one; it
is yet only in its first infancy; but, if it succeeds,
as I am sure it must, I will establish such
an house on my own estate, whenever I settle
there.

Whenever I settle there!—Ah! Bethel, that
expression recalls a thousand painful ideas from
which I have been vainly trying to escape.—
Alas; I shall never settle there! or, if ever I
do, it will be as a solitary and insulated being,
whose pleasures will soon become merely animal
and selfish, because there will be none to share
them.—A being who, though weary of the
world, will find no happiness in quitting it.—
Methinks I see myself rambling at four or fiveand-fifty,
over grounds which I shall have none
to inherit; and surveying, with the dull eye of
torpid apathy, improvements which, when I
am gone, there will be none to admire; and
which will then, perhaps, “Pass to a scrivener, or a city knight.”

Yes, I shall be, I doubt not, that forlorn
and selfish being, an old batchelor; one, who
having no dearer ties to sweeten his weary existence,
is surrounded by hungry parasitical relations,
or is governed in his second childhood
by his house-keeper.

You will smile, I suppose, at this apostrophe,
and would even laugh, when you know the
moment at which it occurs—when the lovely,
the bewitching Josephine herself, is waiting for
me to walk with her; and, “in these sportive
plains, under this genial sun, where, at this
instant, all flesh is running out, piping, fiddling,
and dancing to the vintage, and every step that’s taken, F8v 112
taken, the judgment is surprised by the imagination.
—” Sterne.
How shall I resist her?—The first
grapes are to be gathered in a few days on the
opposite hills; the peasants singing the liveliest
airs, have been this evening carrying up their
implements for this delightful operation;—Julie
and her brother are gone already to see them; and
Josephine sent me, a few moments since, a note,
in which she gaily reproaches me for want of
gallantry in thus making her wait this lovely
evening. Oh! were it but Geraldine who expected
me!—were it Geraldine who waited for
me, to lend her my arm in this little expedition.
—I have once or twice, as Madame de Boisbelle
has been walking with me, tried to fancy her
Geraldine, and particularly when she has been
in her plaintive moods. I have caught sounds
that have, for a moment, aided my desire to be
deceived.—But, as the lady herself could not
guess what made me so silent and inattentive,
some sudden etourderie not at all in harmony
with my feelings; some trait, in the character
of her country has suddenly dissolved the charm,
and awakened me to a full sense of the folly I
was guilty of.

But I see, at this moment, Josephine herself,
who condescends to beckon to me, and to express
her impatience at my delay.—Farewell,
my friend, I shall hardly write again from hence.

Ever your’s most faithfully,

Lionel Desmond.

Let- F9r 113

Letter XI.

To Mr. Desmond.

“In those sportive plains, and under this
genial sun, where, at this instant, all flesh is
running out piping, fiddling, and dancing to
the vintage; and every step that is taken, the
judgment is surprised by the imagination.”

With the lovely Josephine beckoning to you as
you sit at your window!—and reproaching you
for want of gallantry!—

Bravo, my friend!—This will do—I see,
that though my first advice did not succeed, my
second infallibly will.—“Go, search in England
for some object worthy of those affections
which, placed as they are now, can only serve
to render you miserable—Or if that does not do
—if you are become, through the influence of this
romantic attachment, too fastidious for reasonable
happiness—go abroad, dissipate your ideas,
instead of suffering them to dwell continually
on a hopeless pursuit; and you will find change of F9v 114
of place and variety of scenes are the best remedies
for every disease of the mind.”
—Thus
I preached; and I now value myself on the
success of my prescription, though I did not
foresee this kind Josephine, who will undoubtedly
perfect the cure.—At your age, my good
friend, a lovely and unfortunate woman—who
probably tells you all her distresses—who leans
on your arm, and whose voice you endeavour
to fancy the tender accents of Geraldine—will,
I will venture to prophecy, soon, cease to please
you, notwithstanding you “bear a charmed
heart,”
only in the semblance of another.—And
as to any engagements, you know, such as her
having a husband, and so forth, those little impediments
“make not the heart sore” in France.
In short, I look upon your cure as nearly perfected,
and by the time this letter reaches you,
I doubt not, but that you will have begun to
wonder how you could ever take up such a notion,
as of an unchangeable and immortal passion,
which is a thing never heard or thought
of, but by the tender novel writer, and their
gentle readers.—Madame de Boisbelle seems the
Woman in the world best calculated to win
you from the absurd system you had built; and
had you been a descendant of Lord Chesterfield’s,
and his spirit presided over your destiny,
he could hardly have led you to a scene so favourable
to dissultory gallantry, and so fatal to
the immortality of your attachment, as the house
of Montfleuri.

Thus, believing your cure certain, I venture
to tell you what I know of Verney.—You will
still, perhaps, receive it with concern; but it
will no longer awaken your quixotism.—You
will not, I think, now offer Verney half your estate F10r 115
estate to save his wife from an uneasy moment
or strip yourself of nine or ten thousand pounds
to supply his deficiencies at Newmarket, where
the next meeting would probably create the
same deficiency, and, of course, the same necessity.

Verney, then, I am sorry to say, has at length
parted with his estate in this country: I am
more sorry to say, that he has parted with it to
Stamford, to whom, as I have been lately informed,
it has been long mortgaged.

The final settlement of this matter, which
has, I find, been sometime in agitation, has
happened only within this month; and in consequence
of it, Mr. Stamford, or, I should rather
say, Sir Robert Stamford, for he is almost
as lately raised to the dignity of a Baronet, took
possession, about ten days since, of the house,
which he bought ready furnished, and he is, for
the present, living there with his family. I am
not, as you will easily believe, much delighted
with this, either on his own account, or because
of the style of living which he will introduce
into the country. A very small part of his
grounds adjoins to my wood-lands.—He is said
to be a very great savage, in regard to game;
and though I care very little myself about that
perpetual subject of country contention, it will
be very disagreeable to me to have my tenant
subject to the vexations of this petty tyrant.—
I do not know whether I have told you of the
places he now enjoys, nor how they have enabled
him to encrease the splendor of his appearance,
or the luxury of his table, by which
he strengthens his interest. In the latter, he is
said to excel, from talents and taste; and that
more good dinners have of late been eaten at his F10v 116
his house for the benefit of the English government,
by those who are intrusted to carry it on,
than have ever before been prepared for the like
purposes.—He is supposed to be one of those
fortunate persons, who being deep in the secret,
are enabled to take advantage of every fluctuation,
to which the proceedings of ministry give
rise, in the value of the public funds; and by
this means principally, to have secured beyond
the reach of fortune, that wealth which he has
so rapidly, and, in the apprehension of many
people, so wonderfully accumulated.—He has
already, since his immediate neighbourhood
gives him a considerable degree of interest with
the tradesmen of W―, been courting their
favor, with a meanness, equal to that arrogance
with which he treats all who are, or may be, his
equals; and from whom he expects nothing
equal to the cringing servility with which he
fawns upon his titled friends, and those who
have helped to raise him to his present seat; or
the junto, by whose united strength he means
to keep it.—

I have forgot poor Verney’s affairs in my account
of this great man: but I own the incident
of his coming into the neighbourhood
has vexed me, more, perhaps, than it ought
to do.—I shall not feel it very pleasant to absent
myself from those public meetings, which, as
a magistrate, I have thought it my duty to attend,
because Sir Robert will now take the chair
on account of his new rank.—Yet, certainly,
I shall as little like to meet a man, by whom I
know I have been grossly and irreparably injured;
and whose private and public character
are equally hateful to me.—To him, I may well
address the lines of Shakespeare,

—“Your F11r 117 “Your heart Is crammed with arrogancy, spleen, and pride; You have by fortune, and your friends high favor, Gone lightly o’er low steps—and now are mounted Where powers are your retainers.”

I believe, my friend, it is a weakness to be
disturbed at such a man.—I will name him then
no more; but proceed to tell you all I know farther
of Verney, which is merely, that the money
he received from Sir Robert, more than what
his estate was already mortgaged for (which did
not amount to above six thousand pounds) was
immediately paid away to satisfy debts of honor;
and that he is now raising money on his northern
estates, in which he finds some difficulties on
account of his wife’s settlements. This I hear
from such authority, that I cannot doubt the
truth of it.—I enquired of my informer, why,
if Verney had discharged such considerable debts
of honor by this last transaction, he had immediate
occasion to encumber his Yorkshire estates?
—My acquaintance laughed at my calling
six thousand pounds a considerable debt, and
told me, that if that sum had paid all the demands
that were the most immediately pressing
on his friend Verney, which he knew they did
not, that he would have occasion for at least as
much again for the October meeting; and therefore,
was trying to raise all he wanted at once.—
This was said by no means in the way of a secret,
or, as of a design of which Verney had
any notion of being ashamed; and the young
man who related it to me, and who is one of
the set to which he belongs, spoke of it rather
as complaining, that it was a confounded shame,
that as Verney had married a girl of no fortune,
or next to none, he should have been drawn in to F11v 118
to make such an unreasonable settlement upon
her, as prevented his raising money upon his
estates. I am very sorry for Mrs. Verney, but
I have long foreseen this.—She will, undoubtedly,
have too much firmness of mind, and attention
to the interest of her children, to give
up her settlement; and it will always afford the
family a certain degree of affluence.—You may
assure yourself, that were the whole treasures of
the East to find their way into the pocket of
her husband, he would finally possess no more,
for there is nothing but the impossibility of parting
with it, that can ever keep any property
whatever in his possession.

So much, dear Desmond, for private news
from England; as for public news, you probably
receive it from those who are better qualified
than I am to speak upon it.—You know I am
not by any means partial to your present arrangements;
yet, as I do not yet see the success of
the new modes of government that have been
taken up in France, I am not sanguinely looking
out for changes, as you seem to be.—Perhaps
this coldness is owing to the observations I
made in my short and unfortunate political career.
—I saw then such decided selfishness in all
parties, so little sincerity, so little real concern
for the general good in any, that it imprest me
with an universal mistrust of all who profess the
science of politics.—Your friend, Montfleuri,
however, seems to be sincere.—But for many
of those whom the abbé termed messieurs les reformateurs,
they appear to me to be wavering
and divided in their councils, and breaking into
parties, which occasions me again to entertain
some doubts of the permanency of the revolution.
—I am certainly a warm friend to its principles.1 ciples. F12r 119
—I only hesitate to believe, that there is
steadiness and virtue enough existing among the
leaders, to apply those principles to practice.—
I conclude, therefore, as I began, with a quotation
from Sterne—and I say with uncle Toby
“I wish it may answer.”

I have no expectation of hearing from you
very soon again, as from your last letter, this
seems likely to be long in reaching you.—But
I am persuaded, that the interest you take in
French politics on one hand; and on the other,
the interest the fair Josephine takes in your’s,
will restore to you your gay spirits—and to me
my rational friend.

You know I remain, ever,
Most faithfully your’s,

E. Bethel.

Let- F12v 120

Letter XII. Written before the receipt of the foregoing.

To Mr. Bethel.

Reluctantly—Oh! how reluctantly,
I quitted, three days since, the cheerful
abode of Montfleuri, where every countenance
beamed with pleasure and content, for this
mournful residence.—A residence, where mortified
and discomfited tyranny seems to have
taken up its sullen station; and with impotent
indignation to colour with its own gloomy hand
every surrounding object.—The Comte
d’Hauteville
is the brother of Montfleuri’s mother:
and though they are as opposite in their
principles, and in their tempers, as light and
darkness, Montfleuri has so much respect for
his uncle, and so much goodness of heart, as to
fulfil a promise he required of him, when the
latter left Paris, that he would come to him for ten G1r 121
ten days.—Unable to endure a country, where
his power, and as he believes, his consequence
is diminished, Monsieur d’Hauteville is preparing
to quit France.—His nephew thinks he can
dissuade him from this resolution, and reconcile
him to the terrible misfortune of being free
among freemen, instead of being a petty tyrant
among slaves—While the Comte himself entertained
hopes that he could convert his nephew,
or, at least, lessen his extravagant zeal for that
odious democratic system he has embraced.—
That both will fail in these their expectations,
is already very evident.—I must give you, however,
a sketch of our journey, and of our reception,
to enable you to form some idea of this
place, and of its possessor.

We set out in my chaise—neither of us in
very gay spirits, though those of Montfleuri
are not very easily depressed. But our taking
leave of Josephine and Julie, who saw their
brother depart with tears, though he is so soon
to return;—the melancholy which he knew
hung over this house, and perhaps the heavy
atmosphere, which just then prevailed, contributed
to make him pensive, and from the same
causes that render a Frenchman of his disposition
grave, an Englishman naturally feels disposed
to hang himself. I had, besides the additional
vexation of leaving the house of Montfleuri,
without having received, as I expected, a letter
from Mrs. Verney during my stay there.

The beginning of our journey, therefore,
was dismal enough.—Towards evening, we
stopped at the convent where Montfleuri’s other
sister is a professed nun. I was not permitted
to see her; but he returned in worse spirits than
he set out, exclaiming against the odious superstition,Vol. I. G stition G1v 122
that had condemned so amiable a young
woman, to so many years of rigid confinement,
(for she is a Carmelite) and has given, he says,
to her mind, a tincture of sadness, which he
fears it will always retain. When he comes
back, it is to be decided, whether or no, she
quits her convent.—He has a small property
near the little town of Aique mont where, as
he had some business to settle, we remained all
night; and where, I have occasion again to remark,
the affection which all who are connected
with him feel for Montfleuri.—We did not
quit Aiquemont till late the following day.—
The weather was so unusually warm, that we
travelled slowly, and it was the evening of yesterday
before we approached the end of our journey.

The country though which we travelled,
was, in many parts, beautifully romantic; but,
within about three leagues of the chateau
d’Hauteville
, it opens into one of those extensive
plains that are very frequent in Normandy,
though not so usual in this part of France.—
Over these dead flats, a straight road usually
runs for many miles, and the dull uniformity of
the prospect is broken only by the rows of pear
or apple trees, which are planted upon it in various
directions.

A few plantations of vines had here an even
less pleasing effect.—In some of them, however,
people were at work; but we no longer heard
the cheerful songs, or saw the gay faces that we
had been accustomed to hear and see in the
Lyonois.—At length, Montfleuri pointed out
to me, at the extremity of this extensive plain,
the woods, which he said surrounded the habitation
of his uncle.—The look of even ill managed
cultivation soon after ceased; and over a piece G2r 123
piece of ground, which was grass, where it was
not mole-hills, and from whence all traces of
a road were obliterated, we approached to the
end of an avenue of beech trees; they were
rather the ruins of trees; for they had lost the
beautiful and graceful forms nature originally
gave them, by the frequent application of the
ax; and were, many of them, little better than
ragged pollards.

A few straggling trees of other kinds, that
had been planted and neglected, were mingled
among the rows of beech on either side; but
were, for want of protection, withering in
leafless platoons.
—Not a cottage arose to break
the monotony of this long line of disfigured vegetation.
—Nothing like a lodge, animated by
the cheerful residence of a peasant’s family,
marked its termination; but the paling, which
had once divided it from the plain, had either
fallen down for want of repairing, or had been
carried away by the country people for fuel, in
a country where it seemed to be particularly
scarce.

Slowly, and through a miserable road, we
traversed this melancholy avenue, without seeing,
for some time, a human creature.—It
seemed to lengthen as we went, and had already
lasted above a mile and a quarter, when we observed
a figure quickly walking towards us,
with a gun on his shoulder, whom I, at first,
supposed to be the Count himself. The man
seemed, by his step and manner, to be in eager
pursuit of something; but I could perceive, by
his action, that, on observing an English chaise,
he changed the object of his attention, and advanced
towards us in a sort of trot, which, from G2 his G2v 124
his lank figure and grotesque habit, had a very
ridiculous effect.

Under a full dress coat, of a reddish brown,
and had once been lined with sattin, appeared a
waistcoat of gold-flowered brocade, the flaps
reaching to his knees, and made, I am persuaded,
in the reign of Louis ci-devant le Grand.—
What appeared of his breeches, under this magnificent
juste au-corps was of red velveret,
forming a happy contrast to a pair of black
worsted stockings.—The little hair which grew
on each side of his temples had been compelled,
in despite of its reluctance and incapability, to
assume the form of curls, but they seemd to
have fled, d’un manière la plus opiniatre du monde
from his ears; a little hat, like what I recollect
having seen in caracature prints, under the name
of Chapeau a le Nevernois, covered the rest of
his head; but this, as he approached us, was
deposited under his arm, notwithstanding the
incumbrance of his gun.

“This is a curious fellow,” said Montfleuri
to me as I approached him, “he is my uncle’s
confidential servant, and more singularly original
than his master—A tremendous aristocrate,
and miserable at the loss of dignity which he
believes he has sustained.”
—Then addressing
himself to the man, who was by this time very
near us, “Aha! my old friend, La Maire,”
cried he, “how are you?—How is Monsieur
d’Hauteville
?”
—The old man, not at all satisfied
with the manner of this address, stepped
back, laid his hand on his breast, and, with a
cold and formal bow, replied, “that he had
the honour to assure Monsieur le Marquis de
Montfleuri
, that Monseigneur le Comte
d’Hauteville
was as well as, under the present 3 melancholy G3r 125
melancholy circumstances of the kingdom, any
true Frenchman could be.”
—There was something
so very ludicrous in the method and matter
of this answer, that Montfleuri did not attempt
to resist his violent inclination to laugh—
an impoliteness in which I could as little forbear
to join.—“Well, well, Monsieur le Maire,”
cried Montfleuri, “I am glad to hear my uncle
is only indisposed from his national concerns—
So open the chaise door, my old friend, and I
will walk up to the house with this English
gentleman, who has been so good as to accompany
me.”

Le Maire turned his little fierce black eyes
upon me, as Montfleuri announced me to be an
Englishman, and, with a look which I could
not misinterpret, muttered something as with a
jerk he shut the chaise door—“Ah curse those
English, no good ever comes where they are.”

“Well, but Le Maire,” said Montfleuri,
“what are you shooting at this time in the evening?
what were you so eagerly pursuing when
we first saw you?”
“Partridges, Monsieur
le Marquis
, partridges; I saw a great number
of them feeding round the house just now,
young ones, hardly able to fly, and I was resolved
not one of them should escape.”

“Mais à quoi bon cela?” enquired Montfleuri,
“of what use will that be, since if they
are so young they are unfit to eat?”

“A quoi bon Monsieur le Marquis?” replied
the old domestic, very indignantly;
“Mais c’est que je ne veux pas, qu’il y reste, dans G3v 126
dans le domaine un seul perdrix pour ces gueux
du village; qui ont la liberté infâme de chasser
sur les terres de Monseigneur le Comte d’Hauteville
—Ah! je les épargnerai bien, ces marauds,
là, la peine de prendre le gibier, & si je les reconterai,
je ferai bien leur affaire.” “Why is it, because I would not have remain on the whole
estate, one single partridge for those beggarly rogues of the
village, who have the infamous liberty of killing the birds on my
my lord’s grounds. I’ll spare them the trouble, rascals as they
are, of taking game, and, if I met them—I should do their
business.”
“But how do their business?” “Why, Monsieur le Marquis,
perhaps I might fire a few shot among those scoundrels.”

“You have, then, a decided call for exhibiting on the lanthorn
post?”
“Be it so: I had rather be hanged than live
where those fellows are my equals, and have the liberty of
hunting.”

“Mais comment leur affaire?” said Montfleuri.
“Eh! Monsieur le Marquis,” answered
Le Maire, “c’est que je pourrais bien, donner
quelque coups de fufil à ces coquins.”

“Tu as donc une vocation décidé pour la
lanterne?”
“Soit, Monsieur le Marquis,
j’aimerai mieux être pendu par ces gens détestables,
moi, que de vivre où ils sont mes égaux,
& où ils vont à la chasse.”
“You see now,”
said Montfleuri, turning to me, “the style
which even the domestics of the noblesse assumed
towards the peasantry and common people.—
This fellow has imbibed all the insolent consequence
of those among whom he has lived; and
though roturier himself conceives, that he derives
from the honor of being the idle valet to a
nobleman, a right to despise and trample on
the honest man who draws his subsistence from
the ground by independent industry.”
By this
time we were arrived at the gate of the cour d’honneur,
which is surrounded on three sides by the
chateau.—There had once been a straight walk,
leading from the termination of the avenue to the steps G4r 127
steps of the house, but it was now covered with
thistles and nettles; the steps were overgrown
with green moss, and when the great door
opened to let us in, it seemed an operation to
which it was entirely unaccustomed.

Le Maire, however, extremely solicitous for
the dignity of his master, had hurried in before
us, and sent one servant to wait at this door,
and a second to shew us the way to the apartment
where Monseigneur was to receive us.—
This was in a salle à compagnie, on the first floor,
where, after passing through three other cold
and half furnished rooms, we, at length, arrived.
—The Count, who is a handsome man,
above sixty, received me with cold politeness;
his nephew with a sort of sullen kindness: it
seemed as if he at once embraced him as a relation,
and repulsed him as an enemy.—About
half an hour after our arrival, I heard that the
Count was to send, the next day, a courier to
Clermont, by whom I might dispatch letters to
England.—I had this and two or three others to
write; and, I thought that it was better to let
the Count and his nephew begin their political
controversy without the presence of a third person;
for these reasons, as soon as supper was
over, which was very ill dressed, and served in
very dirty plate, I desired to be conducted to
my apartment. Having mounted a very broad
staircase of brick and wood, and passed through
a long corridor, which seemed to lead to a part
of the house very remote from that I had left,
I was shewn into a sort of state bed-chamber;
one of those where comfort had formerly been
sacrificed to splendour, but which now possessed
neither the one nor the other: and, on opening
the door, I was sensible of that damp, musty smell, G4v 128
smell, which is usually perceived in rooms that
have been long unfrequented.

The wainscoting was of cedar, or some other
brown wood, finely carved; the hangings of a
dull and dark blue Lyon’s damask; a high canopy
bed of the same, stood at one end of the
room, and, at the other, was a very large glass
reaching from the ceiling to the floor; but
which, by the single candle I had, served only
to reflect the deep gloom that every object offered.
—A great projecting chimney of blood coloured
marble, over which another mirror supported
a large carved trophy, representing the
arms of the family; a red marble table, and
four or five high-backed, stuffed chairs, covered
with blue velvet, completed the furniture of the
room; which, floored as it was with hexagon
bricks, composed, altogether, one of the most
funeral apartments I ever remember to have
been in.

I sat down, however, and wrote my letters;
but having done them, I felt no inclination to
sleep, and therefore, opening the croisée, I leaned
upon the railing, which, in houses built as this
is, forms a clumsy sort of balcony to every window.
—The day had been unusually close and
sultry, and with the night, the thunder storm,
produced by the heated atmosphere, approached.
—I now heard it mutter at a distance, and soon
after saw, from the south-west, the most vivid
lightening I ever remarked, breaking from those
majestic and deeply-loaden clouds, which the
brightness of the moon above them made very
visible.—In a country so level as that is, for
many miles round the chateau d’Hauteville, the
horizon is, of course, great and uninterrupted,
and I saw to advantage the progress of the storm; G5r 129
storm; a spectacle I have always had great pleasure
in contemplating.

When the imagination soars into those regions,
where the planets pursue each its destined
course, in the immensity of space—every planet,
probably, containing creatures adapted by the
Almighty, to the residence he has placed them
in; and when we reflect, that the smallest of
these is of as much consequence in the universe,
as this world of our’s; how puerile and ridiculous
do those pursuits appear in which we are so
anxiously busied; and how insignificant the
trifles we toil to obtain, or fear to lose. None
of all the little cares and troubles of our short
and fragile existence, seem worthy of giving us
any real concern—and, perhaps, we never truly
possess the reason we so arrogantly boast, till we
can thus appreciate the real value of the objects
around us.

Heaven knows, my dear Bethel, that I am
far enough from enjoying this philosophic tranquility
—I have entrusted you with my waking
reflections—Dare I ask your indulgence for the
wild wanderings of my mind, when reason resigned
her seat entirely to “thick-coming fancies.”

The hurricane had entirely subsided, and the
rain-drops fell slowly from the roof, I still continued
at the window, for my thoughts were
fled to England, and I had only a confused recollection
of where I was; till I found myself
extremely cold, and turning, saw my candle expiring
in the socket. I then recollected, that
it was time to go to my bed, and to seek in
sleep, relief against the uneasy thoughts that had
dwelt upon my mind about Geraldine. On
looking, however, towards it, it again seemed G5 so G5v 130
so comfortless and gloomy, that I fancied it
damp; and though no man possesses a constitution
more fortified against such accidents, or
cares less about them, I had no inclination to
undress myself, or, though I was weary, to
sleep; I wished for a book, but I happened,
contrary to my usual custom, not to have one
in the small portmanteau I had brought from
Montfleuri; and having nothing to divert my
attention from the cold gloom that surrounded
me, I became tired of hearing the dull murmurs
of the sinking wind howl along the corridor—
and I, at length, determined to try to sleep.

Still, however, the notion of the dampness
of the bed detering me from entering it, I took
only my coat off, and wrapping myself in a
flannel powdering gown, I threw myself on the
embroidered counterpane, and soon after sunk
into forgetfulness. I know you will say I am
as weakly superstitious as a boarding-school
miss, or as “the wisest aunt telling the saddest
tale”
to a circle of tired and impatient auditors.
—I am conscious of all this, yet I cannot help
relating the strange phantoms that haunted my
imagination.

I believed myself at the same window as
where I stood to observe the storm; and, that
in the Count’s garden, immediately beneath it,
I saw Geraldine exposed to all its fury.—Her
husband seemed at first to be with her, but he
disappeared, I know not how, and she was left
exposed to the fury of the contending elements,
which seemed to terrify her less on her own account,
than on that of three children, whom she
clasped to her bosom, in all the agonies of maternal
apprehension, and endeavoured to shelter
from the encreasing fury of the tempest.—I hastened, G6r 131
hastened, I flew, with that velocity we possess
only in dreams, to her assistance: I pressed her
eagerly in my arms—I wrapt them round her
children—I thought she faintly thanked me;
told me, that for herself, my care was useless,
but that it might protect them.—She was as
cold as marble, and I recollect having remarked,
that she resembled a beautiful statue of
Niobe, done by an Italian sculptor, which I
had admired at Lyons.

While I was entreating her to accept of my
protection, and to go into the house, I suddenly,
by one of those incongruities so usual in sleep,
fancied I saw her extended, pale, and apparently
dying on the bed, which I had objected to go
into, with the least of her children, a very
young infant dead in her arms.—Distracted at
such a sight, I seized her hand—I implored her
to speak to me—She opened languidly those
lovely eyes, which I have so often gazed on
with transport—they were glazed and heavy—
yet, I thought, they expressed tenderness and
pity for me—while, in a low, tremulous voice
she bade me adieu!—adieu, for ever!

I now shrieked in frantic terror—I tried to
recall her to life by my wild exclamations—I
would have warmed, in my bosom, the cold
hand I held, when she gently drew it from me,
and pointing to her two children, whom I now
saw standing by the side of the bed, clinging to
a young woman, who was, I fancied, Fanny
Waverly
, she said, in a yet lower and more
mournful tone—“Desmond!—if you ever truly
loved me, it is there you must shew your affection.”
—I then saw the last breath tremble on
those lovely lips—it was gone—Geraldine was
lost for ever!—And, in an agony of despair, suc G6v 132
such as, thank Heaven, I never was conscious
of waking; I threw myself on the ground.—
The violence of this ideal emotion restored me
to myself.—I awoke—my face bathed in tears,
and in such confusion of spirits, that it was long
before I could recall myself to reason, and to a
clear conviction, that all this was only a dream.
So strong was the impression, that I dared not
hazard feeling it again by sleeping.—I therefore
put on my great coat, and as the moon now
shone in unclouded radiance, I went down into
the garden, and wandered among the bosquets
and treillage that make its formal ornaments.—
Still the figure of Geraldine pursued me, such
as I had seen her in this distressing vision—Still
I heard her voice bidding me an eternal adieu!
—I would have given the world to have had
some human being to have spoken to, that these
imaginary sounds of plaintive sorrow might
have vibrated in my ears no longer, but I was
ashamed of awakening Montfleuri, had I known
where to have found him—And my servant
Warley, I had left at Montfleuri, to bring my
letters after me.

I continued, therefore, to traverse this melancholy
garden—Sometimes resolving to conquer
my weakness, and return to my bed, and
then shrinking for the apprehensions of being
again liable to the terror I had just experienced.
At length, I heard the clock of the church
strike three—I followed the sound for two or
three hundred paces, through a cut walk that
led from the garden towards it, and entering
the church-yard, which is the cimetiére of a
large village, I was again struck with a circumstance
that had before appeared particularly dismal.mal. G7r 133
I mean, that there are in France no
marks of graves, as in England, “Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap.”
Here all is level—and forgetfulness seems to have
laid her cold oblivious hand on all who rest within
these enclosures.

No object appears in the mournful spot I was
now contemplating, but a cross, on which a
dead Christ painted, and representing life, as
closely as possible, was suspended; the moonbeams
falling directly on this, added to the
dreary horrors of the scene.—I stood a few moments
looking on it, and then was roused from
my mournful reverie by the sound of human
voices, and of horses feet.—I listened, and found
these sounds came from the farm-yard, which
was only two or three hundred paces before me.
—Hither I gladly found my way, and saw the
vine-dressers, and people employed in the making
wine, preparing for their work, and going to
gather the grapes while the dew was yet on
them. Rejoiced to find somebody to speak to,
I entered into conversation with them, and for
a moment dissipated my ideas—I followed them
to the vine-yard, assisted in their labours, and
was equally astonished and pleased to hear, how
rationally these unenlightened men considered
the blessing of their new-born liberty, and with
what manly firmness determined to preserve it.

There was among them a Breton, who appeared
to have more acuteness and knowledge
than the rest; with him, I shall take an opportunity
of having farther discourse.

It is now one o’clock at noon.—I have had
an hour’s conversation with Montfleuri—I have paid G7v 134
paid my morning compliments to the Count—
I have been amused with the ridiculous anger of
Le Maire, whom Montfleuri has been provoking
to display it, on the subject of the abolished
titles—Yet, even after all this, the impression
I received in my sleep is not dissipated
—Yet, I am certainly not superstitious.—I
have, assuredly, no faith in dreams, which are,
I know, but

“The children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain phantasy, And more inconstant than the vagrant winds.” Shakespeare.

I shall hear from England, perhaps, to-morrow,
or Friday, and then be able to laugh at my
weakness, as much as you have probably done
in reading this. I hear the Count’s courier is
ready to set out for Clermont. I must, therefore,
hastily bid you, dear Bethel, adieu!

Lionel Desmond.

Let- G8r 135

Letter XIII. Written before the receipt of Bethel’s last letter.

To Mr. Bethel.

Montfleuri came into my room yesterday
morning with letters in his hand, which
he had just received from his own house—I
asked eagerly for mine, but there were none,
and my servant yet remains waiting for them.—
I expressed, perhaps too forcibly, what I felt—
impatience and disappointment; when Montfleuri,
as soon as these emotions had a little
subsided, asked me gaily, “whether I had
many near and dear relations in England, for
whose health I was so extremely solicitous as to
injure my own by my anxiety?”
—I replied,
“that though I had very few relations, and
with those few seldom corresponded, yet, that
I had friends to whom I was warmly attached.”

“And some lovely and fond woman also, I
fancy,”
interrupted he; “for, my dear Desmond,mond G8v 136
the friendship, however great, that subsists
between persons of the same sex, creates
not these violent anxieties.—Ah! my good
friend, I fancy you are a very fortunate fellow
—As to my two sisters, they seem, by their letters,
to be quite enchanted with you; and Josephine
(whose tears, indeed, at our parting, I
did not before attribute all to my own account)
declares in this letter, that if I do not soon return
with my English friend, she and Julie must
rejoin us here, notwithstanding their dislike to
this melancholy place; for, that since we have
left Montfleuri, it is become so extremely trieste,
that they are half dead with lassitude and ennui.
You remember, I dare say, hearing fine sentimental
speeches from Josephine about the
charms of solitude and the beauties of nature.—
Now nature was never more beautiful than it is
at this moment in the Lyonois, yet is my gentle
Josephine most marvellously discontent. Desmond,
do tell me how you manage to bewitch the
women in this manner?”

I was neither gay enough to enjoy this raillery,
or coxcomb enough to believe that Madame
de Boisbelle
regretted me at Montfleuri.—
Indeed, I rather felt hurt at her brother’s speaking
of her thus lightly; but with him this vivacity
is constitutional.—He has besides, from
education, habit, and principles, much freer
notions than I have about women.—He again
enquired of me of what nature was my English
attachment—a question I declined answering;
for the name of Geraldine is not to be prophaned
by his suspicions, or even his conjectures.—
Were I to say that my passion for her is as pure
and holy as that of a fond brother for a lovely
and amiable sister, which I am almost sure it is, he G9r 137
he would turn my Platonism into ridicule; or,
if he could be persuaded to believe that such a
passion exists, he would think that she was a
prude, and that I am an ideot; and to this,
though I can forgive it, because he does not
know Geraldine, I will not expose myself.

I heartily wish the time fixed for our stay here
was expired—I am weary of the place—The
frigid magnificence in which we live is very
dull, and the perpetual arguments between the
Count and his Nephew, are sometimes, at
least, distressing.—The former, with that
haughty obstinacy that endeavours to set itself
above the reason it cannot combat, defends,
with asperity and anger, those prejudices, in
obedience to which he is about to quit his country
—Though could he determine to throw them
off, he might undoubtedly continue at home,
as much respected, and more beloved than ever.
he was in the meridian of his power.

The dialougesdialogues, which he is fond of holding
with Montfleuri, have not unfrequently been
carried on with so much warmth on his side, as
to alarm me, lest they should produce an open
rupture; for what the old Count wants in soundness
of argument, he makes up in heat and declamation.
—His nephew, however, has so
much good temper, and such an habitual respect
for him, that he never suffers himself to be
too much ruffled; and d’Hauteville, after the
most violent of these contentions, is under the
necessity of recollecting, that it is on his nephew
he must depend for the care of his pecuniary
concerns (a matter to which he is by no
means indifferent) when he goes into the voluntary
exile to which he chuses to condemn himself.
He also recollects, that he owes to Montfleurifleuri G9v 138
a considerable sum of money, part of his
mother’s fortune; which, together with the arrear
of interest he has always evaded paying by
the chicanery of the old laws; and, he now
fears, that when equal justice is established, this
claim may be revived and enforced by Montfleuri.
—Thus it is rather interest than affinity
that prevents his breaking with his nephew;
and that compels him, with averted and reluctant
ears, to hear those truths which Montfleuri
speaks to him, with the same coolness,
and as much divested of considerations of personal
interest, as his nephew would speak before
a conclave of cardinals, or, if it could be
collected, of emperors.

To-day, after dinner, Montfleuri happened
to be absent, and the Count taking advantage of
it, began to talk to me, whom he wishes to
win over to his party, on the subject nearest his
heart—the abolition of all titular distinctions in
France—He went back to the earliest records
of the kingdom to prove what I never doubted
—the antiquity of titles, as if that were an irrefragable
proof of their utility.—“My God,
Sir!”
cried he, “is it possible—that you—that
you—who are, without doubt, yourself of noble
blood”
“Pardon me, Sir,” said I, “for interrupting
you, but if that be of any weight in
the argument you are going to use, it is necessary
to tell you, your supposition is erroneous
—I am not noble.—My ancestors, so far as I
ever traced them, which is indeed a very little
way, were never above the rank of plain country
gentlemen; and, I am afraid, towards the
middle of the last century, lose even that dignity
in a miller and a farmer.”
“Well, Sir,”
continued the Count, in whose esteem I had gained G10r 139
gained nothing by this humble disclosure of
my origin.—“Well, Sir, however that may
have been—you are now, I understand, from
the Marquis, my nephew, a man of large fortune
and liberal education—and therefore, in
your own country, where noblesse is not so much
insisted upon, you have, undoubtedly, mixed
much with men of high birth, and eminent
consideration.”
“Really, Sir, you do me an
honor in that supposition, to which I am not
very well entitled. With us, it is true, that a
considerable fortune is a passport to such society;
and had I found any satisfaction in enlisting myself
under the banners of either of those parties,
who are always contending for the good of old
England, I might have been admitted among
the old and middle aged, who are busied in arranging
the affairs of the public; or among the
young, who are yet more busy in disarranging
their own. But having no taste for the society
of either the one or the other, I can boast of
only one titled friend in my own country; and
he is a man whom I love and honor for the virtues
of his heart, not for the splendor of his situation.
—Possessing an illustrious name and a
noble fortune, he has a dignity of mind, and a
sensibility of heart, which those advantages not
unfrequently destroy. Could we, among our
numerous nobility, boast of many such men,
their conduct would be a stronger argument in
favor of the advantages of a powerful aristocracy,
than the most dazzling shew of a birthday
exhibition, or the most plausible vindication
of titular distinctions that we have ever
yet heard.—There may, for ought I know,
be others equally respectable for their private
virtues, but they have not fallen within my observation;
and judging, therefore, of the greater part G10v 140
part of them through the medium of public report,
I have felt no wish to approach them
nearer.”
“However you may think of individuals,
Sir,”
said the Count, “you surely are
not so blinded, so infatuated, by the doctrines
that have obtained most unhappily for this
country, as not to feel the necessity that this order
of men should exist.—You must know, that
the wisdom of our ancient kings created this
distinction, that is to say, they thought it expedient
to raise the brave and valiant above the
common level of mankind, by giving them
badges and titles of honor, in order to mark and
perpetuate their glorious deeds, and stimulate,
to emulation, their illustrious posterity—now
—if these well-earned rewards are taken from
their descendants—if these sacred distinctions be
annihilated, and the names of heroes past, be
erased from the records of mankind—I assert,
that there is an end, not only of justice, but of
emulation, subordination—all that gives safety
to property, or grace to society—and the world
will become a chaos of confusion and outrage.
—What!—shall a man of trade, a negociant,
an upstart dealer in wine, or wood, or sugar,
or cloth, approach one in whose veins, perhaps,
the blood of our Lusignans and Tancreds circulates.
—The same blood which, in the defence
of our holy religion, was shed in Palestine.
—I say, shall a mushroom, a fungus approach
these illustrious descendants of honored
ancestors, and say, ‘Behold, Oh! man of
high descent, I am thy equal, my country declares
it!’”

Indignation here arrested the eloquence it had
produced, and gave me an opportunity of saying,
“My dear Sir, the united voices of commonmon G11r 141
sense, nature, and reason, declared all
this long ago, though it is only now you are
compelled to hear them. As to the degradation
of Messieurs, the present descendants of your
Lusignans and Tancreds, if it be a degradation
to be accounted only men, I really am much
concerned for them; but for the ill effects it
otherwise produces, inasmuch as such motives
fail as might excite them to equal these their
great progenitors, I cannot understand that
there is in that respect much to regret.—The
days of chivalry will never, I apprehend, return;
the ravings of a fanatic monk will never
again prevail on the French to make a crusade.
—Nay,”
added I, smiling, “there seems but little
probability that they will soon be called upon to
take arms, in a cause which has in later times
appeared of greater moment—I mean, rescuing
what one of your writers calls ‘le vain honneur du
pavillon,’ The vain honor of the flag, which, till within a few years,
the English have always insisted on having struck to them in
the Narrow Seas.
from the arrogant superiority of us
presumptuous islanders. The real value of
both these objects, for which so much blood
has been wasted, seems to be better understood,
the real interest of humanity to appear in its
proper light. Since, therefore, we no longer
have occasion to follow the example of those heroes
who have bled for either—Why contemplate
them with such blind reverence? I suppose,
Sir, you will not say, that the frantic expeditions
to the Holy Land, preached by Peter
the Hermit
, answered any other purpose than
to depopulate and impoverish your country and
mine. Nor will you maintain, that either
France or England have gained any thing but taxes G11v 142
taxes and poverty by the continual wars with
which we have been harassing each other,
through a succession of ages. Surely then it is
time to recall our imaginations from these wild
dreams of fanaticism and heroism—Time to
remove the gorgeous trappings, with which we
have drest up folly, that we might fancy it
glory.—The tinsel ornaments we have borrowed
as the livery of this phantom, are become
tarnished and contemptible—Let not regret
then, that the hand of sober reason tears off
these poor remaining shreds, with which virtue
disdains to attempt encreasing its genuine lustre;
with which selfishness and folly must fail
to hide their real deformity.—Have patience
with me yet a moment—while I ask—whether
you really think, that a dealer in wine, or in
wood, in sugar, or cloth, is not endued with
the same faculties and feelings as the descendant
of Charlemagne; and whether the accidental
advantages of being able to produce a long pedigree
(which, notwithstanding the infinite virtue
ascribed to matrons of antiquity, is, I fear,
often very doubtful) ought to give to the noble
who possesses it, a right to consider every lower
rank of men as being of an inferior and subordinante
species”

“So, Sir,”—angrily burst forth the Count
“So, Sir!—I must, from all this, conclude,
that you consider your footman upon an equality
with yourself.—Why then is he your footman?;”
This argument has been called unanswerable.

“Because—though my footman is certainly
so far upon an equality with me, as he is a man,
and a free-man; there must be a distinction in local G12r 143
local circumstances; though they neither render
me noble, or him base—I happen to be
born heir to considerable estates; it is his chance
to be the son of a labourer, living on those estates.
—I have occasion for his services, he has
occasion for the money by which I purchase
them: in this compact we are equal so far as
we are free.—I, with my property, which is
money, buy his property, which is time, so
long as he is willing to sell it.—I hope and believe
my footman feels himself to be my fellowman;
but I have not, therefore, any apprehension
that instead of waiting behind my chair, he
will sit down in the next.—He was born poor—
but he is not angry that I am rich—so long as
my riches are a benefit and not an oppression to
him.—He knows that he can never be in my situation,
but he knows also that I can amend
his.—If, however, instead of paying him for
his services, I were able to say to him, as has
been done by the higher classes throughout Europe,
and is still in too many parts of it—‘you
are my vassal—you were born upon my estate—
you are my property—and you must come to
work, fight, die for me, on whatever conditions
I please to impose;’
—my servant, who
would very naturally perceive no appeal against
such tyrannical injustice, but to bodily prowess
would, as he is probably the most athletic of
the two, discover that so far from being compelled
to stand on such terms behind my chair,
he was well able either to place himself in the
next, or to turn me out of mine.— ‘Ceux qui disent G12v 144
disent que tous les hommes sont égaux,’ “Those who say that all men are equal, say that which is
perfectly true, if they mean that all men have an equal right
to personal and mental liberty; to their respective properties; and
and to the protection of the laws: but they would be as certainly
wrong in believing that men ought to be equal in trusts,
in employments, since nature has not made them equal in their
talents.”
says
Voltaire‘Ceux qui disent que tous les hommes
sont égaux, disent la plus grande vérité
s’ils entendent que tous les hommes ont un droit
égal à la liberté, à la propriété de leurs biens,
& à la protection des loix.—Ils se tromperaient
beaucoup, s’ils croyaient que les hommes,
doivent être égaux par les emplois, puisqu’ils
ne le sont pas par leurs talens.’” “Those who say that all men are equal, say that which is
perfectly true, if they mean that all men have an equal right
to personal and mental liberty; to their respective properties; and
and to the protection of the laws: but they would be as certainly
wrong in believing that men ought to be equal in trusts,
in employments, since nature has not made them equal in their
talents.”

“Voltaire!” impatiently exclaimed the
Count, “why always Voltaire?—one is perfectly
stunned with the false wit and insiduous
misrepresentations of that atheistical scribbler.”

Against the defender of the family of Calas;
the protector of the Sirvens; the benefactor of
all mankind, whom he pitied, served, and
laughed at; the Count now most furiously declaimed,
in a long and angry speech, which, as
it possessed neither truth or argument, I have
forgot.—Towards the close of it, however, he
had worked himself into such a state of irritation,
that he seemed on the point of forgetting
that on which he so highly values himself—
“Les manières de la vieille cour.”

The entrance of a man of the church, whose
diminished revenues had yet had no effect,
either in reducing his figure, or subduing his
arrogance, made a momentary diversion in my
favour.

But the Count was now heated by his subject:
and, being reinforced with so able an auxiliary,
he returned to the charge.—He related
the subject of our controversy to his friend, who, H1r 145
who, while he spoke, surveyed me with such
looks, as one of the holy brotherhood of the Inquisition
may be supposed to throw on the unhappy
culprit whom he is about to condemn to
the flames on the next auto de fé—In a manner
peculiar, I trust, to la vielle cour ecclesiastique,
he gave me to understand, that he considered
me as an ignorant atheistical boy; and, that
his abhorrence of my principles was equalled
only by his contempt for my country and myself.
“Voltaire,” said he, “Voltaire, Monsieur
l’Anglois
, is a wretch with whose name
I sully not my mind; a monster whose pernicious
writings have overturned the religion and
the government of his country.”
The manner
in which this was said, brought to my mind an
expression which Voltaire puts himself into the
mouth of such a character.—“Ah! nous serions
les maîtres du monde, sans ces coquins de
gens d’esprit.” “Ah! we should be masters of the world, were it not for
those rascally wits.”
I continued to listen to the
discourse which the Count now resumed; the
purpotpurpose of which was to convince me, that the
decree of the nineteenth of May, was subversive
of all order, and ruinous alike to the dignity
and happiness of a state.—At length he
stopped to recover his breath, and gave me an
opportunity of saying, “if, Sir, I might be
once more permitted to quote so obnoxious an
author Voltaire. as him of whom we have just been
speaking, I should say, that ‘Le nom est indifférent;
il n’y a que le pouvoir qui ne le soit
pas.’ “The name is immaterial: it itis the power only that is of
consequence.”
—If the name of noblesse was so connected Vol. I. H with H1v 146
with the power of oppression, that they could
not be divided, the nation had a right to take
away both; if otherwise, it might, perhaps,
have been politic to have divided them, and
have left to the French patricians, these sounds
on which they seem to feel that their consequence
depends; together with the invaluable
privileges of having certain symbols painted on
their coaches, or woven on their furniture;
and of dressing their domestics in one way rather
than in another.—A great people who had every
thing on which its freedom and its prosperity
depended to consider, must surely have seen
such objects as these with so much indifference,
that had they not been evidently obnoxious to
the spirit of reform, they would have left them
to the persons who so highly value them; persons
who resolve to quit their country because
they are no longer to be enjoyed in it.—The
framers of the new constitution, had they not
been well convinced of the inefficacy of mere
palliation, would not, certainly, by destroying
these distinctions (matters in themselves quite
inconsequential) have raised against the fabrick
they were planning, the unextinguishable rage
and hatred of a great body of men; but would
have left them in quiet possession of these baubles
so necessary to their happiness.”

“Hold, Sir,” cried the Count, whose impatience
could no longer be restrained—“Hold,
Sir, and do not speak thus contemptuously I entreat
you, of an advantage which it is very truly
said, no man undervalues who is possessed of it.
—You, Sir, have owned that your family is
roturier—How then, and at your time of life,
when the real value of objects cannot have been
taught you by experience; how then can you pretend H2r 147
pretend to judge of that which is appreciated by
the wisdom of ages, and has been held up as
the reward of heroic virtues.—Baubles!—Is it
thus you term the name a man derives from his
illustrious ancestors—Bauble!—are the honors
handed down to me, from the first d’Hauteville,
who lived under Louis le Gros, the sixth in descent
from Charlemagne, to be thus contumaciously
described by the upstart politics of modern
reformers.”

I was really concerned to see the poor man
so violently agitated, and replied, “My dear
Sir—I allow much to the pride derived from ancestry
—Where the dignity of an house has been
supported, as I doubt not, but that you have
supported yours; but let me on the other side
say, that there are but too many who certainly
inherit not, with their names, the virtues of
their progenitors. You recollect a maxim of
Rochefaucault’s on this subject, which, as I
remember to have heard, that he is a favourite
author of your’s, you will allow me to bring
forward in support of my argument—‘Les
grands noms abaissent au lieu d’élever, ceux qui
ne savent pas les soutenir.’ “Great names degrade, instead of raising, those who
know not how to support them.”
—Maxime 94, de Rochefaucault.
Besides, how
many are there, both in your country and mine,
who are called noble, who cannot, in fact, refer
to the examples of a long line of ancestry,
to animate them, by example, to dignified conduct.
—How very many, who owe to money,
and not hereditary merit, the right they assume
to look down on the rest of the world. It is
true, that for the most part, that world repays
their contempt; and it is from the vulgar only, H2 who H2v 148
who venerate a new coronet, which is generally
‘twice as big as an old one’—that they receive
even the ‘knee homage’, this valued appendage
gives them. ‘Les Rois sont des hommes
commes des pieces de monnoie; ils les sont valoir
ce qu’ils veulent, & l’on est forcé de les recevoir,
selon leurs cours, & non pas selon leur
véritable prix.’” “Kings give value to men as they do to coin; they mark
them with what stamp they please; and the world receives
them according to this imaginary estimate, and not according
to their real value.”
Rochefaucault, Maxime 158.

“Let such men, then,” said Monsieur
d’Hauteville
, “let such be erased, with all my
heart, from the catalogue of noble names.—Indeed,
it is well known, that we never considered
such as belonging to our order.—I argue not
about them—but for those, whose blood gives
them pretensions to different treatment.—Ah!
Monsieur Desmond, if it were possible—but it
is not—for you to understand my feelings, you
would comprehend, how utterly impossible it is
for me, at my time of life, to continue in this
lost and debased country, to drag on an existence,
from which every thing valuable is
gone, and which is consequently exposed to indignity
and scorn—Would they not erase my
arms? change my description? tear down the
trophies of my house?”
—These ideas seemed
so deeply to affect the Count, that his respiration
again became affected; his eyes appeared to
be starting from his head; and he assumed so
much the look of a man on the point of becoming
insane, that I thought it more than time
to conclude a conversation, that I should not
have continued so long, had he not seemed to
desire it.

With H3r 149

With inveterate prejudice, thus fondly
nursed from early youth, it were hopeless to contend
—In the mind of Monsieur d’Hauteville,
this notion of family consequence is so interwoven,
so associated with all his ideas, that, as
the ivy coeval with the tree, at length, destroys
its vital principle, this sentiment now predominates
to the extinction of reason itself—
“These prejudices,” says an eminent living
writer, Priestley’s Letters to a Philosophical Unbeliever. “arise from what are commonly called
false views of things, or improper associations
of ideas, which, in the extreme, become delirium,
or madness; and is conspicuous to every
person, except to him, who actually labours
under this disorder of mind.”

I withdrew, therefore, as soon as I could,
ing Monsieur d’Hauteville with his friend;
who, I am sure, had his looks possessed the
power imputed to those of the Basilisk, would
then have concluded my adventures.—As I
passed through the last anti-room, and turned
my eyes on the drawing of a great genealogical
tree, which covers one side of it, I could not
help philosophizing on the infinite variety of the
modes of thinking among mankind—The difference
between my consideration of such an
object, and that bestowed on it by Monsieur
d’Hauteville
, struck me forcibly. Had I such
a yellow scroll, though it described my descent
from Adam or Noah, from a knight of the
flaming sabre, or a king of the West Saxons
—I should probably, on the first occasion
that such a material was wanted, cut it
into angular slips, and write directions on
the back of these parchment shreds, for the
pheasants and hares that I send to my friends— While H3v 150
While Monseigneur le Comte d’Hauteville is
going to leave his native country, because the
visionary honor he derives from this record, are
not ostensibly allowed him in it—Exclaiming,
poor man! to the National Assembly, “Oh!
ye have— ‘From my own windows torn my houshold coat; Raz’d out my impress; leaving me no sign To shew the world I am a gentleman!’” Shakespeare’s Richard the Second.

I here conclude this long letter, though I
shall not seal it to night, because I have here
much time on my hands, and cannot employ it
better than in writing to you; and because, I
hope to dispach by the same conveyance that
takes this, an answer to those which I hope to
have from you—for surely, my servant will be
here to-morrow or Tuesday, with the letters
that I have so long expected to be directed to the
chateau de Montfleuri, from England; and
which I now await, with hourly and increasing
impatience.

Vale—Vale et me ama

,

L. Desmond.

Let- H4r 151

Letter XIV. Written before the receipt of Bethel’s last letter.

To Mr. Bethel.

Did I not name to you a Breton, who had
something in his air and manner unlike others
of the peasantry?—Whenever I have observed
him, he seemed to be the amusement of his fellow
labourers; there was an odd quaint kind of
pleasantry about him; and I wished to enter
into conversation with him, which I had yesterday
evening an opportunity of doing.—
“You are not of this part of France, my
friend?”
said I—“No, Monsieur—I am a Breton
—And now, would return into my own
country again, but that, in a fit of impatience,
at the excessive impositions I laboured under,
I sold my little property about four years ago,
and now must continue to ‘courir le monde,
& de vivre comme il plaroit à Dieu’”
Sterne
has, I think, translated that to be upon nothing. My H4v 152
My acquaintance did not appear to be fond of
such meagre diet. “But, pray,” said I, “explain
to me, what particular oppressions you
had to complain of, that drove you to so desperate,
and as it has happened, so ill-timed a
resolution.”

“I believe,” replied he, “that I am naturally of
a temper a little impatient, and it was not much
qualified by making a campaign or two against the
English; the first was in a ship of war, fitted out
at St. Malo’s—or, in other words, Monsieur, a
privateer; for though I was bred a sailor, and
loved fighting well enough, I was refused even
as Ensigne de vaisseau, Answering, I believe, to our midshipmen. on board a king’s ship,
because I was not a gentleman—My father, however,
had a pretty little estate, which he inherited
from his great, great grandfather—But he
had an elder son, and I was to scramble through
the world as well as I could—They wanted,
indeed, to make me a monk; but I had a mortal
aversion to that métier, Trade—profession. and thought it better
to run the risque of getting my head taken off
by a cannon ball, than to shave it—My first
debut was not very fortunate—We fell in with
an English frigate, with whom, though it was
hopeless enough to contend, we exchanged a
few shot, for the honor of our country; and
one of those we were favored with in return,
tore off the flesh from my right leg, without
breaking the bone—The wound was bad
enough, but the English surgeon sewed it up,
and before we landed, I was so well as to be
sent with the rest of our crew to the prison at
Winchester—I had heard a great deal of the humanity H5r 153
humanity of the English to their prisoners, and
supposed I might bear my fate without much
murmuring; but we were not treated the better
for belonging to a privateer.—The prison was
over-crowded, and very unhealthy—The provisions,
I believe, might be liberally allowed by your
government, but they were to pass through the
hands of so many people, every one of which had
their advantage out of them, that, before they
were distributed in the prison, there was but little
reason to boast of the generosity of your countrymen.
To be sure, the wisdom and humanity
of war is very remarkable in a scene like this,
where one nation shuts up five or six thousand
of the subjects of another, to be fed by contract
while they live; and when they die, which twothirds
of the number seldom fail to do—to be
buried by contract—Yes!—out of nine-andtwenty
of us poor devils, who were taken in our
little privateer, fourteen died within three weeks;
among whom, was a relation of mine, a gallant
fellow, who had been in the former wars with
the English, and stood the hazards of many a
bloody day—He was an old man, but had a
constitution so enured to hardships, and the
changes of climate, that he seemed likely to see
many more—A vile fever that lurked in the
prison seized him—My hammock (for we were
slung in hammocks, one above another, in those
great, miserable rooms, which compose, what
they say is, an unfinished palace) was hung
above his, and when he found himself dying,
he called to me to come to him—‘’Tis all over
with me, my friend,’
said he—‘N’importe one
must die at some time or other, but I should
have liked it better by a cannon ball—Nothing,
however, vexes me more in this business, than H5 that H5v 154
that I have been the means of bringing you
hither to die in this hole—’
(for, in fact, it was
by his advice, I had entered on board the privateer)
‘However, it may be, you will out-live
this confounded place, and have another touch
at these damned English.’
National hatred,
that strange and ridiculous prejudice in which
my poor old friend had lived, was the last sensation
he felt in death—He died quietly enough,
in a few moments afterwards, and the next day
I saw him tied up between two boards, by way
of the coffin, which was to be provided by contract;
and deposited in the fosse that surrounded
our prison, in a grave, dug by contract, and of
course very shallow, in which he was covered
with about an inch of mold, which was by contract
also, put over him, and seven other prisoners,
who died at the same time!—My youth,
and a great flow of animal spirits, carried me
through this wretched scene—And a young officer,
who was a native of the same part of
Britany, and who was a prisoner on parole, at
a neighbouring town, procured leave to visit the
prison at Winchester, and enquired me out—
He gave me, though he could command very
little money himself, all he had about him, to
assist me in procuring food, and promised to try
if he could obtain for me my parole, as he knew
my parents, and was concerned for my situation
—But his intentions, in my favor, were soon
frustrated, for, on the appearance of the combined
fleets in the Channel, the French officers,
who were thought too near the coast, were ordered
away to Northampton, while, very soon
afterwards, a number of Spaniards, who had
among them a fever of a most malignant sort,
were sent to the prison already over-crowded, and H6r 155
and death began to make redoubled havock
among its wretched inhabitants—Of so dire a
nature was the disease thus imported, that while
the bodies that were thrown over-board from
the Spanish fleet, and driven down by the tide
on the coasts of Cornwall and Devonshire, carried
its fatal influence into those countries, the
prisoners, who were sent up from Plymouth,
disseminated destruction in their route, and
among all who approached them; thus becoming
the instruments of greater mischief, than the
sword and the bayonet could have executed.—
Not only the miserable prisoners of war, who
were now a mixture of French, Spanish, and
Dutch perished by dozens every day; but the
soldiers who guarded them, the attendants of the
prison, the physical men who were sent to
administer medicines, and soon afterwards, the
inhabitants of the town, and even those of the
neighbouring country began to suffer—Then it
was that your government perceingperceiving this ‘blessing
of war’
likely to extend itself rather too far,
thought proper to give that attention to it,
which the calamities of the prisoners would
never have excited. A physician was sent down
by Parliament, to examine into the causes of
this scourge; and in consequence of the impossibility
of stopping it while such numbers
were crowded together, the greater part of the
French, whom sickness had spared, were dismissed,
and I, among others, returned to my
own country. I, soon after, not discouraged by
what had befallen me, entered on board another
privateer, which had the good fortune to capture
two West-India ships, richly laden, and to bring
them safely into l’Orient, where we disposed of
their cargoes; and my share was so considerable,ble, H6v 156
that I determined to quit the sea, and return
to my friends—When, in pursuance of
this resolution, I arrived at home, I found my
father and elder brother had died during my absence;
and I took possession of the little estate
to which I thus became heir, and began to think
myself a person of some consequence. In commencing
country gentleman, I sat myself down
to reckon all the advantages of my situation
—An extensive tract of waste land lay on one
side of my little domain—On the other, a forest
—My fields abounded with game—a river ran
through them, on which I depended for a supply
of fish; and I determined to make a little warren,
and to build a dove-cote. I had undergone
hardships enough to give me a perfect relish
for the good things now within my reach;
and I resolved most piously to enjoy them—But
I was soon disturbed in this agreeable reverie—
I took the liberty of firing one morning at a
covey of partridges, that were feeding in my
corn; and having the same day caught a brace
of trout, I was sitting down to regale myself on
these dainties, when I received the following
notice from the neighbouring seigneur, with
whom I was not at all aware that I had any
thing to do.

‘The most high and most powerful seigneur,
Monseigneur Raoul-Phillippe-Joseph-Alexandre-Cæsar
Erispoé, Baron de Kermanfroi
, signifies
to Louis-John de Merville, that he the
said seigneur is in quality of Lord Paramount,
is to all intents and purposes invested with the
sole right and property of the river running
through his fief, together with all the fish
therein; the rushes, reeds, and willows that
grow in or near the said river; all trees and plants H7r 157
plants that the said river waters; and all the
islands and aits within it—Of all and every one
of which the high and mighty lord, Raoul-Phillippe-Joseph-Alexander-Cæsar
Erispoé, Baron
de Kermanfroi
, is absolute and only proprietor
—Also, of all the birds of whatsoever nature
or species, that have, shall, or may, at any time
fly on, or across, or upon, the said fief or seigneury
—And all the beasts of chase, of whatsoever
description, that have, shall, or may be found
upon it.’
—In short, Sir, it concluded with informing
me, the said Louis-Jean, that if I, at
any time, dared to fish in the river, or to shoot
a bird upon the said fief, of which it seems my
little farm unluckily made part, I should be delivered
into the hands of justice, and dealt with
according to the utmost rigor of the offended
laws. To be sure, I could not help enquiring
within myself how it happened, that I had no
right to the game thus fed in my fields, nor
the fish that swam in the river? and how it was,
that heaven, in creating these animals, had
been at work only for the great seigneurs!—
What! is there nothing, said I, but insects and
reptiles, over which man, not born noble, may
exercise dominion?—From the wren to the
eagle; from the rabbit to the wild-boar; from
the gudgeon to the pike—all, all, it seems, are
the property of the great. ’Twas hard to imagine
where the power originated, that thus deprived
all other men of their rights, to give to
those nobles the empire of the elements, and the
dominion over animated nature!—However, I
reflected, but I did not resist; and since I could
no longer bring myself home a dinner with my
gun, I thought to console myself as well as I
could, with the produce of my farm-yard; and I con- H7v 158
I constructed a small enclosed pigeon-house,
from whence, without any offence to my noble
neighbour, I hoped to derive some supply for
my table—But, alas! the comfortable and retired
state of my pigeons attracted the aristocratic
envy of those of the same species, who inhabited
the spacious manorial dove-cote of Monseigneur;
and they were so very unreasonable
as to cover, in immense flocks, not only my
fields of corn, where they committed infinite
depredations, but to surround my farm-yard,
and monopolize the food with which I supplied
my own little collection, in their inclosures.
As if they were instinctively assured of the protection
they enjoyed as belonging to the seigneur
Raoul-Phillippe-Joseph-Alexander-Cæsar Erispoé,
Baron de Kermanfroi
; my menaces, and
the shouts of my servants, were totally disregarded;
till, at length, I yielded too hastily to
my indignation, and threw a stone at a flight of
them, with so much effect, that I broke the leg
of one of these pigeons; the consequence of
which was, that in half an hour, four of the
gardes de chasse Game-keepers. of Monseigneur appeared, and
summoned me to declare, if I was not aware,
that the wounded bird which they produced in
evidence against me, was the property of the
said seigneur; and without giving me time either
to acknowledge my crime, or apologize for it,
they shot, by way of retaliation, the tame
pigeons in my enclosures, and carried me away
to the chateau of the most high and puissant
seigneur Raoul-Phillippe-Joseph-Alexander-
sar Erispoé, Baron de Kermanfroi
, to answer
for the assault I had thus committed on the personson H8r 159
of one of his pigeons—There I was interrogated
by the Fiscal, who was making out a proces
verbal
; and reproved severely for not knowing
or attending to the fact, so universally acknowledged
by the laws of Britany, that pigeons
and rabbits were creatures peculiarly dedicated
to the service of the nobles; and that for a vassal,
as I was, to injure one of them, was an
unpardonable offence against the rights of my
lord, who might inflict any punishment he
pleased for my transgression—That indeed, the
laws of Beauvoisis pronounced, that such an
offence was to be punished with death; but
that the milder laws of Britany condemned the
offender only to corporal punishment, at the
mercy of the lord—In short, Sir, I got off this
time by paying a heavy fine to Monseigneur
Raoul-Phillippe-Joseph-Alexander-Cæsar,
Erispoé, Baron de Kermanfroi
, who was extremely
necessitous, in the midst of his greatness.
—Soon afterwards, Monseigneur discovered
that there was a certain spot upon my estate,
where a pond might be made, for which he
found that he had great occasion; and he very
modestly signified to me, that he should cause
this piece of ground to be laid under water, and
that he would either give me a piece of ground
of the same value, or pay me for it according
to the estimation of two persons whom he would
appoint; but, that in case I refused this just and
liberal offer, he should, as Lord Paramount,
and of his own right and authority, make his
pond by flooding my ground according to law.

I felt this proposal to be inconsistent with
every principle of justice—In this spot was an
old oak, planted by the first de Merville, who
had bought the estate—It was under its shade 2 that H8v 160
that the happiest hours of my life had passed,
while I was yet a child, and it had been held in
veneration by all my family—I determined then
to defend this favourite spot; and I hastened to
a neighbouring magistrate, learned in the law
—He considered my case, and then informed
me, that, in this instance, the laws of Britany
were silent, and that therefore, their deficiency
must be supplied by the customs and laws of the
neighbouring provinces—‘The laws of Maine
and Anjou,’
said he, ‘decide, that the seigneur of
the fief, may take the grounds of his vassal to
make ponds, or any thing else, only giving him
another piece of ground, or paying what is
equivalent in money—As precedent, therefore,
decides, that the same thing may be done in
Britany, I advise you, Louis-Jean de Merville,
to submit to the laws, and on receiving payment,
to give up your land to Monseigneur Raoul-
Phillippe-Joseph-Alexander-Cæsar Erispoé,
Baron de Kermanfroi
.’

It was in vain I represented that I had a
particular taste, or a fond attachment to this
spot. My man of law told me that a vassal had
no right to any taste or attachment, contrary to
the sentiments of his lord—And, alas!—in a
few hours, I heard the hatchet laid to my beloved
oak—My fine meadow was covered with
water, and became the receptacle for the carp,
tench, and eels of Monseigneur—And remonstrances
and complaints were in vain!—These
were only part of the grievances I endured from
my unfortunate neighbourhood to this powerful
Baron, to whom, in his miserable and half furnished
chateau, I was regularly summoned to do
homage ‘upon faith and oath’—Till my oppressions
becoming more vexatious and insupportable,able, H9r 161
I took the desperate resolution of selling
my estate, and throwing myself again upon the
wide world—Paris, whither I repaired with the
money for which I sold it, was a theatre so new,
and so agreeable to me, that I could not determine
to leave it till I had no longer the means
left of playing there a very brilliant part; when
that unlucky hour arrived, I wandered into this
country, and took up my abode with a relation,
a farmer, who rents some land of Monseigneur
the Count d’Hauteville
, and here I have remained,
at times, working, but oftener philosophizing,
and not unfrequently regretting my dear oak,
and the first agreeable visions that I indulged on
taking possession of my little farm, before I was
aware of the consequences of being a vassal of
Monseigneur Raoul-Phillippe-Joseph-Alexander-Cæsar
Erispoé, Baron de Kermanfroi
, and
indeed sometimes repenting that I did not wait
a little longer, when the revolution would have
protected me against the tyranny of my very
illustrious neighbour.”

De Merville here ended his narrative, every
word of which I found to be true; and I could not
but marvel at the ignorance or effrontery of those
who assert that the noblesse of France either possessed
no powers inimical to the general rights of
mankind, or possessing such, forbore to exert
them. The former part of his life bears testimony
to the extreme benefits accruing from war,
and cannot but raise a wish, that the power of doing
such extensive good to mankind, and renewing scenes
so very much to the honor of reasonable beings, may
never be taken from the princes and potentates of the
earth
. I thus endeavour, dear Bethel, by entering
into the interests of those I am with, to
call off my thoughts from my own, or I should find H9v 162
find this very long space of time, in which I
have failed to receive letters from England, almost
insupportable.

At the very moment I complain, I see my
servant Warham approaching the house—I fly,
impatiently, to receive news of Geraldine, of
you, of all I love; and hope to have a long, a
very long letter to write, in answer, to-morrow,
to those I expect from you—We go back to
Montfleuri the next day, this will therefore be
the last pacquet you will receive from hence.

Lionel Desmond.

Note The latter part of this narrative is a sort of free
translation of parts of a little pamphlet, entitled, Histoire
d’un malheureux Vassal de Bretagne, écrite par lui-même,

in which the excessive abuses to which the feudal system gave
birth, are detailed.
Let- H10r 163

Letter XV. Answer to letter XI.

To Mr. Bethel.

What did I say to you, dear Bethel, in
my letter of the 1790-08-2929th of August, that has given
you occasion to rally me so unmercifully about
Madame de Boisbelle; and to predict my “cure”,
as you call it—I cannot now recollect the contents
of that letter, but of this I am sure, that
I never was more fondly attached to the lovely
woman, from whom my destiny has divided me,
than at this moment; or ever saw the perfections
of other women with more indifference—
Were it possible for you, my friend, to comprehend
the anguish of heart which I have felt ever
since your last letters gave me such an account
of the situation of Verney’s affairs—You might
be convinced, that time, absence, and distance,
have had no such effect in altering my sentiments;ments; H10v 164
and that the sister of my friend Montfleuri,
were she even as partial to me, as some trifling
occurrences I have related, may have led you to
imagine, can never be to me more than an
agreeable acquaintance—far from being able to
detach my mind from the idea of Geraldine’s
situation—I have undergone continual raillery
from Montfleuri, for my extreme dejection,
ever since I heard it—If these distressing scenes
should become yet more alarming, I shall return
to England—There I shall, at least, learn the
progress of that ruin, which, though I cannot
wholly prevent, I may, perhaps, soften to her,
for whose sake alone, I deprecate its arrival—
Restless and wretched, I left Hauteville, hardly
conscious of the progress of my journey; and
since I came hither, have had a return of that
lurking fever which made my health one pretence
for my quitting England.

Montfleuri is not here, but was detained by
business at Aiguemont—I expect him to-morrow;
and shall then determine whether to bend
my course southward with him, or northward,
on my return to England. I cannot describe
to you how wretched I am—Surely, you never
loved, or you would not ridicule feelings so
acute as mine—Nor would you suppose that I
should think about my fortune, if the sacrifice
of any part of it could secure the peace and
competence of a being for whom I could lay
down my life. I intended to have continued a
little narrative of all that happens to me—of the
persons I meet—and of the conversation I hear
—but your raillery has changed my purpose.
Of whom can I speak here, but of Josephine
and Julie; and if I tell you that they wept with
pleasure on my arrival, and have since exerted them- H11r 165
themselves, with unceasing solicitude, to divert
the melancholy they cannot but perceive—You
would again renew that strain of ridicule about
the former, which I so little like to hear—This
prevents my telling you of a walk which Josephine
engaged me to take with her last night
to the ruin on the hill, of which, I believe, I
gave a slight description in some former letter—
nor will I, for the same reason, relate the conversation
that passed there—When seating herself
on a piece of a fallen column, she began,
after a deep sigh, and with eyes swimming in
tears, to relate to me the occurrences of her
unfortunate life.

Could I help listening to such a woman?—
Could I help sympathizing in sorrows which she
so well knows how to describe?—Alas! when
she complains that her mother betrayed her into
marriage with a man, for whom it was impossible
she ever could either feel love or esteem—
When she dwells on all the miseries of such a
connection, on the bitterness with which her
life is irrecoverably dashed—The similiarity of
her fate to that of Geraldine, awakens in my
mind a thousand subjects of painful recollection,
and fruitless regret—My tears flow with hers;
and she believes those emotions arise from extreme
sensibility, which are rather excited by
the situation of my own heart.

This kind of conversation so entirely engrossed
us last night, that I heeded not the progress
of time; and the sun had been for some
time sunk behind those distant mountains that
bound the extensive prospect from the eminence
we were upon, before I recollected that
we had a river to cross, and a very long walk
home.

When H11v 166

When these circumstances occurred to me,
I suddenly proposed to Madame de Boisbelle to
return—She had then been shedding tears in
silence, for some moments, and starting from
the melancholy attitude in which she sat, she
took my hand, and gently pressing it, said, as I
led her among the masses of the fallen buildings
that impeded our path—“To the unhappy, sympathy
and tenderness, like your’s, is so seducing,
that I have even trespassed on the indulgence
your pity seems willing to grant me—
I, perhaps, have too tediously dwelt on incurable
calamities, and called off your thoughts too
long from pleasanter subjects and happier women!”
—I answered—(not, I own, without
more emotion than I wished to have shewn) that
I had indeed listened. . . .

Dear Bethel, I here broke off, on receiving
intelligence that a messenger from Marseilles
had a pacquet to deliver to me. I hurried to
meet him, and received from a man sent express,
the letter I enclose, from Anthony, Waverly’s
old servant.

As I am not sure that my presence in England
can be useful to Geraldine, and have some
hopes that at Marseilles, it may yet save her
brother, I shall therefore hasten thither; but,
at the earnest entreaty of the ladies of this family,
I shall wait till noon to-morrow, by
which time Montfleuri will certainly be returned.
I have therefore dispatched my servant to
the next post house to order four horses hither
to-morrow—I have no hope that Waverly will
yield to reason, but his fluctuating character,
which is usually so much against him, is here
my only reliance—Direct your letters, till you
hear from me again, to the care of Messieurs Duhamel H12r 167
Duhamel and Bergot, at Marseilles; and do
not, I beseech you, my dear friend, trifle with
my unhappiness, but give me as exact an account
as you can collect of Verney’s affairs. As soon
as possible I hope to hear from you.

Your’s affectionately, ever,

Lionel Desmond.

Let- H12v 168

Letter XVI. Inclosed in the foregoing.

To Lionel Desmond, Esquire.

Sir.


Hoping you will excuse this freedom—
this is to let you know, that Master changed
his mind as to joining your honors party at my
lord the Count of Hottevills as he promised
faithfully, and instead thereof, set out with the
gentlemen as he was with for this place; where
they have introduced him to a family as is come
to settle near here since the troubles in the capitol;
which is, a mother, a son, and two daughters.
And master have lived with this family
all’s one as if it were his home—I know no
harm of the females—they are handsome young
women—that is the two daughters: but the son,
tho he appears so grand and fashinable, is as I
hear a sort of sharping chap—or what we call in 1 I1r 169
in England a black legs—He has won a good
deal of money of master, as I have reason to
think; but that does not altogether signify so
much as the intention they have persuaded him
into amongst them, to marry one of the mamselles;
which if something does not happen to
make him change his mind he will certainly do
out of hand—I can assure you honour’d Sir, I
never knew master so long in the same mind
ever since I have been in his service as upon
this occasion—And I thought proper to let you
know, because I am certain that my old lady,
nor no part of his relations could like of this
thing, and particularly his sister Mrs. Verney,
who said so much to him in my hearing about
being drawn in to marry, and advised him by
all means to consult you, before ever he resolved
upon any scheme whatever—I was so bold as to
tell this to my master, who was not angry indeed
with me, as he is a very good natured gentleman:
but he ask’d if so be I thought that he
was to be always a child in leading strings.

I thought it best, seeing this affair is still
going on to advertise your honor of it; and if
you think it proper to put an end thereto by
your hinterference I think there is no time to
be lost.

From Sir
Your dutiful humble servant
to command


Anthony Booker.

Vol. I. I Let- I1v 170

Letter XVII.

To Miss Waverly at Bath.

Why did I flatter myself, dearest Fanny,
that the numberless distresses which have lately
surrounded me, would either bring with them
that calm resignation which should teach me to
bear, or that total debility of mind that should
make me forget to feel all their poignancy.—Is
it, that I sat out in life with too great a share of
sensibility? or is my lot to be particularly
wretched?—Every means I take to save myself
from pain—to save those I love—on whom, indeed,
my happiness depends, serves only to render
me more miserable.—How ill I have succeeded
in regard to my brother, the enclosed
letter will too well explain!

Why did I ever involve Desmond in the
hopeless task of checking his conduct.—I am
so distressed, so hurt, that it is with the utmost
difficulty I write.—However, as the generous exertions I2r 171
exertions of this excellent young man have, for
the present, rescued my brother from the actual
commission of the folly he meditated, though
perhaps at the expence of a most valuable life,
you will communicate to my mother this very
unfortunate affair, and desire her directions in
regard to recalling her son.

Perhaps I ought to say all this to her myself;
but I am really so shaken by this intelligence,
that it is not without great difficulty I can write
to you.—My fortitude, which you have of late
been accustomed to compliment, has, I know
not why, quite forsaken me now: and, methinks,
I could bear any thing better, than that
such a man as Desmond should be so great a
sufferer from his generous attention to a part of
my family.

I have been very ill ever since the receipt of
this melancholy letter; and, it is only to-day,
though I received it on Thursday, that I have
had strength enough to forward it to you.—I
am now so near being confined, that the people
who are collected about me, weary me with
their troublesome care, and will not let me have
a moment to myself.

It would have been a comfort to me, my
Fanny, to have had your company at this time;
but I know that this incident will add to the reluctance
with which my mother would have before
borne your absence from her; and, therefore,
I will not again name it, nor suffer myself
to make those complaints, in which we (I mean
the unhappy) too frequently indulge ourselves,
without considering that this querulous weakness
is painful to others; and, to ourselves, unavailing:
—for, alas! it cures not the evils it
describes.

I2 As I2v 172

As to Mr. Verney, he has never been at
home since the October meeting, nor have I
ever heard from him.—His friend, Colonel
Scarsdale
, called at my door on Tuesday, and
was, by accident, admitted.—He made a long
visit, and talked, as usual, in a style which I
suppose I might admire (since all the world allows
him to be very charming) if I could but
understand what he means. However, though I
am so tasteless as not to discover the perfections
of this wonderful being, I endured his conversation
from three o’clock till half past five; in
hopes, that as he is so much connected with
Mr. Verney, I might learn from him where
my husband is—But he laughed off all my enquiries
unfeelingly enough; and, all I could
collect was, that Mr. Verney is now, or at least
was a few days since, at the house of one of
their mutual friends in Yorkshire.—I anticipate
the remark you will make upon this—You who
are so little inclined to spare his follies, or, indeed,
those of any of your acquaintance; and,
it is too true, that when he is at home, it makes
no other difference to me than that of destroying
my peace without promoting my happiness.
—I check my pen, however—and when I look
at my two lovely children, I blame myself for
being thus betrayed into complaints against their
father.—Alas! why are our pleasures, our tastes,
our views of life so different?—But I will stifle
these murmurs; and, indeed, I would most willingly
drop this hopeless subject for ever. Let
me return to one that gives, at least, more favourable
ideas of human nature, though it can
only be productive of pain to me—I mean—to
poor Desmond.—Oh! Fanny, what a heart is
his!—How noble is that disdain of personal danger, I3r 173
danger, when mingled with such manly tenderness
such generous sensibility for the feelings
of others!—When we saw so much of him in
Kent the first year of my marriage, we used, I
remember, to have little disputes about him—
but they were childish. Do you not recollect
that when I contended for Lavater’s system, I
introduced him in support of my argument?—
His was the most open, ingenuous countenance
I had ever seen; and his manners, as well as all I
could then know of his heart and his temper,
were exactly such as that countenance indicated.
You then, in the mere spirit of contradiction,
used to say, that this ingenuous expression was
often lost in clouds for whole hours together;
and that you believed this paragon was a sulky
sort of an animal.—Did you ever believe that
such a striking instance of disinterested kindness
towards your own family would so confirm my
opinion?—Yet while I write he suffers—perhaps
dies! the victim of that generous and
exalted spirit which led him to hazard his life,
that he might fulfil a promise I, who have so
little a right to his friendship drew from him—
A promise that he would flawed-reproduction2-3 characters attentive to the
conduct of my brother!

Indeed, Fanny, when my imagination sets
him before me wounded, in pain, perhaps in
danger (and it is an image I have hardly lost for
a moment since the receipt of this cruel intelligence)
I am so very miserable, that all other
anxieties of my life, multiplied as they have
lately been, are unheeded and unfelt.—But
why should I write thus—why hazard communicating
to you, my dear sister, a portion
of that pain from which I cannot myself escape?

I will I3v 174

I will bid you good night, my Fanny. It is
now six-and-thirty hours since I have closed my
eyes—I will try to sleep, and to forget how very
very long it will be before I can hear again from
Marseilles.

Write to me I conjure you—tell me what
are my mother’s intentions as to sending for my
brother home. And be assured of the tender
affection of your

Geraldine Verney.

P. S. Did you ever hear of this Madame
de Boisbelle
? and do you know whether she is
a widow or married?—Young, middle aged or
old?—She is sister to Mr. Desmond’s favourite
French friend, Montfleuri; and, if she has any
heart, must have exquisite pleasure in softening,
to such a man as Desmond, the long hours of
pain and confinement.—I suppose he has forgotten
that I read French tolerably; however,
perhaps, it was better to let the surgeon write.
—How miserable is the suspence I must endure
till the arrival of the next letters.

Let- I4r 175

Letter XVIII. Enclosed in the foregoing to Miss Waverly.

To Mrs. Verney.

Madam,

It is at the request of Mr. Desmond, that
I take the liberty of addressing you. His anxiety,
on your account, has never forsaken him in the
midst of what have been certainly very acute
sufferings; not unattended with danger.

It may be necessary to enter into a detail of
the causes that prevent his writing himself, on
a subject, which nothing but the impracticability
of his doing, would, I am sure, induce him
to entrust to a stranger.

It is now four days since I received a summons
to attend, at the distance of three miles from I4v 176
from the city, an English gentleman, who had,
on that morning, been engaged in an affair of
honor. I had not till then the honor of knowing
Mr. Desmond—whom I found terribly
wounded by a pistol shot in the right arm.—
The ball entering a little below the elbow, had
not only broken, but so shattered the bone, that
I am afraid the greatest skill cannot answer the
consequences.—Besides this, there was a bullet,
from the first brace of pistols which were fired,
lodged in the right shoulder, which, though it
was so situated as to be extracted without much
difficulty, greatly encreases the inflammation,
and of course, the hazard of the other wound,
where the sinews are so torn, and the bone in
such a state, that the ball could not be taken
out without great pain. I did all that could be
done, and Mr. Desmond bore the operation
with the calmest fortitude. I left him at noon,
in what I thought as favourable a way, as was
possible, under such circumstances; yet I found,
on my return in the evening, that he had a
great deal of fever; and I am concerned to say,
this symptom has ever since been encreasing.—
Though much is certainly to be hoped for,
from the youth, constitution, and patience of
the sufferer—I can by no means say I am certain
of a fortunate event.

The dispute, in consequence of which this
disagreeable accident happened, originated, I
find, about your brother, Mr. Waverly; who,
entangled by the artifices of a family well known
in this country, had engaged to marry one of
the young ladies—a step which was thought, by
Mr. Desmond, as indeed it was universally,
very indiscreet.—The interference of Mr. Desmond I5r 177
Desmond
to prevent it, brought upon him the
resentment of the ladies brother, the young
Chevalier de St. Eloy; and the duel ensued.

I found, very early in the course of my attendance,
that the mind of my patient was as
much affected as his body; and that the greatest
pain he felt, was from being rendered incapable
of writing to you, madam.—He at length asked
if I would be so good as to write what he
would dictate, as it was the only way by
which he could communicate his situation to
you. His advice is, that the relations of Mr.
Waverly
recall him immediately to England.
He is now at Avignon, but notwithstanding
what has happened, Mr. Desmond seems to
think him by no means secure from the artifices
of a family that has gained such an ascendancy
over him.—I made notes with my pencil, as I
sat by his bedside, and indeed promised to adhere
to the words he dictated; but I think it
my duty, madam, in this case, to tell you my
real sentiments, and not to palliate or disguise
my apprehensions.—As soon as the affair happened,
I sent, by Mr. Desmond’s desire, an
account of it to his friend, whose house, in
the Lyonois, he had, I found, recently left;
and to day this friend, Monsieur de Montfleuri,
arrived here express, with his sister, Madame
de Boisbelle
.—They both seem extremely interested
for the health of my patient, and have
attended him, ever since their arrival, with unceasing
assiduity.—He appears pleased and relieved
by their presence; and indeed I imagined
that he would rather have employed one of them
to have the honor of writing to you; but he
said Monsieur de Montfleuri could write but
little English, and his sister none.

I5 I believe, I5v 178

I believe, madam, that to receive the honor
of your commands, would be particularly gratifying
to my patient, of whom I most sincerely
wish that I may be enabled, in a few days, to
send you a better account.

I am, madam,
Your most obedient,
and most humble servant,


William Carmichael.

Let- I6r 179

Letter XIX.

To Mr. Desmond.

I never was so distressed in my life, my
dear Desmond, as I was at the account of your
accident; which I received yesterday from Miss
Waverly
.—I came hither about ten days ago by
the advice of my friend Banks, who thinks the
waters will decide, whether the something I
have about me is gout or no; and thought of
nothing less than of receiving intelligence here,
that you lie dangerously wounded at or near
Marseilles, in a quarrel about Waverly.—This
is no time to preach to you.—But I beg, that
immediately upon the receipt of this letter, you
will let me know if I can be of any use to you;
and, if I can, be assured that nothing shall prevent I6v 180
prevent my coming to you instantly. I hope
you know, that I am not one of those who can,
with great composure, talk over and lament
their friends misfortunes, without stirring a
finger to help them.—My life, which has long
afforded me no enjoyment worth the trouble of
living for, is only of value to me, as it may be
useful to my children, and the very few friends
I love.—You once, I remember, on an occasion
of much less importance, scrupled to send
for me because you said you knew it was in the
midst of harvest:—it is now in the midst of
the wheat season; yet, you see, I am at Bath;
and, if a trifling, half-formed complaint, which
is not serious enough to have a name, could
bring me thus far from home, surely the service
of my friend Desmond would carry me much—
much farther.

I shall be extremely uneasy till I hear from
you, and would, indeed, set out directly, if I
could imagine you are as ill as Miss Waverly
represents you.—But besides that, her account
is inconsistent and incoherent. I know all
misses love a duel, and to lament over the dear
gallant creature who suffers in it.—This little
wild girl seems half frantic, and does nothing
but talk to every body about you, in which she
shews more gratitude than discretion.—Your
uncle, Danby, who is here on his usual autumnal
visit, has heard of your fame; and came
bustling up to me in the coffee-house this morning,
to tell me, that all he had foreseen as the
consequence of your imprudent journey to
France, was come to pass; that you were assassinated
by a party whom your politics had
offended; and would probably lose your life in
consequence of your foolish rage for a foolish revolu- I7r 181
revolution.—I endeavoured, in vain, to convince
him that the affair happened in a mere
private quarrel—a quarrel with an avanturier,
in which you had engaged to save a particular
friend from an improper marriage.—The old
Major would not hear me.—He at length granted,
that instead of being assassinated, you might
have fought, but that still it must have been
about politics; and, to do him justice, he judges
of others by himself, which is the only way a man
can judge.—Very certain it is, nay, he openly
professes it, that he never loved any body well
enough in his life, to give himself, on their account,
one quarter of an hour’s pain.—The
public interests him as little—he declares, that
he is perfectly at ease, and therefore, cares not
who is otherwise; and as to all revolutions,
or even alterations, he has a mortal aversion
to them.—Miss Waverly tells me she has written
to you, by desire of her mother, to thank
you for your very friendly interposition, and
has given you an account of all your connexions
in England.—This I am very sorry for, because
I am afraid she can give you no account of the
Verney family that will not add to the present
depression of your spirits; indeed she cannot,
with truth, speak of their situation favourably;
and, if truth could say anything good of Verney,
Miss Waverly seems little disposed to
repeat it.—She is naturally satirical, and hates
Verney, to whom she thinks her sister has
been sacrificed; so, that whenever they meet,
it is with displeasure on her side, and with contemptuous
indifference on his:—but Fanny,
whenever she has an opportunity of speaking of
him, takes care that the dark shades of his
character shall have all their force.—Allow, my 2 dear I7v 182
dear Desmond, something for this in the account
you may, perhaps, hear.—Let me have
early intelligence of you I conjure you; and I
again beg you to remember, that you may command
the presence, as in any other way, the
best services of

Your’s most faithfully,

E. Bethel.

Let- I8r 183

Letter XX.

To Mr. Bethel.

I use another hand, my dear friend, to
thank you for your letter of the fourteenth,
which reached me yesterday.—Your attentive
kindness in offering to come to me, I shall never
forget: though I do not avail myself of it,
because I know such a journey can be neither
convenient or agreeable to you; and because it
is in your power, and in yours only, to act for
me in England, in an affair on which the tranquility
of my mind depends. Tranquillity—
without which, the progress of my cure will
be slow; and that single reason will, I am persuaded,
be enough to reconcile you in the task
I now solicit you to engage in.

A letter from Miss Waverly, which I received
by the same post that brought yours, 1 has I8v 184
has rendered me more than ever wretched.—
Good heavens! in what a situation is the woman,
so justly adored by your unhappy friend,
at a moment when he cannot fly to her assistance!
—She had lain-in only ten days, when
her sister wrote to me.—There are two executions
in the house, one for sixteen hundred, the
other for two thousand three hundred pounds.
Verney is gone, nobody knows whither. And
Geraldine, in such a situation, has no father,
brother, or friend to support her.—Yet the natural
dignity of her mind has, it should seem,
never forsaken her.

A little before her confinement she wrote to
thank me for my friendship to her brother, and
to deplore its consequences—(Oh, Bethel! for
how much more suffering would not her tender
gratitude overpay me) but of herself, of her
own uneasiness, she said nothing; nor should
I have known it but for Fanny Waverly;
whom her mother has, at length, sent to the
suffering angel, and who has given me a dreadful
detail of the supposed situation of Verney’s
affairs—I say supposed, because there is nothing
certainly known from himself; and these
debts were only discovered by the entrance of
the sheriff’s officers. I cannot rest, my dear
Bethel, whilst Geraldine is thus distressed. My
thoughts are constantly employed upon the
means of relieving her; but a cripple as I am,
and so far from England, I must depend on you
to assist me.—Since then you were so good as to
offer to come hither, I hope and believe you
will not hesitate to take a shorter journey, much
more conducive to my repose, even than the
satisfaction of seeing you.—Go, I beseech you,
to London—enquire into the nature of these debts; I9r 185
debts; and, at all events, discharge them; but
concealing carefully at whose entreaty you take
this trouble; even concealing yourself, if it be
possible—I send you an order, on my banker,
for five thousand pounds, and if twice the sum
be wanted to restore to Geraldine her house,
and a little, even transient repose, I should
think it a cheap purchase.

Do not argue with me, dear Bethel, about
this—but hear me, when I most solemnly assure
you, that far from meaning to avail myself
of any advantage which grateful sensibility
might give me over such a mind as her’s, it is
not my intention she shall ever know of the
transaction; and I entreat you to manage it for
me accordingly. While I find her rise every
moment in my esteem, I know that I am becoming
—alas! am already become unworthy hers.
—Do not ask me an explanation; I have said
more than I intended—but let it go.—The
greatest favor you can do me, Bethel, is to
execute this commission for me as expeditiously
as possible, and it will give you pleasure to hear,
that I am so much better than my surgeon expected,
from the early appearances of my wound,
that it is probable I shall be able to thank you
with my own hand, for the friendly commission
I now entreat you to undertake. I am already
able to move my fingers, though not to guide a
pen. My arm however, is yet in such a state,
as renders it very imprudent, if not impossible
for me, to leave the skilful man, who has, contrary
to all probability and expectation, saved
it from amputation; which, at first, seemed
almost unavoidable. Montfleuri wishes that
I may remove to his house, in the Lyonois, as
a sort of first stage towards England; but I have I9v 186
have been already too much obliged to him,
and his sister, Madame de Boisbelle. He attended
me himself day and night, while there
was so much danger, as Mr. Carmichael apprehended,
for many days after the accident;
and since he has been absent, his sister, has
with too much goodness given me her constant
attention.—Montfleuri has been to Paris, and
returned only yesterday. He sees my uneasiness
since the receipt of Miss Waverly’s letter—
Madame de Boisbelle too sees it, and what is
worse, my medical friends perceive it, from
the state of my wound; so that as it is impossible
for me, my dear friend, either to conceal or
conquer it, my sole dependence for either peace
of mind, or bodily health, is on your friendly
endeavours to remove it.

How long, how very long, will the hours
seem that must intervene before I can hear that
this is done; and what shall I do to beguile
them? Montfleuri talks to me of politics, and
exults in the hope that all will be settled advantageously
for his country, and without bloodshed;
I rejoice, most sincerely rejoice, in this
prospect, so favourable to the best interests of
humanity; but I can no longer enter with
eagerness into the detail of those measures by
which it is to be realized.—One predominant
sensation, excludes for the present, all the lively
interest I felt in more general concerns, and
while Mrs. Verney is――but it is not
necessary, surely, to add more on this topic—
No, my dear Bethel, you will, on such an occasion,
enter into my feelings from the generosity
of your own heart, and what ever that
little touch of misanthropy, which you have
acquired, mymay lead you to think of human natureture I10r 187
in general—you will after my asseverations on
this subject, and I hope, after what you know
of me, do justice as well to the disinterested
nature of my love, as to the sincerity of that
friendship, with which,

I ever remain,
most affectionately yours,

Lionel Desmond.

Let- I10v 188

Letter XXI.

To Mr. Desmond.

The moment I received your letter, I
hastened from Bath, where I then was, to
London; determined to execute your commission
to the best of my power, though I neither
approved it, or knew very well how to set about
it.―---Do not imagine, however, my dear
Desmond, that I have a mind so narrowed by
a long converse with the world, or an heart so
hardened by too much knowledge of its inhabitants,
as to blame the liberality of your sentiments,
or be insensible to the pleasure of indulging
them.—But here there is a fatal and
inseparable bar to the success of every attempt
you can make to befriend Mrs. Verney and her
children; and the facility with which Verney
finds himself delivered from one difficulty, only
serves to encourage him to plunge into others,
till total and irretrievable ruin shall overtake
him.

I was I11r 189

I was aware of all the difficulties of the task
you set me; for it was by no means proper that
the smallest suspicion should arise as to the quarter
from whence the money came that paid off
those demands, which must otherwise have
brought all the effects Verney had at his townhouse
to sale within a very short time.—I have a
friend in the law who, to great acuteness, adds
that most rare quality, in an attorney, of strict
integrity.—To him I confided the business, and
he has managed it so well, that Mrs. Verney is
again in an uninterrupted possession of her
house; and believes, as does Verney himself,
that Mrs. Waverly advanced the money; but
keeps it concealed lest it should subject her to
future demands. Of the means by which all
this was done, I need not enter into a detail—
You will be satisfied to know it is done, and
that the pride and delicacy of Geraldine have
not suffered.—You will be better pleased, perhaps,
to hear something of herself.—I thought
I might call there as an acquaintance; and
though I received intelligence at the door, that
Mrs. Verney was not well, and saw no company
but her own family, I sent up my name, and
was immediately admitted.

I found her in her dressing-room, so pale, so
languid, so changed from the lovely blooming
Geraldine of four years since, that I beheld her
with extreme concern.—Yet however unwilling
I am, my friend, to encourage in you the growth
of a passion productive on all sides of misery, I
am compelled to own, that this charming woman,
in the pride of early beauty, never appeared
to me so interesting, so truly lovely, as
at the moment I saw her.—In her lap lay sleeping
the little infant of a month old—The boy of which I11v 190
which I have heard you speak with so much
fondness, sat on the carpet at her feet, and the
girl on the sopha by her.—In answer to my
compliments, she said with a sweet, yet melancholy
smile—“This is very good indeed, Mr.
Bethel
, and like an old friend.---How are your
two sweet children—are they in town with
you?—It would give me great pleasure to see
them.”
—I answered her enquiries about Harry
and Louisa in the usual way; and she then,
with a sort of anxiety in her manner, for which
I could easily account, talked for a moment on
the common topics of the day; which almost
unavoidably led me to speak of France.—She
sighed when I first named it; and, with a faint
blush, exclaimed—“Ah! Mr. Bethel! how
can I think of France without feeling the acutest
pain, when it instantly brings to mind
what has so lately happened there to our excellent
friend, Mr. Desmond?”
—A deeper colour
wavered for a moment on her cheek; her voice
trembled; but she seemed, by an effort, to repress
her emotion, and continued—“Were
you not a most candid and generous minded
man, Mr. Bethel, I should fear that you would
almost hold me in aversion, for having been,
however unintentionally, the cause of your
friend’s very dreadful accident: believe me,
nothing in my whole life (and it has not certainly
been a fortunate life,) has ever given me
so much concern as this event. All who love
Mr. Desmond (and there are few young men so
universally and deservedly beloved) must detest
the very name of those who were the means of
hazarding a life so valuable, and of exposing
him to suffer such pain and confinement; perhaps
such lasting inconvenience—for I fear”
and I12r 191
and her voice faultered so as to become almost
inarticulate—“I fear it is far from being certain
that he will ever be restored to the use of
his hand.”

That idea seemed so distressing to her, that
she looked as if she was ready to faint.—I
hastened, you may be assured, to relieve her
apprehensions; and assured her, that not only
your hand would be well, but that you thought
yourself infinitely overpayed for the inconvenience
you had sustained in your rencounter with
the Chevalier de St. Eloy, since you had been
the means of saving her brother from a marriage
so extremely improper: then, to detach
her thoughts from what I saw they most painfully
dwelt upon, your hazard and sufferings, I
gave her an account I had learned from Mr.
Carmichael In a letter that does not appear.
of the family of St. Eloy; and, as
I found this still affected her too much, because
it excited her gratitude anew, towards you, by
whose interference Waverly had escaped from a
connexion with it, I made a transition to the
affairs of France: and knowing how well she
could talk on every subject, had a wish to draw
her out on this.

The little I could obtain from her would
have convinced me, had I needed such conviction,
of the strength of her understanding, and
that rectitude of heart, which is so admirable
and so rare. Yet, with all this, there is no
presumption; none of that anxiety to be heard,
or that dictatorial tone of conversation that has
so often disgusted and repulsed me, in women
who either have, or affect to have, a superiority
of understanding.—Geraldine affects nothing: and, I12v 192
and, far from appearing solicitous to be considered
as an oracle, she said, with an enchanting smile,
towards the close of our conversation—“I
know not how I have ventured, Mr. Bethel, to
speak so much on a subject, which I am very
willing to acknowledge, I have had no opportunity
of knowing well.—Mr. Verney, you
know, is no politician, or if he were, he would
hardly deign to converse on that topic with a
woman—for of the understandings of all women
he has the most contemptible opinion; and
says, ‘that we are good for nothing but to
make a shew while we are young, and to become
nurses when we are old.’
—I know that
more than half the men in the world are of his
opinion; and that by them, what some celebrated
author has said, is generally allowed to
be true—that ‘a woman even of talents is only
considered by a man with that sort of pleasure
with which they contemplate a bird who speaks
a few words plainly’
—I believe it is not exactly
the expression, but, however, it is the sense of
it; and, I am afraid, is the general sense of the
world.”

I could not forbear interrupting here, to assure
her that if such an opinion was general, mine
was an exception; for that I was convinced,
ignorance and vanity were much more fatal to
that happiness which every man seeks, or ought
to seek, when he marries, than that knowledge
which has insidiously been called unbecoming
in women.—I was going on, for I found myself
absolutely unable to quit her, when her husband
and the Lord Newminster, whom you described
to me at Margate some months since, entered
the room together.

Verney, K1r 193

Verney, who has naturally a wild, unsettled
look, really shocked me.—To an emaciated
figure and unhealthy countenance, were
added the disgusting appearance of a debauch
of liquor not slept off; and clothes not since
changed.—The other man was in even a worse
state; but as he was not married to Geraldine,
I looked at him only with pity and disgust;
while, towards Verney I felt something like
horror and detestation.

Geraldine turned pale when he was announced;
and said, in a low voice, as he came
into the room—“This is very unexpected, I
have seen Mr. Verney only once for these last
five weeks”
—I would have retired, but she
added, with an half-stifled sigh—“Oh! no! do
not go, you hear he has his friend Newminster
with him, and probably will not stay five minutes.
—But if he should,”
added she, as if
fearing she had spoken too much in a tone of
regret and complaint—“if he should, he will,
I am sure, be happy to see his old friend Mr.
Bethel
.”

At this instant, Lord Newminster, followed
by Verney, entered.—The former appeared stupid
from the effects of his last night, or rather
morning’s carousal; but Verney, who had just
heard that the creditors, who had the executions
in his house, were paid, and the bailiffs withdrawn,
was not in a humour to be reserved, or
even considerate.—Without speaking to his
wife, he shook hands with me, and cried—
“Damme, Bethel, how long is it since I saw
you last? I thought you were gone to kingdom
come.—Here’s Newminster and I, we came
only last night from his house in Norfolk.—
Damme, we came to raise the wind together; Vol. I. K for K1v 194
for I have had the Philistines in my house, and
be cursed to them, who had laid violent hands
on all my goods and chattels, except my wife
and her brats; but some worthy soul, I know
not who, has sent them off.—I wish I could
find out who is so damned generous, I’d try to
touch them a little for the ready I want now.”

Oh! could you have seen the countenance
of Geraldine, while this speech was uttering!
she was paler than ever; and was, I saw,
quite unable to continue in the room—she
therefore rose, and saying her little boy was
awake, who had continued to sleep in her lap
during our conversation, she walked apparently
with very feeble steps out of the room; the two
other children following her—“away with ye
all,”
cried the worthless brute their father,
“there, get ye along to the nursery, that’s the
proper place for women and children.”
—The
look that Geraldine gave him, as she passed to
the door, which I held open for her, is not to
be described—it was contempt, stifled by concern
—it was indignation subdued by shame and
sorrow.—“Good morning to you, Mr. Bethel,”
said she, as she went by me—“I know not
how to thank you enough for this friendly visit,
or can I say how much my obligation will be increased,
if you will have the goodness to repeat
it; pray let me see you again before you leave
London.”
—I assured her I would wait on her
with pleasure; and I felt extremely unhappy
as the door closed after her, and I saw her no
more.—

“Well, now Bethel,” said the husband,
“let me talk to you a little; tell me—are not
your horses at Hall’s, at Hyde Park Corner?”

I answered, “yes;”“aye? then you’re the man K2r 195
man I want;—you’ve got a hellish clever trotting
mare, one of the nicest things I’ve seen a
long time;—have you a mind to sell her?”

“Certainly no.”

“I am sorry for it, for I want just such a
thing. Don’t you remember a famous trotting
galloway I had, two years ago, that I bought
at Tattersal’s, that would go fifteen miles within
the hour—I’ve lost him by a cursed accident,
and I want one as speedy—damme, Bethel, I’ll
give you a hundred for your little mare, and
I’ll be curs’d if that is not fifty more than she’s
worth.”

“I shall not sell the mare, Mr. Verney,”
answered I, very coldly, so let us talk of something
else.—Pray tell me, what is this story
which you touched upon, a little unfeelingly I
thought, before your wife, of an execution in
your house.”

“An execution—by heaven I’d two, and that
old twaddler, mother Waverly, for the first time
in her life, has done a civil thing, for she paid
them off the other day—If my wife had not
lain-in though I suppose, and been so much
alarmed as they told me she was, so that the
good old gossip, was afraid of the consequences,
I believe she’d have seen me at the devil before
she’d have drawn her purse-strings; so ’twas well
timed, and now I only wish she’d keep the child,
for I’d encumbrances enough of small children
before.”

“Good God, Sir, said I, “is it possible
that having married such a woman as Mrs.
Verney
, and having such lovely and promising
children, you can neglect the one, and call the
other encumbrances.”

K2 “Poh,” K2v 196

“Poh,” replied he carelessly, “I don’t neglect
her—but children—when one has a house
full of them, as I think I am likely to have,
pull confounded hard; and as to their promising,
I know nothing that they promise, but
to grow up, to pull harder still, and find out
that I am in their way before I have any mind
to relinquish the enjoyments of this life.”

“Why then, since you must have been
aware of all these contingencies, did you marry?”

“Why what a senseless question! because
I was a green-horn, drawn in by a pretty face,
and a fine figure. The old woman, her mother,
had the art of Jezebel, and I was a raw boy
from College, and fancied it very knowing to
marry a girl that all the young fellows of my
acquaintance reckoned so confounded handsome;
besides, a man must marry at some time
or other.”

“That,” said the Peer, who seemed suddenly
awaked from his stupor, by a position so
contrary to his sentiments—“that I deny—’tis
a damned folly, and nobody in his senses will
commit it.”
He then talked in a manner too
gross, and too offensive, for me to repeat upon
paper; and concluded with expressing his pity
for poor Verney; and protesting, that for his
own part, though he saw half the fashionable
girls in town angling for him, he should keep
his neck out of such a damned yoke.

I repressed the contempt and indignation
which it was impossible to help feeling; and addressing
the illustrious orator—“It is unfortunate,
my Lord,”
said I, “that these are your sentiments,
since by them, the world is likely to
be deprived of the worth you might transmit for K3r 197
for its general benefit, and your country, in
particular, of talents, which might adorn its
legislature.—Your Lordship’s cotemporariescontemporaries
must, I am sure, reflect with concern on the
little prospect there thus remains, that your virtues
and abilities will not descend to dignify the
future annals of the British senate.”

“Oh! the devil may take the British senate
for me,”
answered he, “I never put my head
into it, but when I am sent for on some points
that there are doubts about; and then, indeed,
I go, if ministry desire it: but otherwise, I
don’t care a curse for their damned politics.—
As long as I keep up the reversion of the sinecures
my father got for me, and two or three little
snug additions I’ve had given me since for the
borough interest I’m able to carry them; not
one single guinea do I care for their parties or
their projects.”
—Then suddenly dismissing the
subject, this “hereditary patriot” turned to his
friend Verney and said—“Well, but Dicky
boy, what’s the hour—as you’ve paid your
humble duty to Madam, should we not be off?
—I’ve ordered my horses to be at my own door
at six, and I have promised Caversfield to be
with him at half past seven to dinner—We
must not bilk him, as he has made the party on
purpose for us.”
“I am ready,” replied Verney,
“for I shall not dress at home.” He then arose,
as if he was going, but Miss Waverly, who
had been out the former part of the morning,
now entered, and while I spoke to her, Mr.
Verney
called to his servant to give him some
directions about his clothes, and Lord Newminster
stretched himself on the sopha and went
very composedly to sleep.

To K3v 198

To any young woman, however slight may
be her pretensions, the marked neglect of a
man of Lord Newminster’s age is usually sufficiently
mortifying; but to Fanny Waverly,
who has been accustomed to excessive flattery
and adulation ever since she left the nursery,
this rude inattention must have appeared insupportably
insulting, and I forgave the little asperity
there was in her manner, when she said to
me with a smile of indignant contempt, and
pointing to Newminster, who was, I really believe,
in a sound sleep—“An admirable specimen
of the manners of a modern man of fashion.”

Verney, who had been giving directions to
his servant at the door of the room, now returned
to it—“Aha! little Fanny,” said he, “are
you there?—How dost do, child?—Hohoop,
hohoop, Newminster, it is time to go, my lad
—come, let us be off.”

“Have you seen your wife, Sir?” said Miss
Waverly
very gravely—“Yes, my dear Miss
Frances
,”
replied he in a drawling tone of
mimickry, “I have seen my wife, looking for
all the world like Charity and her three children
over the door of an hospital.—”

“She should not only look Charity,” retorted
Fanny smartly, “but feel it, or she would
never be able to endure your monstrous behaviour.”

“Pretty pettish little dear,” cried he “how
this indignation animates your features—Anger,
Miss Fanny, renders you absolutely piquant
My wife now—my grave, solemn, sage spouse,
is not half so agaçant with her charity and all
her virtues.”

“That K4r 199

“That she possesses all virtues, Sir, must be
her merit solely, for never woman had so poor
encouragement to cherish any—When one considers
that she suffers you, her charity cannot be
doubted: her faith, in relying upon you, is
also exemplary; and one laments that so connected,
she can have nothing to do with
Hope—”

Fanny Waverly then left the room, and as
I was going before she came in, I now bowed
slightly to the two friends and went out at the
same time.—When we came into the next room
she stopped, and would have spoke, but her
heart was full—she sat down, took out her
handkerchief, and burst into tears.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Bethel,” said she,
sobbing, “but I cannot command myself,
when I reflect on the situation of my poor sister
and her children; when I meet that unfeeling
man, and know, too well, what must be the
consequence of his conduct.”

She was prevented by her emotion from proceeding,
and I took that opportunity of saying,
“There is nothing new I hope, my dear Miss
Waverly
? nothing, just at this moment, to give
you deeper concern, or more uneasy apprehensions
for Mrs. Verney?”

“Oh! no,” replied she, “nothing very
new—since the two executions which have been
here this fortnight, cannot be called very recent
circumstances; they were paid off by I know
not what means; and the officers who were in
possession of the effects, dismissed only yesterday,
yet to-day this unhappy man returns; and returns
with an avowed intention, as his confidential
servant has been saying below, to raise more
money. Oh! Mr. Bethel, could you imagine all K4v 200
all my sister has endured in this frightful period,
during which she has only once seen her husband
—could you imagine what she has endured,
and have witnessed the fortitude, the patience,
the courage she has shewn, while suffering not
only pain and weakness, but all the horrors of
dreading the approach of ruin for her children!
you would have said, that the remembrance of
that personal beauty, for which she has been so
celebrated, was lost and eclipsed in the admiration
raised by her understanding.”

“In my short conference with her,” answered
I, “all this was indeed visible, and could
not escape the observation of one already impressed
with the highest opinion of your sister
from the report of Mr. Desmond.”

At the name of Desmond, a deep blush overspread
the face of the fair Fanny. Not such
as that which wavered for a moment on
the faded cheek of her lovely sister, when
the blood, for a moment, forsaking the heart,
was recalled thither by a consciousness that it
should not express too warmly the sentiments
that sent it forth—Fanny’s blush spoke a different,
though not less expressive language, and
the tears that were trembling in her eyes, were
a moment checked while she clasped her hands
together, and cried eagerly—“Desmond!—
Oh! how I adore the very name of Desmond!
—To him—to your noble friend it is owing,
Mr. Bethel, that while I lament the fate of a
sister, I do not weep over the equally miserable
destiny of a brother.”

I have seen Fanny Waverly in the ball-rooms
at Bath admired by the men, and envied by the
women; and, with all the triumphant consciousness
of beauty, enjoying the voluntary and involun- K5r 201
involuntary tribute thus paid to her; but I never
till now thought her so handsome, for I never
till now thought her interesting—So much more
attraction does unaffected sensibility lend to personal
perfection, than it acquires from the giddy
fluttering airs, inspired by selfish vanity—Yes,
indeed, my friend, Fanny Waverly is a very
charming young woman, and I was so much
pleased with every thing she said of you, and
of her own family during the rest of our short
conversation, that I have since indulged myself
in fancying that it is not at all impossible for
you to transfer to her the affection, which while
you feel it for her sister, cannot fail to render
you unhappy, and which, perhaps, may be attended
with fatal consequences to the object of
your love.—If your attachment to Geraldine is
really as pure and disinterested as you have often
called it, it might equally exist were you the
husband of her sister, and such an alliance
would put it much more in your power than it
can ever be otherwise, to befriend and assist her
and her children—But I know this is an affair
in which you will tell me the heart is not to be
commanded, and therefore I will no longer dwell
upon it, than to repeat, that were you to see
Fanny Waverly now, you would think her not
inferior to her sister in personal beauty, (though
I own it is of a different character,) and you
would be convinced that she is not as you once
believed, destitute of that feminine tenderness,
without which I agree with you, that mere
beauty is powerless.

And now, my dear Desmond, let me speak
of the “thick-coming fancies,” with which
you so strangely tormented yourself at Hauteville
—I have been so much alarmed by your K5 accident K5v 202
accident since, and have had so many subjects
on which to think and write, that I have not
touched upon your dream, which you surely
are not superstitious enough to dwell upon—
You, who are so little subject to the indulgence
of prejudice, and who are not unfrequently
ridiculing others for being too deeply impressed “With all the nurse and all the priest has taught.”
But why is it that the strongest minds—those
who dare examine whatever is offered to them
with acute reason, and who reject all, however
it may be sanctioned by custom, or rendered
venerable by time, that reason refuses to accede
to, shall yet sink under the influence of images
impressed on the brain by a disturbed digestion,
or a quickened circulation? Alas! my friend,
there appears to be a strange propensity in human
nature to torment itself, and as if the physical
inconveniencies with which we are surrounded
in this world of ours were not enough,
we go forth constantly in search of mental and
imaginary evils—This is no where so remarkable
as among those who are in what we call affluence
and prosperity—How many of my acquaintance
who have no wish, which it is not
immediately in their power to gratify, suffer
their imaginations to “play such tricks with
them”
, (I use an expression of Dr. Johnson’s,
whose imagination was surely not exempt from
the charge) that they are really more unhappy
and more truly objects of compassion than the
labourer, who lives only to work, and works
only to live?—I do not however, my dear
friend, mean to say, that you are one of these—
Your active spirit and feeling heart, secures you K6r 203
you for ever against this palsy of the mind—but
perhaps, from the charge of indulging other
extravagancies, you are not wholly exempt—
This attachment to Mrs. Verney, which has
given a peculiar colour to your life for three
years, and which you still cherish as if your
existence were to become insipid without it, is
surely a weakness and an impropriety, which
such an understanding as yours ought to shake
off.—But I will say no more on a topic that is,
I know, irksome to you, and indeed, I am too
apt to offer advice to those I esteem, without
sufficiently considering, that we none of us love
to take what we are all so eager to give—I cannot
however, drop the subject without remarking,
that when in the same letter you describe
your reflections on the puerility and inconsequence
of the objects that mankind are so
anxiously occupied in obtaining, and in the next
page relate the terrors occasioned by a dream,
the faintest shadow of those fleeting shades,
which it seems so absurd to be moved by; I can
only repeat, as one is continually compelled to
do—Alas! poor human nature!

You have obliged me very much by the
sketches you have sent me of the people you
have conversed with, and the scenes to which
you have been witness.—In answer to your remarks
and narratives, I observe, that it is an
incontrovertible truth allowed even by those
who have written professedly against it, that a
revolution in the government of France was
absolutely necessary; and, that it has been accomplished
at less expense of blood, than any
other event, I will not say of equal magnitude,
(for I know of none such in the annals of mankind)
but of such a nature, ever cost before, is also K6v 204
also a position that the hardest prejudice must,
in despite of misrepresentations, allow; but
while I contemplate, with infinite satisfaction,
this great and noble effort for the universal
rights of the human race, I behold, with aprehension
and disquiet, such an host of foes
arise to render it abortive, that I hardly dare
indulge those hopes in which you are so sanguine,
that uncemented by blood, the noble
and simply majestic temple of liberty will arise
on the scite of the barbarous structure of gothic
despotism.

To say nothing of those doubts which have
arisen from the want of unanimity and steadiness
among those who are immediately entrusted
with its construction, I reflect with fear on the
force that is united to impede its completion,
or destroy it when complete. Not only all the
despots of Europe, from those dealers in human
blood, the petty princes of Germany, to the
sanguinary witch of all the Russias, but the governments,
which are yet called limitted monarchies,
and even those which still pass as republics
—in every one of these the governments,
will we know, pay the venal pen, and the mercenary
sword against it—some openly; the others
as far as they dare, without rousing, too dangerously,
the indignation of their own subjects
—In all these states, there are great bodies of
people, whose interest, which is what wholly
decides their opinion, is diametrically opposite
to all reform, and, of course, to the reception
of those truths which may promote it—These
bodies are formed of the aristocracies, their relations,
dependents, and parasites, a numerous
and formidable phalanx—Hierarchies, whose
learning and eloquence are naturally exerted in a cause K7r 205
cause which involves their very existence. An
immense number of placemen and pensioners,
who see that the discussion of political questions,
leads inevitably to shew the people the folly and
injustice of their paying by heavy taxes for
imaginary and non-existing services—Crowds
of lawyers, who, were equal justice once established,
could not be enriched and ennobled by
explaining what they have themselves continued
to render inexplicable—And last, not least, a
very numerous description of people, who, being
from their participation of these emoluments,
from family possessions, or from successful commerce,
at ease themselves, indolently acquiesce
in evils which do not affect them, and who,
when misery is described, or oppression complained
of, say, “What is all this to us, we
suffer neither? and why should we be disturbed
for those who do?”
“Chi ben sta, non si
mouve,” “Those who are well situated desire not to move.”
says the Italian proverb.—In short,
my friend, I do not, as some politicians have
affected to do, doubt the virtue of the French
nation, and say they are too corrupt to be regenerated
—I doubt rather that European states in
general, will not suffer them to throw off the
corruption, but unite to perpetuate to them
what they either do submit to, or are willing to
submit to
themselves—I rather fear, that liberty
having been driven away to the new world, will
establish there her glorious empire—and to Europe,
sunk in luxury and effeminacy—enervated
and degenerate Europe will return no
more.

Let me, dear Desmond, hear soon from your
own hand, that you are content with the successcess K7v 206
of my negotiation, and with this long account
of those for whom you are interested.—
Let me learn also your future designs, as to returning
to England, or staying on the Continent,
and above all, that you continue to believe
me, with sincere attachment,

Your’s, affectionately,

E. Bethel.

Continue, I beg of you, to write by another
hand till you can use your own, and let me have
the sketches of such conversation as you may
have during your convalescence—I mean those
on political or general topics, and not, of course,
the more refined and sentimental dialogues which
you may hold with Madame de Boisbelle—By the
way, I do not quite understand what you mean
by saying in your last letter, that you become
every day more unworthy the esteem of Geraldine
You surely think very humbly of yourself.

Let- K8r 207

Letter XXII.

The first letter I was able to write, was
to Geraldine—This, my dear Bethel, is the second;
and it is with extreme pleasure I thank
you for your immediate attention to my request,
and the propriety with which you seem to have
conducted so troublesome a commission—I thank
you too for your long letter, and the account,
painful as it is, of the scene you saw at Verney’s
—Gracious heaven! why is it, that such a
cruel sacrifice was ever made? But I dare not
trust myself on this subject, and have made an
hundred resolutions never to mention it more;
yet, how avoid writing on what constantly occupies
my mind?—how dismiss from thence,
even for a moment, what weighs so heavy on
my heart? Let me, however, assure you Bethel,
that though I have no hope, I had almost said
no wish, ever to be more to this lovely, injured
woman, than a fond, affectionate brother—
yet, that I will never marry Fanny Waverly. I believe K8v 208
I believe that the advantageous picture you have
drawn of her is not a flattering one—I admire
her person, and think well of her understanding
—The symptoms of sensibility and of attachment
to her sister which you discovered in her,
certainly add those attractions to her character,
in which, I know not why it appeared to me to
be defective—If I had a brother whom I
loved, and whom I wished to see happily married,
it would be to Fanny Waverly I should
wish to direct his choice—But for myself—
No, Bethel, it is now out of the question; we
will speak of it then no more; but I will hasten
to thank you for those parts of your long and
welcome letter that were meant to detach my
thoughts from those sources of painful and
fruitless regret, which I am, perhaps, too fond
of cherishing—Fain, very fain would I shake
them off, my friend, but I cannot—nay, I am
denied the consolation of talking to you on paper
of all I feel—I have often been very unhappy,
but I never was quite so wretched as I
am at this moment. My anxiety for the fate of
Geraldine tears me to pieces, and I cannot return
to England immediately, where I should,
at least, be relieved from the long and insupportable
hours of suspence which the distance
now obliges me to undergo—If I could not
see her, at least I could hear once or twice a
week of her situation, and might, perhaps, be
so fortunate as to ward off some of those misfortunes
to which from her husband’s conduct
she is hourly exposed. Do not, however, be
alarmed on account of my health; I believe I
could now travel without any hazard, but there
are circumstances which render it difficult for
me to quit this part of France immediately.—
My friend Montfleuri presses me extremely to return K9r 209
return for some time to his house, and I once
proposed doing so, but now I cannot do that,
but shall, I believe, as soon as I am quite well
enough to be dismissed from the care of Mr.
Carmichael
, go by slow journies towards Switzerland,
and from thence to Italy—This, however,
depends upon events; and you will see by
the manner in which this is written, that I do
not at present boast of so perfect a restoration
to health as to make any immediate determination
necessary.

I perfectly agree with you in the statement you
have made of those causes which has made many
of the English behold the French revolution with
reluctance, and even abhorrence.—To those
causes you might have added the misrepresentations
that have been so industriously propagated;
all the transient mischief has been exaggerated;
and we have in the overcharged picture lost sight
of the great and permanent evils that have been
removed—All the good has been concealed or
denied, and the former government, which we
used to hold in abhorrence, has been spoken of
with praise and regret—This is by no means
wonderful, when we consider how many among
ourselves are afraid of enquiry, and tremble at
the idea of innovation—How many of the
French, with whom we converse in England,
are avanturiers, who seize this opportunity to
avail themselves of imaginary consequence, and
describe themselves as men suffering for their
loyal adherence to their king; and as having
lost their all in the cause of injured loyalty—
We believe and pity them, taking all their lamentable
stories for granted—whereas the truth
is, that no property has been forcibly taken
from its possessors—none is intended to be taken —and K9v 210
—and these men who describe themselves as
robbed, had, many of them, nothing to lose—
Half the English, however, who hear of those
fictitious distresses, are interested in having them
credited, and cry “These are the blessed effects
of a revolution!—These private injuries
arise from the rashness and folly of touching
the settled constitution of a country!”
—While
others, too indolent to ask even the simple question
“Is this true?—are the individuals thus
injured?”
shrink into themselves, and say,
“Well! I am sure we have reason to be thankful
that there is no such thing among us.”

But though I have long been thoroughly
aware, both of the interested prejudice, and
indolent apathy, which exists in England. I
own I never expected to have seen an elaborate
treatise in favor of despotism written by an Englishman,
who has always been called one of
the most steady, as he undoubtedly is one of
the most able of those who are esteemed the
friends of the people—You will easily comprehend
that I allude to the book lately published
by Mr. Burke, which I received three days
since from England, and have read once.

I will not enter into a discussion of it, though
the virulence as well as the misrepresentation
with which it abounds, lays it alike open to
ridicule and contradiction—Abusive declamation
can influence only superficial or prepossessed
understanding—Those who cannot, or who
will not see, that fine sounding periods are not
arguments—that poetical imagery is not matter
of fact. I foresee “that a thousand pens will leap
from their standishes”
(to parody a sublime sentence
of his own) to answer such a book—I
foresee that will call forth all the talents that are K10r 211
are yet unbought (and which, I trust, are unpurchaseable)
in England, and therefore I rejoice
that it has been written, since, far from
finally injuring the cause of truth and reason
against which Mr. Burke is so inveterate, it
will awaken every advocate in their defence.

One of the most striking of those well-dressed
absurdities with which he insults the understanding
of his country, is that which forcibly
reminds me of the arguments in favor of absolute
power, brought by Sir Robert Filmer in
that treatise, of which Locke deigned to enter
into a refutation—This advocate of unlimited
government derives the origin of monarchies
from Adam, and asserts, that “Man, not being
born free, could never have the liberty to
chuse either governors or forms of government.”

He carries, however, his notion of this incapacity
farther than Mr. Burke; according to
him, man, in general, having been born in a
state of servitude since Adam, can never in any
case have had a right to chuse in what way he
would be governed—Mr. Burke seems to allow
that some such right might have existed
among Englishmen, previous to the year 16881688,
but that then they gave it up for themselves and
their posterity for ever.

It was mightily the fashion when I left England,
for the enemies of the revolution in
France, to treat all that was advanced in its
favor, as novelties—as the flimsy speculations
of unpractised politicians—or the artful misrepresentations
of men of desperate fortunes and
wild ambition.——Precedent, however, which
seems gaining ground, and usurping the place
of common sense in our courts, may here be
united with sound reason—if reason be allowed to those K10v 212
those great men towards whom we have been
taught to look with acquiescence and veneration.

“When fashion,” says Locke, “has once
sanctioned what folly or craft began, custom
makes it sacred, and it will be thought impudence
or madness to contradict or question it.”

This impudence and madness seems by the venal
crew, whose interest it is that no questions
should arise, to be imputed to all who venture
to defend the conduct of the patriots struggling
for the liberties of France; Mr. Burke now
loads them with the imputation, not only of
impudence and madness, but with every other
crime he can imagine, and involves in the same
censure, those of his own countrymen, who
have dared to rejoice in the freedom of France,
and to support the cause of political and civil
liberty throughout the world. Now, without
committing myself to enter into any thing like
an argument with so redoubtable an adversary;
and with a view solely to escape the censure of
broaching novelties, let me quote a sentence in
Locke on Civil Government, which among
the few books I have access to, I happen to
have procured. In speaking of conquest, he
says,

“This concerns not their children,” (the
children of the conquered) “for since a father
hath not in himself a power over the life and
liberty of his child, no act of his own can possibly
forfeit it; so that the children, whatever
may have happened to the fathers, are free
men; and the absolute power of the conquered
reaches no farther than the persons of the men
who were subdued by him, and dies with them,
and should he govern them as slaves, subjected to K11r 213
to his absolute power, he has no such right of
dominion over their children—he can have no
power over them but by their own consent; and
he has no lawful authority while force, not
choice, compels them to submission.”

If conquest does not bind posterity, so neither
can compact bind it. Mr. Burke does not directly
assert whatever disposition he shews to do
so, that nothing can be changed or amended in
the constitution of England, because the family
who are now on the throne derive their
sacred right (through a bloody and broken succession)
from William the bastard of Normandy;
but he maintains, that every future alteration,
however necessary, is become impossible,
since the compact made for all future generations,
between the Prince of Orange, and the
self-elected Parliament who gave him the crown
in 16881688—So, that if at any remote period it
should happen, what cannot indeed be immediately
apprehended, that the crown should descend
to a prince more profligate than Charles
the Second
, without his wit; and more careless
of the welfare and prosperity of his people
than James the Second, without his piety; the
English must submit to whatever burthens his
vices shall impose—to whatever yoke the tyranny
of his favourites shall inflict, because they
are bound by the compact of 16881688, to alter
nothing that the constitution then framed, bids
them and their children submit to ad infinitum.

I have been two days writing this letter, with
a weak and trembling hand, I now, therefore,
dear Bethel, bid you adieu! I entreat you to
write to me as often as possible, for if I quit
this place, your letters will follow me.—I recommend
to you, as the most essential kindness you K11v 214
you can do me, to attend to that interest, which
is infinitely dearer to me than my own, and
with repeated acknowledgments of all your
kindness on a thousand other occasions, but
above all on the last. I entreat you ever to believe
me


Your’s most gratefully and
affectionately,

Lionel Desmond.

Let- K12r 215

Letter XXIII.

To Mrs. Verney.

I was uneasy, my dear Sister, at your not
writing, and since you have written, I am more
uneasy still. The account you give me of
yourself and the baby frighten me—Dreary as
the season is, I now join with you in wishing
you in the country—I beg your pardon if my
frankness offends you; but I cannot help saying,
you know too well, that your husband
really cares not where you are, and will not oppose
your going if you desire it, but will, probably,
be glad to have you out of the way—
My dear Geraldine, it gives me the severest
pain to be compelled to write thus, and to break
the injunction you have so often laid on me,
not to speak my thoughts so freely of Verney
Your health is at stake, and I forget every thing
else. After all, what do I say, that you have
not yourself said internally a thousand times,
though your delicate sense of duty (duty to such a man!) K12v 216
a man!) makes you acquiesce in patient silence,
under injuries that would have made nineteen
women in twenty fly out of his house, and play
the deuce in absolute desperation?—How is it
possible that you can help being conscious of
your perfections, and of his deserving them so
little?—Can you fail to feel, and to compare?
—It is impossible but that you must at “That fate repine Which threw a pearl before a swine.”

There is a quotation from me, which you will
allow to be, at least, a novelty. It will hardly,
however, procure my pardon for its pertness,
and therefore, I pray you, my dear Geraldine,
to forgive me; or, if you are a little hungry,
I will learn to bear it, if you will but exert
yourself (if exertion be necessary) to go into the
country and be well.

You do not say a word of Mr. Desmond, and
I
can think and talk of nobody else—In hopes
of hearing something of him, I have endured
the misery of long conversation with that odd
old animal his uncle Major Danby—The formal
twaddler loves to tell long stories, and can
seldom get any body to hear them, unless he
can seize upon some stranger who does not
know him, and these becoming every day more
scarce, he has taken quite a fancy to me, because
he finds I listen to him with uncommon
patience, and do not yawn above once in ten
minutes. The gossipping people here (of which
heaven knows there are plenty) have already
observed our tête-à-tête, and begin to whisper
to each other that Miss Waverly has hook’d the
rich old Major—I like of all things that they
should believe it, and am in hopes of being in 1 the L1r 217
the London papers very soon, among the treaties
of marriage.—What do you think Desmond
would say to it?—Do you think he would
like such a smart young aunt?—Poor fellow!—
I have not been able to get at much intelligence
about him, and what I have heard is very painful
—His uncle has only heard lately, that his
health is much impaired by long confinement,
and that he is yet unable to travel towards England;
but I hope the old croker made the worst
of it to me—He persists in saying, that his nephew
could not have met with such an accident
in England, as if people here did not shoot
one another every day, for reasons of much less
moment, or for no reason at all—But though I
have attempted, whenever he would hear me,
to represent this, and to explain and dwell upon
the generosity of Desmond’s conduct, I have
not yet succeeded in convincing him, that it
was friendship to my brother, and not any political
matter that involved his nephew in this
dispute—The good Major, indeed, cannot comprehend
how friendship should lead another to
incur danger, for he had never in his life that
sort of feeling, which should make him go half
a mile out of his way to serve any body. This
I have frequently heard from those who knew
him as a young man; and I believe sensibility
and philanthropy are qualities that do not encrease
with years—He retains now nothing of
the ingenuous freedom of the soldier, but all
the hardness which a military life sometimes
gives, and in quitting it, he keeps only the
worst part of a profession, that is said to make
bad men worse—I don’t know why I have said
so much about him, unless it is because I have
nothing to say of Desmond, and yet cannot Vol. I. L entirely L1v 218
entirely quit the subject—He provoked me this
morning in the pump-room, by standing up, and
in his sharp, loud voice, giving an account, to
two or three people that were strangers to him,
of the accident that had happened to his nephew
in France. An old, upright woman,
who was, I immediately saw, a titled gossip,
listened for some time very attentively, and
then enquired, in a canting sort of whine, if
the affair had not been owing to the troubles?—
The Major, delighted to have a Lady Bab
Frightful
interest herself in his story, began it
again, and I ran out of the place, half determined,
that not even the wish I cannot help
feeling to hear now and then of Desmond from
him, should tempt me again to enter into conversation
with this story-telling old bore.

My mother, who generally agrees to the opinion
of her acquaintance, if they happen to be
rich, and who is not unwilling to have the obligation
Desmond has laid us all under, lightened
by supposing some of the quarrel with the
Chevalier de St. Eloy, to have originated in a
difference of political opinion, really encourages
the Major in his notion, and when they get together,
I lose my patience entirely. To your
enquiry, how my mother is in health, I can
assure you, I have not seen her so well these last
eighteen months, and she is now so often in
company, is at so many card parties abroad,
and has so many parties at home, that, without
having been much missed, I might have staid
with you much longer; however, I did what
appeared to us to be my duty in returning, and
I must not regret it, though very certain it is,
that all the maternal affections of my mother
are more than ever engrossed by her son—She is now L2r 219
now impatiently expecting his arrival, and questioning
every body she sees, about the probable
length of his voyage from Leghorn——It is
amazing to me, that with all this tenderness
and anxiety for him, she feels no gratitude, or
so little, towards the man, without whose interposition,
he would never have returned at all
—I also wonder it does not occur to her, that
it is far from being certain he did embark at
Leghorn the time he proposed to do so—For
myself, I should not be at all surprized to hear
from him at Rome, nor indeed, to learn that
he was again the captive of Mademoiselle de
St. Eloy
—Let me not, however, my sister,
add anticpitatedanticipated to the real evils with which
you seem destined to contend—All will yet be
well—Desmond will return in perfect health,
and brighter days await us. Let me hear from
you at least twice a week, and believe me ever,
with true affection, your

Fanny.

Letter XXIV.

To Miss Waverly.

I have delayed answering your letter,
my Fanny, till to-day, though I have been in
possession of it above a week, languor alone
would not have caused this omission, but I have
been busied in my little removal to a lodging I
have taken here, as Dr. Warren declared it to
be necessary, both on my own account, and on
that of the infant I suckle, that I should remove
from London. Mr. Verney, I know not why,
resolutely opposed my going into Yorkshire, L2 nor L2v 220
nor could my entreaties, or the opinion of the
physician, obtain any other answer than that
my going thither would be inconvenient to him
—I have, alas! no longer the house in Kent to
which I was so attached, and therefore, rather
because it is my duty to try to live than because
I wish to live—rather for the sake of my poor
children than my own—I employed a friend in
this neighbourhood to look out for apartments
for me, where I could have accommodations
for my three children, three servants, and myself
such he fortunately found in a tolerably
pleasant situation, and at a reasonable price, a
consideration to which I must no longer be indifferent.

Small, however, as the difference is, between
my living here or in Seymour-street, and
careless of my being either at one place or another,
as you too justly observe Mr. Verney to
be; I own I remarked, and remarked with redoubled
anguish of heart, that this additional
expence, though pronounced to be absolutely
necessary to my existence, and that of his child,
is submitted to with reluctance by Mr. Verney
—I check myself, Fanny—I will not murmur
—and I will even reprove you, my sister, for
encouraging me in those repinings, which,
though I cannot always repress, I know it is
wrong to indulge—Do not, my love, teach me
to yield too easily to a sensibility of evils,
which, since they are without remedy, it is better
to bear with equality of mind, and with resignation
of heart—Alas! mine is but too apt
to feel all the miseries of its destiny—but my
children and my duty must and shall teach me
to submit unrepiningly to fulfil the latter, for
the sake of the former—Their innocent smiles
repay me for many hours of anxiety, and while 1 they L3r 221
they are well around me, I believe I can bear
any thing.

You conclude your letter cheerfully, my
Fanny, as if you would dissipate the concern
which the former part of it must give me on account
of Mr. Desmond—Alas! the former part
is all real, and the latter only the prophetic
hope of a sanguine imagination—“Desmond
will return in perfect health, and brighter days
await us.”
—If he should not return, or not return
in perfect health!—Amiable as Mr. Desmond
is, and interesting as he must be to every
one of his acquaintance, I certainly should not
feel so extremely anxious about him, (as my
solicitude for my children, is as much as I am
well able to bear) were it not for the unhappy
circumstance that continually haunts me—I
mean, that I involved him in this fatal affair,
and that whatever ill consequences finally attend
it, will be imputable solely to me—It is
this, and this only, that renders me more unhappy
about him than you or any of his other
friends have reason to be, however great your
regard for him, and it is this, that, if the
event should in any way be injurious to him,
will overcast my days with regret and anguish
that must be all my own, for none can share,
because none can feel it as I shall—How lightly
you can talk, my dear girl, of his uncle,
even a moment after naming the intelligence
you have collected from him about Desmond,
but you have no reason to reproach yourself for
his misfortune—your heart is not weighed down
by any of your own—You cannot, and indeed
ought not to look forward as I do, to scenes of
future sorrow—long, very long, may it be, before
you may be compelled to do it—or, rather, may L3v 222
may nothing but rich and luxuriant prospects
ever offer themselves to the eyes of my Fanny.

But I beseech you to check your vivacity
when you meet Mr. Danby, and be content to
listen to his tiresome stories a little longer, if
listening to them is the tax you must pay for
hearing of his nephew, I could attend to the
most tedious legend with which self-consequence
ever persecuted patience, were I but sure
that some authentic information, as to the real
state of Desmond’s health, would close the narrative;
such information, without any tax being
demanded for it, I used to obtain from his
friend Mr. Bethel, but I have now no means of
seeing him, as he is gone back to his house in
Kent, that house so near the place which I cannot
help regretting—Had it not been sold, I
could have gone thither now, I might have
seen Mr. Bethel continually, he is an excellent
man, and is so much attached to Desmond,
that it is pleasant to hear him speak of him, indeed
he is the only person who does justice to
those noble qualities of heart and understanding
that Desmond so eminently possesses, but of
which three parts of the world know not the
value.

Yet I know not whether it was only my being
myself in dreadfully low spirits, when I last
saw Mr. Bethel, or whether he was himself in
a distressed state of mind, but methought he
spoke in a very reluctant and desponding way
about Desmond, though he assured me that he
was entirely out of danger of any kind from the
wound, and that the loss of the use of his hand
was no longer apprehended—But I found Mr.
Bethel
knows nothing certainly of Desmond’s
future intentions; and if he did not deceive me
about his health, there is assuredly some other circum- L4r 223
circumstance relating to him that makes Bethel
uneasy—He said much of the friendship Monsieur
de Montfleuri
had shewn to Desmond in
attending him, and of his sister too; that Madame
de Boisbelle
, who has, it is said, been his
nurse the whole time. I supposed, when I first
heard of her attendance on Mr. Desmond, that
she had been a widow, as it seemed unlikely she
could otherwise have been sufficiently at liberty
for such an exertion of friendship, but Mr. Bethel
informed me she is married, but very unhappily,
and that her husband, a bankrupt both
in fame and fortune, is an emigrant, and is
either in Germany or EnglandMr. Bethel
says the lady, who is extremely beautiful, is
now entirely dependent on the Marquis de
Montfleuri
her brother, whom she cannot
oblige more than by the attention she has shewn
to his friend—How fortunate she is in having
such a brother, how doubly fortunate in being
allowed to shew her gratitude to him, by giving
her sisterly attendance to such a man as Desmond
—Beautiful and accomplished as Mr. Bethel
describes her to be, methinks I envy her
nothing but the opportunity she has had to
soothe his hours of pain and confinement. I
used to think once, that Desmond had a very
friendly regard for me, but now, in how different
a light he must consider us—I have been
the cause of his sufferings—it has been the enviable
lot of Madame de Boisbelle to soften and
alleviate them—Mr. Bethel says he calls her
Josephine—If her good fortune should still prevail,
and her husband should not return from
the hazardous exploits in which, it is said, his
political principles are likely to engage him, she
will, perhaps, become his Josephine, for I have
persuaded myself that his long stay in France is now L4r 224
now more owing to the tender gratitude he must
feel for this lady, than to any necessity he is in,
on account of indisposition, to remain there.

And now, my Fanny, indeed, I cannot conclude
without availing myself of my eldership
once more, to entreat that you would consider
whether it would not be better to check that
flippancy with which you are too apt to accustom
yourself to speak of our mother. Admitting
that she has the foibles you represent, of
courting the rich—of being too partial to her
son, it is not her children who should point
them out to the observation and ridicule of
others—Believe me, my sister, there is nothing
so injurious to that delicate sensibility which
you really possess, as indulging this petulance
—By degrees, it will become habitual, and the
little asperities, which you now give way to only,
perhaps, in writing or in speaking to me,
will soon be so much matter of course that you
will forget their tendency, and be insensible of
their impropriety—It is true, that I have not
lived so much longer in the world as to be able
to speak from much experience; but, from the
little I have seen of that world more than you
have, I think I may venture to assert, that
where families are divided among themselves—
I mean, where the father or mother disagree with
the children, or the brothers and sisters with each
other, there is something very wrong among
them all, and I protest to you, that were I a
man, not beauty, wit, and fortune united,
should engage me to marry a woman who shewed
a want of duty and gratitude towards either
of her parents, but particularly towards her
mother—Were I madly in love, I am convinced,
that any thing like the ridicule of a daughter L5r 225
daughter so directed, would produce a radical
and immediate cure.

Here let me drop the subject, I hope for ever,
and to begin one that, I trust, will make
amends for any little pain this may have inflicted;
let me tell you, that since I have been
here, I have found my health and that of my
baby, sensibly amend, and that I now hope I
shall not be compelled to wean him, though I
am not happy, though I know I never can be
so, I have, at least, obtained a transient calm.
The agitation occasioned by the late painful
events, is gradually, though slowly subsiding;
I can now return to my books with attention
less distracted, and have been reading a description
of some of the southern parts of Europe,
particularly of the Lyonois, &c.—I should like
extremely to see those accounts which I find
Mr. Desmond sends to his friend Bethel, because
he has so much taste, and is so intelligent
a traveller—There was no possibility you know
of asking in plain terms for this indulgence, I
hinted it as much as I dared, though Bethel
did not, or perhaps would not understand me—
But to return to myself, and what you would
think melancholy, though it is not to me an unpleasing
way of passing my time—Dreary as the
season yet is, I have betaken myself to my solitary
walks in the fields that surround this house,
which, for a situation so near London, is extremely
pleasant, and quite retired—I find the
perfect seclusion, the uninterrupted tranquillity
I enjoy now, soothing to my spirits, and of
course, beneficial to my health, if I do but hear
favourable accounts from the continent, and
nothing new happens embarrassing in the pecuniary
affairs of Mr. Verney, I shall be soon restored
to as cheerful a state as I am now likely L5 ever L5v 226
ever to enjoy—Assist the progress of my restoration,
my dearest Fanny, by frequent letters,
since I cannot have the delight of your company,
and cheer with your vivacity, which I love
(even in reproving its wildest sallies.)

Your affectionate

Geraldine.

I had but just sealed my letter, when a pacquet
was brought me from Desmond himself—
Yes, my Fanny, a letter written with his own
hand, and not with so much apparent weakness
as one would imagine—I hope there is nothing
improper in the excessive pleasure this letter
gives me—Gratitude can surely never be
wrong, or if it can be carried to excess, its excess
is here pardonable—I know not what I would
say, my spirits are so fluttered—This welcome
letter has been very long in coming, I will send
you a copy of it in a post or two—Heaven bless
you, my Fanny.

Letter XXV.

To Mr. Desmond.

I was in hopes, my dear Desmond, that
long before this, I should have spoken to you
once more in England, instead of directing to
you in Switzerland. Your letter of the 1791-01-3030th
January, Which does not appear.
bade me sanguinely hope this, I
therefore forbore to write; but instead of seeing
you restored to health, to tranquillity, and
your country, I receive a melancholy letter
from the pays de Vaud—Yet you assure me that your L6r 227
your arm no longer reminds you of your accident,
and I trust to your assurances, as well as
to the evidence of your handwriting—You tell
me also, that your health is much amended,
why then, my friend, this extraordinary depression
of spirits?—I own I am made uneasy,
extremely uneasy, in observing it, and cannot
help lamenting that your time, your talents,
and your temper, are thus wasted and destroyed
—Is it, that this fatal passion still obscures your
days? or is there, as indeed I strongly suspect,
is there some other source of uneasiness more
recent, to which I am a stranger? It has been
a rule with me, even while you were, in some
measure, under my guardianship, never, dear
Desmond, to intrude upon you with officious
enquiries, nor to ask more of your confidence
than you chose to give me—Friendship, like
the service of heaven, should be perfect freedom;
yet forgive me, if for once I intrude
upon your reserve with curiosity that arises solely
from my regard for you—Is there in this any
circumstance, the pain of which I can remove?
if there is, I will be satisfied with such a partial
communication as may enable me to be of use
to you, without enquiring into particulars you
may wish to conceal.

I send you, with other books, one that now
engrosses all the conversation of this country,
which, from its boldness and singularity alone,
and, written as it is, by an obscure individual, Paine.
calling himself the subject of another government,
could never have attracted so much attention,
or have occasioned to the party whose
principles it decidedly attacks, such general
alarm, if there had not been much sound sense
in it, however bluntly delivered—As I had ratherther L6v 228
hear your opinion of it, than give you my
own, I will leave the discussion of politics, to
tell you of what passes among your acquaintance
—This neighbourhood is almost wholly
occupied by the improvements which Sir Robert
Stamford
is making at Linwell, the place so
regretted by Mrs. Verney—The beautiful little
wood which overshadowed the clear and rapid
rivulet, as it hastens through these grounds to
join the Medway, has been cut down, or at
least a part of it only has been suffered to remain,
as what he calls a collateral security against the
north-east wind, to an immense range of forcing
and succession houses, where not only
pines are produced, but where different buildings,
and different degrees of heat, are adapted
to the ripening cherries in March, and peaches
in April, with almost every other fruit out of
its natural course—The hamadryades, to whom
I remember, on your first acquaintance with
the Verney family, you address some charming
lines of poetry, because it was under their protection
you first beheld Geraldine; the hamadryades
are driven from the place which is now
occupied by culinary deities—The water now
serves only to supply the gardeners, or to stagnate
in stews for the fattening of carp and
tench; heaps of manure pollute the turf, and
rows of reed fences divide and disfigure those
beautiful grounds, that were once lawns and
coppices—Every thing is sacrificed to the luxuries
of the table; and the country neighbours,
though many of them possessed the usual elegancies
and superfluities of modern life before,
are compelled to hide their diminished heads,
when Sir Robert Stamford gives an entertainment
—Riches, however, unworthily acquired,
are a sure passport to the “mouth of honor,” not only L7r 229
only of the common herd of those who are called
“gentlemen and ladies,” but to the titled
and the high born, who, while they court newrisen
opulence, envy, and yet despise the upstart
who has obtained it—I never meet this
great man myself, as our former connections,
and our present estrangement, are so generally
known, that we are never invited together, but
he is almost always the subject of discourse, at
parties where I do go, and always spoken of
with wonder; for hardly a week passes in which
some new improvement in luxury does not excite
admiration at his boundless expence,
which, from such a man, is supposed to be supported
by a great fortune, for, as he has raised
himself, it seems unlikely that he should so little
understand the value of money, as to squander it
thus profusely, if he had not a great deal of it.
To those, who are more in the secret, all this
ought not perhaps to be wonderful; yet, though
I know the very extent of Stafmord’sStamford’s abilities,
and know that he has nothing like eminent talents,
though perhaps an acute and active mind;
I have, I own, now and then been tempted to
wonder at his extraordinary and rapid rise, and
have joined the old ladies, who talk him over,
in pronouncing him a wonderfully lucky man
When I hear of the ostentation with which he
displays those acquisitions, which are beyond
the reach of others—When I am told, that men
of the first rank come to eat his good things,
and praise his skill in collecting them—When
I learn that the Minister sends for him express,
and that no resolution of importance is adopted
without consulting him—And recollect how
very few years are passed since he was a country
AtrorneyAttorney, and rode more miles for half-acrowncrown L7v 230
than a postillion—I cannot always repress
a degree of astonishment, and say. “We know the thing is neither new nor rare, But wonder how the devil it got there!” Pope

It is pleasant enough to hear the conversation
that sometimes pass about this man at the dinner
and tea tables—The awe that the superiority
of riches creates, represses the malignity
that envy engenders, though with so much difficulty
represses it, that it is every moment obliquely
appearing—For my own part, I regard
this man with so much contempt, that the only
pain I now feel from his residing in my immediate
neighbourhood, arises from my regret for
the loss of Mrs. Verney, whose society indeed,
I had not learned to relish when I was deprived
of it. This confession is imprudent, perhaps,
my friend, and encouraging that unhappy prepossession
which I have always blamed, but
truth extorts it from me, and the more I see of
the usual dull round of country visits and country
conversation, the more I regret the time,
when I was sure to find at Linwell, a woman,
who, to the softness of manners of her own
sex, unites a strength of understanding, which
we believe peculiar to ours, and who, with so
capable a head, has a heart so admirably tender
—You will be alarmed, perhaps, Desmond, at
the warmth of my panegyric, and fancy, that
in endeavouring to cure you, I have myself
caught the infection—But be at peace, my
friend, on that score—though Geraldine,
in the two last conversations I had with her,
has made me a sincere convert to an assertion of
your’s, which I used to deny, that he, who
has once seen and loved her, could never divest
himself of his attachment, yet, I am no longer liable L8r 231
liable to feel this fatal infatuation in the excess
you do, and am only sensible of such regard for
her, as a father or brother might feel—I own,
that even the depression of spirit which her unhappy
marriage occasions, is not without its
charms—but when I see her struggling to palliate
what he will not allow her to conceal, the
wild absurdities and ruinous follies of her husband
—when I see her mild endurance of injuries,
and that her patience and sweetness are
vainly endeavouring “To spread A guardian glory round her ideot’s head.” Hayley.

I feel respect bordering on adoration, and set
her above Octavia, or any of the fair examples
in ancient story—Yes! my dear Desmond, I
not only acquit you of folly, but have more than
once caught myself building for your delightful
chateaux en Espagne, which, however, I will
not feed your sick fancy by sketching, for Verney’s
life, notwithstanding its irregularities, is
a very good one, and it were therefore much
wiser in me to direct your thoughts to the former
and more rational advice I gave you, when
I expressed my hopes, that you might in time
carry your affections to the very lovely and animated
Fanny Waverly, who, if I am any judge
of the female heart, from the countenance, and
the manner, would not let you despair, and
who, as she is very far from suspecting your
partiality to her sister, perhaps, puts down to
her own account the extraordinary exertions of
friendship which you have made for her family,
in becoming the travelling friend of her brother.

I do not hear that Waverly has yet made his
appearance in England, though I have enquired of
several of my acquaintance, who are lately come L8v 232
come from Bath, and who tell me that his mother,
Mrs. Waverly, is distressed by his long
delay, and the uncertainty of what is become of
him; that she is compelled to have a party
with her all day, who engage her at cards, in
order to detach her mind from this insupportable
anxiety—Fortunate resource!—How these
good folks are to be envied, who can, in tranquillity
solace, in affliction, console themselves
with a rubber! “A blessing on him,” quoth
Sancho, “who first invented the thing called
sleep, it covers a man over like a cloak”
—A
blessing, say I, on him who first invented those
two-and-fifty squares of painted paper—They
blunt the arrows of affliction, “and reconcile
man to his lot.” Cowper.

While the elder lady of the Waverly family
is thus diverting the pangs of maternal disquietude,
and the younger trying to think less
of a certain sentimental wanderer, by flirting,
to use her own phrase, with all the smartest men
at Bath, who assiduously surround her—Geraldine
remains in perfect retirement at a lodging
near Richmond, with her children, and only
two servants—she has no carriage with her, and
never goes out butt obut to walk with her little ones;
and having, wisely, declined all visitors, she
has not, I hope, yet learned that all Verney’s
town-carriages and horses, except only a postchaise,
which somebody re-purchased for him,
are lately sold—He is himself gone into Yorkshire,
whither he absolutely refused to suffer her
to go, when country air was prescribed for her
health, and it is reported, and I fear with
truth, that he has established an hunt there, of
which he bears the greatest share of the expence,
though it is said to be at the joint charge of himself, L9r 233
himself, Lord Newminster, and Sir James
Deybourne
. The arrangement at Mooresly
Park
, is said (and still I believe with too much
foundation) to consist of three of the
most celebrated courtezans, who are at this
time the most fashionable, and of course, the
most expensive—Every one of these illustrious
personages apppropriating one of these ladies
for the time of their residence. This has been
going on ever since the month of January, and
is to end only with the hunting season—You
will wonder, perhaps, how I got at all this intelligence,
but my solicitude for Geraldine
conquers the dislike I have to enter into that
sort of conversation which is called gossipping,
and I happen to have an acquaintance at W―,
a spinster, somewhat passed the bloom of life,
and who, very much against her inclinations,
has hitherto remained “unsapped by caresses,
unbroken in upon by tender salutations,” Sterne.

but, though without fortune, she is of a good
family, and being allied to some great people,
and having contrived to make herself useful to
others, she is received alternately at several
fashionable houses, where she flatters the lords
and ladies; sits with the young misses while
their masters are with them; and reads aloud
to the blind or sick dowager, who loves a newspaper
or a novel; but though she is thus three
parts of the year among her illustrious friends,
she chuses always to reserve a home, which
happens to be a small, neat lodging at W―,
where she has been many years an occasional
inhabitant.

Now it chanced, that when first Geraldine
was married, and came a lovely, blooming
creature of eighteen into this neighbourhood, this L9v 234
this Miss Elford, was among her earliest visitors.
—It is said, that a young and handsome
married woman is generally an object of dislike
to ladies who are “Withering on the virgin thorn, In single blessedness.” Shakespeare.
but Miss Elford, as if to contradict so invidious
an assertion, was seen to take a peculiar and
lively interest in the welfare of her dear friend
Mrs. Verney (for a dear friend she soon became),
and her good humour, which had before
been but little remarked, became now very
eminent—the change was accounted for partly
by the acquisition she had made of so pleasant an
acquaintance as Mrs. Verney, whose house
within a mile of the town, was extremely convenient
to her, and whose coach and servants
were always at her command, and partly by the
supposed attention of a very handsome clergyman,
who having two years before given up a
fellowship at Oxford to marry a very pretty woman,
whom he passionately loved, had, within
twelve months lost her, and now had accepted
a curacy at a distance from the scene of his past
happiness and misfortune, and in attempting to
dissipate his grief, had mixed much in the society
of the neighbourhood, and had appeared
particularly pleased in that of Miss Elford, who
passed for a most sensible woman.—When
Verney settled at Linwell, this gentleman, Mr.
Mulgrave
, was continually at the house where
Miss Elford frequently resided also, and where
(especially after Verney gave him a living,
which happened to fall at that time) it was supposed
that their intended union was rapidly advancing
to its conclusion; when suddenly, Mr.
Mulgrave
grew cold and reserved, and the mortifiedtified L10r 235
Miss Elford lost once more the prospect of
an immediate and fortunate establishment.

Though, till then, Mrs. Verney had been,
in her estimation, the best, sweetest, dearest
creature in the world, the excessive fondness of
Miss Elford declined from this moment; and as
she could not suffer herself to think that she had
been premature in reckoning on the impression
she had made on Mr. Mulgrave, or that she
wanted the captivating talents necessary to fix
that impression when it was made; she took it
into her head that Mr. Mulgrave had conceived
an improper affection for Mrs. Verney, and
though there was probably not the least grounds
for this idea, she has cherished it ever since,
and consequently hates Geraldine, with an inveterate
malignity, which no other cause could
raise, or could sustain—Still, however, she conceals
this hateful sentiment under the semblance
of friendship—She laments, most pathetically,
the hard fate of “that sweet woman”—Sheds
crocodile tears over the ruinous extravagancies
of Verney (of which, however, she has always
the earliest intelligence), and tells every body
how long she foresaw these fatal propensities in
the husband of her charming friend before they
broke out—talks of the vanity of all sublunary
plans of happiness, and thanks her good God!
—for having placed her lot, where she is not exposed
to these heart-rending vicissitudes.—This
good little gentlewomengentlewoman, then, great part of
whose life, I really believe, passes in collecting
and dispersing accounts of the failures, failings,
faults, and follies of her acquaintance, has been
of late more than usually active; and as she
finds I listen to her with a greater degree of attention
than I used to afford her, and is not
aware of the motive I have for doing so, I see she L10v 236
she entertains a thousand wandering fancies relative
to my assiduity, and eagerly exerts herself
to obtain its continuance—I am a widower,
about her own age—I have children who may
want the care of such a discreet person—I may
myself desire a rational companion—Of all these
considerations, it is really wonderful to remark
the effect, and to observe how amiable, discreet,
and reasonable my prude affects to be—I am
sorry to encourage hopes, which I am afraid I
cannot even for your service, my dear Desmond,
realize, but as I have no other means of obtaining
such intelligence as you want, and such as
indeed appears to me absolutely necessary to
enable either of us to assist in dispersing those
heavy clouds of calamity that are continually
hanging over her, for whom we are both so
anxious—I hope I am justified in availing myself
of the information so readily given me by
my neighbour—I wish I could add that the picture
I have drawn of Verney’s conduct, owes
its darkest touches to the sharp hands of malignant
envy, through which it has passed—But
on enquiring of other people, who are quite
disinterested, and who really admire and regret
the lovely victim of his follies, the circumstances
and proceedings of Verney are represented in
the same way.

I have had within this last week some symptoms
that threaten a return of the gout (if gout
it be) that has so long hung about me, and as
my friend Banks, on whose skill I have a great
reliance, persists in saying, that my future enjoyment
of life depends on my having a regular
sit, I shall, if these flying complaints are not
soon dissipated, go again to Bath, as soon as my
lent corn is in the ground, which three weeks
will complete—We have hitherto had a remarkablemarkable L11r 237
fine season, and my farming is likely
to go on most prosperously—Harry is doing well
at Winchester, and the masters assure me he will
be a very clever fellow—I shall take Louisa with
me, and put her to school at Bath for the time
I continue there, which will probably be three
months—Long, long before that time, my dear
Desmond, I hope to hail your return to England,
and to tell you personally, how truly I am

Your attached and faithful

,

Erasmus Bethel.

Letter XXVI.

To Mr. Bethel.

Your letter, with a packet of books,
reached me here, my friend, by the hands of
our old acquaintance Ashby, who took them up
on his way, and delivered them safely to me
three days ago—How shall I, how ought I to
reply to such friendly enquiries, such generous
offers as your’s?—I can find no words that answer
my idea of all I ought to say to thank
you—none that seem adequate to excuse that
want of confidence, perhaps you will think of
gratitude, which I must seem to shew, when
I say, that though I am very certainly most unhappy,
it is impossible for me to avail myself of
your friendship towards the alleviation of my
unhappiness, impossible for me even to communicate
its source—Notice not, therefore, my
despondence, my dear Bethel, its cause cannot be L11v 238
be removed, and whatever may be its consequences,
be assured that I deserve them all—
Every word I write on this subject gives me inexpressible
pain, and therefore, I know you will
pardon my beseeching you not to renew the topic,
assuring yourself, that if at any future time, I
can properly take advantage of your counsel, and
your friendship, there is not on earth the man
to whom I would so readily apply.

I will not, however, in any instance deceive
you. My late accident, my present state of
health, are neither of them the cause of my remaining
abroad—The uneasiness I suffer is not
solely on account of Geraldine, though your
last letter has encreased and rendered almost insupportable
the solicitude I feel for her—yet
amidst all the anguish with which my mind
dwells on the calamities that surround her, it is
most soothing and consolatory to hear from
yourself that she has found a friend in you;
and that, being a convert to the united power
of goodness, understanding, and beauty, you
have been taught by their invincible attraction,
to pity, and even to approve the attachment
you were so lately disposed to condemn and ridicule,
and which you so lately and undeservedly
gave me credit for having conquered.

In lodgings at Sheen, with only her children
with her!—one of the houses, that in which
she used to delight, sold—the other, the ancient
house of her husband’s family, inhabited by his
courtezans, and his dissolute companions!

Yet, amid all this, instead of returning evil
for evil, what is her conduct?—she goes to a
cheap retirement; she is occupied only in the
care of her children; instead of the retaliation
which we see so usually adopted by young and beautiful L12r 239
beautiful women, whose husbands neglect and
ill treat them, it seems as if her patient sweetness
encreased in proportion to the provocation
she receives. Accursed be he, who shall attempt
to degrade a character so noble, to sully
a mind so angelic—Never will I be that man—
But if I continue in this strain, I shall get into
those regions of heroics, that are, you say, beyond
the reach of your reasonable and calm
comprehension; so we will talk of something
else; and in order to convince you that I can
occasionally play the Mentor, instead of being
always your Telemachus, I am going to give
you something very like a lecture—My dear
Bethel, why do you suffer that Sir Robert
Stamford
to occupy and inflame to resentment
a mind like your’s—When you regret, that the
place where I first saw Geraldine, and where I
have so often repeated “Benedetto fia ’l giorna, e’l mese, e l’anno E la stagion e’l tempo, e l’ora e’l punto, E’l bel paese, e’l loco ov’io fui giunto Da duo begli occhi, che legato m’hanno.” Petrarch.

I understand all your friendly emotions, and
rejoice that you enter with such enthusiasm into
those feelings which, till you were more acquainted
with Geraldine, you treated as romantic
puerilities—but when the fungus growth of
this arrogant upstart has so much share in your
indignation, I am hurt, that the elevated spirit
of my friend can be ruffled by a being so utterly
contemptible. “Small things make mean men proud.” Shakespeare.

Can L12v 240

Can you then wonder, that to such a man, his
sudden, and, as he well knows, his undeserved
exaltation is matter of ostentatious triumph?
but does it make him respectable in the world?
and does not even the basest part of that world,
while it courts, despise him?—Leave him then,
my friend, to waste in swinish excess, sums,
which he has earned by doing dirty work, at
the expence of those who are now called the
swinish multitude,” * Vide Mr. Burke’s description of the people. hundreds of whom
might be fed by the superfluities of his luxurious
table—Leave him to the wretched adulation of
the fawning parasite, who can stoop to admire
his fine places, and be repaid by the delicacies
of his table. Leave him to be an example of
how little merit is required in our country to
reach the highest posts of profit and confidence
—an example of a placeman filling useless places
—of a pensioner paid for the mischief he has
assisted in doing to the nation, whose governors
have thus rewarded him—But let not your mind,
possessing, as it does, all the upright principles,
the generous independence, that once characterised
the English gentleman, be disturbed by
the disgusting insolence of such a being, while
you feel, that the humblest labourer who cultivates
your ground, is a more honest and a more
respectable man.

In reading the book you sent me, which I
have yet had only time to do superficially, I am
forcibly struck with truths, that either were not
seen before, or were (by men, who did not wish
to acknowledge them) carefully repressed; they
are bluntly, sometimes coarsely delivered, but
it is often impossible to refuse immediate assent to M1r 241
to those which appear the boldest; impossible to
deny, that many others have been acceded to,
when they were spoken by men, to whose authority
we have paid a kind of prescriptive obedience,
though they have now called forth such
clamour and abuse against the author of the
Rights of Man.
—My other letters from England
are filled with accounts of the rage and
indignation which this publication has excited
—I pique myself, however, on having, in my
former letter, cited against Burke a sentence of
Locke, which contradicts as forcibly as Paine
has contradicted one of his most absurd positions
—I know, that where sound argument fails,
abusive declamation is always substituted, and
that it often silences where it cannot convince—
I know too, that where the politics are obnoxious,
recourse is always had to personal detraction;
I therefore wonder not, that on your
side the water, those who are averse to the politics
of Paine, will declaim instead of arguing; and
those who feel the force of his abilities, will
villify his private life, as if that was any thing
to the purpose; I do, however, wonder, that
these angry antagonists do not recollect, that
the clamour they raise, serves only to prove
their fears; and that if the writings of this man
are, as they would represent, destitute of truth
and sound argument, they must be quickly
consigned to contempt and oblivion, and could
neither be themselves the subject of alarm, or
render their author an object of investigation
and abhorrence; but the truth is that, whatever
may be his private life, (with which I cannot
understand, that the public have any concern)
he comes as a political writer, under the description
given of a controvertist by the acute author, Vol. I. M to M1v 242
to whom Monsieur d’Hauteville has so terrible
an aversion.

“A t’on jamais vu un plus abominable
homme? il expose les choses avec un fidelité
si odieuse; il met sous les yeux le pour & le
contre avec un impartialité si lâche; il est d’un
clairté si intolerable, qu’il met les gens qui
n’ont que le sens commun, en etat de douter, &
même de juger.” “Was there ever such an abominable fellow? he exposes the
truth so odiously; he sets before our eyes the arguments on
both sides with such horrible impartiality; he is so intolerably
clear and plain, that he enables people who have only common
sense, to doubt, and even to judge
.—”
Voltaire.

I frequent no society here willingly, as I find
my mind by no means in a state to attend to
the common occurrences of life without fatigue;
and that both my spirits and health suffer, by
the exertion which a man is obliged to make in
company for which he does not care a straw.
However, as Ashby had been very obliging to
me in bringing my pacquets from Marseilles,
and depended on me for introduction here, I
went with him yesterday to the house of a man
of some consideration, where there is generally
the best company of the place assembled, and
where there then happened to be, among many
others, French and Swiss, two Englishmen,
one, a Mr. Cranbourne, who has accompanied,
in their travels, several men of rank, and now
is returning to England with a Lord Fordingbridge,
whose minority is just ended, and who
is returning to England to take his seat in the
house of peers.

Mr. Cranbourne, who was, I find, bred to
the law, has all that supercilious and dogmatical
manner, which an education for the bar very frequently M2r 243
frequently gives—He asserts with violence, and
maintains with obstinacy; and though the world
doubted either of the profundity of his judgment,
or the power of his eloquence, so that
he was unfeed and unretained during the course
of those years that he called himself a counsellor,
he is so perfectly convinced of his eminence
in both, that he is on all occasions, not a pleader,
but a decider, and sits self-elected on the judgment
seat, on every occasion of controversy—
His travels, without divesting him of the querulous
asperity of the bar, have made him a
solemn coxcomb in every other science; and he
prides himself on having formed his present
pupil on his own model, and declares, that he
will make a superior figure as an orator in the
British senate.

The boy, who has thus been taught to consider
himself as a miracle of elegance and erudition,
unites the flippant airs of a young man
of a certain rank―with the sententious
pertness of an attorney’s clerk just out of his
time—I found him, on our entrance, standing
in the midst of a circle, declaiming against the
French government; and pouring forth a warm
eulogium on Mr. Burke—The lordling affects
an Italian accent, and to have forgotten the harsh
tones of his native language, when he deigns
to speak it—“Pray,” said he, “tell me you,
who know, what is this other book—This answer
to Burke, that I have been bored with—
somebody wanted me to read it, but I had neither
patience nor inclination—It seems from the account
other people have given me, to be very
seditious; I wonder they don’t punish the author,
who, they say, is quite a low sort of fellow
―What does he mean by his Rights of M2 Man, M2v 244
Man, and his equality?—What wretched and
dangerous doctrine to disseminate among the
lazzaroni Lazzaroni, a word descriptive of people reduced to the
utmost poverty and wretchedness.
of England, where they are always
ready enough to murmur against their betters?
I hope our government will take care to silence
such a demagogue, before he puts it into the
heads of les gens sans culotes, in England, to do
as they have done in France, and even before he
gets some of the ragged rogues hanged—They
rights! poor devils, who have neither shirts
nor breeches!”

You have accused me of laying by in company,
even where the conversation has turned
on topics that interest me most. I own I had
done so now, partly from depression of spirits,
and partly from the reluctance I felt to engage
in wordy war against prejudice and absurdity.
—I now, however, ventured to enquire of
Lord Fordingbridge, whether these men whom
he called lazzaroni, might not be urged to revolt
by those very miseries which exposed them
to his contempt? and whether such extreme
poverty and wretchedness did not shew the necessity
of some alteration in the government
where they existed?—If government be allowed
to be for the benefit of the governed, not the
governors, surely these complaints should be
heard. “Why, what would you have government
do?”
answered he—“How can it prevent
such sort of things?―Our’s, for example,
against which these stupid dogs are complaining
in libellous pamphlets and papers, by what
means can it obviate these discontents?—Would
you have the Minister keep a slop-shop, to supplyply M3r 245
the sans culotes with those necessaries gratis?”

—This convincing argument, which the whole
company applauded with a loud laugh, gave my
right honourable adversary such confidence in
his own powers, that, without permitting me
to reply, he proceeded.—“I insist upon it, that
there is no cause of complaint in England; nobody
is poor, unless it be by their own fault; and
nobody is oppressed; as to the common people,
the mob, or whatever you please to call them;
what were they born for but to work? And
here comes a fellow and tells them about their
rights—They have no rights—they can have
none, but to labour for their superiors, and if
they are idle, ’tis their own faults, and not the
fault of the constitution, in which there are no
imperfections, and which cannot by any contrivance
be made better.”

“Your lordship,” answered I, “whose comprehensive
mind probably looks forward to the
time when you will yourself make one of that
illustrious body that Mr. Burke describes as the
Corinthian pillar of polished society, has, I dare
say, in travelling through other countries, made
the government of your own your peculiar study,
and by contrasting it with those you have seen,
you have learned to appreciate its value—That
it is superior to most, perhaps, to all of them,
I am willing to allow, yet I cannot pronounce
it to be without imperfections, where I observe
such dreadful contrasts in the condition of the
people under it—Who can walk through the
streets of London without being shocked with
them?—Here, a man, who possesses an immense
income which has been given him for his
servile attendance, or his venal voice, an income,
which is paid from the burthensome impostsposts M3v 246
laid on the people, is seen driving along
in a splendid equipage; his very servants cloathed
in purple and fine linen, and testifying, by
their looks, that they ‘fare sumptuously every
day’
—There, extended on the pavement, lies
one of those very people whose labour has probably
contributed to the support of this luxury,
begging wherewithal to continue his degraded
existence, of the disgusted passenger, who turns
from the spectacle of his squalid wretchedness
—In our daily prints, this shocking inequality
is not less striking—In one paragraph, we are regaled
with an eulogium on the innumerable
blessings, the abundant prosperity of our country;
in the next, we read the melancholy and
mortifying list of numberless unhappy debtors,
who, in vain, solicit, from time to time, the
mercy of the legislature, and who are left by the
powers who can relieve them, to linger out their
unprofitable lives, and to perish, through penury
and disease, in the most loathsome confinements,
condemned to feel ‘The horrors of a gloomy gaol, Unpitied and unheard, where misery moans; Where sickness pines; where thirst and hunger burn, And poor misfortune, feels the lash of guilt.’ Thomson.
To-day, we see displayed in tinsel panegyric,
the superb trappings, the gorgeous ornaments,
the jewels of immense value, with which the
illustrious personages of our land amaze and delight
us—To-morrow, we read of a poor man,
an ancient woman, a deserted child, who were
found dead in such or such alleys or street,
supposed to have perished through want, and the M4r 247
the inclemency of the weather;’
and is it possible
to help exclaiming, ‘take physic pomp— Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel; So shalt thou shake the superflux to them, And shew the heavens more just.’” Shakespeare.

The young peer, who had shewn more patience
than I expected, now interrupted me—
“All this is very fine, Sir,” said he, “but give
me leave to say, that it is all common place declamation,”
(that was true enough) “and does not
go to prove, that the form of our government
is defective—misery exists every where, and is
intended to exist; even according to your own
quotation, it is allowed— ‘And shew the heavens more just.’
It is heaven so decides then, and by no means
the fault of government—It is the lot of humanity,
and cannot be changed.”
“Thus it
is,”
answered I, “that we dare to arraign our
God for the crimes and follies of man—that
God, who certainly made none of his creatures
to be miserable, nor called any into existence
only to live painfully, and perish wretchedly;
but when the blind selfishness of man distributes
what Providence has given; when avarice
accumulates, and power usurps, some have
superfluities, which contribute nothing to their
happiness, others hardly enough to give them
the means of a tolerable existence—Were, there,
indeed, a sure appeal to the mercies of the rich,
the calamities of the poor might be less intolerable;lerable; M4v 248
but it is too certain, that high affluence
and prosperity have a direct tendency to harden
the temper. How few do we meet with who
can feel for miseries they cannot imagine, and
are sure they can never experience?―How
many, who have hearts so indurated by their
own success or fortune, that they are insensible
to generosity, and even to justice?—How many
more, who would, perhaps, be in some degree
alive to the sensations of humanity, if their business,
or their pleasures allowed them time to
think, but who are so occupied by either the
one or the other, and so little in the habit of
attending to disagreeable subjects, that they
shrink from the detail of poverty and sorrow,
and would be disgusted with those who should
attempt to intrude with such images
‘On ears polite?’”

“Well, Sir,” cried my lord, in whose hands
the rest of the company continued to leave an
argument in which they thought he had greatly
the advantage—“Well, Sir! and what then?
—Have we not laws, by which our poor are
amply, magnificently provided for?”

“That they were intended to be so, I believe,”
answered I, “but how those laws are
perverted, let the frequent, the meritorious,
but unsuccessful attempts to amend them, bear
witness―Their abuse; the heaviness with
which they press on one part of the community,
without relieving the other, is one of the greatest
evils we complain of; but here, as in twenty
other instances, every attempt at redress is
silenced by the noli me tangere, which our constitution
has been made to say, and which has been M5r 249
been echoed, without enquiry, by all who have
either interest in preserving the inviolability
even of its acknowledged defects, or who have
been brought up in prejudices, that make them
believe that our ancestors were so much wiser
than we are; that it is a sort of sacrilege to
doubt the perfection of the structure they raised,
and to imagine an edifice of greater strength and
simplicity—If these prejudices are enforced and
continued—if every attempt to repair what time
has injured, or amend what is acknowledged to
be defective, is opposed as dangerous, and execrated
as impious; let us go on till the building
falls upon our heads, and let those who escape
the ruins, continue to meditate on the prodigious
advantage of this holy reverence, and
to boast of the happiness of being Englishmen!”

“I should be glad, Sir, since you, at least,
seem to have none of this respect,”
said the
young lawyer, and who now thought he had
been silent long enough—“I should be glad if
your sagacity would point out some of those
other defects in the structure of the English constitution,
which, doubtless, you have discovered.”

“That is not very difficult,” I replied, “and
I should begin by saying, that its very foundation
is defective, from the inequality of representation;
(were that assertion not allowed by
every one as an incontrovertible truth; and had
not there been such repeated mockeries, such
frequently renewed farces acted, to amuse us
with pretended efforts at a reform, which never
were intended, nor can ever be carried into effect,
but by the unanimous and determined perseverance
of the people)—To drop the metaphor,M5 phor, M5v 250
let me turn to another very common subject
of acknowledged complaint—I mean the
penal laws—laws, by which the property and
the life of the individual is put on an equal
footing, and by which murder, or a robbery to
the amount of forty shillings, are offences
equally punished with death—Is it possible to
reflect without horror, on the numbers that are
every year executed, while every year’s experience
evinces, that this prodigality of life renders
the punishment familiar, and prevents not
crimes?—Is there a session at the Old Bailey,
where boys, from fifteen to twenty are not condemned?
—boys, who, deserted from their infancy,
have been driven, by ignorance and want,
to violate the laws of that society, which ‘Shakes her encumbered lap, and throws them out.’ Cowper.
Why do we boast of the mildness and humanity
of laws, which provides punishment instead
of prevention? And can we avoid feeling, that
while they give up yearly to the hands of the
executioner greater numbers than die the victims
of public justice in all the other European countries
reckoned together; we must, in spite of
our national vanity, acknowledge, either, that
the English are the worst, and most unprincipled
race of men in Europe, or, that their penal
laws are the most sanguinary of those of
any nation under heaven―Attempts have
been made to remedy this enormity, which I
cannot help calling a national disgrace; but,
like every other endeavour at partial correction
of abuses, these humane efforts have been baffledfled M6r 251
on the usual principle, that nothing must
be touched, nothing must be changed”

“Really, Sir,” said Mr. Cranbourne, “you
are a most able advocate for beggars and
thieves.”

“At least, Sir, I am a disinterested one, for
I plead for those who cannot see me—but it is
not for beggars and thieves, as you are pleased
to say, that I plead—it is for the honor of my
country—for the reform of the laws, which occasion
beggars and thieves to exist in such numbers;
while we ostentatiously boast, that those
laws are the best in the world. Nor is it only
the penal laws that seem to want alteration;
allow me to observe, that from the continual
complaints of the defects of our law, as it relates
to the protection of property, it does not
seem to deserve the praise of superiority which
we arrogantly claim—We hear every day of
suits in which even success is ruin; and we
know, that far from being able to obtain in our
courts, that speedy, clear, decisive, and impartial
justice, which, from their institution
they are designed to give, a victory (obtained,
after being sent through them all) is often
much worse than a retreat—the remedy more fatal
than the disease—So conscious are even the
lawyers themselves of this, that if one of them
(as may happen) has a personal regard for his
client, and is willing to waive pecuniary advantage
in his favor, such a lawyer will say—‘Do
anything—submit to any compromise—put up
with any loss, rather than go to law’
—One of
our courts is called that of Equity, where the
widow, the orphan, the deserted and unhappy
of every description (who have money) are to
find protection and redress; yet it is too certain,tain, M6v 52252
that such are the delays, such the expences
in this court, that the ruinous tediousness of a
Chancery suit is become proverbial—the oppressed
may perish, before they can obtain the
remedy they seek; and where, under the direction
of this court, litigated property is to be
divided, it continually happens, that, by the
time a decision is obtained, there is nothing to
divide—The poet I just now quoted, says, ‘In this rank age, Much is the patriot’s weeding hand required.’ Thomson.
But alas!—especial care is taken, that neither
reason nor patriotism shall touch too rudely ‘The toils of law, where dark, insidious men, Have cumbrous added to perplex the truth, And lengthen simple justice into trade.’ Ibid.
And yet ‘How glorious were the day that saw these broke, And every man within the reach of right’” Ibid.

“As to your poets,” cried Mr. Cranbourne
superciliously—“There is no bringing argument
against their flowery declamation; fine
sounding words about rights and liberties, are
imposing to superficial understandings, but cannot
convince others—fine flourishing words are
not arguments.”

“Nor does there,” said I, “need arguments,
on what I have asserted—they are matters of
fact, and not of speculation or opinion—truths,
which cannot be denied, and which it would
require some skill to palliate.”

“As M7r 253

“As to truth, Sir, it is not always proper
to speak it, nay, it is not always safe to the
well-being of a state—The question, I think is,
not whether a thing be exactly conformable to
your Utopian and impracticable schemes, but
whether it be expedient—We know that truth
is not expedient
, and that it is the business of
government to enforce obedience, without which
it would not go on; not to listen to the reasoning
of every wild dogmatist, who fancies himself
a philosopher, and able to mend what is
already good—all such should be prevented
from disseminating their pernicious doctrines,
which serve only to make men discontent with
their situation, to raise murmurs, and to clog the
wheels of government.”

This sentence, which was most consequentially
delivered, was applauded by all the party,
as I had nothing to offer against it, but that
truth which had just been pronounced to be inexpedient,
I declined the contest, saying only,
“If truth is not to be spoken, Sir, in a government,
calling itself free, lest it should be
understood by the people, who are governed;
and prevent their freely supplying the oil, that
facilitates the movement of the cumbrous machine
—If facts, which cannot be denied, be
repressed; and reason, which cannot be controverted,
be stifled; the time is not far distant,
when such a country may say, adieu liberty!—
Let them, therefore, if they are content to do
so, begin with expelling those who dare speak
truth, and are so impudent as to reason—‘Tous
ces gens qui raisonent sont la peste d’un etat.’” Voltaire“All these reasoning people are the very curses
of a government.”
I then M7v 254
I then left my adversary to enjoy the triumph of
his imaginary superiority, and wandered away
alone, indulging contemplations, mournful contemplations,
on far other subjects.—The moment
I am in solitude, the image of Geraldine
in distress, Geraldine contending with irremediable
misfortunes, recurs to me; and other
subjects of regret, add bitterness to my reflections;
perhaps, therefore, I should do wisely,
to mix more in society, where I must, of course “Disguise the thing I am, By seeming otherwise.”
But I am so poor at dissimulation, that the pain
of attempting it, is more harassing than the
thoughts I would fly from.

Write to me very frequently, my friend; and
remember as he wishes to be remembered,

Your’s ever, most affectionately,

Lionel Desmond.

Let- M8r 255

Letter XXVII.

To Mrs. Verney.

I am not surprised, my dear sister, but I
am very sorry you have had a visit from your
husband, and his foreign and English companions
—I foresee no possible good that can arise
from it, though I will not affect so much prescience
as to point out exactly the evils I apprehend;
one of which, however, you must yourself
see, I mean the expences that Verney will
be drawn into to give himself consequence
among these, his new friends; but, perhaps, he
may be content to exhibit his Yorkshire-house,
with some of the inhabitants he had lately there,
to do its honors, and may spare you, notwithstanding
what he said about your going down
thither—Believe me, I would not have named
this circumstance, as you have so often reproved
me for speaking with asperity of Verney, could
I have supposed it possible that you can be ignorant
of the party who were so lately collected there, M8v 256
there, or of the real reason which made him
oppose your going thither with your children,
when the country was pronounced absolutely
necessary for you by your physicians; forgive
me, pray, if I thus renew disagreeable recollections,
but I do not love you should now go
where such people held so lately their profligate
societies―I do not love that my Geraldine
should appear a neglected and unhappy wife,
presiding in the same scenes that so recently
witnessed the orgies of Verney, Scarsdale, Deybourne,
and Newminster, with abandoned prostitutes
—Shall I go farther, and add, that I do
not love my Geraldine should be where Scarsdale
is at all—you have often yourself observed
his behaviour; and, as he knows you cannot
fail to understand it, surely it is inconsistent with
your character to allow him an opportunity of
repeating it; do not go to Moorsly Park, my
sister, if you can avoid it; and if it cannot otherwise
be evaded, without a violation of what you
think your duty—obedience!—unqualified obedience!
—I will contrive, that my mother shall
make a point of your coming hither; a request
which Verney will not refuse, since he believes
that he owes to her the discharge of those two
most troublesome debts; (though it certainly
was not by her they were discharged) nor, were
some little gratitude out of the question, (which,
perhaps, with him it might be,) would he, however
politic he is, hazard offending my mother,
while he feels the daily probability of his being
under the necessity of asking other pecuniary
favors.

Let me hear, by an early post, that you determine
on this, or some other equally proper
scheme—Again let me ask your forgiveness, if I have M9r 257
I have said too much, and I entreat you to impute
it to the tender affection I bear you, which
is, you know, inherent, and has grown up with
me from my first consciousness of existence—
Alas! if I did not love you, what else should
I have to love in the world? My other sister is
so much older, that I have always had my affection
for her, “chastised by fear,” and she is
enemies, even to the ties of blood—My brother!
—alas! does he care for any of us, and is it possible
to waste one’s affection on apathy and indecision?
—My mother—! I trust, I venerate and
regard her, as my only parent; I think myself
indebted to her for the trouble she has taken
during my infancy and my childhood, and for
that portion of regard which she is able to spare
me (since I believe the affections are involuntary)
from her son; but I have felt too much
awe, to be sensible towards her, of that sympathetic
and gentle affection which unites me to
you—to you, my Geraldine, whose soft temper
is ever ready, even amidst your friendly chidings,
to plead for your flippant Fanny, while her heart
finds respondent sentiments only in your’s—
Ah! would to heaven I dared entrust you with
one, which is―but no: you have too many
troubles of your own—Never, never may your
tenderness for me add to their number.

Your uneasiness about my brother is now, I
hope, relieved, at least so far as depends on
knowing where he is—My mother, however, is
so far from feeling herself contented at the accounts
he has sent her of his journey to the
Archipelago, and his Grecian importations,
that she is, if possible, more uneasy and more
restless than she has been since his absence; for my M9v 258
my part, I think he is quite as well at Venice,
with his Cypriot, as he would be at Paris, or
in London, with any connection of the same
sort, that he might form at either of those
places; and certainly we have much less reason
to be dissatisfied, than if he had added to our
family alliances, by a union with that of the
illustrious house of St. Eloy.

That name brings to my mind, or rather
to the end of my pen, another name, I mean,
that of Desmond. His uncle, who is still here,
is grown quite coy upon that subject, though
willing enough to talk to me upon any other;
or if I continue, at any time, to oblige him to
speak upon it, his answers are peevish, short,
and unsatisfactory—I protest I am half inclined
to believe the venerable veteran is in love with
me himself, and is jealous of my grateful recollection
of his nephew—Oh! how I should be
delighted to have the power of teizing this old
petrifaction. But, alas! my dear sister, is all
exerted in vain, the heart of the Major is composed
of such impenetrable stuff, that, I believe,
there is no plaguing him any way.

Now do I long to tell you a little of what
is passing here; but, I know, the gossip of this
place is rather irksome than pleasing to you;
and I am often rather reproved than thanked, for
endeavouring to amuse you with the events,
real or imaginary, which occupy us here, and
gives us the requisite supplies of conversation for
the tea and card parties; but indeed, my Geraldine,
if you deprive me, by your rigid aversion
to what you call detraction, of such a resource I
know not what there will remain for me to write
about, and to fill those long letters which alone
satisfy you; I must not say much of any of our own M10r 259
own family, because you say it is pert, and undutiful,
and I know not what; if I could repeat
only good of the people I am among, you
would let me fill quires of paper about them; but,
as it is, if I report only what I hear, you accuse
me of being as spitefully scandalous as the
dowagers, who sit in tremendous committees on
the reputations of the week—You know, I never
am allowed to converse with any of the literary
people I meet, as my mother has a terrible
aversion to every thing that looks like a desire
to acquire knowledge; and for the same reason,
she proscribes every species of reading, and murmurs,
when she cannot absolutely prohibit the
fashionable, insipid novel.

There is so much enquiry of the sage, matronly
gentlewomen of her acquaintance, who
are, as she believes, deep in the secret, as to
what books are proper, who are the authors,
and whether there be “any offence in them;”
that, by the time these voices are collected, I
find, more than half I propose reading, absolutely
forbidden—Novels, it is decided, convey
the poison of bad example in the soft semblance
of refined sentiment—One contains an
oblique apology for suicide; a second, a lurking
palliation of conjugal infidelity; a third, a
sneer against parental authority; and a fourth,
against religion; some are disliked for doctrines,
which, probably, malice only, assuming the
garb of wisdom, can discover in them; and
others, because their writers have either, in
their private, or political life, given offence to
the prudery, or the party of some of these worthy
personages, whom my mother, relying on
their reputation for sanctity and sagacity, chuses
to consult; and thus I am reduced to practise the finesse M10v 260
finesse of a boarding-school miss, and to hide these
objectionable pages, from an inquisition not less
severe than that which the lovely Serena Triumphs of temper. sustained,
or I must confine myself to such mawkish
reading, as is produced, “in a rivulet of
text running through a meadow of margin,”
in
the soft semblance of letters, from Miss Everilda
Evelyn
, to Miss Victorina Villars

How then, my sister, am I to find any thing to
say but of living characters? or how can I help
being satirical against those who will not let me
be sentimental?—I might, indeed, read history;
but whenever I attempt to do so, I am, to tell
you the truth, driven from it by disgust—What
is it, but a miserably mortifying detail of crimes
and follies?—of the guilt of a few, and the
sufferings of many, while almost every page
offers an argument in favor of what I never will
believe—that Heaven created the human race
only to destroy itself; and that in placing the
various species of it, in various climates,
whence they acquired various complexions, habits,
and languages; their Creator meant these
men should become the natural enemies of each
other, and apply the various portions of reason
he has allotted them, only in studying how to
annoy and murder each other.

But I am wandering, in my wild way, from
the point; and, in my complaints, that the
pretty, soothing tales of imagination are prohibited,
while the hideous realities of human
life affright me, I had nearly forgotten what I
was going to say, which is not at all scandalous
—Oh no!—it is, on the contrary, an event at
which you will rejoice—Your old friend, Miss Elford, M11r 261
Elford
, has, at last, met with a lover, who
really purposes to become her husband—He is a
physician; very well looking, and twelve or
fourteen years younger than herself—She is in
love!—Oh! undescribably in love—And the
Doctor foresees, in her extensive connexions,
advantages likely to arise to him in his profession,
that will, he thinks, more than counterbalance
the trifling wants of fortune, beauty,
and youth—I dare not paint to you the ridiculous
love scenes that this tender pair exhibit—
You have seen Miss Elford in love once before,
and can, perhaps, imagine how she expresses
now a still more ardent passion; and with what
airs of antiquated coquetry she recalls the Doctor
to his allegiance, if, peradventure, she detects
his eyes wandering towards any of the
younger and handsomer part of the company—
The idea here is, that they are to be married very
soon, and I really wish they may, if it be only
in the hope, that Miss Elford, in having a husband
of her own, will be so engaged by her own
unexpected good fortune, as to let the rest of the
world remain for some time unmolested. I
cannot help it, my dear sister if, in despite of
your gentle admonitions, I do hate this little,
shrivelled, satirical Sybil—It was from her I
find, that the history of my brother’s adventures
with the St. Eloy family got abroad here, with
numberless additional circumstances that never
happened; and it is of her, that my mother
learned what I wished to conceal from her, the
parties that Verney lately had in Yorkshire.—
Oh! if you could have heard how she canted
about “her dear, her amiable Mrs. Verney;”
while she could not disguise the pleasure she took
in describing your husband’s foibles—you would have M11v 262
have been convinced of what I always told you;
that under uncommon hypocrisy, she conceals
uncommon malignity—As to myself, I find she
goes about talking of me in such terms as these:
“Did you see dear Miss Waverly at the ball
last night?—Was she not charming?—I think
she never looked so well; and really I begin to
be a convert to the opinion of those, who said,
last year, when she first came out, that she was
quite as handsome as her second sister Mrs. Verney,
the celebrated beauty—Mrs. Verney, poor,
dear creature!—(I have an amazing regard for
her, and have loved her from our childhood,
though she is two or three years younger than I
am!) Mrs. Verney is a little altered, though
still so very young—Poor thing!—troubles, like
her’s, are great enemies to beauty, which is but
as the flower of the morning; but however she
may be changed in appearance, she is still most
amiable—indeed, more so, as to gentleness of
temper, than Miss Waverly, though she is a
sweet girl, and has no fault, except, perhaps, a
little, a very little too much vivacity, which, it
is the great object of my worthy friend, her
mother, to check; judging, indeed, very truly
that a young person, so much followed and admired,
cannot be too reserved and cautious.”

—Yes! and, in consequence of this impertinent
opinion, this odious tabby (who says she
is only a year or two younger than you, though
she will never see forty again) has made my
mother so full of fears and precautions, that I
am neither to read any books but those that are
ordered by the Divan, of which she is deputy
chair-woman, or to speak to any men but old
fograms, such as Major Danby; or men of large
fortune—My mother need not be so apprehensive;sive; M12r 263
first, because I have not the least inclination
to set out for Scotland with any of the insignificant
butterflies, whom I like well enough
to have flutter about me in public; and secondly,
because, if I had such a fancy, there is not
one of them who has the least notion of marrying
a young woman without a fortune, or with
a very small one—Even the fortunate beings
who are not proscribed, men who can make a
settlement, have, for the most part, but little
inclination to encumber themselves with a
portionless wife; and among them all, I know
none who answer my ideas of what a man ought
to be—Alas! there is but one in the world whom
I should select as the hero of my Romance, if I
were in haste to make one.

But you must give me leave to detest Miss Elford
a little; though, indeed, I have not in my
heart room for many other sentiments than those
of anxiety and tenderness for you, my dear Geraldine.
Write soon, and explicitly, of your
intentions, to

Your affectionate and faithful,

Fanny Waverly

Let- M12v 264

Letter XXVIII.

Yes! my sister, I knew of the way in
which Mr. Verney lived when he was last in
Yorshire, though I never mentioned it, and
had some hope it might have escaped my mother’s
knowledge and your’s—Alas! Fanny!
I cannot be ignorant, however I desire to appear
so, of the extreme bitterness of the lot to which
I am condemned; but while you love me—
while my charming children are well—while my
mother thinks of me with some interest—and
let me add, while I have a few friends, whose
regard is so well worth possessing, I will not sink
under it; but will support myself by the reflexion,
that I do my duty, and, at least, deserve
a better fate—I now hasten to the other
parts of your letter—You will see, by the date
of this, that I am returned to London—and you
well know how much against my inclination—
However, it was thought better than going into
Yorkshire; and fortunately for me, the Duc de
Romagnecourt
, who is become Mr. Verney’s
most intimate friend, discovered, that he had
no inclination to go at this season into so remote
a part of England—However, Mr. Verney determinestermines 1 N1r 265
to entertain him here in a style which
may do honor to his hospitality; and as frequent
dinners are to be given, and the Duke professes
himself dissatisfied, even with the most luxurious
table, where ladies do not preside, I have
been compelled to quit my quiet lodging, and
am to remain here till―indeed, I know not
till when, for Mr. Verney is as unsettled in
his plans, even as my poor brother himself, and
without the docility which Waverly has, who
will generally allow some other person to decide
for him, and then believes, for a few hours,
that he has followed his own inclination.

All you say about Col. Scarsdale is very true
—It is impossible not to see, however I have
endeavoured to misunderstand him; that his
pretended friendship for Verney, does not prevent
his forming designs, which you may assure
yourself, excite only my contempt, and add
abhorrence of his principles to personal aversion
—I now see a great deal more of him than
I do of Mr. Verney; for though we have apparently
inhabited the same house these three
days, we have met only once, even at table,
and that was yesterday, when a magnificent
dinner was given to his friends—Col. Scarsdale,
however, is very obligingly willing not to consign
me to solitude; but, since he is always admitted
by Mr. Verney’s direction, and knows I
am never out, he takes the opportunity of sauntering
up to my dressing-room, where he plays
with the children, picks up my thread-paper,
insists upon bringing me new music, and on
reading to me some novel or poem, with which
he is generally furnished—If coldness, and apparent
disgust, could have put an end to attendance
so improper, and so uneasy to me, it certainlyVol. I N tainly N1v 266
would not have continued beyond the
second morning, but to-day is the third, on
which, in dsepitedespite of myself, I shall probably be
condemned to endure it—He affects extreme
uneasiness at the state of Verney’s affairs,
(though, till lately, he has endeavoured to
laugh off my solicitude about them, whenever
I ventured to express it) and has given several
intimations, that his friend has formed an attachment
to some expensive woman—hints,
that I determine never to understand—But,
when I thus evade the subject I wish not to hear
of, he sighs, walks about the room, and, as
if unable to express his emotions, cries, “I love
Verney from my soul; but, in this instance, I
cannot excuse him, though I pity him, for being
so insensible of his own happiness!—I believe
he is the only man in England who has so
little taste.”

This, they say, is such a common finesse, and
has been used so often, that I rather wonder the
Colonel, who piques himself on his peculiar
talents in gallantry, has not recourse to some
less hackneyed expedient—I must put an end to
such sort of conversation, however, though I do
not know how to do it; as my speaking to
Verney, (if he did not laugh at it, as he probably
would) might be attended with unpleasant
consequences. To-morrow the whole party
dine here again; and I have promised Mr. Verney
to go to Ranelagh with them, and Miss
Ayton
, who is so good as to come to me whenever
these engagements are made, that I may
not be the only woman—Oh! my Fanny, would
you were with me—Nothing could so soothe
my sufferings, as having you, to whom I might
weep at night, when I have been compelled to conceal N2r 267
conceal all day under affected tranquillity, the
anguish of a breaking heart—I shall own to you,
my dear sister, that notwithstanding the resolutions
I made at the beginning of my letter, to be
patient and tranquil, there are moments, when
I most sincerely wish that I and my babies were
all dead together—What will become of us?
If, as I greatly fear, there will soon be nothing
left but my settlement, between their father
and utter ruin—If it ever does come to that, of
which, from the hints dropped by Scarsdale, I
expect every day to hear, I shall, if I have any
such power, give it up to him, for I cannot
bear his distress, while I have the means of relieving
it—However, perhaps, it may not be so
bad as Scarsdale, with some very unworthy view
of his own, seems inclined to represent it—But,
from him, I have heard of such losses at play,
upon the turf, and in bets of other sorts, that if
only half of what he says be true, it is impossible
this poor infatuated man can go on long—I
need not say how greatly his expences are encreased
by the present set of acquaintance he
has got into—I have spoken of it to him at the
only moment I had an opportunity, and his answer
was—“Pooh! don’t give yourself any
concern about that—I know what I am about,
and shall take care to be no loser, but very much
otherwise.”
—This, I suppose, meant, that he
doubted not his success at play against the
French noblemen, two of whom are men of
very large fortune—But how degrading is such
a scheme!—how unworthy of a man professing
any honor or principle!—Enough, my Fanny,
perhaps too much on this cruel topic—I will
try to talk of other things.

N2 I cannot N2v 268

I cannot help smiling at your account of my
old acquaintaneacquaintance Miss Elford, whom I have
heartily forgiven, not only for the stories she
once sent forth about Mr. Mulgrave, which I
never knew she had done till lately; but for the
little air of triumph she assumes in relating, that
“poor, dear Mrs. Verney is already altered in
her appearance, though so young!”
—Ah! it
is very true, indeed, my love—I not only forgive
her, but am really very glad she is at length
likely to enter happily into that state which has
always been the great object of her laudable ambition
—She will now, I trust, bear less enmity
towards her young married friends, (how seldom,
alas! the objects of well-founded envy)
or towards those whose youth and charms seemed
to give them a chance which she herself despaired
of—I wish, however, she would not beset
my mother with stories of Mr. Verney,
which serve only to make her uneasy, without
producing any benefit to us.

You say, that my mother certainly did not
pay off those two debts that so sadly distressed
us five months ago—Who then could it be?—
Since I have been convinced it was none of my
own family, I have been, I own, very solicitous
to discover to whom such an obligation is
owing; and in the indiscretion of my curiosity, I
have applied to Colonel Scarsdale, who, without
directly asserting it, has given such answers,
as would (if I did not believe him incapable of
such an action, even from interested motives)
have led me to imagine it might be himself—
Surely this cannot be?—I wish it were possible
to know.

You ask me, my Fanny, after Mr. Desmond
—Alas! I know nothing satisfactory of him; N3r 269
him; and have sometimes been so anxious to
hear from him, as to think of writing to Mr.
Bethel
—Yet a fear of its having a singular and
improper appearance, has always deterred me.
What is your secret, my dear sister, which you
will not communicate, lest it should add to my
troubles?—Does it, as I guess, relate to Desmond?
—Oh! how happy, how enviable, would
the lot of that woman be, who, inspiring such
a man with esteem and affection, should be at
liberty to return it—Need I say, that it is the
wish of my heart, my Fanny, might be that fortunate
creature; yet, let me not assist in cherishing
an hope that may serve only to embitter her
life—I have heard it hinted, (but it is long
since, and, perhaps, came from no very good
authority) that he is already attached, with the
most ardent affection, to that Madame de Boisbelle,
who so assiduously attended him in his
illness; and that his continuing so long abroad,
is owing to his unwillingness to leave her—I
have collected this intelligence partly from
Colonel Scarsdale, who has some correspondence
abroad, and partly from my servant Manwaring,
whose husband is an old friend of Warham’s,
Mr. Desmond’s servant, and now and
then has a letter from him—Upon putting all
the circumstances together, I am compelled to
give that credit to their united evidence, which
I should not have given to the Colonel alone,
who seemed to triumph mightily in being able
to relate, that my excellent and virtuous friend,
as he sneeringly calls Desmond, is entangled in
an adventure with a married woman—Perhaps,
however, this is all the invention of malice, or
the painting of ignorance—Malice, that will
not allow it probable mere friendship should exist N3 between N3v 270
between two persons of different sexes; and
gross ignorance, that connotcannot imagine it possible
—May heaven bless Desmond, whatever are his
prospects and connexions! and may he be as
happy as he deserves to be!—I feel, too sensibly,
the weight of our obligation to him whenever
his name is mentioned, whenever I think of
him—Perhaps, I feel it the more, because (you
only excepted) none of my family seem to feel
it at all—My brother, I fear, never writes to
him; and has probably committed follies as
great, though not so irretrievable, as those
from which Desmond delivered him.―Mr.
Verney
is continually making Desmond’s quixotism
the subject of his ridicule; (a talent
which he manages generally so as to attract ridicule
himself) and my mother seems rather sorry
that Desmond is wiser than her son, than obliged
to him for having exerted that wisdom in
his behalf. How long, my dear Fanny, has
your reading been under proscription?—We
used to read what we would, when we were
girls together, and I never found it was prejudicial
to either of us; but my mother seems to
have been listening (notwithstanding her dislike
of women’s knowledge) to some of those good
ladies, who, by dint of a tolerable memory, and
being accustomed to associate with men of letters,
have collected some phrases and remarks,
which they retail in less enlightened societies,
and immediately obtain credit for an uncommon
share of penetration and science—But if every
work of fancy is to be prohibited in which a tale
is told, or an example brought forward, by
which some of these ladies suppose, that the errors
of youth may be palliated, or the imagination
awakened—I know no book of amusement that N4r 271
that can escape their censure; and the whole
phalanx of novels, from the two first of our
classics, in that line of writing, Richardson
and Fielding, to the less exceptionable, though
certainly less attractive inventors of the present
day, must be condemned with less mercy, than
the curate and the barber shewed to the collecttion
of the Knight of the sorrowful Countenance;
and tenthen, I really know not what young
people (I mean young women) will read at all
—But let me ask these severe female censors,
whether, in every well-written novel, vice, and
even weaknesses, that deserve not quite so harsh
a name, are not exhibited, as subjecting those who
are examples of them, to remorse, regret, and
punishment—And since circumstances, more
inimical to innocence, are every day related,
without any disguise, or with very little, in the
public prints; since, in reading the world, a
girl must see a thousand very ugly blots, which
frequently pass without any censure at all—I
own, I cannot imagine, that novel reading,
can, as has been alledged, corrupt the imagination,
or enervate the heart; at least, such a
description of novels, as those which represent
human life nearly as it is; for, as to others,
those wild and absurd writings, that describe in
inflated language, beings, that never were, not
ever will be, they can (if any young woman
has so little patience and taste as to read them)
no more contribute to form the character of
her mind, than the grotesque figures of shepherdesses,
on French fans and Bergamot boxes,
can form her taste in dress—Who could, for
a moment, feel any impression from the perusal
of such stuff as this, though every diurnal
print puffed its excellence, and every petit maître 3 swore N4v 272
swore it was quite the thing—exquisite—pathetic
—interesting.

“The beautiful, the soft, the tender Iphigenia,
closed not, during the tedious hours,
her beauteous eyes while the glorious flambeau
of silver-slippered day sunk beneath the encrimsoned
couch of coral-crowned Thetis, giving
up the dormant world to the raven-embrace of
all over-clouding night—When, however, the
matin loving lark, or russet pinions, floating
amid the tiffany clouds, that variegated, in fleecy
undulation, the grey-invested heavens, hailed
with his soul-reviving note, the radiant countenance
of returning morn; the sweet, the
mild, the elegantly unhappy maid, turned towards
the roseate-streaming East, those sapphire
messengers, that expressed, in language of such
exquisite sensibility, every emotion of her delicate
soul; and, with a palpitating sigh, arose
—She clad her graceful form in a close jacket
of Nakara satin, trimmed with silver, and
the blossoms of the sweet-scented pea, intermixed;
her petticoat was of white sattin, with a
border of the same; and on her head, half hiding,
and half discovering her hyacinthine locks,
she carelessly bound a glowing wreath of African
marygolds, and purple China-aster, surmounting
the whole with a light kerchief of
pink Italian gauze, embroidered by herself in
lilies of the valley—She then approached the
window, and in a voice, whose dulcet gurglings
emulated the cooings of the enamoured pigeon
of the woods, she sighed forth the following exquisitively
expressive ode.”

Now do you think, my dear Fanny, that either
good or harm can be derived from such a
book as this?—Loss of time may be, with justice,tice, N5r 273
objected to it, but no other evil—A sensible
girl would certainly throw it away in disgust:
a weak one (who would probably not understand
half of it, could it be understood at all)
cries, “Dear!—how sweet!—charming creature!
—A light kerchief of pink Italian gauze,
embroidered with lilies of the valley!—Her
voice, the dulcit gurglings of the enamoured
pigeon of the woods!”
—And then, meaning
only to enquire, whether this amiable Iphigenia
was happy or no?—She sits down to have
her hair curled—reads as fast, as the roseate
rays, and azure adventures, will let her, to the
end, and forgetting them all—dresses herself and
goes to Ranelagh, or the opera, where she tells
some little cream-coloured beau what a dear,
divine novel she has been reading; but of which,
in fact, she has forgotten every word.

I own it has often struck me as a singular inconsistency,
that, while novels have been condemned
as being injurious to the interest of virtue,
the play-house has been called the school
of morality—The comedies of the last century
are almost, without exception, so gross, that
with all the alterations they have received, they
are very unfit for that part of the audience to
whom novel reading is deemed pernicious, nor
is the example to be derived from them very
conducive to the interests of morality; for, not
only the rake and the coquette of the piece are
generally made happy, but those duties of life,
to which novel-reading is believed to be prejudicial,
are almost always violated with impunity,
or rendered ridiculous by “the trick of the
scene”
—Age which ought to be respected, is
invariably exhibited, as hateful and contemptible
—To cheat an old father, or laugh at a fat N5v 274
fat aunt, are the supreme merits of the heroes
and heroines; and though nothing is more out
of nature than the old man of the stage—I cannot
be of opinion, that the scene is a school of
morality for youth, which teaches them, that
age and infirmity, are subjects of laughter and
ridicule—Such, however, is the taste of the
English in their theatrical amusements—And
now, when the very offensive jest is no longer
admitted, portraits of folly, exaggerated till
they lose all resemblance, harlequin tricks, and
pantomimical escapes, are substituedsubstituted to keep the
audience awake, and are accepted in place of
genuine wit, of which it must be owned, there
is “a plentiful lack” (with some strong exceptions,
however) in our modern comedy—All
this is very well, if we take it as mere amusement;
but, what I quarrel with, is the canting
fallacy of calling the stage the school of morality
Rousseau says, very justly, “Il n’y a que
la raison qui ne soit bonne a rien sur le scene” “It is reason only that is worth nothing on the stage.”

—A reasonable man would be a character insupportably
flat and insipid even on the French
stage, and on the English, would not be endured
to the end of the first scene—Even those
charming pieces, which are called drames, such
as le Père de famille, l’Indigent, le Philosophe
sans le scavoir
, would, however well they might
be translated, adapted to our manners, and represented,
lull an English audience to sleep,
though they exhibit domestic scenes, by which
morality and virtue are most forcibly inculcated;
and such, as by coming “home to the business
and bosoms”
of the younger part of the audience, might N6r 275
might be, indeed, lessons in that school, which
our theatre certainly does not form; though the
careful mothers, wh odreadwho dread the evil influence of
novels, carry their daughthersdaughters to its most exceptionable
representations.

In regard to novels, I cannot help remarking
another strange inconsistency, which is, that the
great name of Richardson, (and great it certainly
deserves to be) makes, by a kind of hereditary
prescriptive deference, those scenes, those descriptions
pass uncensured in Pamela and Clarissa,
which are infinitely more improper for
the perusal of young women, than any that can
be found in the novels of the present day; of
which, indeed, it may be said, that, if they do
no good, they do no harm; and that there is a
chance, that those who will read nothing, if
they do not read novels, may collect from them
some few ideas, that are not either fallacious, or
absurd, to add to the very scanty stock which
their usual insipidity of life has afforded them
—As to myself, I read, you know, all sorts of
books, and have done so ever since I was out of
the nursery, for my mother had then no notion
of restraining me—Novels, of course, and those
very indifferent novels, were the first that I
could obtain; and I ran though them with
extreme avidity, often forgetting to practise my
lesson on the harpsichord, or to learn my French
task, while I got up into my own room, and
devoured with an eager appetite, the mawkish
pages that told of a damsel, most exquisitely
beautiful, confined by a cruel father, and escaping
to an heroic lover, while a wicked Lord
laid in wait to tear her from him, and carried
her to some remote castle—Those delighted me
most that ended miserably; and having tortured me N6v 276
me through the last volume with impossible distress,
ended in the funeral of the heroine—
Had the imagination of a young person been liable
to be much affected by these sorts of histories,
mine would, probably, have taken a romantic
turn, and at eighteen, when I was married,
I should have hesitated whether I should obey
my friends directions, or have waited till the
hero appeared, who would have been imprinted
on my mind, from some of the charming fabulous
creatures, of whom I had read in novels
—But, far from doing so, I was, you see,
“obedient—very obedient;” and, in the four
years that have since past, I have thought only
of being a quiet wife, and a good nurse, and
of fulfilling, as well I can, the part which
has been chosen for me—I know not how I have
slid into all this egotism, from a defence of
novel-reading—It has, however, served to detach
my thoughts from subjects of sad import;”
and I have written myself into some degree of
cheerfulness; before I relapse, therefore, I will
bid you, my beloved Fanny, adieu!

Geraldine Verney.

End of Vol. I.

A1r

Desmond,

A
Novel,
in Two Volumes.

By Charlotte Smith.

Volume II.

Dublin: Printed for P. Wogan, P. Byrne, J. Moore,
W. McKenzie, H. Colbert, A. Grueber, J. Jones,
B. Dornin, J. Rice, W. Jones, J. Mehain,
G. Draper, R. M Allister,
G. Folingsby
. 1792M,DCC,XCII.

A1v B1r

Desmond.

Letter I.

To Mr. Desmond.

In pursuance of my promise, which, though
it was, perhaps, indiscreet to give it, I hold sacred
now that it is given; I write to you, my
dear friend, to relate an history that cannot but
wound you most cruelly, and add to that melancholy
despondence too visible in your last letters
—I believe I told you In a letter which does not appear. that Geraldine was
suddenly returned to London, at the request of
her husband, and that his style of living at his
house in Seymour-street, far from having been
reduced by the late untoward circumstances that
befel him there, was more extravagant and profuse
than before—He was supposed to have won
considerable sums of money from the Duke de
Romagnecourt
, and some other Frenchmen of Vol. II. B fortune, B1v 2
fortune, emigrants in England; and it was to
do the honours of his house to these new friends,
that his wife, who could no longer plead the excuse
of ill health, was compelled, in obedience
to his wishes, to leave her quiet retirement at
Sheen, and return to witness follies she could
not check, and to see the progress of ruin, it was
impossible for her to prevent.

In maymy way through London, about three
weeks ago, I called at her door, merely to make
an enquiry after her, and not expecting to see
her—The servant, however, whom I spoke to,
informed me she had been some days in London,
was then at home, and would, he believed, see
me. I sent up my name, and, on entering the
room, was gratified by the expression of pleasure,
which I saw on the countenance of Geraldine,
who, instead of receiving me with the formality
of mere acquaintance, held out her hand to me,
and called me her good friend.

The features of a gentleman, who was sitting
with her, wore, I thought, a very different
meaning—This was Colonel Scarsdale, who
looked at me as if he at once contemned me as
a rural Squire, and disliked me as an unwelcome
intruder—while the evident preference that Geraldine
gave me by addressing all her conversation
to me, and enquiring solicitously about you,
seemed every moment to encrease his displeasure;
still, however, he staid—now humming an air—
and now making a violent noise with the little
boy, for whom he affects the most extravagant
fondness; and though I wished very much to
have some conversation with Geraldine, in
which, notwithstanding her reserve, I might have
learned more of her real situation, than I can
gather from public report—I found the Colonel determined B2r 3
determined to stay too; and that he was so much
domesticated in the house, that he dressed there,
and was, that day, to make one of a large party
that were coming to dinner—As I was under
the necessity of leaving London early the next
morning, I had no opportunity of attempting
another interview with her; but as soon as I
arrived at Bath, I waited on her mother and her
sister, and fortunately found the latter at home
alone.

Fanny Waverly received me with great pleasure,
and was not less early and eager in her enquiries
after you, than Geraldine had been two
days before—When I told her that you were,
from your own account, so far recovered of
your accident, that you talked of leaving off
the sling in which your arm had been confined
—her eyes sparkled with pleasure; but when I
added, that you spoke less favourably of your
general health, and had no thoughts of returning
soon to England, she evidently drooped in
dejection; and when I led the discourse towards
Geraldine, as I immediately did, she dissolved
in tears.

She told me, that the situation of her sister
gave her the most cruel alarms; that Verney
was most undoubtedly ruined beyond remedy;
and that she feared his real reason for having
brought back Geraldine to his house, was, a
hope of persuading her to give up her settlement,
and enable him to sell his Yorkshire estate,
which, said she, “I have too much reason to
believe my sister will consent to—Nor is this all
my fear—Geraldine is young, and very lovely—
Every man of intrigue, who sees such a woman
neglected, or even worse treated by her husband,
is ready to form designs for himself—I know B2 there B2v 4
there are, at this time, many such surrounding
my sister; and though the purity of her heart,
the excellence of her understanding, and her excessive
tenderness for her children, are securities
for her conduct, which I cannot a moment
doubt; yet, I have such an opinion of Verney,
that I am not certain he is not capable of the
most infamous proceedings, even towards his
wife, if, by such, he could obtain the means of
supporting a little longer the wild career, which
his mad infatuation represents as the only one
worthy of a man of fashion.”

This remark added to what I had made in
town on the behaviour of Colonel Scarsdale,
and my opinion of Verney, which is not at all
better than that Fanny entertains of him, startled
me extremely—“If such, my dear Miss
Waverly
,”
said I, “are your apprehensions
for your sister, surely your mother, or your
brother, ought to interfere, before they can be realized
—Surely, they ought to rescue this excellent
and lovely woman from the power of a
husband, of whom such horrors can be suspected.”
“Alas! Mr. Bethel,” replied she,
“how can I mention such dreadful ideas to my
mother? who, conscious, I believe, that Geraldine
was the victim of duty, and married only
in compliance with her and my father’s wishes,
now endeavours to escape the conviction, that
she has condemned her to the most dreadful of
all destinies, and will not see or hear, if she can
by any means escape it, what is, unhappily, too
evident to the rest of the world—Wrapt up, as
her whole soul has ever been in my brother, she
has always thought, that in marrying her daughters,
in what is called, a prudent way, that is,
to men of large fortune, she had taken sufficient trouble B3r 5
trouble about them; she never considered whether
there were any other sources of unhappiness
than want of money; nor did it ever occur
to her, that in giving Geraldine to a man of
fortune and family, she overlooked circumstances
in the character of Verney, (though, when he
married, his character was not developed) that
might make her daughter liable to all the distresses
and inconveniencies of poverty—To be
convinced that it is so, is to be convinced, that
she has wanted either judgment or tenderness,
and she takes refuge in cards and company against
the reproaches of her own heart—I have ventured,
however, since I received some hints of
the probability there was, that Geraldine should
be persuaded to part with her settlement, to
implore my mother’s attention to a circumstance
so destructive, but she impatiently answered,
that I talked nonsense; for that the trustees
to her marriage-articles, would take especial
care to prevent her committing such a folly
—As to any other fears I entertain, such as those
I have just now mentioned, my mother would
treat them as a romantic chimera of mine, and
resent my supposing them probable or possible—
How then I can venture to make representations
to my mother, which would, probably, be ill received
and fruitless? or which, were she to attend
to them a moment, she would, perhaps, find
some occasion to condemn as futile, because she
would dislike to do that, which, if she allows
them well founded, she ought to do—I mean,
to take her daughter to her own house, as
the only proper asylum, if she is compelled to
quit that of her husband—This, however, I
know my mother will avoid, for Geraldine will
never leave her children, and my mother dislikes their B3v 6
their noise, and the trouble they occasion in an
house; and she is, in short, for why may I not
speak the truth to you? just at that period of
life, when the character retains little that is feminine,
but a love of trifles, and a redoubled
attachment to some one weakness that has long
been cherished—Such is her violent partiality to
my brother, for whom (notwithstadningnotwithstanding the little
encouragement his entrance into the world
has given to such hopes) she looks forward towards
titles and dignities, which she imagines
his fortune will command, and his merit deserve
—There are some hearts, Mr. Bethel, that
have not room for more than one strong affection
—Such, I suppose, is my mother’s—The rest
of it, which her daughters might have occupied,
is filled with trifling objects—and—but I believe,
you will think me very wrong,”
continued
she, “and, perhaps, I have already said too
much—I meant, however, to account to you for
omitting to do, what certainly appears most rational
under the apprehensions I have ventured
to express to you.”

I was so much struck by the manner, as well
as the purport of this answer—so concerned for
the situation of Geraldine—and so affected by
the tender interest her sister thus expressed, that
I could neither find words, immediately to do
justice to my feelings, nor, in my mind, any remedy,
for the unhappy circumstances that excited
them—Your charge, my dear Desmond,
to use your fortune without scruple, in the service
of Geraldine, cannot here be executed;
for to her, it would be worse than useless,
while her husband would derive from it the
means of continuing his career of vice and folly
yet something should be done, and done immediately,diately, B4r 7
to save her sensible heart from the anguish
it must endure for her children—to spare
her the mortification and misery she must feel
in seeing herself at the mercy of a wretch, who
is believed capable of such actions as Fanny
Waverly
, I fear with too much reason, represents
him as likely to practise. As I wished to have
time to reflect on what measures were the most
proper, since of her own family there seemed so
little to hope, I took leave of Miss Waverly, and
returned to my lodgings; but my thoughts
dwelt in vain on the subject—I saw no way in
which it was proper, or even possible, for the
most disinterested friendship to interfere between
a man and his wife—If Verney is determined
to ruin himself and her, I see not by
what means it can be prevented, or on what pretence,
even her own family, can separate them,
while he chuses she should remain the victim of
his dissipation, or hopes to derive, from the admiration
she excites, the power of continuing it;
for to such a plan Fanny Waverly undoubtedly
alluded; and I have since heard, that Scarsdale,
who has been long trying to recommend himself
to the favour of Geraldine in vain, has found it
much easier to embarrass her husband’s affairs so
much, as to have a prospect of obtaining that influence
over her, from necessity, which, from any
other motive he could never obtain—But, I think,
if I know any thing of the spirit and temper of
that in comparableincomparable woman; she will spurn, with
detestation, a monster, who pursues the gratification
of his passions by perfidy so atrocious—
There was a time, when new to the world, and
unhackneyed in the ways of men, I should have
felt indignation at the mere representation of
such characters of those as Verney and Scarsdale,dale, B4v 8
and should have thought it a misanthropic
libel on human nature—But, alas! I know that
such men do exist; and I know that it is very
difficult to save Geraldine from them, if they
unite in destroying her peace and her reputation
—I here break off, to keep an appointment I
have made with Fanny Waverly, to meet at a
booksellor’s shop, and walk together—You will
smile, or rather, you would smile, at any other
time, in figuring to yourself, your sage Mentor,
making an assignation with a sprightly girl
of nineteen or tweneytwenty—But this is the only
way, by which I can obtain an opportunity of
talking with her alone—And I am one of the
favored few, whom her discreet mother allows
to converse with her—Louisa, who is a great
favorite, and who loves Miss Waverly extremely,
is, however, to make a third in our
party.

Well! my friend—I am returned from my
tête-à-tête with this young beauty, and with an
aching heart, but aching from other motives
than those of love—The week that has elapsed
since I last conversed with her about Geraldine,
has produced some of the events she then expected,
and others, of which she had no apprehension.

Waverly, your travelling companion, is suddenly
returned to England, while his mother and
his sister thought him at Venice, with a nymph
whom he had brought from the Isle of Cypress,
whither he went with some other young Englishmen
—Some misadventure, by which he lost
the lady, disgusted him with their society, and
meeting at Genoa, with a Captain of a merchantman,chantman, B5r 9
just coming to England, he embarked,
after half-an-hour’s debate, with only one
of his servants, leaving the others with his baggage
to follow; and having a very quick passage,
he landed near London; and in fourteen
hours arrived at Bath, to the extreme satisfaction
of his mother, who received him, as if the
whole time of his absence had been passed in refining
his manners, and cultivating his understanding
—I believe (though Fanny does not say
so) that there is no very visible improvement in
either; but that he has picked up, at every place,
some small specimen of the reigning follies,
without having dropped those that he had acquired
before he set out—But his mother, who believes
he has completed the course of study and
education which is requisite to a man of fortune,
and “of a certain style,” is now most eagerly
solicitous to have him married; and Fanny tells
me, that, from every appearance, at present, it
is highly probable, that, by the mutual endeavours
of the two elder ladies, Mrs. Fairfax and
Mrs. Waverly, this great event may be accomplished
—The eldest Miss Fairfax (your fair aristocrate,
at Margate) is the lady whose happy
destiny it will be, to fix this fluctuating
lover.

This is a matter of importance no otherwise,
than, as it oocupiesoccupies entirely the maternal feelings
of Mrs. Waverly, and prevents her giving any
attention to the situation of her daughter Verney,
and will as certainly be a reason against
her affording her,,, even that pecuniary assistance,
which I greatly fear she may now want, for the
catastrophe of Verney’s affairs, so long foreseen,
is at length arrived—The sudden encrease of
expence which he rushed into in London, ended B5 in B5v 10
in his giving up the lease of the house, and all its
furniture, to his creditors; and it is advertised
for sale on the 30th instant—Geraldine, and her
children, have, of course, left it; but not to go
to Mooresly Park, which is made over for a term
of years, with the furniture and stock, to Colonel
Scarsdale
, as is said, towards the discharge of
a considerable debt, of what is called honor—
Verney himself, who seems totally insensible
to the sufferings of his wife, and has left her to
struggle against them alone, is either gone, or
going to Germany with the Duke de Romagnecourt,
and his party, who are about to join the
exiled French Princes—Fanny Waverly told
me, with many tears, that her sister was gone
into a small lodging at Kensington, for those at
Sheen, humble as they once appeared, she now
thought too expensive for her; that she did not
intend to remain so near London, but to find
some cheap retirement in a distant country,
where she might conceal her sorrows from those,
to whom the sight of them would be oppressive.
—Thus, my dear Desmond, I have executed the
most uneasy task I ever undertook, that of relating
the calamities that seem likely to everwhelmoverwhelm
our charming friend—Be not, however, in pain
about her immediate situation, as to money—I
have settled with Fanny Waverly the means of
being, for the present, her banker, without her
knowing that any but her own family execute
this office—And I have entreated this amiable
girl to endeavour to obtain leave of her mother
to go to her sister in this hour of bitter distress
—This, however, is a permission that Fanny has
already solicited in vain; nor can she obtain of
Mrs. Waverly any other attention to the cruel
situation of Geraldine, than what the old lady thinks B6r 11
thinks necessary, to prevent the circumstances
she is under, from bringing any sort of disgrace
on the rest of the family, and injuring her present
projects, in regard to her son, which are
alone near her heart.

I direct this to St. Germains, where your last
letter tells me you will, by this time, be arrived,
to remain some time, I cannot imagine why, and
do not ask, as if you had chosen I should know,
you would probably have told me—However,
my business is to forward this letter to you, by
as quick a conveyance as possible—I luckily
have an opportunity of doing so, by a servant
belonging to an acquaintance of mine, who is
going to rejoin his master at Paris. I shall be
impatient to hear from you—Let me soon have
that satisfaction; and let me hear that the despondence
is gone, which, at your age, and with
your character, is a weakness you ought not to
indulge.—Adieu!

Most faithfully your’s,

E. Bethel.

Let- B6v 12

Letter II.

To Miss Waverly.

At length my Fanny, I begin to recover
—It is now three dayedays since I have been settled
at my new abode, and returning tranquillity
—I mean, outward tranquillity, (for that of
the heart and spirit can never more be mine)
gives me a little time to collect my troubled
thoughts— “And on the heat and flame of my endurance, Sprinkle cool patience.” Shakespeare.
But be not uneasy about me—I am not ill—I
am only languid from the severity of my past
sufferings, and that languor is every day decreasing.

My two eldest children are quite well; and
my little George is as gaily playing on the turf
here, as he used to be on that of the lawn at Linwell,well, B7r 13
or the park at Mooresly—places, of which
I once hoped, he would be the inheritor—But,
of my disappointed hopes, my lovely boy is unconscious!
—yet he continually brings tears into
my eyes, by asking, why we came hither?—
what is become of his papa, of the servants, and
the horses, whose names they had taught him,
and of the maid who used to wait upon me?—
I endeavour to divert these infantine enquiries
as much as I can, for they affect me more than
even my own melancholy reflections—Fortunately
it is a season when he is easily amused—
I send him out with his sister and his maid into
the surrounding meadows, where, after their
maid has dressed their hats with cowslips, orchisses,
cuckoo-flowers, and golden-cups—my
Harriet brings home her lap full of these gay
children of the May,
and, in her imperfect
language, says, they are for “dear mama.”

While my little prattlers are absent, I hang
over the cradle of my infant William, whose
health has again been sadly disordered by all the
anxiety I have endured; yet, for his sake, I endeavoured
to repress those acute feelings with
which my heart was torn in pieces; but such
were their nature, that it was impossible my
health should not be affected, and, of course,
that of the child, who, under such circumstances,
I have, perhaps, done wrong to continue
nourishing at my breast, especially as I think he
has never recovered the first shock he received,
when, at his birth, I first knew so much, and so
suddenly, of the disarranged state of Mr. Verney’s
circumstances—Compared with the loss
of my child, every other evil would be as nothing;
yet, perhaps, I ought not to wish him to
live, since to live is but to suffer.—But again, my B7v 14
my dear sister, I check these mournful thoughts,
with which I ought not to oppress you; and
again I assure you, that when none of these apprehensions
assail my heart, I am not so unhappy
as you say you fear I am—If I obtain resolution
enough to look calmly at the change which has
befallen me, I see much less to regret than most
people would discover—The only pleasure I
have lost in losing high affluence, is that of
having the power to befriend the unhappy, to
whom I can now give only my tears; but, for
the rest, what have I lost, that I ought to lament?
—The turbulent and joyless societies
which Mr. Verney loved, were to me only fatiguing
and disagreeable—The parties of fashionable
men that he continually collected, offered
me neither rational conversation, nor permanent
friendship—and the women, with whom I was,
in consequence of these connections, compelled
to associate, were so insipid, or so vain; so devoted
to the card-table, or occupied by the rage
of being admired, that their acquaintance gave
me as little pleasure as mine seemed to give them;
and our intercourse was, after two or three formal
dinners, reduced to the slight civility of
sending cards to each other four or five times in
a winter. The fineries in which Mr. Verney’s
vanity dressed me out, (he called it love, I think,
for a little time) never gave me a moment’s
pleasure: and when last year, Colonel Scarsdale
persuaded him, that I ought to be presented, and
appear sometimes at court, I was perfectly convinced
that such ceremonies were for me the
heaviest punishments that could be devised; and,
indeed, few of those whose pride or interest
made their attendance on them more frequent,
were apparently more delighted than I was, for they B8r 15
they seemed universally to feel under all the apparent
gaiety and splendor the influence of the
Dæmon ennui

“That realm he rules, and in superb attire, Visits each earthly palace.” Hayley.

Now, I believe, my Fanny, I am for ever exempt
from being a visitor where this hideous
phantom holds his eternal reign; and he will
not, I trust, seek me in the farm house I now
inhabit, and which I am going to describe to you.

The situation of it is charming—It stands on
a rising ground among meadows, of which poetry,
in the most flowery language, could hardly
exaggerate the beauty—Through these yellow
meads, the Wye takes its sinous course,” till
its progress is concealed by projecting hills, or
rather mountains, rising beyond the meadows;
their summits bare and rocky, their sides clothed
with woods, which, at this time, exhibit every
varied tint of vivid and early vegetation—
Forgive me, if I borrow here the aid of a poet,
whose powerful pen, with more than the magic
of the pencil, brings whatever he describes immediately
before the eye.

“No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Tho’ each its hue peculiar; paler some, And of a wannish grey, the willow such; And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf; And ash, far stretching his umbrageous arm; Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak; Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun, The maple, and beech of oily nuts Prolific; and the lime at dewy eve Diffusing odours.” Cowper Beneath B8v 16

Beneath these varied woods are a tract of orchards,
now covered with bloom, giving completely
the idea of the “Primavera candida e vermiglia.” Petrarch.

A cottage or two, almost embosomed among
the trees, are marked rather by the smoke arising
from their chimney’s, than by their concealed
thatch; but thus dimly seen, they give cheerfulness
to the landscape—Behind the house, the
country wears quite another aspect—It rises
abruptly into small knolls, too steep for the
plough, and, from the nature of the soil, not
much worth cultivation; since it is in the lower
part a black moor, and the hillocks are of
yellow sand, producing little but the heath and
the whortle-berry— Whortle-berry, or hurts. Vaccinium Myrtillus. The higher ridges, furze,
or thorns, with here and there, in the hollows,
tufts of self-planted oaks.

From this rude tract of country, the garden
of this house is divided, in some parts, by an old
wall, in others, by a thick hedge of yew and
holly, the growth of centuries; for this is an
old manorial residence; and besides the long row
of firs, of very ancient date, that shade part of
the garden, has many marks of having been once
the abode of opulent possessors, who ornamented
it in the taste of the days in which they lived.
The last improvements in the house appear to
have been made in the time of Elizabeth and
James the First; but those in the garden are
rather, perhaps, in the style that was imported from B9r 17
from Holland by William, when he was sent
for to secure the liberty of Englishmen, and teach
them to curtail that of their trees—I mean the
taste which decorated our gardens with rows of
evergreens, formally planted, and cut into the
imagined shapes of men, peacocks, and sundry
other forms— “Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire.”

The last inhabitant of the house, was an old
and rich farmer, who had no relish for these monuments
of former elegance; but the wife of
him who now rents it, and of whom I hire my
apartments, told me, with great exultation, that
she had caused one of the men, at his leisure
hours, to clip them into their former beauty,
and “make them fit to be seen, all’s one, as
folks say, they used to be in the old Squire’s
time.”
—But, as this rustic sculptor, of vegetables
is not very expert in his art, the box, the
holly, and the yew, have lost all resemblance to
themselves, without finding any other—In the
borders beneath them, however, there are a great
many flowers, whose roots have survived those
who planted them, and these are even scattered
over the rough parts of the enclosure, which is
given up to the culinary productions, or left
wholly uncultivated “Along the waste, where once the garden smiled. And where still many a garden flower grows wild.” Goldsmith.
And it is among these, which are now peeping
through the grass, or blooming, unseen, among the B9v 18
the thyme, balm, and lavender, that I, in my
melancholy meditations, repeat “The tender rose which seems in winter dead, Revives in Spring, and lifts its dewy head: But we—the great, the glorious, and the wise! When once the hand of death has clos’d our eyes—” Idyllium of Moschus on the death of Bion.
Or rather, the lighter comment of a very agreeable
French authoress on this text, which concludes
with “Mais hélas!—pour vouloir revivre, La vie est il un bien si doux? Quand nous l’aimons tant, songeons nous De combien de chagrins, sa perte nous delivre? Elle n’est qu’un amas de craintes, de douleurs, De travaux, de soucis, de peines. Pour qui connoit les miseres humaines; Mourir n’est pas le plus grands des malheurs.” Les fleurs, Idylle par Madame des-Houlieres.

But I am getting again into reflections, which
I blame myself for indulging, and moralizing,
when I undertook to give you a picture of my
abode.

The house itself is very old; wide, projecting
casements, divided by heavy stone work, a great
brick hall, and “Passages that lead to nothing.”
May give you some idea, and perhaps a dreary
idea of the sort of house.—The farmer, and
his family, inhabit the northern end of it, which
was once the servants apartments, kitchen, and buttery B10r 19
buttery—The rooms, however, which I have
taken, are not so forlorn, as from the general
air of the house you would suppose—I have a
parlour wainscotted and carpetted—The chimney,
indeed, is very large, but, at this time of
the year, is “With flowers and fennel gay,” Goldsmith.
And will I dare say, look very well with a blazing
wood fire in it—Above, I have a very good
bed-chamber for myself, and one, still better,
immediately adjoining, for my children; these
are papered, and though not in a very modern
style, perhaps, they are clean, and warm—I have
desired some great, old, family pictures, with
which both these and the parlour were disfigured,
might be removed, and I shall supply the places
of these heroes, who bled in the civil wars, (as
I guess, by their wigs and their armour) and the
dames, whose simpering charms rewarded their
prowess, but whose very names are now forgotten,
(sad lesson to human vanity!) with rude
brackets of wood, on which I shall put flowers,
and between them shelves for the books I have
brought with me—These little arrangements
serve to occupy my mind; and I forget the conveniencies
and luxuries of which I am deprived,
in contriving how I may still obtain those few,
which (perhaps, from singularity of taste) are
more necessary to my content, than the sideboard
of plate, the elegant furniture, and handsome
carriages, I have parted with.

I think more of their late thoughtless owner,
poor Verney! yet why do I speak of him in a
tone of pity, when he is, probably, much happierpier B10v 20
than I am?—I have had no other letter
from him since our hasty parting in London,
than that, wherein he very briefly assented to
my proposed retirement; and said, though not
in direct terms, that if I did not embarrass him
about money, I was at liberty to do with myself
and my children whatever I thought good—I
will not comment on this—I will endeavour not
to think of it—I turn always with painful pleasures,
to some other subjects; but to one I think
with pleasure only. I am happy to hear Mr.
Bethel
is at Bath, that you have such long and
pleasant conversations with him, and that his
charming girl is so much with you—He is a
man whom I have always regarded and esteemed
for his own sake, as well as because he was so
excellent a guardian, and is so warm a friend to
Mr. Desmond.—You hear that Desmond is at
St. Germains, that place is, I suppose, the residence
of Madame de Boisbelle, when she is
not with her brother.—But Mr. Bethel tells you
that Desmond is quite restored to health, and
only occasionally wears his arm in a sling—may
he soon lose even that recollection of his painful
adventure!—I must now, my Fanny, bid you
adieu! my letter is very long, yet I have written
it all while my little William has been
sleeping, and my other charmers walking with
their maid in the shade of one of the woods,
which a rustic bridge thrown across the river,
puts within our reach—It is now near their
hour of dinner, and I see them from my window
crossing the meadow; I go to meet them,
and help to bring them home, as I see, by his
actions, that George complains of being tired,
and solicits his Peggy to carry him as well as his B11r 21
his sister. I will seal my letter on my return,
as it cannot go to the post till to-morrow.

I did not imagine, my Fanny, in leaving my
letter unsealed this morning, that I should have
to add to its contents, the history of a circumstance
that has surprised me a good deal.

On my meeting my children in the field below
the house, their maid told me, that Master
George
had tired himself so by playing with a
gentleman whom they had met, and with a
great dog he had with him, that she could hardly
get him home. I enquired who the gentleman
was; and heard, that they had seen him
reading in the wood, and that the dog, which
was a large water-spaniel, having ran towards
the children, and somewhat alarmed the little
girl, his master, who was, as Peggy described
him, “one of the most handsome gentlemen
she ever set eyes upon,”
had come up to them,
and asked very eagerly, whose children they
were; and hearing that their names were Verney,
he had taken them both up and kissed
them—That the little boy looked earnestly at
him, and then returned his fondness; and that
once, in playing with him, the gentleman,
called him George, as if he had known him
before—I desired the maid to describe the figure
of this gentleman, that I might know if it were
any of my acquaintance—She said, “that he
was a tall, and”
, (according to her phrase) “quite
a grand looking man, though not lusty, but rather
thinnish; he had dark eyes, brighter than any
diamonds, and brown hair; but that he looked
a little pale, as if he was sick; and though he seemed B11v 22
seemed in his way somehow like an officer, that
he was left-handed.”
—Till now, I had formed,
I own, a vague, and yet a very uneasy idea, that
this stranger, who knew the name of my little
boy so well, might be Colonel Scarsdale; but
this description did not at all answer his person;
and then I recollected, that if it had been him,
George would have known him, and indeed the
maid also, who has been so lately accustomed to
see him every day—I then supposed it might be
some of the neighbouring gentlemen, and bade
Peggy describe him to the farmer’s wife and servants,
which she has just done, and tells me that
there is no such person in this country that they
know of, and that the nearest gentleman’s seat is
above seven miles off—I have again been questioning
Peggy, as this stranger’s having so much
noticed the children, has made a great impression
on my mind—She says, she is sure, from his
manner, that it is some gentleman who had been
acquainted in the family, because he seemed so
fond of them, and somehow glad to see them,”
and that he asked George if he often walked in
that wood, and whether his mama ever walked
there?—“And to be sure, Ma’am,” remarks
Peggy, “it must be somebody that knows you,
or how should he enquire after the children’s
mama, for I never told him whether they had a
mama or a papa, or who belonging to them.”

The more questions I ask, the more I wish
to know who this is, and whether it is really any
man whom I have formerly known who happens
accidentally to be in this country?—If it
is, he will, probably, since he knows where I am,
call upon me; and if it is not, of what importance
is the circumstance at all?—Thus I have endeavoured
to reason myself out of the restless 2 curiosity B12r 23
curiosity that has disturbed me, perhaps, foolishly
enough the whole of the remaining day—It
is now night—a calm, a lovely night, without
a moon indeed, but with the canopy of heaven
illuminated with countless miriads of “planetary
fires”
—Such a night, my Fanny, as some of
those in which we used, during the first year of
my marriage, to be induced by Desmond to wander
in the coppice-walks and shrubberies, that
surrounded the Lawn at Linwell—Alone, as I am
here, I must not venture so far from the house;
but I may traverse the grass-plat before it, and
listen to the nightingales, of which numbers salute
me every evening with their song from the
opposite woods; their delicious notes, softened
and prolonged by the echos from the bridge and
the water; one only one, seems to have taken up
his lonely abode in the garden here—Alas! I
could be romantic enough to fancy it the spirit of
some solitary and deserted being like myself, that
comes sympathetically to hear and soothe my
sorrows.

Let me tell them then to this visionary visitant,
rather than to my Fanny; and now, in
wishing her a good night, wish too, that her
slumbers may bring to her mind, without disturbing
it, the image of, her

Geraldine.

Let- B12v 24

Letter III.

To Miss Waverly.

The opportunities I have of sending to the
post are so few, my dear sister, that though I
write whenever I have any thing to say, which I
imagine you wish to hear, or whenever it relieves
my heavy heart, to pour out its sorrows to
you, yet I know my letters do not reach you
regularly, and I have, from the same cause, the
mortification of waiting some days for your’s,
after they arrive at the post-office of the neighbouring
town.

You may, perhaps, be anxious to know if I
have again heard of the stranger, whose notice
of my children seemed so extraordinary, and I
own, for the following day or two, gave me some
uneasiness—He was probably, however, only a
traveller of taste, invited by the beauty of this
part of the country at this season, to make an
abode of a day or two at some little neighbouring
public-house, or cottage, a circumstance
which, my landlord here, tells me, is not unfrequentquent C1r 25
—It was, perhaps, the loveliness of my
little ones that attracted his attention, and
not any previous acquaintance with their family;
and for the familiarity with which he
seemed to treat them, much of it possibly in
the mere fancy of Peggy, who, though a very
good girl, is as likely as any other, to add
to a story she tells from a natural love of the
marvellous.—I say thus much about this adventure,
least what I told you in my last letter
should raise any uneasy ideas in your mind;
for I know you have a hundred fancies about
Colonel Scarsdale, and suppose that he is a
sort of modern Lovelace; but, believe me, my
Fanny, that character does not exist now;
there is no modern man of fashion, who would
take a hundredth part of the trouble that Richardson
makes Lovelace take, to obtain Helen
herself, if she were to return to earth—And
Scarsdale is a man so devoted to the acquisition
of fame in his own style of life, that with my
change of fortune, his pursuit ends—It would
have added something to the glories he already
boasts in the annals of gallantry, if he
could have carried off Verney’s wife from her
husband, her children, and her fame; but
now that she is banished from the circles where
she was talked of and followed—now, that she
is forgotten by the idle flutterers who surrounded
her for a few months; she is too humble,
and too inconsiderable, to be any object to
such a man, and is, she thanks heaven, sheltered
by her obscurity from his insolent pretensions.

I have little more to say to-day, but that my
precious William is better, and my apprehensionsVol. II. C hensions C1v 26
about him subside again—I impatiently
wait to hear how my brother’s love affair
proceeds, though, in my last letter, I omitted
to mention his name, engaged, as I was, by
the multiplicity of trifles; but this is not
owing to any indifference about him—I love
my brother, and should rejoice in his being
happily married, though he seems to have forgotten
that he has a sister, whose comfortless
destiny should, at least, secure to her the common
civilities of life from her own family, if
they cannot spare her any share of their affections
—Alas! how easily do common minds
make to themselves excuses for forsaking and
forgetting the unhappy—Were I again to appear
(which heaven forbid) in those societies,
whose members now think me sunk below
them—what insulting pity!—what contemptuous
condolences I should receive!—In proportion
as I was once thought the object of
envy, should I now be that of ill concealed triumph,
and malignant scorn, under the semblance
of sympathy and concern—When these
thoughts arise, you cannot imagine how well
pleased I am that I am here— “Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court?” Shakespeare.
And, as I hide myself in them, I regret nothing
but your company, my sister, and yet, I
ought not to wish you with me, when you
are where the young and happy ought to be,
amid that world which has, at your age, and
with your unblighted prospects, so many
charms.

Farewell, C2r 27

Farewell, for the present—it is a delicious
evening, and I will now venture to walk out
and enjoy it—How forcibly every such scene
brings to my mind our morning walks, our
evening rambles in Kent, and the pleasant little
trios we used to make with Mr. Desmond,
who has so much taste, and so much genuine
enthusiasm—I wonder whether he is as much
gratified by the charms of Spring at St. Germains,
as he used to be in England? I should
rather fear not; at least, that he is less likely
there to find companions who understand him
and can participate his pleasure; for the
French ladies in general have, I believe, very
little notion of that species of delight, that
arises from contemplating the simple beauties
of nature—A few days will soon make it a
twelvemonth since I saw Desmond, and of
that time, he has sacrificed more than half
to his disinterested friendship to my brother—
But I have repeated this so often to myself,
that, perhaps, I have as often obtruded it upon
your recollection.

I have found in the opposite woods one of
the most singular, and most beautiful spots
that I ever saw—It is a little hill, or rather
three or four hills that seem piled together,
though the inequality of their forms is concealed
and adorned by the variety of trees with
which they are covered; many of these are
ever-greens, such as holly and yew; and just
where their shade is the darkest, they suddenly
recede, and from a stoney excavation,
bursts forth a strong and rapid stream of
pure and brilliant water, which pours directly
down the precipice, and is lost in the trees C2 that C2v 28
that crowd over it―A few paces higher up
from a bare projection of rock, darts forth
another current equally limpid, and having
made itself a little bason, which it fills, it hastens
over the rugged stones, that are thus
worn by its course, and dashing down the hill
for some time in a different direction, meets
the former stream; united they make a considerable
brook, and hasten to join the Wye;
not, however, till two or three other little
wandering currents, that arise still nearer the
summit of this rocky eminence, which seems
to abound in springs, have found their way to
the same course—Of these unexpected gushes
of water, you hear the murmurs often without
seeing from whence they arise; so thickly
is the wood interwoven over the whole
surface of the wild hill; a narrow, and hardly
visible path, however, winds around it,
quite to its summit, which is less clothed
than the rest, and where, on two roots, that
the hand of time, rather than the art of man,
has twisted into a sort of grotesque, rustic
chair, I sit―and listening to the soothing
sounds of the water, as it either steals or rushes
beneath―I can see through the boughs
great part of the farm-house I inhabit, and
nearer, the grey smoke of cottages without
the wood, curling among the mingled foilagefoliage
—It is, my dear sister, in this sequestered
nook, that I am going to wander, and to think
of you as the most pleasing contemplation, in
which I can indulge myself; oncemoreonce more, then,
a good night.

Gracious heaven!—Am I in the delirium
of one of those feverish visions, which, with undescrib- C3r 29
undescribable sensations of pain, pleasure
and wonder, reconcile, for a moment, impossibilities,
or am I really awake?—I have seen
him.—Desmond, whom I believed to be in
France!—Whom I had not the least idea of
meeting in this remote country! whom I even
doubted, whether I should ever see again!
That I might say, how truly sensible I was of
the debt of gratitude I owed him!—But I will
try to recollect myself enough to relate, instead
of exclaiming!―Yesterday evening, I had
finished as I believed, my letter to you, and
had seen my children put to bed—It was not
yet eight o’clock, and the sun, though sunk
beneath the opposite hills, tinged the whole
landscape with that rosy light, which it is impossible
to describe—I did not take a book with
me, as I usually do, when I walk alone, because
it was so late, that I meant, instead of
sauntering, as I love to do, to take my walk
and return; however, when I reached the wood,
I was tempted, by the perfect tranquillity of
every thing around me—the fragrant scents
that floated in the air—the soothing song of
innumerable birds, and the low murmurs of
the water, to gratify myself with a view of my
favourite little hill, which I had never yet seen
in an evening—I reached the top; when
stretched on the ground, his head resting on
his arm, (from which a book seemed to have
fallen) as it hung over the branch of the rude
chair I before described to you, I saw a gentleman
who appeared to be sleeping—I had no
idea of his face, for his hat and his hair concealed
it, nor did I stay to see if I recollected
his figure, but concluding that this was the same C3v 30
same person who had been met by the children,
I was returning very hastily from an impulse
that had more of fear in it than his general
appearance ought to have raised; when his
dog which lay by him, ran forward towards me
at the same moment, the gentleman raised his
head—I saw Desmond leap from the ground,
and, though in as much confusion as I was, he
instantly approached me—“Mrs. Verney!”
was all he said, and even to that I had nothing,
for a moment, to reply—till he added—“I
am afraid I have alarmed you”
“you have
indeed,”
answered I—“for to meet any one
here, was very unexpected—to meet you!”

I did not know what I would say—but he
seemed now to have recovered himself, and
finished the sentence for me—“was more unexpected
still?”
“It was indeed, for I
thought you were in France.”

He gave no answer to this, nor did he account
for his being in a part of the country,
where I don’t remember to have heard he had
any acquaintance or connexions, but simply
begging of me to forgive the momentary alarm
he had involuntarily been the occasion of, he
said, since I have had, however unexpectedly,
the happiness of meeting you, Madam, will
you allow me to have the honour of attending
you to your home?”
—I hesitated—I know not
why, and then said, “certainly”—We began
slowly to descend the winding and steep path,
which is crossed by roots, and interrupted by
pieces of rocks—It was now, from the lateness
of the hour, also obscure; and he, of course,
offered me his arm, which I accepted indeed, but C4r 31
but not with that easy confidence I used to have
in our early rambles, three years ago—It was
now, that I first observed a black crape round
his neck, in which he slung his right arm,
while he assisted me to descend with his left—
I shuddered, but I could make no remark on
that circumstance—He seemed no more disposed
to converse than I was, and we were
silent till we reached the orchard, surrounding
a cottage, through which the path leads, by a
stile through the meadows and over the bridge
—He seemed to know the way, as if he had
been long accustomed to it—I then disengaged
my arm and he went first, but, in reaching
the other side of the stile, my foot slipped,
and I should have fallen, but Desmond, who
had advanced three or four steps, flew back
and caught me―He trembled so, that it
was impossible to help remarking it—I
feared, that, in endeavouring to save me, he
had hurt his arm; and I almost, involuntarily,
expressed my apprehensions—He
assured me he had not received the slightest
injury, and again offered me his left arm,
on which I again leant, and with very little
conversation, and that little consisting of
broken and incoherent sentences, we, at length
reached the house.

There were candles in my little parlour,
and the table was prepared for my simple
supper; I asked him, of course, to partake
of it; he replied, in a low voice, that
he seldom supped at all, but could not refuse
to sit down—Peggy came into wait, and
he placed himself opposite to me.

It C4v 32

It was then, and not till then, my Fanny
that I observed the extraordinary alteration
in the countenance of Desmond; he has
lost all that look of health and vivacity which
we used to remark―pale, thin, almost to
emaciation; his eyes still radient indeed, but
expressing dejection; or if they for a moment,
assumed any other look, it was that of anxiety
—He spoke sometimes very low, at others,
with that sort of quickness, which is observable,
when people wish to end embarassing
conversation―And when I mentioned his
wanderings, or his friends in France, (which
I at length collected courage to do) he gave
me slight answers, and changed the conversation
as soon as possible.

As this evasion of every topic that led
him to speak of his foreign connexions, was
every moment more striking, the cause of
it, at length, occurred to me―I trust I
am not suspicious, or inquisitive; and certainly
am neither desirous of prying into the
actions of my friends, nor disposed to blame
those of Desmond, to whom I owe so much;
but I have now no doubt, that this reserve
arises from his having been accompainedaccompanied to
England by Madame de Boisbelle; and having
taken, in this neighbourhood, some residence
for her, on account of its being so
retired—If this is the case, he was probably
hurt and distressed in meeting here,
one of his acquaintance; and it accounts at
once for his manner, which though I cannot
well describe it, appears very extraordinary.

This idea no sooner struck me, than I felt
hurt at the pain I thus unintentionally had given C5r 33
given him, and particularly at having asked
him, as I had done some minutes before,
and merely for something to say, how long
he proposed staying in this part of England?
an enquiry which he answered after some
hesitation, by saying, it was uncertain.

As I now dreaded that every question,
however apparently inconsequential, might
lead him to suppose me impertinently curious,
we both sat silent, and I believe, he was
meditating how to put an end to an interview,
which was, perhaps, at once tedious
and distressing to him; yet, I observed, when
I dared observe his countenance, that he
looked at me with eyes full of concern and
pity, which I impute to the goodness of his
nature—He felt sorry to see me in a situation
so different from that which I was placed in,
when our acquaintance began―An acquaintance,
that I cannot endure to think, has
been productive to him only of personal and
mental uneasiness.

At length, after an hour and a half, the
only time of my life that I ever passed in
Desmond’s company unpleasantly, he arose
to go, and with a solemnity that yet had
more dejection than formality in it; he said
he must wish me a good night—I was on
the point of asking him a very natural question,
“If he had far to go home?” But I
checked myself, and did not encrease, by
any queistonquestion, the embarrassment he seemed
to be under, when, hesitating and faltering,
he said, “May I be permitted, Madam,
to pay my respects to you once more before I
―May I be allowed the honor of waiting C5 on C5v 34
on you once again?”
—I had surely no pretence to
refuse this—He knows I am never engaged;
and he knows that I am, or ought to be, more
obliged to him than to any other human being
—I could not, assuredly, therefore decline or
evade, what I, however, wished he had not
asked; as I not only see him so changed, as he
is, both in appearance and in spirits, with concern:
but fear, from his deportment, that the
attention which he, perhaps, thinks himself under
the necessity of shewing me, may put him
into difficulties with the lady to whom he has
attached himself—I have other uneasy sensations
about it; but, however, I could only say, in answer
to the permission he requested, that I
should always be glad of Mr. Desmond’s company,
whenever he would so far honor me
—He sighed, and thanked me; but added,
“I shall not, Madam, intrude much on your
indulgence, for in a very few days”
—he hesitated
again, and I could not help repeating,
“in a few days? Do you leave the neighbourhood
in a few days?”
“I believe so,” said he
“Yes! I believe I must go within a few
days; will you then suffer me to call to-morrow?
and may I be gratified with a sight of
your children?
—I said, yes,” and then, without
naming the hour at which he would call,
he left me.

Thus, my Fanny, ended this very extraordinary
interview, for extraordinary it certainly
is.―I know not from whence Mr. Desmond
last came, or whether he is going―I
know not where he has taken up his present
abode―I could not, however forbear marking
from my window the way he took when he left C6r 35
left me; and, as long as I could discern his figure
through the obscurity of the night, he seemed
to return through the fields, and over the bridge,
the same road as he came with me—I left the
window—(from whence, I hope, there was nothing
wrong in my thus observing him) I left it,
only to retire to my pillow and my tears;
which flowed more than usual this evening, yet
I know not why; unless they suddenly meeting
an acquaintance, a friend, who has certainly
a great claim to my gratitude and good
wishes, had more than usually fatigued my
spirits, for, as to the rest, why should I be thus
agitated by a circumstance in which I have no
immediate interest?—Whether Mr. Desmond
be travelling through this country alone, or
whether he is retired hither with any companion,
what have I to do with it? or why should I
think of him farther than ever to follow him
with my grateful wishes?

It is now eleven o’clock—I have left my bed
since a quarter past five, for to sleep was impossible;
ever since the hour when I thought it
probable Mr. Desmond (who knows I am an
early riser) might come—I have been expecting
him, but, perhaps, he has changed his mind,
or his friend may have engaged him.—It is
market-day at the neighbouring town, and I have
an opportunity of sending this letter, or rather
this enormous pacquet, to the post, by my honest
farmer, who has just sent in to say he is going
—I therefore seal it, and will endeavour to reason
away this ridiculous flutter, which the idea
of a visitor gives me, (probably, because I have
been of late so little used to company) and sit
quietly down to finish a view I am doing for you, C6v 36
you, of the prospect from my windows; in
the progress of which, hitherto, I have, contrary
to my usual custom, pleased myself.

Farewell, my dear sister—perhaps my commissioner
may, on his return from town, bring
me what would now be the most soothing and
consoling to my spirits, a letter from my Fanny.

Geraldine Verney.

Let- C7r 37

Letter IV

To Mr. Bethel.

When a man knows, my dear Bethel,
that he is acting like a fool, the most usual way
is to keep it to himself, and to endeavour to
persuade the world that he is actually performing
the part of a wise man; but I, who am, as
you have often said, a strange, eccentrick being,
and not much like any other, amgoingam going to
do just the reverse of this, and to acknowledge
my folly without even trying at palliation; nay,
I accuse myself of having the appearance of
something much worse than folly, which is in
gratitude to you; but, as this is in appearance
only, it is the former accusation alone to which
I shall plead; and much eloquence will be necessary
to supply the defect of reason, which I
know you will think my conduct betrays, when
you see my letter dated from such a place, and
are told that it is within half a mile of the residence
of Geraldine—Have patience, however,
till I can relate the cause of all this, and,
though I was neither bred to the bar, where,
for money, our learned in the laws undertake
“To make the worser seem the better reason.” Milton.

Nor am naturally endowed with the faculty
of doing so, I shall, at least, be able, I think, to C7v 38
to convince you, that no motive injurious either
to my friendship towards you, or my more
tender affection for Geraldine, has led me to
visit her in a way that may be called clandestine,
or to conceal from you my journey
and my intentions; though, to say the truth,
I did not mean to inform you of it till I
saw you, nor should I have done so, but for
the accidental circumstances of having first
met her lovely children, and then her lovely
self.—

How then, you ask, “were you concealed
in her immediate neighbourhood, without any
intention of either?—Incredible folly!”

Such, however, were my intentions—I allow,
if you please, all the folly, but, I insist upon it,
that there was no sort of harm in such a gratification
as I proposed to myself, by which myself
only (if romaticromantic attachment can hurt a man)
was alone likely to be hurt; and, for which,
therefore, I should hold myself accountable to
no one, my dear friend; not even to you, if I
did not feel that your sincere and generous attachment
to me, deserves all that confidence
which I can repose in you, in matters that relate
only to myself.—Your last letter describing
the total ruin of Verney, and the dispersion of
his family, completed the measure of that uneasiness
I had long sustained on account of
Geraldine—It was in vain I endeavoured to reason
myself out of it—I find, that seven-andtwenty
is not the age of reason, or, at least,
where the heart is so deeply concerned—There
were a hundred causes why I had rather have
gone at the moment I set out, to Nova-Scotia,
or even to Nova-Zembla, than to England—But the C8r 39
the idea of Geraldine deserted in distress!—Of
Geraldine in poverty and sorrow! obliterated
every other consideration in the world; and
within four-and-twenty hours after the receipt
of your last letter, which found me at St. Germains,
I set out post, without taking even
Warham with me, or saying whither I was
going; and in six-and-thirty hours afterwards
was at Dover, from whence I made my way,
as quickly as I could, to the post-town in Herefordshire,
near which I had learned, (it matters
not by what means) that Geraldine had, with
her children, fixed her humble abode.

I told the people at the inn where I put up,
that, being in an ill state of health, (an assertion,
to the truth of which, my figure and
countenance bears some testimony) I was directed
by my physicians to travel; and had been
advised to bend my way towards Wales, staying
some little time at any place where the face
of the country appeared agreeable, or the air
salubrious—I added, that I should stay, perhaps,
a week or ten days in this neighbourhood;
but as it was not for their interest to find out a
private lodging for me, I applied, for that purpose,
to the hairdresser, who professed, over
his shop window, to “dress ladies and gentlemen
in the very newest London fashion.”

This very intelligent personage informed
me, that what I wanted was, at present, somewhat
hard to be met with; for that “the
pleasantest and almost only lodging near that
town, which was, however, about six miles
off, or rather better, was lately taken, by a lady
and her children, for a year certain”
—I affected
to be struck with the description thehe gave C8v 40
gave of the pleasantness of the situation on the
banks of the Wye; and asked, if he thought
any cottage in the neighbourhood of the house
he described, could afford me a bed-chamber?
I cared not how humble and plain, if it were
merely clean; saying farther, that, as health
was my pursuit, money was no object to me;
and that, therefore, I would give any person,
who could find such an accommodation for me,
a handsome present for their trouble; and
would hire the apartment for a month certain,
though I possibly might not remain in it a
week.

My honest barber, whose zeal for my service
was now completely awakened, set forth
immediately to see what could be done for me;
and, in the afternoon, returned to say, that,
in a very clean cottage, he had found a decent
bed-chamber, which I instantly set off,
on foot, to see—walking not much like an invalid.
I found the humble thatched cottage
was one among a group of five or six, which
are situated among orchards, at the foot of
that range of woody hills, which are immediately
opposite the farm-house inhabited by
Geraldine—There was no ceiling to the room
but the thatch and rafters, and no curtains to
the bed, yet the chamber was clean, and I determined
to take immediate possession of it—
I therefore ratified my bargain to the great delight
of the old man and his wife, who alone
inhabited the cottage; and having satisfied my
conductor, even beyond his expectation, I
engaged him to return to the town for my
baggage, and to attend me every day with a lad C9r 41
lad from the inn, from whence I am supplied
with provisions.

I then retired to my lowly couch, and slept
better than I have done since the receipt of
your letter, in the certainty that, by the rising
sun of the next morning, I should see the
house where the loveliest and most injured
woman on the earth hides her undeserved misfortunes.

You will believe me, my friend, when I
protest to you, that this satisfaction, and that
of witnessing her real situation, (which I hoped
to do, without her knowing I was near her)
were the only gratifications I proposed to myself;
for many days I enjoyed it, and was
content; nor did I voluntarily seek any other
satisfaction.

“There are,” says St. Preux, in those enchanting
letters of the incomparable Rousseau,
“but two divisions of the world, that where
Julie is, and that where she is not”
—I forget the
French, and I have not the book here—To
the force of the sentiment, however, I bear
witness: to me the world is divided into only
two parts; or rather, to me, it is all a blank
where Geraldine is not—Yet, my friend, is
this declaration no contradiction to what I
often, and particularly, of late, asserted, that
I have now (if indeed I ever was weak enough
to indulge it) not the remotest hope of her
ever rewarding an attachment, with which,
as I know it is wrong, I wish not that she
should even be acquainted—But, if you have
ever truly loved, can you, Bethel, blame me
for indulging that delicious, and surely that
blameless sensation, which is derived from watching C9v 42
watching over the peace and safety of a beloved
object, from whom we do not even
hope a return? While I could open my eyes
in a morning and see the sun’s first beams
enlighten the opposite heath, and fall on the
roof of Geraldine’s habitation, making its high
clusters of heavy, antique chimneys, visible,
among the firs and elms that surround it—I
used to say to myself, “there she is!—There,
she will soon awaken to fulfil her maternal
duties; to cultivate, to strengthen, or adorn,
the purest of minds, by some useful or elegant
occupation.—She is, if not happy, at least
tranquil; and now and then, perhaps, bestows
a thought, and a kind wish, on her friend
Desmond.”

Indeed, Bethel, with this satisfaction, (romantic,
and even ridiculous as it would, I
know, be thought by those who could not understand
the nature of my affection for Geraldine)
I should have been perfectly content,
and having for a little while indulged myself
in it, I should have sought you at Bath, have
made you a confession of my folly, and then,
after having given a few days to friendship,
have again gone back to France; for England
is not my country, when I can hear only, in
whatever company I go into, of Geraldine’s
unhappiness, and the folly, extravagancies,
and utter ruin of her husband.

This was my project; I lingered however,
from day to day, finding happiness, I could
not easily determine to relinquish, in catching,
now and then, at a window, which I fancied
to be that of the room where she slept, the
distant view of a figure, which I persuaded myselfself C10r 43
was her’s—The window was only partly
seen; the tall elms, which grow round a sort
of court, immediately before the house, hid it
half, and though, when the setting sun played
on the casement, I could more distinctly
see it; I found, that if I would really satisfy
myself with the certain view of Geraldine, I
must seek some spot, where from its elevation,
I could, by means of a small pocket
telescope, have an uninterrupted view of these
windows.

I confined myself, however, to the house
all day—you know I never am weary of solitude,
nor am ever destitute of employment;
these days, therefore, appeared neither tedious
nor unpleasant, since, at their close, I was to
be engaged in seeking for the means of satisfying
my wishes; and since I could, as they
passed, look out of my low and narrow casements
towards the habitation of Geraldine,
and whisper to myself—“She is there.”

At length, in the woods that skirt the feet
of these hills, which would, about London,
be accounted inaccessible mountains, I found
a little, shady knoll, to which the gush of innumerable
streams of water attracted me—I
ascended by the almost perpendicular path,
which seems to have been traced only by boys
in their excursions after birds, or by the sheep
that sometimes feed here; and reaching the
top, I had the satisfaction to find, that though
it was surrounded on all sides by trees, so as
to form the most perfect concealment, they
were low towards the top; and that a little
rocky crag, that hung over the twisted roots
of an old thorn and a blighted dash, afforded me C10v 44
me a view of many of the windows of Geraldine’s
residence; at a greater distance, indeed,
than from my cottage, but much less obscured
by the intervening objects―Here,
then, I resolved to pass some part of all the few
days that I had determined to stay here.

Four days since, I was returning, about one
o’clock, from this my morning occupation,
when the heat of the morning, and the freshness
of the grass in that part of the wood,
through which I was passing, induced me to
throw myself on the ground, and continue
the perusal of a book I had with me, on which
I was extremely intent, when I heard the
prattle of children, but as I had often seen
such little rustic wanderers in the woods, I
heeded not the circumstance; till suddenly,
Flora running forward, I heard an infant
scream at her approach—I raised my eyes
and saw a maid-servant with the two elder
children of Geraldine!—I started up to prevent
the little girl’s being more alarmed by
the dog, and as I wished not to betray myself,
I enquired the name of the children, yet, in
a way so confused, that, I believe, the servant
thought my manner very strange—I supposed
it impossible, after an absence of twelve
months, that George could recollect me, but
he certainly did, though my name was no longer
familiar to him; for, after looking at me
earnestly a moment, he returned my embraces,
and even hung round my neck—What delight!
to press to my heart this lovely little
fellow, so dear to me on account of his mother
—I was so charmed with him, and with
the eagerness he shewed to continue with me, that C11r 45
that I am afraid, I more than once forgot my
precaution; however, the children, at length,
left me. I imagined the servant would conclude,
that it was some person of the neighbourhood,
and would think no more about it
—I continued my usual rambles therefore in
the woods, but not at those hours when it
was probable I should again meet them.

Convinced that Geraldine was less uncomfortable
in her new situation than my fears
had led me to suppose; having been now
above a week in the neighbourhood, and fearing
my remaining there much longer might
raise some suspicions, that I would not for
millions of worlds excite—I began to think of
quitting it, and had once or twice determined
to stay only one day longer; yet when the
day of departure came, put it ofoff till the next
—But, on Thursday, I resorted to the spot,
where I usually passed the evening; the weather
was uncommonly lovely—I had, during
the preceding, day, taken my walk, at an hour
when I fancied GerandileGeraldine was at her dinner,
round her garden, and was effectually concealed
by a thick hedge of cut evergreens; but I was
happy enough to be mistaken, as to her hour
of dining—She came out with her children—
I saw her within ten paces of me—She spoke
cheerfully—I heard once more that enchanting
voice—I dared ha rdlyhardly breathe, lest she
should be alarmed; but, as soon as I could escape
unperceived, I crossed among the high
furze and hollow ways of the common, and
returned home by a road remote from that
which led from her residence to my cottage.

The C11v 46

The delicious impression, however, which
the sight of Geraldine had left on my mind,
the uncommon beauty of the evening, united
to that of the scene, contributed to soothe
my mind—I sat down, and began to read;
but every thing that took my thoughts from
her was insipid—I let my book fall, and fell
into a resverie—But I own, my dear friend,
that the pleasing dreams in which I was indulging
myself were interrupted by the recollection
of your frequent remonstrances,
and particularly by that question which you
have so often repeated—“What I meant
by all this?”
—My heart, however, could
answer without hesitation, that I meant no
injury to any human being—Nor, unworthy
and undeserving as Verney is, would I wish
to rob him of the affections of his wife,
admitting it possible he could possess them
—Thus far my conscience clearly acquitted
me; (would to heaven it could
do so in every other circumstance of my life)
and I had settled it with myself, that while
I avoided giving any such evidence of my
attachment to her, as might tend to cast a
reflection on the fair and unimpeached fame of
the lovely woman for whom I felt it; I might
yield to its influence with impunity—I know
you will declare against any such inference; but
I had convinced myself I was right, and lamented
that I had ever left England, under
the idea of curing myself of a passion, which
constituted the charm of my existence; since by
doing so, I have without losing whatever
uneasiness may occasionlyoccasionally embitter that attachment
created for myself others, which
will not soon be dissipated.—In these sort of con- C12r 47
contemplations, I had some time been lost,
when suddenly my dog roused me—I
looked up, and saw Geraldine herself, who,
having perceived me, was hastily retreating
from the sight of a stranger in a place so
remote.

Could I, Bethel, then avoid speaking to
her?—It was impossible—I flew forwards
to meet her—I apologized for the alarm I
had occasioned her—I entreated leave to
attend her home, though, when she accepted
my assistance to conduct her down the declivity
on the summit of which we met, I trembled
so, that I could with difficulty support
myself—She seemed amazed at meeting
me; but after some time recovered herself,
and asked, in the way of conversation, several
of those questions, which, from any other
person, or in any other situation, would have
been indifferent; but I could not answer them
with the ease she put them; and I am sure
I behaved like an ideot, for on a sudden,
she grew cold, and reserved, and, I fancied
wished me away, though I could not collect
courage enough to go—At length conscious of
the foolish figure I made, sitting silently opposite
to her, and afraid of entering into any conversation
lest it should lead to topics I could
not determine to speak upon, I collected resolution
enough to wish her a good night,
and ask leave to see her again to-day—
This she granted in the same distant way
that she would have granted it to a common
acquaintance, and I left her, half frantic, to
think that I am perfectly indifferent to her,
though, three hours before, I was declaring to C12v 48
to myself that I harboured not a wish to be
otherwise.

It is now near eleven o’clock—I find I
have an opportunity of sending this to the
post—I dispatch it therefore and hasten to
take one look, one last look, for such, indeed,
I mean it should be; and if I can gain courage
to talk to her as to a sister, who can feel
for, and pity my errors and my weakness, I
think, that whatever I suffer in tearing myself
from her, I shall yet, after I have once got over
the pangs of an interview, which may be the
last I shall enjoy for years, be more easy than
I have been for many months.—Adieu, dear
Bethel—I feel as anxious as if the fate of my
whole life depended on the next three hours;
but perhaps it does.

Your’s faithfully,

Lionel Desmond.

P. S. I shall not, certainly, stay here above
a day longer—I think not—As after I have
taken leave of her, upon what pretence can
I linger in the neighbourhood? yet, as I have
not determined, whether I shall reach you at
Bath, by the cross-country road, or go first to
London, and for a day or two into Kent; in
short, as I have not determined what I shall
do; and, probably, shall fluctuate à la Waverly,
till the hour of my setting forth—You may
as well direct hither; because I shall leave orders
at the post-house, whither my letters
are to be forwarded. Who said, that sorrow
had anticipated the injury of time; and that D1r 49
that the beautiful and once admired Geraldine
had lost all her personal attractions?—To
me, she appears a thousand times lovelier than
ever; and was it merely her form and face, to
which my heart yields homage, it would be
more than ever her captive.

Vol. II. D Let- D1v 50

Letter V.

To Miss Waverly.

I have seen Mr. Desmond again, my Fanny;
and if he had before a claim to my regard,
it is now heightened into as much esteem as I
can feel for any human being—Yes! he is
unhappy; and it is to me, as to a sister and a
friend, he communicates his unhappiness—Ah!
what would I not do to relieve from its solicitude,
that noble and ingenuous heart, which
places such confidence in me?—But, of this,
enough—I only say thus much, to vindicate
him from my unjust and improper suspicions,
of having come here clandestinely, on account
of the foreign lady, of whom we heard so
many idle reports.—Desmond is alone;
and quits this neighbourhood to-day.—He
talks of visiting his friend, Bethel, who is at
Bath; and soon afterwadsafterwards, of returning to
France—If he goes to Bath you will see him;
but I, perhaps, shall see him no more for some
years―As those years, with me, are, probably,
to pass in this remote solitude; where,
it would be violating the common rules, which
the world expects us to observe, were I to receive
his visits, how innocent and brotherly soever,
they would assuredly be.

While I yet write, he crosses the bridge on
horseback, and George, who is astonishingly
fond of him, has run out, with his maid, to
meet him—Desmond gets off; he puts the
dear little boy on his horse; and, with one arm round D2r 51
round him, he makes Peggy lead the horse
forward—I hear the laugh of infantine delight
even hither―There is nothing, Fanny,
in my opinion, so graceful, so enchanting,
in a young man, as this tenderness towards
children—It becomes every man, but none
more than Desmond; who is never so amiable
in my eyes, as when he is playing with George
—And my little girl, she now lisps out his
name; and though she has seen him only twice,
is a candidate for a seat on his knee; and turns
towards him, those sweet blue eyes, without
that pensive look that her delicate countenance
generally expresses; as if she knew, even in
babyhood, her fate to be marked with sorrow—
But my noisy boy, and his friend, are at the
door. I hear Desmond say, he is come to bid
him goodby; and the child enquires, why he
goes, and when he will come again.—I must
go to wish him a good journey, and deliver him
from the little, wild interrogatories of his playfellow.

He is gone! and I feel ridiculously low—
I say, ridiculously, though, I trust, I do not
give way to an improper sentiment—But why
should it be wrong to admire and esteem an
excellent and amiable man, from whom I have
received more than brotherly kindness?—Why,
indeed, should I question the propriety of this
regard, because I am married?—Does that
prevent our seeing and loving excellence whereever
found?—and why should it?—To disguise
these sentiments, would be to acknowledge
them to be criminal—I rather glory in
avowing them, because I am conscious they
are just, pure, and honourable.—Why, indeed,D2 deed, D2v 52
should I hide or apologize, for the
tears I even now, shed, when I think that
I may never see Desmond again?—What a
treasure is a friend, so disinterested, so nobleminded,
as he is? And why should I not regret
him?—How soothing, to a sick heart in
solitude and sadness, is the voice of kindness,
administering the consolations of reason and
good sense, dignified with all the graces of a
polished mind—Such have I heard from Desmond,
in our last conferrence; and can I help
regretting, that I shall hear them no more?

But it is not to you, my Fanny, I ought
to excuse myself, (if, indeed, it could be necessary
at all,) for my regard; nay, I will
call it my affection, for our admirable friend
—Nor, though I feel his departure as a privation,
just at this moment, can I lament having
seen him.—I find that there is a possibility
that I may be of use to one of his friends,
in some disagreeable circumstance; and with
what delight shall I embrace an opportunity
of being useful to any of his acquaintance or
connexions.—Farewell, my dear sister—I am
unable to write a long letter to day—I will
go to my books, and to my walk in the
wood; for those are resources that, I find,
soothe me to tranquillity; while the complaints
of George, that Mr. Desmond is gone, and
that he shall not ride any more, and his little
innocent questions, when he will come
again? and if he is gone to see pappa? quite
overcome my spirits. I will write a longer
letter in a day or two, though I shall have
now very little to say.

June D3r 53

What is to become of me now?—An express
from the neighbouring post-town, accompanied
by a French servant, has just delivered
me the enclosed letter from Mr. Verney
—I enclose it; for I have not strength or time
to copy it—Oh! Fanny, what shall I—ought
I to do? In truth, I know not!—How unfortunate,
that Desmond is gone; and that I
cannot have the benefit of his advice.—Gracious
heaven! What does fate intend to do
with this miserable, persecuted being?

Let- D3v 54 “Letter VI. Enclosed in the foregoing. My dear, My very worthy friends, Monsieur le
Duc de Romagnecourt
, and Monsieur le
Chevalier de Boisbelle
, are, this day, setting
off for England on a journey, relative to the
affairs of the King of France, their master
—They are returning to Paris directly; and
having heard me express a wish to see you
here, have undertaken to escort you over; and
the Duke himself attends you with this—I desire,
therefore, that you will set off with him,
as soon as you conveniently can—As to the
children, I think, travelling with them will be
inconvenient to you; and should suppose your
mother would take them for the time you are
abroad; or, perhaps, you might leave them
very safe in the care of their servants.—You
will do as you like about bringing servants for
yourself; but, I think, you will find English
women only encumbrances, and may hire
French maid servants here; as to men, as we
shall live altogether at the Duc de Romagnecourt’s,
his suite of servants will be ours. I
shall expect the pleasure of your arrival with
impatience, where all things are going on
well for the suppression of the present vile
proceedings.
I am, my dear,
Your’s affectionately,
Richard Verney.”
I repeat D4r 55

I repeat my question, my sister—What
ought I to do?—Good heaven! what an inconsiderate
man is Mr. Verney; and, I am
sorry to add, how unfeeling!—Leave my children!
—Accompany strangers to Paris!—The
former I will not do; and surely I ought not
to do the latter; but on something I must determine;
for, I understand, from the French
servant, to whom I have been speaking, that
this Duke is actually waiting at the inn, at
the neighbouring town, and expects to be asked
hither—What wildness—what madness, in
Mr. Verney, to propose such a scheme!—
Whither can I turn me?—Oh! would to heaven
Desmond was not gone!—Write to me
instantly—Yet how shall I put off my determination
till I receive your answer?—How
evade going?—For surely I ought not to go.—
I believe it will be best to write a letter of excuse
to this French nobleman; saying, how
impossible it is for me to undertake a journey
so suddenly.—Surely Mr. Verney cannot mean
—But I will not distract myself with useless
conjectures, with suppositions more tormenting
than the miserable realities. I send
this to the town, on purpose to have it reach
you by the earliest post; but I tremble so,
that I fear it is hardly legible. The Chevalier
de Boisbelle
has not, I find, taken the trouble
to come down hither with his noble
friend. Surely he cannot be gone in search—
But, again, I am bewildered and distracted.
—Pity, and instantly relieve your very unhappy,

Geraldine.

Let- D4v 56

Letter VII.

To Mr. Bethel.

By this time, my friend, you expect me
at Bath; and there I should certainly have
been on Monday next, if I had not been, by
a most singular and unexpected accident, stopped
here.

I took leave of Geraldine yesterday morning
—I left her situated in a place, where if
she enjoyed not that affluence and prosperity
to which she has been accustomed, she was,
I thought, tranquil and content.—She bade
me adieu with the tenderest friendship, yet
with that guarded expression of it that her
situation demanded. I blessed her for the generous
kindness she shewed me; I respected
the reserve her circumstances made it proper
for her to adopt.—I thought by her eyes—
and were there ever eyes more expressive? that
she was sorry to see me depart, yet knew that
it was proper I should go.—Such sensations,
in a more violent degree, I also felt—To tear
myself from her was now more difficult than I
ever yet found it; but I knew it would be
injurious to her to stay; and never yet did
my propensity to self-indulgence conquer my
sense of what I owed to the disinterested tenderness
I bear her.

It was necessary then to go—and I dared
not tell her how cruelly I felt the necessity; I
affected some degree of cheerfulness; I playeded D5r 57
with her lovely boy, and tried to disguise,
though I believe ineffectually, the contending
sensations with which I was agitated―at
length I left her. As I looked back, I beheld
her at the window as long as she could see
me, for the little fellow would not be content
to quit it while I was in sight; and she held
him in her arms.—At length the descent of
the bridge hid her from my view.—I then hastened
on to this place, which is about ten
miles from her habitation, for hither I had
directed my portmanteau-trunk to be sent from
my cottage; and here an horse, I had purchased
some days before waited for me—As I
found it easier and pleasanter to have an horse
of my own, now that I am able to ride, than
to go in a post-chaise or by any other conveyance.
I was then giving some directions about
the forwarding my trunk, and was just going
to mount my new purchase in the yard of
the inn; when a berlin, apparently belonging
to a foreigner of distinction, attended by three
French or Swiss servants, drove to the door—
an appearance, which though about the affairs
of others I have not much curiosity, I own
excited it strongly.—I stopped therefore, and
saw alighting from the carriage, a man about
three or four-and-forty; he seemed to be a
person of rank; but he wore, with some strong
symptoms of his own consequence, that bewildered
look which I have often observed in
travellers who are unacquainted with the language
and manners of the people they are
among.—He spoke French to the landlord and
the waiter, who not having the least idea of
what he said, were as much distressed as he D5 was; D5v 58
was; a person, however, soon after made his
appearance, who seemed to be a sort of travelling
companion, and who undertook to be
his interpreter; but so miserably did he execute
this office, that the honest Welchman and his
people, were more puzzled by his incomprehensible
English, than they had before been
by the French of his superior.—The shewy
equipage, and the number of attendants, however,
raised so much respect in the breasts of
the landlord and his household, that they were
extremely desirous of accommodating their great
customers, if they could but find out what they
wished for.

The first idea that occurs to an Englishman,
on such an occasion, is a good substantial dinner;
this, therefore, by such signs as he thought
most likely to elucidate his meaning, the master
of the inn proposed; and as there is a language
in all countries by which eating or loving may
be expressed, this was at length assented to.
The gentleman attendant, or as the landlord called
him, t’other Monsieur, was shewn into the
larder; which, though it was not quite so well
furnished as that of the Bear at Bath, or some
others of equal fame, yet appeared very satisfactory;
and a certain number of dishes were ordered
to be prepared, to the satisfaction of both
parties.

As there was something excessively comique
in the distress of the landlord and his wife,
who could get no more intelligence from the
strange servants than from their master, I could
not forbear staying a little to be amused with
it. I had nothing to do better, and was indifferent
whether I satset out before dinner or afterwards,
on my solitary journey: but I had yet D6r 59
yet another motive for staying than to witness
this odd scene; I thought I might be of some
use to these foreigners, by explaining to the
people what they really wanted, or what house
they came in search of; for they enquired for
some place or person in the neighbourhood,
about whom or which, the people could comprehend
nothing.

The landlord, however, seemed fully persuaded,
that after so good a dinner as had been
ordered, matters must clear up; infinite,
therefore, was the bustling and fussing to have
this ready.—The weather was hot; and the
landlord, with his wig half off, a good round,
plump Welch head, a fiery red waistcoat, and
his pompadour Sunday coat, exerted his broad
squat figure to the utmost; while his wife put
on her best plated cap with pink ribands; a
fine flourished shawl; and a pea-green flounced
stuffed petticoat, under a flowered cotton gown,
drawn up; and, notwithstanding this elegance
(all to do honour to the British females before
outlandish gentlemen,) she was as anxiously superintending
the roasting and boiling, as if she
was providing in her common array for the
ordinary of a market day, on which the custom
of her house depended.

At length the dinner was ready, and the
landlord marched in with it; but he had not
remained long in the room before he left it,
and came puffing into that where I sat, in
redoubled consternation.—“Oh lord, Sir,”
said he, “do you understand French?—Lord,
Sir, if I ben’t quite, as one may say, at a nonplush;
not one syllable more can I make out
from that there gentleman that fancies how he talk D6v 60
talk English, than that he is come to fetch
away some lady, that he calls Madam something,
and will have it that she’s here.—Lord,
Sir, I’m quite floundered for my share, and
knows no more what he’d be at, than the little
Nan there in the cradle.—I wish for my share,
folks would speak English; for why?—such
lingo as these foreigners use is of no service in
the world, and only confounds people, ready to
drive them crazy—Then they gabble so plaguy
fast, that there’s no catching a word by the
way, even to guess a little by what they would
be at.—Sir, if your honour has a smattering of
their tongue, and would not think it too great
a condescension, seeing they are Frenchmen,
to make yourself known to them, ’twould be
doing me a great service, if so be you’d just
give me an item of their intentions—for my
wife she’s teizing me like a crazy woman, to
know if they want beds made up, and if
they do, whether their beds are to be made
like as ours are?—I says to her, why how the
murrain now Jenn, should I know, but I’ll go
ask yon gentleman, perhaps he can let us in to
the right of the thing, which to be sure I should
be glad of; for, Sir, they say that one of these
is a duke.”
—To stop this harangue, which
seemed not otherwise to be near its conclusion,
I assured my landlord that I knew a little
of their tongue; and if he would order one of
their servants to me, I would send them in a
message, expressive of my wish to be of use to
them if in my power.

In consequence of this, their answer informed
me, that the Duc de Romagnecourt was much
honoured and flattered by my attention, and requested D7r 61
requested the happiness of seeing me.—Judge,
dear Bethel, of the astonishment, the mixture
of wonder, indignation and confusion, with
which I learned that Mr. Verney is become
the intimate friend of this Duc de Romagnecourt;
that it is with him he resides at Paris;
and, that it is under his escort he has sent for
Geraldine to join him there.

If I had heard that I was, at one blow, reduced
from affluence, to depend on the bounty
of upstart greatness—dependence which of all
other species is most hideous to my imagination;
if I had been told that I had no longer a friend
in the world; nay, that Bethel himself had forsaken
me, I think I should not have felt a sensation
of greater anguish and amazement.—Monsieur
D’Auberval
enquired of me if I knew Madame
Verney
; though I saw by the Duke’s manner,
that he was the person interested. I knew
not what to answer; and my embarrassment
must have been visible, if they had not imputed
part of it, to my natural diffidence as an Englishman;
and (as they thought) an Englishman
of inferior rank; for they saw I had no servants
with me, and seemed to wonder how a person
who travelled in his own country without a
suite, should be so perfectly versed in the language
of their’s.—I now, however, understood
the purposes of their journey; and under pretence
of making some enquiries, I withdrew
to consider of what I ought to do.

To interfere between Geraldine and her husband
(I cannot write his name, with patience)
was, at least, improper—To give her notice
that I was still near her, was impertinent; and
making myself ridiculously of consequence, in an affair D7v 62
affair where my protection was not, perhaps,
requisite.—This Duc de Romagnecourt, tho’
he had the air of a veteren debauché; and
though his conversation, little as I heard of it,
confirmed the idea his appearance impressed—
might be a married man; a man of respectability
and honour; at least he was one to whom
it was evident Mr. Verney chose to entrust his
wife; and what right had I to interfere? How
could I indeed do so, without its being known
that I had been privately residing in her immediate
neighbourhood; and encouraging a
belief, that I had some fancied authority, to
exert that influence which only a brother or
some very near relation, is supposed to have a
right to exert.—The more I considered the man,
this Duc de Romagnecourt, his behaviour,
his conversation; the more improper, nay, impossible
it seemed for Geraldine to set out with
him on such a journey; yet I did not see how
I could, with propriety, save her from it by
my direct interference. I therefore determined
to give the Duc de Romagnecourt the direction
he requested me to procure for him; to
trust to the first reception of such a proposal to
the sense and prudence of Geraldine, and to
await where I was the event of the letter which,
by a servant of his own, he sent to her from
her husband.—It contained, as the Duke informed
me, an injunction to set off immediately
with him for Paris.—I affected merely to
know there was such a lady as Madame Verney
in the neighbourhood; and, having now made
up my mind, I returned to these worthy friends
of Verney’s; gave them the address they desired,
and saw the French valet set out accompaniedpanied D8r 63
by a guide from the inn.—It is impossible
to describe to you what I felt while these men
were absent; nor the effort with which I supported
the conversation that the Duc de Romagnecourt
invited me to engage in.—However,
I commanded myself as much as possible, as it
was absolutely necessary to prevent any suspicion
of my being particularly interested for Mrs.
Verney
; and I wished to lead him to speak of
her, which he perhaps would not have done
with so little reserve, if he had suspected that I
was acquainted with her.

It is not very difficult, after having seen a
good deal of “this best of all possible worlds”,
to enter into much of a man’s character, even
from a first interview.—I soon learned that
the Duc de Romagnecourt, was a man of
very high fashion, and very great fortune in
France; that he was very much confided
in by the court, and of course extremely
averse to the claims of the people; that he
execrated the struggle they had so successfully
made for their liberties, and now visited
England with a view to engage in favour of
an opposite system, which he said, would
soon have le dessus The upper hand. again;) those, among us
whose interest it was most effectually to crush
every attempt at reform.—He hinted that in
his way through London, he had succeeded
in this negociation beyond his hopes; and
that he was to have a farther confirmation
of the support that had been promised him
on his return, which he proposed immediately,
avec la charmante femme, whom he expected
to conduct.

Proud, D8v 64

Proud, profligate, and perfidious, accustomed
to entertain high ideas of self-importance;
and seldom finding any of his inclinations
resisted because he had power and
money to purchase their indulgence, the Duc
de Romagnecourt
was but little disposed to
conceal his principles or his views.—I learned
that when he was in England some few
months since, he saw and admired Geraldine,
to whom he had then been introduced
by her husband.—I understood that Verney
was under very great pecuniary obligations
to this man, who now actually supports him
in France; and the inference I drew from
the knowledge I thus obtained of the character
of the one, and the necessities of the other,
was too dreadful; I recoiled with abhorrence
from its immediate impression, but
still it returned with undiminished anguish,
and every word uttered by the Duc de Romagnecourt,
served only to confirm my apprehensions,
and encrease my uneasiness.

I determined that, whatever might be the
consequence, no consideration upon earth
should induce me to quit the country, while
this most illustrious personage remained in
it; and having made that resolution, I awaited,
with as little visible anxiety as possible,
the return of the messengers who were sent
to Geraldine.

I had indeed very little occasion for any
other exertion, than that of patience; for
the Duke, with all the forward consequence of
which we accuse (and sometimes justly accuse)
his countrymen, entered, nothing
doubting my approbation, into a history of himself D9r 65
himself—His rank, his fortune, his feats,
were described—nor was he more guarded
on the subjects of his politics, or his amours.

In regard to the first, he was, I found, a
most inveterate enemy to the revolution—
Deprecated the idea of any degree of freedom
being allowed to the inferior ranks of
men in any country; yet owned that he
had with the duplicity that was adopted by
many of his compatriots, appeared to yield
to a torrent they could not resist; but while
they seemed to go with the stream, he hinted,
that measures were taking effectually
to turn its course; and he triumphed in the
discomfiture of the reptiles, who had thus
dared to aspire to the privilege of freemen
and saw, in his mind’s eye, the leaders of
this obnoxious cannaille languishing out their
miserable lives in the most dreary dungeons
of the new-erected Bastile—Such was the
colour of his politics. His love ever successful,
and without thorns, was, as he represented
it, toujours couleur de rose―He
scrupled not to hint, in terms that could not
be misunderstood, that he had been very highly
favoured by some of the most exalted
ladies of the French court; that he was an
universal favourite; and that there was no
woman in this country, or his own, who
could long remain insensible of his powers
of pleasing, when he chose to make a point
of gaining their favours. In this style―
(and I listened to him with contempt that
stifled my indignation)—he ran on for some
time; till the wine he drank, much heavier
than that he was usually accustomed to, begangan D9v 66
to have a very visible effect on him―
His companion, a Monsieur d’Auberval,
(though I understand another person came
over with him) was even more inebriated
than himself—And I learned, from what
they together discoursed, that Verney had
no intention of meeting his wife at Paris,
but was going to Metz with some other French
noblemen deeply embarked in the cause,
whatever it is, that now engages their intriguing
spirit; and that Mrs. Verney was,
after some stay at a magnificent seat of the
Duc de Romagnecourt’s, about five leagues
from Paris, to follow her husband to Metz
—In short, dreadful as the confirmation of
my fears was, I had no longer to doubt but
that Geraldine was sold by the wretch who
dares call her his wife.

Nothing but the reflection of what I owed
to Geraldine, could have restrained me from
expressing the indignation I felt—It was,
however, necessary to dissemble—I am a
wretched hyprocritehypocrite; nor could I even in this
emergency have succeeded, if my companions
had been very accurate observers—
At length after some hours of such tortures
as I thought it hardly possible to feel and exist;
the men, who had been sent to Geraldine
with her husband’s letter, returned, and
brought to Monsieur de Romagnecourt a note
written in French, of which this is the
substance.

“Mrs. Verney presents her compliments
to the Duc de Romagnecourt; and, as it
is quite out of her power, on account of
ill health, and from other circumstances, to D10r 67
to leave England immediately; and equally so,
to quit her children, who must necessarily be
very inconvenient companions to him; she must
beg leave to decline the honor he intends her
of a place in his carriage on his return to Paris;
and the letter with which she takes the liberty
of troubling him to Mr. Verney, will account
to him for her delaying her journey.
Mrs. Verney is sorry the small house and
establishment she has here, makes it impossible
for her to receive the Duc de Romagnecourt at
her present residence; and obliges her to take
this method of thanking him for the civility he
intended her.

Bridge-foot Manor-farm, 1791-06-11June 11th, 1791. ”

Though the purport of this note was exactly
what I expected from the presence of mind and
good sense of Geraldine; and though I was
relieved from my first anxious apprehensions,
as to the terror she would be in on receiving it,
I had yet but too many fears to contend with.
I saw that Monsieur de Romagnecourt was
mortified for the moment, but by no means so
much discouraged as to desist from his pursuit;
and after reading the note over twice or thrice,
admiring the elegance of the writing, and the
purity of the French, which, he said, was
such, as not one in a thousand of his countrywomen
could have produced, he fluttered about
the room, though with somewhat less dignity
than usual, for he could hardly stand; and
then calling her a lovely prude, he determined
to try, the next morning, what his own irresistible
presence could do towards thawing the ice of D10v 68
of this cold English beauty; and, in this disposition,
I left him at one in the morning.

I saw that any attempt to disuade him from
such a scheme, would be fruitless; and, indeed,
I thought it best to let her positive and personal
refusalconvincerefusal convince him at once, that his presumptuous
and insolent proposal must be abortive
—Still it was painful to me, to think that
Geraldine must be insulted by hearing it.—I
knew, that elevated as her mind is, above those
frivolous and unworthy apprehensions, to which
women fancy it an amiable weakness to yield;
yet, that such an address, from such a man,
in a place where she was entirely unprotected;
and the application coming from her husband,
could not but be altogether most distressing to
her.—Though I could not save her from it, it
was possible to soften the shock, by giving her
notice of it; and assuring her, that there was
within her reach, a man who would lay down
his life, rather than see her exposed to any unworthy
treatment.

Sleep was with me entirely out of the question.
—At the earliest dawn of the morning, I
was on horseback, and directed my course to
my former residence, the cottage. My ancient
host and his wife were just making their homely
breakfast, on brown bread and cyder, when I
entered their kitchen; they were rejoiced, yet
amazed, to see me; and I was compelled, once
more, to have recourse to stratagem, to conceal
the real motive of my second visit.―I
told them, I had found myself not so well after
I left their house, and had, therefore, returned
from Ross, to abide with them a few days
longer.

I then D11r 69

I then considered in what way I should announce
to Geraldine the visit she was to expect;
and I concluded, that I would go to the house
and send up my name―Slowly and pensively I
began this short walk—I dreaded for her
the uneasiness I was about to inflict—I dreaded
for myself, that I should betray in a way; too
unequivocally expressive of my sentiments, all
I felt.―To tell her that I apprehended her
husband had consigned her to another, was to
intimate to her a degree of infamy, almost too
shocking to be imagined, and that of a man,
with whom she was, perhaps, to pass her life,
and who was the father of her children; yet,
to let her, for a moment, think of obeying him,
which, it was possible, she might do, if it struck
her as being her duty, was still more dreadful;
and I saw there was nothing to be hoped for, but
from the rectitude of understanding, which I
have always remarked in her; but I even dreaded
the excess of those strict principles, which
I have often known to impel her, contrary to
her own wishes, and her own sense of propriety,
to follow the dictates of those, who, conscious
as she must be, of their mental inferiority,
had, she thought, a right to her compliance.

As soon as I could distinctly discern the
windows, I saw they were already open, though
it was yet early—The morning was lovely;
but my mind was too much occupied to suffer
me to enjoy it. I knew Geraldine used to
walk early in the little court that is before her
apartments; but now there was no traces of
her having been out; nor did I hear the voice
of my little playfellow cheerfully greeting my
return, as, I own, I had fondly anticipated—All seemed D11v 70
seemed mournfully silent; yet I thought I
heard some footsteps moving softly about the
house. I tapped at the old, thick, carved door
with my stick; for there is no knocker—
Nobody answered—I repeated it—Still no answer
―At length, after waiting near a quarter
of an hour at the door, I lifted up the iron
latch, and opened it―I crossed the brick
hall, but saw nobody―The door of the parlour,
where Geraldine usually sits, was a-jar;
I pushed it gently open, and was struck with
a groupe of figures, which exactly brought to
my mind that which had been so forcibly and
painfully impressed on it, by my dream at
Hauteville.―

Geraldine was extended on an old fashion
cane sopha, or what is, I think, called a settee,
suported by cushions of green stuff, and with
her right arm she clasped the youngest of her
children, who appeared to my terrified imagination
to be dying, as its head reposed on her
bosom, while her tears fell slowly on the little
pallid face; the girl, unconscious of her mother’s
anguish, sat upon the pillow behind her,
playing with some flowers, and the eldest boy
had seated himself by her in his own little
chair, and was holding her left hand and looking
mournfully at her, and his brother. Fixed to
the spot by grief and amazement, I dared hardly
breathe lest I should too sudenly alarm her.
Her eyes were shut, and I only saw by the tears
that fell from them, that she was not in a state
of insensibility, for my entrance did not seem
to disturb her—she supposed it to be the maid.

In a moment, however, the little boy turned
round and saw me, and screaming my name in an D12r 71
an accent of transport, as he eagerly ran
towards me. Geraldine opened her eyes, and
repeated, “Desmond! gracious heaven! Desmond!”

As soon as I could disengage myself from
the caresses of the child I approached―
“I am destined” said I, in faultering accents,
“I am destined to disturb and alarm you,
can you forgive me for this intrusion?”
—I
hesitated—I hardly knew what I would say.
She gave me however her hand as she rose;
involuntarily I could have pressed it, for the
first time in my life, to my trembling lips,
but I dared not; and I remained holding it
still in mine, while she said, after a pause of
a moment—“Never was the sight of a friend
more truly welcome.”

The cordiality of this reception, (for her
eyes, heavy as they were, confirmed the purport
of her words) restored me to some degree
of confidence and composure. I took a
chair, unbidden; she begged I would forgive
her for attending to her child, who was,
she apprehended, dangerously ill.—I enquired
how long it had been so, and she replied—

“I am grown so very weak, Mr. Desmond,
I mean, that I am so much disposed to be
what the fine ladies call nervous, that I am
no longer fit for a nurse; every foolish accident
discomposes me, and of course injures
my nursing—I have been extremely alarmed
for the life of this ill-starred baby, within
these few hours, but I hope my fears have
exaggerated the danger.”
I had no need to
ask what it was that had so much distressed
her, yet I did not like abruptly to tell her, that D12v 72
that I was already acquainted with it; she did
not however, lead to it, and we remained
for some moments silent, while little George
clung about me, and said he loved me dearly
for coming back.

“Ask Mr. Desmond, my love,” said Geraldine,
as if glad to have the means of thus
questioning me.—“Ask him, why he came
back when we were afraid he was quite gone.”

“It was,” answered I, “to prevent your
being alarmed by the suddenness of a visit
from another person, which will, even when
you are prepared for it, be, I believe, disa-
greeable enough.”
She grew more pale at
these words—“you mean the Duke de Romagnecourt?”
“I answered, yes; and relating
briefly what had passed, except that
part of our conversation that raised my suspicions
about her husband’s having literally sold
her, (with which it was impossible for me to
overwhelm her) I asked what she would do
to evade the importunities of a man, who
seemed to suppose his wishes were not to be
counteracted, and to believe he need only appear,
to obtain them.”

The dignity of conscious worth, thus deserted
by its protector, gave spirit for a moment
to her languid countenance. “If Mr.
Verney
,”
said she—but she checked herself,
and hesitating a moment, said, with less vivacity
“if this nobleman gives himself the
trouble to come hither, which, however, I
most earnestly wish he may not, my answer
will be very positive, and very short—I am
extremely obliged to you for giving me noticetice E1r 73
of his intentions; but if you could prevent
his coming—”

It did not, at that moment, appear to her
that my interference was liable to a thousand
misconstructions―but before she had finished
the sentence, this occurred to her very
forcibly; and she added—“but I beg your
pardon for my inconsiderate folly—this cannot
be―he must come—I must undergo,
unfit as I am, the irksome ceremony of
seeing him and of giving him my positive refusal.”

“And if he should afterwards persist?”

“Impossible—he surely cannot intend it.”

I then gave her a specimen of his conversation,
which I had, till now, mentioned only
in general terms.―She was much affected
at the idea, that the strange and unmanly
conduct of Verney had exposed her to a scene
so improper and so extraordinary―And I
saw her turn her eyes, expressive of
the most acute maternal anguish, and filled
with tears, on her children, particularly on
the little one in her arms; but even in this
moment she uttered no complaint against their
cruel father, though I saw her bosom heave
as bitter reflections on his conduct, swelled
her heart almost to bursting.

Oh! Bethel! why could I not, at that moment,
have taken this lovely, injured woman
and her children openly under my protection?
—Why could I not aver that ardent, yet sacred
passion I feel for her?―Alas! instead
of daring to own it, and to offer her my
life, I was struggling, perhaps inefficaciously
struggling, to make all I said, all I proposed,
appear as the dictates of mere friendship; Vol. II. E and E1v 74
and to persuade her, that, from a mere friend,
she might, nay, ought to accept my counsel,
if she could not my offers of service.―After
a farther conference of half an hour, during
which, I said all that might, without too
much alarming her, put her upon her guard
against the Duc de Romagnecourt’s projects
—I was preparing to take my leave, when
she asked me if I had breakfasted—I never
once recollected that I had not—She ordered
breakfast to be brought; and, I saw,
made an effort to be cheerful, but it was evidently
forced; her eyes anxiously followed
the child, as the maid carried it out of the
room—I remarked, that notwithstanding the
particular conversation in which we were engaged
during breakfast, she listened to every
noise above stairs, and went out twice to enquire
after it.—It was proper I should go—
for, I knew, I must be an inconvenient interruption
to her; yet I had not said all I wished
to say, and could not determine to depart.

On her return the last time into the room,
she smiled on me with angelic sweetness, and
asked if I forgave her abrupt rudeness?—She
then sat down again—endeavoured once more
to regain her composure; and enquired at
what time I thought it probable she might be
oppressed by the honor that threatened her?
—As she thus again introduced the subject,
I collected resolution enough to tell her that
my fears of her sufferings did not end with
this visit―for that I thought the noble foreigner
very likely to persevere in his entreaties,
and leave nothing unattempted to enforce
them.—At the word enforce, on which I laid E2r 75
I laid a strong emphasis, she smiled, and asked
me if I thought he would really enact a
French Sir Hargrave Pollexfen, and carry her
to Paris without her own consent?—I answered
very gravely, that though that could
hardly be done; yet, that she might, and I
was afraid, would find the Duke a visitor of
great perseverance, and one who would not,
without great difficulty, be dissuaded to recede
from a point which, he thought, he had her
husband’s authority to persist in.

She looked at me, as if to examine whether
I meant more than I said—I suppose I looked
as if I did—But again she endeavoured to
laugh off the fears which she would willingly
believe groundless.—“I cannot imagine,”
said she, “why you have taken it into your
head, that this man would give himself so
much trouble—------I dare say he will make a
fine speech or two, be au dessespoir, that he
cannot have the happiness of my company,
and content himself with shrugging up his
shoulders at my want of common sense, in
preferring this pays triste & morne, with my
children, to the delights of a journey to Paris
with him.”

“I wish,” replied I, “it may end so, my
dear Madam.”

“But you doubt it?”

“I do indeed.”—I then gave her some
stronger reasons, drawn from my observations
of the preceding evening, why I doubted it
“You are,” said I, “quite unprotected
here; you have not even a man-servant who
might shut your doors against impertinent intrusion.”
—She allowed this; and when I E2 asked E2v 76
asked her whether I had her permission to
remain at the cottage, I had before inhabited,
till I saw the event of this visit, a faint
blush, which spoke a thousand grateful, yet
fearful sensations, was visible on her cheek
―But checking her fear, her pure and
noble mind yielded only to gratitude, she gave
me once more her lovely hand—“It is
worthy of you,”
said she, with enchanting
frankness, “to make so generous an offer, I
accept it rather to quiet your apprehensions
than my own; but it must be upon condition,
that you run no risk of embroiling yourself
with this extraordinary visitor of mine.”

―I assured her I would not; and having
obtained permission to wait on her for half an
hour in the evening, I took my leave.

And now, my dear friend, I have written
this volume since―I have seen from my
windows the carriage of Romagnecourt go to
her house—Impatiently I awaited its return,
which was not for an hour and a half; and
now I go to enquire the result; and as I shall
send this immense packet away to day, and
shall have no opportunity to write again for
some time, I leave you to comment on the
strange story I have related, and to blame,
for so I doubt not but you will, (since chivalry
is no more) this romantic knight-errantry

Of your faithful,

Lionel Desmond..

You see I conclude cheerfully, which I
account for by telling you, that whenever I am E3r 77
am to see Geraldine, I feel in heaven; and I
hope to see her this evening restored to quiet,
for her child was better when I left her;
(indeed, I believe her tenderness greatly exaggerated
his danger) and I hope the noble
Duke has departed peaceably with his final
answer; yet, till I am assured that she is
completely relieved from his insolent importunities,
my heart, I find, must be subject to
frequent fits of anxieties and indignation.

Let- E3v 78

Letter VIII.

To Mr. Bethel.

Though there has not been time for
you to answer my former letters, I am growing
extremely impatient to hear from you;
but till I do, though I fear you will blame
all I have done, I must beguile the anxiety
of the situation I am now in, by continuing
my narrative.

I went on the evening of yesterday, at the
time Geraldine had appointed, to her house.
―So far from rejoicing in the final dismission
of her importunate French visitor, as
I hoped to have found her, she appeared extremely
alarmed at his determined perseverance;
and under the greatest apprehensions
of another visit from him on the following
morning.—She repeated with symptoms of
great disquiet, the conversation she had held
with him; and his eager remonstrances, on
her positively refusing to accompany him;
mingled with what he believed the most irresistible
adulation, left me no doubt as to
his views; nor of the compact made with
Verney, by which he assured himself he
should carry them into effect.—Though the
whole of this odious transaction did not seem
to have struck Geraldine as it had done me,
I see that she suspects but too much of it;
and such, indeed, was the language the Duc
de Romagnecourt
held, that of his designs she E4r 79
she could not be ignorant.—She evaded,
however, repeating the extravagant speeches
which made them so evident, with modest
dignity; but, as this was no time to conceal
from her any part of my apprehensions, I
ventured to ask her—whether she could be
blind to the real motive of this importunate
interference; and, if it was not very visible
that the Duke’s pretended friendship for Mr.
Verney
, was only a passion for her personal
charms.—She owned that it appeared so;
and then added, that during the time she was
under the cruel necessity of remaining in
London, where the acquaintance begun, she
perceived that this foreigner had considered
the sums he lost to Verney, as a sort of passport
to her favour; and had then addressed
her in a style, which only the lighter manners
of his country, and his total ignorance
of her real character, could have induced her
to tolerate a moment: but she had believed,
that on returning to France he had thought
no more about her.

I could have told her, that the impressions
she made, even when those impressions were
only those of her personal loveliness, were
not easily erased; but I was in such a state
of mind, that I dared hardly speak at all,
lest I should too evidently betray, what in
her present situation would have been doubly
improper.—Her distress distracted me; and
I knew not how to relieve it but by a direct
address to the Duke, from whence I saw
many ill consequences, and she others; to
which I should have been entirely indifferent
―I understood that this unfeeling suitor, had E4v 80
had dared not only to express his contempt
for all those ties which she held sacred, but
to ridicule Verney; judging, perhaps, that
it was impossible she could love him; and
that her shewing she despised him, (which
was a sentiment he thought she could not
conceal,) would be a very important point
in his favour.—“It is now,” said she, “it
is now that I feel in all its bitterness, that
humiliation to which the conduct of Mr.
Verney
has reduced me—This man dares
thus address me, because I am fallen from
the situation in which I once moved, and he
supposes that my mind is humbled with my
fortune.”
—She had hitherto restrained her
tears, but they now fell on her bosom—Had
so many drops of blood been drawn from
my heart, I should have felt them less painfully
―Blame me not too severely if the
sense of what Geraldine suffered (she, at
whose feet the world should be prostrate)
my cursed situation which rendered my attempting
to relieve her so hazardous to her
fame—the dread of her continuing defenceless
and unprotected as she was, to be exposed
to proposals so insufferably insolent;
the effect which I saw this state of uneasiness
had on her health, and a thousand other
reflexions, crowding together into my mind,
threw me off my guard.—By heaven, Bethel!
I was in a momentary phrenzy—and forgetting
that to avoid encreasing her discomfort
was the object nearest my heart, I
yielded to the violence of such mingled and
distracting emotions; and I believe, looked
and behaved like a madman.

I was E5r 81

I was almost immediately checked, however,
by the effect this sally of ungovernable
passion had on Geraldine—She seemed
atas one thunderstruck for a moment; then
recovering her presence of mind, she put her
hand gently on my arm; and, with a countenance
where what she felt for herself, was
lost in the expression of solicitude for me; she
said—“My good friend! what is the
meaning of all this?—Do not suffer your
concern for me to overcome you thus—Above
all things, you must promise me that you do
not personally appear in this affair—Give
me your advice―I know it will be that of
the kindest and most brotherly friendship, and
I will follow it: but I must insist upon your
relinquishing every idea of speaking to Monsieur
de Romagnecourt
—to any other proposal
you shall make, I ought to attend.”

The manner in which this was uttered, restored
me instantly to myself; I was ashamed
of the expressions of vengeance against Romagnecourt,
and of rage at my own situation,
that I had used.—I felt all their impropriety,
and regretted that I had uttered them:
yet the emotions which gave them birth were
as strong as ever, and, while I repented, I
could not apologize for them—I remained
silent, till Geraldine, in a voice yet more
soothing, enquired, what I would advise her
to do, since it was too certain that no common
means of repressing, unwelcome importunity,
had any effect on the arrogant perseverance
of Monsieur de Romagnecourt
For he had told her, that he should remain
at least a week in the neighbourhood, in expectation,E5 pectation, E5v 82
that she would change in his favour,
a resolution so hastily adopted.

“Good God!” exclaimed I, “is it impossible
to escape seeing this man? is it impossible to
deny yourself? On what pretence does he
exclaim a right to molest you?”
“On
that,”
she replied, “of being sent by Mr.
Verney
.”

“But has he no sense or propriety, none of
the respect he owes you?”

“Alas!” answered she, “it is, I think,
too certain that I shall suffer much more persecution
before I am released from him; but be
that as it may, you may be assured, Desmond,
that the idea of your personal danger, which
could not fail to arise from any application to
Mr. De Romagnecourt, is infinitely more terrifying
to me, than any apprehensions I entertain
for myself; and after all, why should I
be thus uneasy at impertinence which cannot
last many days; and which can only harass and
fatigue my spirits, but not do me any material
injury.”

“And is it not then” (Geraldine, I had
nearly said) “is it not a material injury, dear
Madam, to be subjected for hours and days to
hear such sort of conversation as that with
which this man presumed to address you? and
is not your deigning to admit a second and a
third visit, giving him reason to hope you will
finally be less inexorable than you declare
yourself?―Presuming as he is, a very little
of what he will interpret as encouragement,
will render his insolence insupportable.―
I own, that if I, who have not the happiness
to be allied to you, and have certainly no right E6r 83
right to influence you, should interfere on
this occasion to deliver you from his importunity;
(which, I believe, it would not be difficult
to do) such an interference might give
occasion to disagreeable misconstructions; but
surely it were better to hazard those, which,
perhaps, in this remote place, might not happen,
than to leave you a day, an hour, exposed
to the intrusion of this assuming and arrogant
foreigner—Would it be consistent with
the friendship, the esteem, you are so good as
to allow me to profess; and I hope I need not
say how sincerely I profess it) to leave you in a
predicament, in which, were you my sister,
I could not bear that you should remain a moment?”

I saw this argument had a visible effect on
Geraldine—but, shall I own, that at this
moment my selfish heart bounded with delight
at the idea that I was not indifferent to her;
and regardless of the additional pain she must
feel from a preference against the indulgence
of which her principles would revolt—I
dared to taste delight, which no consideration
had, for a moment, power to restrain.—She
remained silent; and then said with a deep
sigh—“I thank you most truly, Desmond,
for supposing me your sister—Ah! would to
God I were indeed so! Had I such a brother,
I could not be exposed to a situation so cruel
—I should then have a protector! But as it
is,”
(and her tears fell fast) “I am deserted by
all those on whose guardianship I have a claim.
—To your generous—your more than brotherly
friendship, I am already but too much
indebted—Were there not an infinite numberber E6v 84
of objections, I could not bear to encrease
this debt; but, as it is, the bare idea of any
interview, on the subject of his visits here, between
you and Monsieur de Romagnecourt, is
intolerably dreadful; and I entreat you never
to name it again.”

“Something, however must be done,”
said I; “for unauthorised, as I am, to speak
to Monsieur de Romagnecourt, I can as little
bear his insults to you—insults, from which
it is the indispensible duty of every man of
honor and feeling to defend you.”

“You terrify me to death!” answered she
“Promise me—I insist upon your promise,
that of such a measure as applying to
this French man yourself, you wilwill think no
more.”

“Promise me then,” said I, “that you
will think of some way of avoiding his future
visits.”

“I know of but one, and that—that is,
at present, impracticable.”

“Name it, however, for heaven’s sake.”

“It is,” said she, hesitating—“to go to
Bath to my mother; but besides other considerations,
which render such a journey, at
present, almost impossible—I have reason to
fear that I should be at this time an unwelcome
visitor—My brother is, as Fanny’s last
letters tell me, on the point of being married
into a family, whose favour, prosperity alone
can conciliate.—For this desired union my
mother has long been labouring; and should
my presence, depressed and humbled as I am,
impede it—I know, too well, that I should
be a most unwelcome visitor—Unwelcome to
every one but my Fanny.”

This E7r 85

This cruel reflection conquered, for a moment,
her equality of mind; deep sighs and
tears choaked her. Oh! Bethel! to behold
the woman I adore in such a state, without
daring to relieve, or even to participate her
sorrows!—There is on earth no condition so
painful.—I internally cursed her detestable
relations; (of whom all but her sister are so
unworthy of her) and, for a little time, was
too much affected by her anguish, to be able
to speak.—At length, I said—“But is it
not possible for you to be in lodgings where
you need not be under the necessity of meeting
this ridiculous Fairfax family—You may
escape from hence, for a time, to return again
when your pursuer is baffled.”

“A journey, with such a family, to Bath,”
said she mournfully, “and lodgings, when I
arrive there, are expences which my mother
would assuredly murmur at. Perhaps you are
not aware, that though it was found impracticable
for me to give up my settlement, as I
most willingly would have done; yet, that I
have nothing during Mr. Verney’s life,
but a trifling allowance by way of pin-money,
which I have never asked for, and he has
never paid. Though he could not sell his estate
with my jointure secured upon it, yet it is
sequestered—Colonel Scarsdale inhabits the
house for a certain number of years; and the
income is his—Verney has therefore, left
himself destitute, and thus improvident, on his
own account—Is it wonderful he should be
so on mine and his children?”

Oh!” thought I, “had he been only improvident
—equally improvident, it were well!— but E7v 86
but for himself he thinks but too much; and
you, Geraldine, are the destined sacrifice!”

But this, though I thought it, I dared not
say. I shall make my letter endless, if I relate
all that afterwards past.—Alas! my friend! I
found, that notwithstanding the precaution
with which you promised to supply her, by
means of her sister, she had been of late so inadequately
furnished with money, that she had
not enough to pay what must be paid for her
apartments, were she to quit them, and to
answer the expences of her journey. At
length, she consented to my supplying her
with what was necessary for this purpose, to
be repaid, as she believes, by her mother; and
the apartments, (having paid for the present
half-year,) she still retains; and thus it is settled,
that if she cannot to-morrow dismiss this
very improper and importunate visitor, she
quits this place, and you will see her, my
friend, at Bath. On my part, that no remarks
may be made on our being in this retired
spot, or travelling together, I shall see
her only to a place of safety, probably as far
as Gloucester, and then go into Kent for a
few days; after which, there will surely be
no impropriety in my joining you at Bath, (as
I have always intended to do) even though
Geraldine should be there.—She has promised
to write to me―(I trust there is no harm
in that) I shall hear how long her stay is likely
to be—If Waverly’s marriage takes place,
and all her own family look as cool upon her,
as there is reason to fear they will, she will,
perhaps, hasten to bury herself again in her
beloved solitude: at all events, my stay at Bath E8r 87
Bath must be short, as some business, from
which I cannot disengage myself, will absolutely
require my presence in France early in
July; and then, perhaps, shall take leave of
England for ever.

The breath of scandal has never yet injured
the spotless character of Geraldine. You, who
know, that my love for her has a just claim
to be called true love, because it seeks only
her good―You, my friend, before you
condemn me, will ask yourself, whether I am
likely to commit any indiscretion that will really
injure her fame?―You will not, after
having so reflected, blame me for what has
passed since I have been here―I could not
act otherwise―And after all, who is to
report my being here at all?―Those foreigners
do not know me even by name―
They do not know that I am acquainted with
Geraldine―Her departure cannot be imputed
to me; and though I foresee that you
will now find a hundred reasons to condemn
me—I value myself on having acted, as you
would have acted had you been so situated.

Farewell, dear Bethel, till I meet you.―
You will, perhaps, see the lovely subject of
this letter almost as soon as you receive it.
From you, and from her sister, she will hear
the soothing voice of friendship and tenderness
―And I recommend her to those
good offices from you, which, from her own
family, I am afraid she will not receive.

Ever your’s, faithfully,

Lionel Desmond.

Let- E8v 88

Letter IX.

To Miss Waverly.

I stay here a day, my Fanny, to recruit
my exhausted spirits, after the variety of
agitations I have been exposed to. You have,
by this time, received my two last letters; and
know the strange visit that has driven me from
my peacablepeaceable abode; though I would have continued
there in despite of importunities and impertinence,
which could not have lasted long,
if I had not dreaded Mr. Desmond’s interference,
which seemed hourly probable; and
which nothing but my determining to put myself
under the protection of my family, could
have long prevented.

My account of the second and third visits
of the Duc de Romagnecourt, In a letter which does not appear.
would convince
you that he was not easily to be repulsed;
nor would Desmond be persuaded
that I ought patiently to endure this transient
evil—I saw consequences attending his
applying to Monsieur de Romagnecourt, of
which I could not bear the idea without terror
—Any measure, therefore, was to be adopted
rather than hazard it; and yet I foresee, that
if even his present interference, and his friendly
attention to me, be known, inferences may be
drawn as false towards him, as unfavourable to
me. Alas! my Fanny, the prospect every way E9r 89
way around me is darkening; and in the storms
that are on all sides gathering, I shall probably
perish. Desmond was so good as to insist on
accompanying me as far as this place on horseback
—He then immediately left me; and
is gone into Kent. I am very sure, my sister,
by your last letter, Which does not appear. that you blame me for the
circumstances that have occured since Mr.
Desmond’s
residence in the neighbourhood of
my retirement; and I own that such adventures
befalling a married woman, separated
from her husband, are very likely to raise,
even in the most candid minds, suspicions of
her conduct.—---You, however, surely know me
too well to harbour them a moment; and if
I were not bound by all the ties of honour
and gratitude to secrecy, I could at once
convince you, that no improper attachment to
me, has been the cause of Mr. Desmond’s journey
hither.―Still as it is impossible that
this can at present be explained, I wish that as
little may be said of it as possible.

I know not how I find resolution to proceed
from day to day in this career of misery.---My
children, for whom I ought to live, alone support
me; nor have I in the world another motive
to wish my existence prolonged, unless it
be your affection, my dear Fanny.―Do
not therefore, now when I most want it, do
not let it fail. You will receive this letter a
few hours before my arrival—Let me find
at the Bear at Bath, a note from you, to say
where you have taken lodgings for me; when
I shall see you, and when I may be permitted
to pay my duty to my mother.―Surely, how- E9v 90
however she may be occupied with the approaching
festivities which are intended for the more
beloved and more prosperous part of her family,
she will not refuse some maternal kindness to
her unfortunate child, whose unhappiness is not
of her own creating―and who, though
she returns poor and desolate, like the Prodigal
in Scripture, has nothing wherewith to reproach
herself; nor occasion to say, “Lo I have sinned
against heaven, and in thy sight.”

Perhaps, my dear Fanny, your ill-starred
Geraldine will not long trouble you.—“There
certainly is such a distemper,”
says Fielding,
“as a broken heart; though it is not mentioned
in the bills of mortality.”
—Till that calamity robs
mine of every sensation, it will be fondly attached
to you.

Geraldine Verney.

Let- E10r 91

Letter X.

To Mr. Desmond.

I am again undertaking to execute a very
unpleasant task―But my friendship for
you Desmond, is of a nature which withstands
even—what shall I call it? not unkindness, nor
duplicity; for I believe, from my soul, you are
incapable of either.―But that want of
confidence which ought to subsist between us,
and in which you certainly failed when you
came to England, and went into Herefordshire
without informing me of your intentions.—
The consequences of this imprudence, for such it
surely was, have been more uneasy to the object
of your solicitude than you are aware of; but
though I am still vexed, and a little angry with
you, because I think you acted unlike yourself,
it is impossible to see her, without feeling so
much interested, that every other consideration
is absorbed in axietyanxiety for her.—Geraldine is,
indeed, an excuse for every failure towards me;
but when that failure has injured her, I cannot
allow of the apology; and the task of chiding
you for your indiscretions, and relating their
effects, falls on me most unwelcomely.

Early yesterday, I received a hurried and
confused note from Miss Waverly, beseeching
me to see her, by some means or other, in the
course of the morning.―I answered that I
would be at a bookseller’s, where we sometime have E10v 92
have, you know, made these assignations, within
an hour.—I was punctual to my appointment,
and in a few moments after, Fanny arrived,
wrapped in a large morning cap, and a cloak,
tied round her neck, which were, however, insufficient,
even with the deep veil that depended
from her bonnet, to conceal that her eyes were
swollen with weeping, and that her whole
frame was in extreme agitation. She seemed
unable to speak when she came in, but recovering
herself, she asked if I would walk with her,
as she had much to say to me. We took
the shortest way to get out of town, and proceeded
in profound silence, till we reached the
fields.—She then put into my hands her sister’s
last letter, dated from Gloucester, and told me,
that she had obeyed, as well as she dared, her
directions, and had provided a lodging for her;
but that her mother was extremely displeased
with the journey, and had heard, by some
means or other, for which it was very difficult
to account, that Mr. Desmond had been some
time concealed in the neighbourhood of her residence
at Bridgefoot, and was the person who
had advised her to quit it for Bath, instead of
complying with Mr. Verney’s wishes, and going
to France, with a nobleman of very high
rank, a married man, a man of the very first
fashion and consequence, under whose protection
she might not only have travelled with utmost
ease and elegance, but, since she was directed
to do so, by her husband, with the
greatest propriety.—“Such,” said Miss Waverly,
“is the representation that has been made
to my mother, and which, added to her own
dislike of Geraldine’s coming hither at this time, E11r 93
time, has irritated her so much against my sister,
that she will hear nothing I can say in her
excuse—She has even forbidden me to see her;
I shall not, however, obey her in that respect;
but I dare not so directly violate my mother’s
cruel injunctions, as to meet her on her arrival—
Yet how will her already, half broken heart,
be wounded, when instead of a friendly reception
from a sister, who fondly loves her, from
a mother who ought to protect her, she finds,
awaiting her arrival, a harsh letter from that mother,
filled with remonstrances and complaints.”

“She shall at least” said I, as soon as I could
recover from the pain this intelligence gave me,
she shall at least find one friend ready to receive
her; I will wait myself her coming, and
soften as much as I can, the inhuman conduct of
Mrs. Waverly; forgive me Miss Fanny, I think
it most inhuman.”

“I was about,” answered she, “to solicit
that friendly assistance which you now so generously
offer—Without some such interference,
the blow will quite overwhelm my unhappy
sister.—By what means my mother has got such
intelligence, I cannot imagine.—Her usual informer,
one whose visits I always dreaded, is no
longer here, and if she were, I cannot discover
how Desmond’s abode in England, which
was a secret to his most intimate friends, should
be known to her.—I own, Mr. Bethel, I wish
he had forborne to visit the country, where
Geraldine resides, with an air of secrecy; for
though she assures me, (and she is truth and
candour itself, that in doing so, he was actuated
by very different motives from those which my
mother’s informer has dared to impute to him; yet E11v 94
yet assuredly, such a circumstance happening to
a young and beautiful woman, apart from
her husband, will receive, from the generality
of the world, a very different interpretation.”

It would be difficult to describe with the
pen, the manner and voice in which Fanny
Waverly
uttered this—her countenance I could
not see, for she turned from me, and had her
handkerchief to her eyes—Her emotion was
however extremely affecting; I did all I could
to re-assure her, and promised, that I would
see Geraldine composed and easy, before I
left her, in her new lodgings, (where she
was expected that afternoon,) and give early
intelligence of her state of health and spirits
to the anxious Fanny.

“Alas” said she, “it is all the comfort I
shall have about her to day, for my mother has
made an engagement with the Fairfax’s, from
which, I have in vain attempted to excuse
myself―pardon me, Mr. Bethel
they are relations of yours, and are soon to
become relations of mine, but I shall never
love them, for I detest pride and selfishness
wherever I meet them; above all, I detest
them, when they are poorly concealed under
the ill-managed affectation of refined sentiment,
and superior information.

I could not forbear a smile at the little asperity,
with which this sarcasm, (you will call
it truth) was uttered; and soon after, as
Fanny had made some excuse to her mother,
which she feared, would be detected as an excuse,
if she staid too long, we parted, and I
prepared for the painful scene I was to go
through in the afternoon; I thought it howeverever E12r 95
best, as I was known to be so much connected
with you, not to wait her arrival at the
inn; but to leave a note for her, entreating
permission to attend her, as early as she could
admit me.

About half past five o’clock, I received
from her, the following card.

“Mrs. Verney is infinitely obliged to Mr.
Bethel
, for his early and most welcome attention;
being unable from indisposition, to remain
at the Bear without great inconveniences,
she is already removed to her lodgings in
Milsom-street, where she expects, with impatience,
the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Bethel.”

I hastened thither instantly; and was shewn
into a small dining-room, where I saw the
two eldest of her lovely children playing on
the carpet; the door of the adjoining room
was a-jar, and I had hardly spoken to George,
before Geraldine entered.

Such an expression of despondence and woe
was on her countenance, that I started as I
saw her—She forced, however, a melancholy
smile, as she held out her hand to me; and
said, in a faultering voice, “This is kind indeed,
and like my friend Mr. Bethel.”

I endeavoured, in my turn, to speak cheerfully;
but it would not do—She waved her
hand for me to take a chair, but seemed afraid
of trusting her voice with another sentence.—
There was evidently such a painful struggle to
conceal her agitation and check her tears, that
to have seen her weep would have been less
affecting.—I expressed my fears, that she was
a good deal fatigued by her journey―
She answered, “I am indeed; travelling with three E12v 96
three very young children, with only one servant,
and in some uneasiness of mind, has been
altogether a little too much for me—The sight of
a friend like you, Mr. Bethel, is, however,
reviving; and makes me as much amends as
any thing can now make me, for the want of
kindness I experience from my own family.”

This cruel reflection was insupportable—her
voice failed her; and she drew her handkerchief
from her pocket, to conceal the tears she
could no longer restrain.

After yielding to them a moment, however,
she endeavoured again to repress them; and said
inarticulately, “I beg your pardon, for attempting
to conceal any thing from you; and
to distress you by the sight of sorrow that must
appear extravagant—but read this letter from
my mother—from my only parent—from
her in compliance with whose wishes—”

She could not go on—I took the letter from her
hand, which I could willingly have pressed to
my heart—I was too much agitated to read it very
distinctly then; but I enclose it to you, for
she gave me leave to put it in my pocket.

“You see, Mr. Bethel,” said she, when
she regained her voice—“You see, that the
coldness of my family is not judged punishment
enough; but that they accuse that most
generous and noble-minded of men, your friend
Desmond, of attachments—of views, which I
am sure, he never entertained; and thus rob
me of the only friend, except yourself, that
my cruel destiny has left me—But I will submit
to it in silence—I will not trouble my mother
with the unwelcome sight of a daughter,
whose misfortunes are her faults—I will go— but F1r 97
but yet I know not whither!―they will
allow me, I hope, a short respite here till I can
determine.”

I need not, surely, say to you, that I said
every thing I could imagine, to console this
lovely, injured mourner―I told her
that her sister had sent me, to assure her of
her unfailing tenderness, and of her determination,
that no injunctions from her mother,
should prevent her seeing her the next
day. I endeavoured to persuade her, that the
ideas Mrs. Waverly had taken up about you,
were owing to the forgeries of malice and malignity
―that she would soon be convinced
of their falsehood―and that all
would be well.―She shook her head.—
“Ah! never!” said she, “in this world for
me—my destiny cannot be changed—it must,
therefore, be supported—But, however, no
state of mind, so cruelly painful as that I have
endured since I received, two hours ago, my
mother’s letter can last long.”

A silence of some moments ensued, for I
had exhausted every proper topic of consolation.
At length, she said—“Notwithstanding
all this, I am so conscious of the rectitude of
my own heart; and so perfectly convinced of
Mr. Desmond’s honor and integrity towards
me, that I shall not affect to have any reserve
about naming him; for to do so might intimate
that I blushed at knowing how highly he
honours me with his esteem, which I rather
glory in. Have you heard from him, Mr.
Bethel
, since he has been in Kent? Is he
well?—And does he talk of returning soon to
France?”
—I replied, “that I was not, at
present, informed of your intentions; but Vol. II. F should, F1v 98
should, probably, soon see you at your own
house; where, I imagined, you would stay,
at least, a month”
—She sighed—“We shall
lose you then,”
said she to me; “that loss
will be irreparable.”
I assured her, that,
as long as my continuing at Bath would be of
use to her, in the smallest degree, I would
not suffer even my wish to see you, after so
long an absence, to have any weight with me.
—I could have added, that I knew I could not
oblige you so much as in remaining where my
presence could contribute to her satisfaction.

She was not able to thank me; or, for some
time, to speak—Recovering herself, she said
“you are too good, Mr. Bethel!—The
voice of kindness and sympathy, overcomes
me more than the cold and cruel reserve of my
family, because I cannot help making continual
comparisons!—My Fanny!—she too
forsakes me!—yet I would not have her disobey
my mother, however I may languish to
see her.”

Again I assured her, her sister would fly to
her, at all hazards, the moment it was possible;
and after some farther conversation, I
had, at length, the pleasure of leaving her
much more composed than I had found her.
—She spoke, however, with extreme anxiety,
about her youngest child, whose constitution
is, she fears, quite ruined by the uneasiness
that has been preying upon her own, while she
has been nursing him.

As to Geraldine herself, she looks most beautiful
—less dazzling than she once was—she is
a thousand times more interesting than in the
most luxuriant bloom of early beauty—I never saw F2r 99
saw a face that gave me so much pleasure in
the contemplation of it, as her’s does; and
yet I have seen many more regular—The
reason of this, I believe, is, that there is
so much sense blended with so much sweetness
in every expression of her countenance.
—I have often seen both separately; but,
in faces, where one predominates, there is
frequently a want of the other―Her
form, too, is, in my opinion, the very
perfection of feminine loveliness; yet it
seems to owe all its charms to her mind
—the dignity of the one heightens every
grace of the other. See! if your inexorable
Mentor, as you have often called me, is
not writing an eulogium on the very charms
for which he condemns your adoration—But
I am now too well convinced that nothing
can divest you of your attachment; and the
justice of my praises cannot encrease it—
All I shall henceforward attempt to do, will
be to keep it within those bounds of prudence,
which you cannot pass without doing
the most fatal injury to its object.—
Prudence in which, my friend, you most
cruelly failed in your journey into Wales.

I own I am much disturbed at the information
Mrs. Waverly has obtained of the
circumstances of your abode in a place, where
I thought it quite improbable that you could
be known. I am still more disturbed at
the construction she has been taught to put
on your visit.

I have just had a note from Miss Waverly,
she will be with her sister to-morrow
morning at seven o’clock—This evening, F2 her F2v 100
her mother has taken care to render it impossible.

I will write again in a few days, till when
and ever I remain,

My dear friend, your’s faithfully,

E. Bethel.

Let- F3r 101

Letter XI.

To Mrs. Verney.

Daughter Verney,

I hear, with great concern, and indeed
amazement, of your intended arrival in this
place. I wish you had acted more prudently,
as well as properly; and am surprised, that
in your situation, you should think it right
or becoming, to receive visits from Mr. Desmond,
or any other person, not authorised by
your family; and, at the same time, refuse
to comply with your husband’s request, in going
abroad, under the care of the nobleman,
whom he had engaged to see you safe to him
―I am very much alarmed for the
consequences of all this; and, indeed, those
of my particular friends, whose judgment I
rely on, have given me great reason to be
so, by the representations they have made to
me of the opinion the world will form upon
such conduct―Encouragement or countenance
from me, it will not receive; and,
as to supporting the expence, it is quite out of
my power—You will do well, therefore, to
consider, whether you had not better determine
to go to France, where, I understand,
your husband is likely to be handsomely supported,
till his affairs can be settled; and to
accept the polite and handsome offer made by
the foreign Duke, before it is too late—You
remember, to be sure, as you are fond of
poetry, the line your poor father, on former occasions, F3v 102
occasions, has quoted from Milton or Shakespeare,
or some of your favorite authors— “The wife, where danger or dishonor lurks, Seemliest and safest by her husband stays.”

At present, your separation from Mr. Verney
is altogether voluntary, and, therefore,
highly improper; and quite inconsistent with
the prudent line of behaviour, which I expect
from a daughter of mine—such, indeed,
as lays me under the necessity of saying to
you, though it may appear harsh, that I cannot
let my daughter Frances see you, nor
consent to receive you myself, till I find you
have determined to embrace the proper conduct
of going to your husband—as to do
otherwise, would be to encourage both, in
what is in my own opinion, quite wrong;
and give fresh occasion for scandal, which has
begun to be too busy already.

I hope Mr. Desmond will oblige me in forbearing,
for the future, to interfere in the
affairs of my family; and that I may not
hear him named again in the same breath
with any of them, unless on quite a different
footing.

I desire your speedy determination, as to
going abroad; and when you have taken a
becoming resolution, you shall not find me
backward in kindness—My circumstances are,
at present, much circumscribed, by the necessity
I am under to do my best in figure
and appearance for your brother’s approaching
marriage with a woman, whose fortune and
connexions are so proper and desirable for him
—Nevertheless, I will strain a point to grant you F4r 103
you any little accommodation for your journey
—though, certainly, not to support you
in a wilful separation from your husband, which
nothing can excuse, and no mother, who has
a due sense of propriety will encourage.

As to your three children, I am glad to hear
from Frances, that you have weaned the little
one, as that takes off one objection to your
travelling. You may leave them all very
properly, with some careful person; and, if
they are near this place, I will see now and
then, that they are well looked after.

I am (if so your conduct shall allow me
to subscribe myself)
Your affectionate mother,

Elizabeth Waverly.

Let- F4v 104

Letter XII.

To Mr. Bethel.

With what calmness, my dear Bethel,
do you recount a scene, that I cannot read,
without feeling something like frenzy. With
how few remarks do you enclose me a letter
that deprives me of all patience and—
But it is the mother of Geraldine that writes
it, (at least, she has always passed for such,
though one would be tempted to fancy
there was an exchange made in her infancy)
and I will not exclaim against her; but only
entreat you to let me know, by the return
of the post, whether the lovely persecuted
being to whom it is addressed, has taken any
resolution in consequence of it. I dread,
lest that tender and dutiful sweetness of character,
to which her wretched marriage was
owing, should again betray her into this detested
measure; and that her ideas of obedience
to her odious mother, and her worthless
husband should precipitate her into the very
abyss of wretchedness.—My hope is, that
the proposal—so cool a proposal too, that she
should leave her children, will rouse that proper
spirit of resistance against usurped and abused authority
which, for herself, she would not, perhaps,
exert―To leave her children, to go
herself to such a husband, escorted by a man
to whom, I am persuaded, he has sold her;
and all this, by the authority of an unfeeling
old woman, who is solicitous for her fame, for- F5r 105
forsooth!—and displeased at my having
called at her door, when I happened to be in a
same neighbourhood.

One is half tempted to fly out of the
world in a fit of despair, when one considers
how the farce of it is carried on, and what
wretches exist in it, whose whole business
seems to be to destroy the few comforts, and
embitter the few pleasures which it affords.
—I am totally unable to guess to whose
cursed officiousness it is owing, that this prudish,
narrow-minded old woman (I cannot
keep my temper with her) is so well informed
of my having been at Bridge-foot; a secret
I kept even from you, and fancied was unknown
to all the world; since I had the precaution
not to take even a servant with me
―I could execrate with a most hearty
good will, her informers whoever they may
be; and wish I could draw a drop of blood
from their hearts for every tear this diabolical
business has drawn from the eye of Geraldine
—But a heart that can wantonly injure her,
can have no warm blood in it―It must
be some disappointed prude, or uncharitable
pedant. I know none of either description
at all likely to interfere with me—yet, if I
could discover them, I should be tempted
to expose them to something worse than this
apostrophe—

“I tell thee, damned priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be When thou liest howling!—” Shakespeare.

It is in vain, my dear Bethel, for me to
attempt calling off my mind a moment from F5 Geraldine; F5v 106
Geraldine; and were it not that my presence
might expose her to a repetition of these odious
suspicions, I should be now at Bath;
whither you knew it was fully my purpose
to go when I quitted Herefordshire, had
not she been driven thither, and made my
going just at the same time improper; though
I was then far from dreaming of all the occasion
there existed for my precaution.

As it is, I must remain here, at least, till
I have your answer; which I entreat you
to forward to me as soon as possible;
for, till it comes, I can determine on nothing
—and there is no situation so irksome
as the state of supencesuspence I am now in; certain,
that however it terminates, I must be wretched,
but dreading what is of infinitely greater
moment, that Geraldine mymay be yet more
miserable.

Do not encourage me, Bethel, in the
idea of her having for me personal regard
―I, who know and adore the unsullied
purity of her mind, know, that the admission
of such a sentiment, however involuntary,
would render her unhappy; and I would not
obtain all the happiness imagination can conceive,
at the expence of giving her heart
one reproachful pang.―You think this
asseveration inconsistent with my rashness, in
concealing myself in the neighbourhood of
her late residence―But besides that
I had other motives for my journey thither,
than it is in my power to communicate to
you; I protest to you that had not chance
thrown me in her way, I should not have then
seen her.—This appears contradictory and F6r 107
and ridiculous, but I must be content to let
you call it so.

How tedious, how irksome is the sort of
life I have led the little time I have been
here.―I find that the locality of our attachments
depend upon the persons that
surround us, rather than the places where
we are happy―I have preferred this smalsmall
estate as a residence, from my infancy;
and here the most joyous hours of my life
were past.―When I became my own
master, I hastened hither; and, as I repaired
the old house, and saw the roads
mended and the fences got in order, as I
planted my shrubs, and gave directions
for the care of my timber, procured modern
comforts within the house, and put
every thing without in order, a thousand
agreeable images returned of my former
pleasures; and with the sanguine eye of
youthful expectation, I looked forward to
greater pleasures yet to come.

“I shall meet,” said I to myself, as I indulged
these charming illusions, “with some
lovely and amiable young woman, whose
taste is congenial with my own―One,
who will be more pleased with this place,
because I love it, than with my other
house; which, though larger and handsomer,
is not in so beautiful a country, and
to which I have no particular attachment.
—That, therefore, I will let, and reside
here altogether; and, when the naturally
delicious situation is gradually improved,
and a new room built for my books, I
think, that with such a woman as my imagination
has formed, I shall here find happinesspiness F6v 108
—if happiness be ever the lot of humanity.”

While I was looking out, therefore, for
this “last best gift of heaven,” I was as busy
in my improvements, and as delighted with
my future paradise, as ever projector was
with some favourite scheme that was to procure
him millions.—Alas! destiny, inexorable
destiny, was at work not only to
destroy my lovely visions, but to embitter
their destruction by shewing me that they
might have been all realized.—At this period
—near four years ago, I first saw Mrs. Verney;
then only a few months married, and
brought down by her husband, for the first
time, to his Kentish villa.—The beauty of
her person, though that person is exactly
what my fancy would form as the most lovely
and perfect, made no immediate or deep
impression.—She was a married woman, and
her beauty was not, therefore, to be considered
by a man, looking out, as I was, for
a wife, and who never harboured an idea of
seducing the wife of another—Yet, perhaps,
I listened with more pleasure to her sentiments,
because she was eminently handsome.—I had
listened but a little, before I discovered, to
my utter confusion, that she was exactly the
woman with whom I could be happy; and,
in a few months, I found that I could never
now be happy at all, for that she could not be
mine, and I could think with pleasure of no
other woman.

For above two years, under pretence of
trying to reason myself out of this prepossession,
I cherished it.—The unaffected ease F7r 109
ease and innocent freedom with which she
treated me, fed the flame that was consuming
me; but she was totally unconscious of it—
And, though I could see that Mr. Verney
was altogether unworthy of her, that she was
but too sensible of it; and had been married
to him merely because it was the will of her
family. Believe me, Bethel, that I honoured
highly that noble resolution with which I
saw she not only bore, but tried to make the
best of her lot; and never, in any one instance,
attempted to raise a sentiment in my own
favour, to the prejudice of the affection
which she believed she ought, and which
she tried to feel, for her husband—That husband,
who valued so little the blessing he possessed,
that, after he had once gratified his
pride, by shewing to his libertine friends the
most beautiful woman of the time, as his
wife, was accustomed to leave her for weeks
and months together; and, while he was
dissipating his fortune in every species of extravagant
folly, she was either alone at Linwell,
or had no other companion than Fanny
Waverly
, then a wild girl, between sixteen
and seventeen—just emerging from the nursery
into the delights of succeeding her sister
as a beauty: and who, though heartily rejoiced
to escape from her mother, seemed
then not to be so advanced in understanding,
as to be a companion for her, though there
was not the difference of two years in their
ages.

It was at these periods when Geraldine was
so much in solitude at Linwell, that my attachment
took so deep root.—I found by her pre- F7v 110
preferring the country even at seasons when
she might have been in London—I found by
her taste for reading, for drawing, for domestic
pleasures, that she was, in every respect,
the very woman my imagination had
formed.—The more I saw of her, the more
I felt this—yet could I not determine to quit
her, till your remonstrances and some fears,
lest with Verney’s encreasing follies, my regret
and murmurings might encrease also,
and to her prejudice, determined me to go
abroad—How successless that expedient has
been in regard to curing me of my passion
for her, you know too well—What ill consequences
have otherwise attended it, I hope
you will never know at all.

But I was about to relate the effect that my
former friendly and innocent intercourse with
this lovely woman, has on my present frame
of mind; and how it touches, with peculiar
sadness, every object around me.

This place, though more than six miles
from Linwell, and almost as far again from
Hartfield, is yet, you know at that distance,
which in the country constitutes near neighbourhood.
—I was at school at Eaton with
Verney, and though on our entrance into
life, his pursuits and mine were so different,
that no intimacy could subsist between us, yet
our acquaintance was of course renewed, when
we both came teto settle in this country.----—I
visited equally at the house, whether he was at
home or no; and, at length, I was restrained
only by my fears of injuring the reputation of
Geraldine, from seeing her every day; for
all other society was insipid or disgusting.

At F8r 111

At that time Geraldine rode on horseback,
or drove her sister in a cabriole; and, as she
was fond of gardening, I sometimes used to
solicit her opinion on the alterations I was
making—----and when she approved what I
had directed, or gave me any idea of her own,
I pursued my plans of improvement with redoubled
alacrity.—---Her presence gave to
every object a charm which I now look for in
vain!—And the groups of shrubs which
were then planted by her direction, now
grow and flourish, as if to remind me only
of the happiness I have lost—a happiness
which one half the world would call chimerical,
and the other half absurd and ridiculous—
but which nevertheless was comparative happiness;
for when I knew I could see her at
any time in an hour, and that I should pass
an hour or two near her, twice or thrice in
the course of the week; I repressed, if I
could not entirely destroy, the regret which
arose on reflecting that her life was dedicated to
another.

I have been most decidedly miserable ever
since I have been here; every body tires me,
and business or conversation alike disgust and
teize me.—I fancied that after an absence of
twelve months, the former might, for a time,
occupy my mind; but Best, who you know
I left as a steward, is so intolerably slow and
stupid, that it is quite impossible for me to attend
to his accounts and his details—however
he is very honest, and all seems right enough—
and I have given him his discharges.—The
good folks of the neighbourhood have persecuted
me every morning—post chaises and whiskies, F8v 112
whiskies, and cavaliers, have beset my door.
—Some of these worthy people I have seen,
because I happened to meet them in the
grounds, and they were so happy at my return,
and so full of obliging hopes that I was
coming to live among them, and be a good
neighbour, that really I was concerned to
disappoint them; especially certain amiable
gentlewomen between fifty and sixty, who
have daughters between twenty and thirty,
and who are so good as to be particularly
solicitous for my settling in their neighbourhood.
—One of these, an acquaintance it seems
of my mother’s, came in a solemn embassy,
like a dowager queen of Sheba, to visit me,
whom she praised quite into a Solomon; but,
as she piques herself upon speaking her mind
freely (and is of course the terror of all her
acquaintance) she told me she should not spare
my faults; for she loved me for the sake of her
old friend, my dear mother, and knew I had
too much sense not to understand she spoke out
of sincere regard; when she pointed out some
errors in my conduct, which so good and
promising a young man, one who was such a
credit to the times
, would do well to correct.

I cannot say I much liked this exordium—
Conscience told me I had committed errors
enough, which such a sybil might strike at;
but I felt the most uneasy in a matter where
my conscience totally acquitted me.—I figured
to myself that she might allude to my journey
into Wales; and, I believe, my countenance
betrayed my apprehensions, for she cried—
“Oh! but my dear Sir, don’t blush so—I shall F9r 113
shall not touch upon family secrets”
(nodding
significantly)—“No, no—I only mean to ask
you, how you can like to go so often to that
odious France, which, at all times, was the
ruin of all the fine young men that ever went
there in my memory, and now must be much
worse; for, I understand, they have neither
church nor king—neither money nor bread
—a sad race of people always; and nothing
ever seemed to me so absurd as sending
an English gentleman among them.—As
to you, I don’t, indeed, see any great change
in you yet, except that you have lost your
English complexion—but I heartily hope
you’ll go no more—but sit down quietly and
creditably at home, with a good discreet
young woman for your wife, and have no
hankerings after these foreign doings.—There
was a report got about, that you had either
been married in France, or got a French
mistress—I am heartily glad to find there’s
no truth in such a rumour—Indeed I always
said—‘No, no,’ says I, ‘Mr. Desmond,
if I understand him at all, has better notions
—Take my word for it, who have known
him ever since he was an infant, that he has
good sound honest English principles at bottom,
and loves his own country, and his own country
folks, and we shall see him come and settle
among us—a yeoman of Kent: which is
better than any French duke or marquis, or
grandee of them all.’”
—To the truth of this
position I heartily assented; and felt relieved
that nothing had alarmed this Truly British
matron, more than a friendly dread of my
having imported a French mistress.—She did not, F9v 114
not, however, end her very long visit, till
she had again most seriously exhorted me
to put away all foreign vanities, and come
to see her.—She assured me her daughter,
Dorothy, was returned from visiting her aunt
in the North, quite altered for the better in her
health, and longing to see her old play-fellow,
Mr. Desmond—and that her youngest, Marianne,
was grown out of my knowledge, and
quite a fine young woman.—What could defend
a heart thus strongly beset, but a predilection,
against which neither Dorothy nor
Marianne can contend?

My dear Bethel, I expect your next letter
with impatience, that is beyond the power of
words to describe; five days must pass before
I can be relieved—but keep me not in suspence
an hour longer.—Day after day I
linger here in tortures, even greater than you
are aware of; I rise in a morning only to
count the moments, till the return of the messenger
I send for letters; and then to become
splenetic for the rest of the day, if he does not
bring me letters from you or from some other
person who can name the situation of Geraldine.

She did, indeed, promise to write to me
herself; and I have expected her performance
of that promise with torturing inquietude—
But now I can too well account for her having
failed in it; and, since these infernal gossips
have raised such suspicions, I shall not hear
from her at all.—Oh! I could curse them—
but you will have no patience if I suffer myself
to relapse into the useless execrations of impotent
rage.

I wander F10r 115

I wander about like a wretched restless being
—now trying to sit down to books of
which I know not one word, though I pore
over them for hours; now hiding myself in
the woods from the horrible importunity of
visitors whose kindness I cannot return.

Relieve me soon, dear BehelBethel, from this miserable
state, or in a fit of desperation, I may
set out for Bath.

Lionel Desmond.

Let- F10v 116

Letter XIII.

To Mr. Desmond.

I have this moment your letter of the
1791-06-2424th, which distresses, but does not amaze
me. I expect to have you enacting very soon
the part of an English Werter; for you seem
far gone in his species of insanity; and I fear
what I have to say to you to-day, will only
feed this unhappy frenzy.—You tell me, however,
that if you do not hear from me exactly
at the time you expect,) (without ever considering
that many circumstances, quite immaterial
to the cause of your solicitude, may prevent my
being so very punctual) you may, perhaps,
set off for Bath, in a fit of desperation―I
write, therefore; for though sure to inflict
pain, by all I have to say, it will (if you have
yet a shadow of reason left) prevent a greater
evil—Your coming now to Bath would be
absolute madness; and absolutely useless as to
any service you could render Geraldine—If, in
this disposition of mind, you can attend to the
most extraordinary events, that do not immediately
belong to its cause, you, perhaps, may
have heard the news of the flight of the King
of France
and his family, which arrived here
yesterday—The same post brought letters to
Geraldine from her husband, written in great
haste, and with great exultation.—He seems
to doubt, from the purport of de Romagnecourt’s
letter, after his first interview, whether
she would accompany him; and thereforefore F11r 117
sends to the Duke’s agent, in London,
a letter to her, containing more positive injunctions;
and bills for sixty pounds, with
which, in case the Duke should be departed,
he directs her instantly to set out for Paris, by
way of Dieppe and Rouen; and, if she must
have it so, to bring her children; but, at all
events, to begin her journey immediately.—
He tells her, that though he is, at present, in
Austrian Flanders, measures are so arranged,
that his friends will, in a very short time, return
in triumph to Paris, where he is assured
of a splendid support; and the immediate
means of retrieving his affairs—This letter,
which is couched in the most positive and
forcible terms he could devise, was forwarded
by the agent of the Duke, who, it appears,
knew that Geraldine was at Bath.—On the
receipt of it, she sent for me; and putting the
letter into my hands, sat down, and fell into
an agony of tears.

I asked her, as soon as I recovered a little
from my surprise and concern, what she meant
to do?—“I go,” replied she—“I have now
no longer a reason against it—at least, none
that will be attended to; and I must obey—”

“Good God!” exclaimed I, in distress I
could not conceal, “is this a time to order
you, unguarded and alone, to undertake such
a journey; and to enter a capital, which
must, from the present circumstances, be in
consternation and confusion?—If you must go,
I cannot bear the thoughts of your going unprotected.”
“And yet,” said she, “that
is the very circumstance that determines me;
for, with such protection as Mr. Verney had
before chosen for me, I would not have gone.” F11v 118
gone.”
—She sighed deeply, but dried her
eyes.—“It is over,” added she—“I took the
liberty of troubling you to come to me, Mr.
Bethel
, to ask your friendly advice; but I
now see, on a moment’s farther consideration,
that I have but one part to take; and that I
have done wrong to hesitate.”

“Pardon me,” replied I—“I rather think,
my dear Madam, you will be more wrong,
should you determine too hastily. Does your
sister—does your mother know of this letter;
and the command it contains?”

“My sister does; for she was here when
I received it half an hour ago—She left me
to acquaint my mother with it, whom I have
not yet been permitted to see—But, as she has
kept me at a distance from her, because she
conceived displeasure at my not consenting to
go before, she will, undoubtedly, have a
stronger reason to insist on my going now.—
My brother, Mr. Waverly, has, at last, determined
on all the preliminaries and preparations
for his marriage, which has been so long
in suspence—It is to be concluded on immediately
—I am, I know, in the way; they can
neither invite me to the joyous festivity with pleasure,
or leave me out with decency.—I have
now money to go abroad, which my mother
will insist upon my using for the purpose my
husband designed it; and she will be relieved
from the apprehensions which I know she has
been under, lest she should be compelled to
advance money for my support here—Against
all these reasons on her part, which she will
enforce by the powerful words, duty and obedience
—What have I to offer?—My fears;
they will be treated as chimerical—nor, in fact F12r 119
fact do I entertain any) My reluctance! that
will be imputed to very unworthy and very false
motives—In a word, though I will await
Fanny’s return, before I begin to make actual
preparations for my immediate journey, I am
perfectly assured, that my mother’s orders will
enforce those of Mr. Verney; and that I must
go.”

At this instant, Fanny Waverly, her eyes
swoln, and the tears still streaming down her
cheeks, entered the room; and throwing herself
into the arms of Geraldine, sobbed aloud,
and hid her face in her bosom—Geraldine,
by a glorious effort of resolution, instead of
yielding to the anguish, under which I could
see she was ill able to support herself, tried to
soothe and tranquillize her sister.—“Come,
come, my Fanny,”
said she, “be composed
—I knew, before you went, the message with
which you would return—I, therefore, am
prepared for it; and I entreat you not to let
it thus affect you.”

The agonizing grief of the one, and the
tender fortitude of the other, were, to me,
equally affecting; and, as I contemplated one
sister weeping in the arms of the other, who,
by a painful restraint, exerted that fortitude,
not to add to her afflictions; I was on the
point of taking them both in my arms,
and swearing to defend and protect them
with my life and fortune.—The scene
however, was too distressing to be endured
long—Fanny continued weeping too much
to be able to deliver her mother’s message; and
Geraldine, who had led her to a chair, hung
over her, supporting her head, and holding her F12v 120
her hands, with such a look!—She, however,
did not now shed a tear; but her paleness, her
trembling, and the expressive look she threw
towards me, explained, too clearly, what
passed in her heart.—At this moment, the
servant, who was not aware of this afflicting
interview, entered with the three children—
At the sight of them, I saw that Geraldine’s
resolution was about to forsake her; and when
the little boy ran up to Fanny, and entreated
her not to cry, she became absolutely convulsed;
and Geraldine, after an ineffectual struggle
of a moment, hastily left the room, and
waved her hand for the maid and the children
to follow her.

I was then alone with Fanny Waverly; but
I knew not how to attempt pacifying the violence
of her emotions—She seemed, indeed,
incapable of hearing me—I approached her,
however, and took her hand.

“You injure yourself,” said I, “and your
sister, by thus giving way to immoderate sorrow
—Command yourself, my dear Miss Waverly,
for her sake; and tell me, I beseech
you, if I can be of any use in mitigating distress,
which, from my soul, I lament.”

“Oh! Mr. Bethel!” answered she inarticulately,
“my mother is so cruel—so very
cruel to Geraldine, that it breaks my heart—
She has heard the purport of Verney’s letter;
and ordered me back to say, that it was not
only her opinion that she ought to set out,
but her command that she should instantly prepare
for doing so; on which condition alone
she will receive, and give her her blessing.
—I own I remonstrated rather earnestly with
my mother, but I was so far from obtaining any G1r 121
any mitigation, that I was very severely reproved
for daring to question the propriety of
her decision; and bade to observe, that if I
presumed to attempt influencing my sister to
act contrary to her duty, so clearly pointed
out, it would be at my own peril; and that I
must, in that case, be content to share the fate
that must soon overwhelm my sister; but, indeed,
Mr. Bethel,”
continued she, “it is not
that threat that should deter or frighten me, if
I were not too sure that I should be a burthen
to Geraldine, and only encrease her difficulties.”

“Do not, however, encrease them now,
my amiable friend,”
said I, “by these deep
expressions of anguish—I do assure you, that
your sister had anticipated all the purport of
the message that distresses you; and that it will
shock her less than you imagine—Try therefore,
to recover yourself—tell her the truth,
and assist her in forming such a resolution as is
best—I own I think that is, to brave the worst
that can happen by staying; and to refuse to
set out at least, till she hears Mr. Verney is at
Paris to receive her.”

As if relieved, by hearing that this was my
opinion, and in the hope that it would influence
her sister, Fanny now flew to her—She
and her servant were only in the next room
with the children; I waited, a moment, the
issue of the conference, and a violent burst of
weeping assured me, too well, that it would
be most affecting—This, however, was from
Fanny Waverly; for, in five or six minutes,
Geraldine re-entered the dining-room, with
forced serenity; she even tried to smile, when
she said, “this dear girl is so unfortunately Vol. II. G full G1v 122
full of sensibility and affection, that it is impossible
to pacify her.—She fancies I go to
meet anarchy and murder in France; and on
seeing me packing up mine and my children’s
clothes, that I may be ready to set out to-morrow,
she has relapsed into the wildest expressions
of sorrow—I wish you would try, Mr.
Bethel
, since she will listen to and believe you,
to reason hereher out of these groundless apprehensions.”

“I wish,” said I, “that I could set about
that without forfeiting my sincerity, but, upon
my honor, I do not think, and therefore cannot
say, her apprehensions are groundless.”

“I, however, have no fears, Mr. Bethel
—The French, of whatsoever party I may
fall among, will not hurt a woman and children!
—On admitting it possible, that in
some of those popular commotions, that are,
certainly, likely to convulse, for some time,
a kingdom just bursting into freedom from the
grasp of the most oppressive tyranny, I might
be involved; (which is extremely unlikely)
Good God! what have I to fear?—Not
death! assuredly; for there is hardly one situation,
in which I can now be placed, to which
death would not be preferable.—I will be very
sincere, my good friend, and say honestly,
that after what I know, and what I suspect of
Mr. Verney, I had rather meet death than be
in his power—I had rather meet it than
my mother’s unkindness—infinitely rather,
than to know that I and my poor little ones”

(her voice almost failed her) should be a burthen
to her, who is so unwilling to bear it,
even for a little while.—Has then death any
terrors for me? and can one who fears not death G2r 123
death shrink from danger?—If I get among
the wildest collection of those people, whose
ferocity arises not from their present liberty,
but their recent bondage, is it possible to suppose
they will injure me, who am myself a miserable
slave, returning with trembling and reluctant
steps, to put on the most dreadful
of all fetters?—Fetters that would even destroy
the freedom of my mind.”
I was excessively
struck with the manner in which she
spoke this; nor did I imagine that her soft
features and dove-like eyes, could have assumed
such an expression of spirit—She saw, I believe,
I was surprised—“Why,” said I, “do
you put on these fetters, if you feel them to
be so insupportable?”

“Because,” returned she, “it is my duty;
and while I fulfil that, I can always appeal
to a judge, who will not only acquit, but reward
me, if I act up to it—The more terrible
the task, the greater the merit I assume
in fulfilling it; besides that, my mother’s inhumanity
has lessened its horrors. ‘Thou’dst shun a bear; But if thy flight lay towards the roaring sea, Thou’dst meet the bear in the mouth.’” Shakespeare.

“Well! but,” said I, “not to speak of
Mr. Verney, whose conduct is in every way
unpardonable; not to speak of the dangers
that may attend journeying towards Paris, at
present; and which may perhaps, be partly
imaginary—Give me leave to ask, how are
you able, with three young children, and only
a maid servant, to encounter the fatigues of G2 G2v 124
so long a journey?—I have heard you say you
are excessively affected by sea sickness; and
that nothing overcomes you more than hurry;
yet here are you about to encounter both the
one and the other, with only a young, helpless
English girl as a servant, who will be terrified
to death every step she takes.”

“Ah! Mr. Bethel!” replied Geraldine,
shaking her head mournfully, “you oblige me
again to use a quotation— ‘When the mind’s free, The bodys delicate; the tempest in my mind, Doth from my senses take all feeling else, Save what beats there.’” *Shakespeare.

“What then,” said I, “for God’s sake
tell me—what is your resolution? and in what
way can I render more easy, any that you will
absolutely adopt?”

“My resolution, my good friend, is, to set
out very early to-morrow for France, by the
route Mr. Verney has directed—If there is a
possibility of getting, by that time, a female
servant, who speaks a little French; and of
hiring a man servant, on whom I can depend,
I will do both; in these instances, perhaps,
your friendly assistance may be exerted.”

“And you are positively determined to go?”

“So positively, that I have sent to enquire
whether I can have a coach here; if not I
must have two post chaises, which will be much
less convenient; and if I cannot here procure
the servants I want, I must take the chance of
getting them either from London, whither I
shall write this evening, or at Brighthelmstone, where G3r 125
where I shall embark; and to which place I
shall go, by way of Salisbury and Chichester,
without going round by London.”

I now saw, that the most essential service I
could render our lovely, unhappy friend, was
to set out instantly in quest of such persons and
accommodations as she wanted; I knew that
it was absolutely necessary for her to have a
coach, and not to trust to French vehicles—It
was equally necessary to procure for her a
trusty man servant.—These, therefore, I set
about finding; and by a singular piece of good
fortune, I found, at the livery-stable where I
applied, a very good coach, that was left there
to be sold, by the executors of a gentleman,
who had it made new for his journey to Bath,
where he died soon after his arrival—It was
fitted up with many conveniences for an invalid
under the necessity of travelling; and was
exactly suited to carry such a family as that
for whose use I now purchased it; ordering
the man, who had the sale of it, to tell Mrs.
Verney
, “that he had directions to let it at
the price he named; which was to be paid on
returning it;”
for that I had otherwise managed
the matter, was, of necessity, a secret.

It was infinitely more difficult to procure her
a servant, and it was near one o’clock in the
morning when I gave up the hope of satisfying
myself in this respect.—I could not however,
determine to let her go either without one, or
with one with whose character I was not perfectly
satisfied; and therefore, after some deliberation,
I resolved to send my own man, Thomas
Wrightson
, with her; as I can do very well
without him, till I can find some proper person
to send over to her, or hear of her havinging G3v 126
provided herself with one there—Thomas,
indeed, does not speak any French to
signify, though he was once at Paris with me;
but he is very honest and active; and, upon
my proposing it to him, he said—“that
though upon no other account whatever he
would quit me, unless my honour was pleased
to discharge him; yet, for such a lady as Mrs.
Verney
, in such a time to be sure, he would
go through fire and water, by night or by
day.”
—I assured him there would be very little
water, and, I believed, no fire whatever
to go through; and having settled the terms
which made it a matter of profit, as well as
chivalry to honest Thomas, I dispatched, late
as it was, a note to Geraldine, to inform her
how this was settled; and had the pleasure to
hear, in an answer written by herself, that she
was extremely well satisfied with the arrangements
I had made for her; and had, in the
mean time, been lucky in her own endeavours;
having made a fortunate discovery of a person
between forty and fifty, who had been a governess
at a school at Bath, and was desirous
of attending any lady to Mante, of which place
she was a native, for the consideration of the
expences of her journey.—Geraldine added,
that as she had been indefatigable in her preparations,
every thing would be ready, and
she should depart at eight o’clock the next morning;
when she intended driving to the door
of her mother, to take leave of her, and receive
the promised blessing; and that she begged
of me to meet her a little without the town,
to walk back with Fanny (who was to go so
far in the coach with her) and to receive her last G4r 127
last acknowledgments, for what she termed
my unexampled friendship.

I knew that much was yet to be done of
which she was not aware.—I arose therefore,
at five o’clock, and had my banker here called;
who gave me a letter of credit on Paris
for an hundred pounds; and another to a
gentleman at Rouen, to entreat his attention
to the travellers, in regard to exchanging their
money, or any other little office of kindness;
and, thus prepared I waited impatiently for the
hour, when the coach which contained our
lovely exile, was to overtake me on the road.
—I had proceeded near a mile beyond the
place of appointment, when it appeared—It
stopped on approaching me—I found only Geraldine,
Fanny and the children in it, for that
her last conference with her sister and with me
might not be interrupted, the two female attendants
were ordered to follow so far on foot,
and the coach was to stay for them.

I trembled as I drew near the scene I was to
pass through—Fanny, her face covered with
her handkerchief, was sobbing bitterly—Geraldine
was pale and trembling, but an artificial
composure, seemed to be the effect of the
effort she was obliged to make to support herself,
soothe her sister, and attend to her children
—The moment I saw her countenance, I
saw too plainly written there, the cruel harshness
of her mother, but she tried to speak
with steadiness, when she begged of me to get
into the coach.—I obeyed: but I was infected
with the tender sorrows of the party I found
there, and could say nothing to console them.

I had, however, no time to lose in indulging
useless sympathy; I took, therefore, out of G4v 128
of my pocket, the letters I had obtained.—
I told her, that by one, she would find herself
entitled to a small credit, in case she should
want it, which would be no inconvenience to
me; and her taking it was the only proof I
required of that friendship which she had so often
declared she favoured me with—That the
other letter was to a gentleman at Rouen, who
might be serviceable to her on her way—“And
now, dear Mrs. Verney,”
said I, “unless
any thing more can be devised for your service,
Miss Waverly and I will say farewell;
for this parting, this sad parting will hurt you
too much; and I fear”
“It is true,” said
she, interrupting me, “that it is wiser to part
while we are yet able.—Fanny, my most beloved
sister, have pity upon yourself and me,
and do not destroy me quite by your affection,
which is now almost cruelty.”

Poor Fanny threw her arm round her sister’s
neck, and, with a deep and convulsive
sigh, kissed her, but could not speak.―
At the same moment Geraldine gave me her
hand, on which fell, as I pressed it to my lips
the only tear I have shed for some years; it
was cruel to prolong this scene, and, indeed,
almost impossible to bear it—I therefore opened
the coach door, leaped out, and Fanny Waverly,
disengaging herself from the children
with a sort of desperate resolution, followed me.
Geraldine was totally silent, and I dared not
look towards her—but the little boy continued
to call to his aunt Fanny, and to entreat her
not to go from him, till the two women who
had, by this time, come up with the coach,
were helped in by Thomas; one of them very wisely G5r 129
wisely drew up the coach-window, and on
a signal from me, it drove very rapidly
away.

I remained standing in the road, supporting
Miss Waverly, who was drowned in
tears, and choaked by speechless sorrow.—
I spoke to her, entreating her to bear, with
as much fortitude as she could, a separation
that, however painful, would probably be
short―She replied, in a voice broken
by sobs—“God knows how that may be,
Mr. Bethel, but if I dared follow my inclinations,
it should be short indeed.”

“We must none of us,” said I, “follow
our inclinations, when they are in opposition
to ourdutyour duty, my dear young friend.”

“And yet,” cried she, indignantly,
such behaviour as I have just now witnessed
from Mrs. Waverly towards my sister,
ought, methinks, to dissolve all ties of duty.”

—I was glad that her anger restored her to
herself—I knew it was justly excited, but
how justly I could not have believed, if Fanny
had not by degrees described to me the whole
scene between her mother and Geraldine.—I will
not irritate your mind by relating it; suffice
it to say, that pride, avarice, and insensibility,
never more effectually united to render
a woman detestable; nor did ever angel
shew a more decided contrast to an evil spirit,
than Geraldine at that trying moment
formed to her mother.

Well, my dear Desmond, it is over!—
Geraldine is gone―To night she proposed
being at Salisbury, to morrow at Chichester,
and on Saturday at BritghthelmstoneBrighthelmstone, G5 time G5v 130
time enough for the packet, which is advertised
to sail on the evening of that day.

Before you receive this, therefore, she will
be embarked; and however you may execrate
the cruel necessity that has compelled
her to such a step, or reprobate as chimerical
and ill-founded, that sense of duty which
urged her to obey this compulsatory mandate
of Verney’s, you will, now the die is thrown,
submit to what is inevitable—and perhaps
the certainty that your misfortune is without
remedy, (for Geraldine’s return to her husband
you will certainly consider as a misfortune,)
is the only thing that could teach you
to bear, or induce you to attempt conquering
your regret.—Assure yourself, that as to
her journey, she has every accommodation
to render it as tolerable as, under such
circumstances, it could be made—The pain
of her mind I could not remove, but hope
and believe I have exempted her from suffering
much personal inconvenience.

And now, Desmond, since I have as gradually
as I could, disclosed this sudden and
painful transaction, let me speak a word or
two from, and of myself.―You are by
this time convinced, that to come hither could
answer no purpose as to Geraldine, but it
would certainly alarm the old lady, who has
got it most invincibly fixed in her imagination
that you have a design upon her daughter,
and have influenced her to refuse going to her
husband the first time he sent for her.—Fanny
Waverly
has in vain tried to discover from
whom this intelligence came; her mother hears
not your name mentioned with patience, and
should you now appear here, it is very likely in G6r 131
in her imprudent prudence, to call it pursuing
her daughter and insulting the family. It
will be cruel too to poor Fanny, who could
only see you either by stealth or by chance—
one would be extremely improper, and the
other by no means conducive to the restoration
of her tranquillity; for it is easy to see she
has entertained a partiality for you, which
her good sense and her pride have assisted her
to conquer, on the conviction that you are in
love with her sister—for that you certainly
are so, she is, I can perceive, perfectly aware,
though she carefully avoids ever hinting at it
to me.

Coming hither to meet me, is now quite
out of the question, as I shall only be here about
six days more—long enough, however, to
receive a letter from you, which I hope will
tell me, that your mind is more subdued to
your fortune, than it was when you wrote
last; however, that fortune may have become
more perverse, and that you have determined
to sit down for some months, at least,
quietly in Kent, where I hope you will recover
your reason.—Receive for that and every
good, the most sincere wishes of,

Your’s most truly,

E. Bethel.

P. S. I shall leave Louisa here, as both she
and Miss Waverly desire it—and shall return
in the Autumn—and then she will go
back with me to Hartfield.

Let- G6v 132

Letter XIV

To Mr. Bethel.

Geraldine so suddenly gone! and to
meet her husband, who, when she arrives at
Paris, will probably not be there as he proposed
—as the event that has since happened,
the King of France’s return, must inevitably
make an alteration in those plans, whatever
they were, that his noble foreign friends had
projected for him—I am in such a state of
mind that I know not what I write—But do
not, my dear Bethel, hurry from Bath one
day sooner on my account, as I have business
which will inevitably call me from hence—
and I shall set out to-morrow on an absence
of a few weeks, perhaps; but as I do not
know exactly where I shall be, and shall have
my letters sent after me as soon as I do know, continue
to direct hither.—I am extremely interested
for Fanny Waverly (though I am
persuaded you are mistaken as to her honouring
me with her partial esteem) and most
heartily do I wish that you could see her in
the same light as you wish me to do—She deserves
a better fate than she will probably meet
with, if her hateful mother is to dispose of
her.—Oh! where at this moment is Geraldine?
—to what fatigues and perils may she
not be exposed?—I thank you, however,
for all your friendly attention to her—Would
to heaven I could have been apprized of her
going—but that was certainly impossible—
and again I thank you for doing all that could be G7r 133
be done on such short notice.—Good God!
what would have been her situation had you
not been at Bath?—I should never have retained
my senses, had she departed on such a
journey without the accommodations you
contrived to collect for her.

If I could divert my mind a moment from
this uneasy subject, I should call upon you
to rejocerejoice with me, my friend, at the calmness
and magnanimity shewn by the French
people, on the re-entrance of the King into
Paris—This will surely convince the world,
that the bloody democracy of Mr. Burke, is not
a combination of the swinish multitude, for
the purposes of anarchy, but the association
of reasonable beings, who determine to be,
and deserve to be, free.—I would ask
the tender-hearted personages who affect to
be deeply hurt at the misfortunes of royalty,
whether if this treachery, this violation of
oaths so solemnly given, had been successful,
and the former government restored by force
of arms, the then triumphant monarch
and his aristocracy, would, with equal heroism,
have beheld the defeat and captivity of the leaders
of the people—and whether any indignities
would have been thought too degrading, any punishment
too severe for them—Then would the
King’s castles Mr Burke’s name for the Bastile. have been rebuilt, and lettres de
cachet
have re-peopled the dungeons!

I rejoice as a man, that it is otherwise—
and I believe and hope, from the present
disposition of the people, that a permanent
constitution will now soon be established, in
which all the power to do good shall be left
in the hands of the chief magistrate, but none
obscured1-2 letterso become a despot.—Some evils, however, must G7v 134
must be felt before this great work
can be completed—and, perhaps, some blood
still shed; but when all the ill that has yet
happened (allowing even the most exaggerated
accounts of it to be as true) is compared with
the calamities of only one campaign in America,
for a point which at last we did not
carry, and ought not to have attempted;
I own I am astonished at the effrontery of our
ministerial declaimers, who having supported
the one, have dared to execrate the
other.

Shall you hear of Geraldine?—Are there
any hopes of her writing to me?—Did
she mention me on the day of her departure?
—Oh! what would I not give for
one, only one line from her, to say she
is safe in France—Yet how can she be safe
any where while in the power of such a
man as Verney?—And how could her mother
compel her to put herself into it a second
time?

You need not apprehend my now visiting
Bath, against which, at the beginning of
your letter, you remonstrate as gravely as
if you supposed I should really set out to
see where Geraldine had been—the evil
consequences of it I own I cannot imagine;
for, as it is known she is not there, it could
hardly be supposed I came after her.—
However, as you are so soon leaving it,
as I have really business elsewhere, and
may, perhaps, soon see you in this part
of the world, a journey thither now is quite
out of the question.

If you write by the return of the post,
perhaps your letter may still find me here, for G8r 135
for I am not at all well; and though I have
had sometimes thoughts of setting out tomorrow,
as I mentioned in the beginning
of my letter, yet I now believe it as likely
I may defer my journey for some days.

Adieu, my dear Bethel,
Your’s ever,

Lionel Desmond.

Let- G8v 136

Letter XV.

To Mr. Desmond.

Are you quite candid with me, Desmond?
—And are you really going, you
know not when, you know not whither?—
Is it quite like my friend, even under the
influence of this unhappy passion, to be so
very unsettled in his plans?—It is however,
more unlike him to be disingenuous!—More
unlike him, to take a step the most injurious,
that can be devised, to Geraldine!—I mean
going to France in pursuit of her—You surely
cannot be so indiscreet, nay, I will call it
so cruel as to meditate this.—You tell me,
that if I write by the return of the post, you
shall, on second thoughts probably receive,
my letter at Sedgewood—I write, therefore;
and I conjure you if you read it in England,
let nothing induce you to cross the Channel
till you are assured that Geraldine is with her
husband, and till there is no longer any danger
of those reports gaining ground, which,
(I cannot conjecture how,) have certainly
got into circulation here of your attachment
to her.

On the supposition, therefore, that you
foresee all this, and that the indecision and
confusion of your last letter, arose, not from
any project of this kind, but merely from
the painful sensations occasioned by the first
shock of Geraldine’s departure I write as you G9r 137
you desire, by the return of the post, and
direct my letter to Sedgewood.

To answer first your questions—Geraldine
has not yet written to me; but she assured
me she would write the moment her embarkation
was certain, and again from Dieppe,
by the return of the packet.—These letters,
therefore, I hourly expect—I have very anxiously
watched the wind ever since the day,
when it was probable, she would reach the
coast, and till Thursday it has been exactly
contrary, and so high that I am persuaded
she did not sail before that day, though, from
the change since, I have no doubt but
that she is by this time far on her way to
Paris.

You enquire, whether, on the day of her
departure, Geraldine spoke of you?—Yes!
my friend; but it was with that guarded propriety
her situation demanded.—She spoke of
her obligations to you; she expressed the most
earnest wishes for your happiness, and said,
“When I am settled in France, if,
indeed, I am to be settled, I shall take the
liberty of troubling Mr. Desmond with a
letter.”
—A faint blush trembled on her cheek,
and her voice faultered as she added, “He
spoke I think, of being soon in France himself,
do you think he intends it.

I replied, that you had talked of it to me
in your letter, but that I knew nothing
certainly.—I saw that all the consequences
of your going when she did, occurred to her,
yet, perhaps, she secretly, and without daring
to avow it even to herself, wished you might,
while she persuaded herself she feared it—To
me, however, she spoke of it no more; but simply G9v 138
simply desired her compliments and good wishes
to you almost the moment she bade adieu
to me and her sister—This I did not mention
to you before, nor should I have done it
now, but that it is necessary to be sincere
when you question me: yet, as you sometimes
protest, though I think, you are not
uniformly consistent in your declarations, that
you do not even wish she should feel for you
a partiality which, by the consciousness of
its impropriety, might render her more unhappy;
I wonder you should ask what you do
not desire to know.

I thank you for your wishes to promote
me to the favor of Miss Waverly, but have
you sufficiently considered the difference of
our ages—I am, alas! in my fortieth year
—I believe Fanny is not two and twenty;
and if I did not greatly suspect that her
little fluttering heart has felt more than
mere friendship for you, I could never hope
to become acceptable to a young woman
surrounded as she is, with flattery and admiration;
or, admitting it probable, would it
be very discreet in me to give Louisa a mother-in-law
not above eleven years older than
herself—No, my dear Desmond, I must not
think of nymphs of twenty-one.

Your uncle Danby, who is the most profound
politician that frequents the coffee-houses
of this news-demanding and news-affording
city, has, within this last fortnight, been
very solicitously enquiring of me about you;
nor could his curiosity relative to your motions,
have been superceded by any thing but
his greater anxiety about the motions of the
King of France—Now he is so entirely engrossedgrossed G10r 139
by his lamentations over disappointed
treachery, and so concerned that the intended
evasion of Louis XVI which would have
plunged France, if not all Europe, into an
immediate war, has failed, that he has not a
mind capacious enough to attend to your interests
too, and therefore is content to let you
be as romantic and absurd as you please, till
it is decided whether the French will receive
their king again, or immediately declare the
nation a republic.

It is, indeed, a speculation important enough
to occupy a more enlarged and enlightened
understanding than that of the good Major;
and never were the eyes of the European nations
fixed on a more interesting spectacle.

The Major and I differ less on the subject of
politics than on any other, though on that we
are far from thinking alike; it is, however,
the only kind of conversation I can long hold
with him; because in all that relates to common
life, there is in his ideas and expressions,
a hardness and coarseness that sometimes
shocks and always repulses me.—Swift, I think,
in one of his most misanthropic humours,
says, “while he execrates the human race in
general, that he still loves John and Thomas.”

—There is something in Major Danby just the
reverse of this; he would not care if John and
Thomas, with whom he has been living in
habits of friendly intercourse, were to be hanged
to-morrow; but he is extremely solicitous
for the fate of nations of which he knows not,
nor is ever likely to know one individual—
But even there, it is the princes and nobles of
the land, for whom his solicitude is called
forth; for as for les gens du commun, he thinks they G10v 140
they are by no means worth the attention of a
man of sense and fortune; and that the world
was made for those only, to whom chance has
given the means of enjoying a good table,
and certain comforts and conveniences of life,
for which he has a very decided relish.

Of course the present arrangements in France
are very obnoxious to him; and he collects
round him a little band of minor politicians,
who have an high opinion of his sagacity,
and who have adopted, from Mr. Burke, under
his auspices, the opinion, that if some
fortunate event, (such as the combination of
crowned heads) does not restore to the French
their former government, there will be a blank
in that portion of the map of Europe that was
France.

The terrors for the lives of the royal family,
which these persons affected to entertain have
now subsided; but the lamentations over their
imprisonment, as it is termed, are become
more clamorous than ever.—To unprejudiced
minds, however, the conduct of the French,
on the return of their ill-advised monarch,
has certainly something great and noble in it—
I own I am one of those who wish that this
magnanimity of character may be followed by
a steady and well directed pursuit of the present
great object, the formation of a constitution,
that, without its defects, may unite all
the advantages peculiar to that of England,
which, even with those flaws and imperfections,
is undoubtedly the best in the world—So
far, at least, it may be said to deserve that character,
as it seems to secure, better than any
other, two great objects discordant in their nature,
and therefore not often very peaceful neighbours G11r 141
neighbours—I mean the dignity of the state,
and the privileges of the people—It has not only
been long our national boast, but admired
and analized by foreigners of the most enlarged
and enlightened understanding.—You will tell
me, perhaps, that it is beautiful in theory,
but defective in practice; and are not even
the ordinances of God exposed to a similar objection?
—We have, indeed, a marvellous
proof that our constitution has inherent excellence
in no common degree; when we find it,
even in the days of luxury and corruption, so
far sufficient for all the great purposes of society;
that amidst all our complaints, it may,
I believe, be truly asserted, that in no age or
country, has there existed a people, to whom
general happiness has been more fairly distributed,
than it is among the English of the present
day.

I believe you are so far gone, my dear Desmond,
in what are called (but, I think, improperly
called) the new doctrines, that you
would contest this opinion with me, were you
not just now in a state of mind that renders
every other concern, but those of Geraldine,
indifferent to you.—I am afraid my friend’s
patriotism is so inert, at present, that he would
not care if all the world were enslaved, so Geraldine
was but free—However, you will recollect,
that whenever you are able and willing
to enter the lists on the other side, I am
ready to meet you with all your natural acuteness,
and the aid of your French friends, on
this ground; the general good of the British
constitution—This, surely, does not lessen, in
your mind, my zeal for the happiness of the
whole human race—It does not make you suppose,pose, G11v 142
that because I think our form of government
good, I do not, therefore, allow, that
there may be a better; nor that I am jealous
lest a neighbouring nation should find that
better.—At the same time, I am compelled to
say, that the proceedings of the national assembly,
since the death of Mirabeau, gives me
too little reason to believe they will—I dread
the want of unanimity—The want of some
great leading mind, to collect and condense
the patriotic intentions and views of those who
really wish only the salvation of their country
—The despotism of superior ability is, after all,
necessary; and it is the only despotism to
which reasonable beings ought to submit.

Enough of politics—Now, again, to domestic
concerns—though you give me but little
hope, in the vague way in which you write
of meeting you in Kent; I shall in a few days,
set out on my return home. In leaving this
place, after so long a stay, I regret nobody
but my fair Fanny Waverly; yet, indeed,
Desmond, I am not in love with her. I shall
not, however, go from hence, till some accounts
are obtained of Geraldine, which,
whenever they arrive, I will transmit to you by
the quickest conveyance, notwithstanding all
the confusion of that part of your letter which
talks of your address. Again, I ask you, are
you acting with your usual ingenuous confidence
towards your friend?

E. Bethel.

Let- G12r 143

Letter XVI.

To Mrs. Verney.

Where are you, my dear sister? and
how shall I quiet my anxiety about you? While
Mr. Bethel was here, I could endure it better,
because he had patience to listen to my eager,
and sometimes childish inquiries, and to convince
me, by reason and argument, that there
was not time to hear from you, or that a
thousand circumstances might arise, from
winds and posts, to delay your letters, but now
that he has been gone two days, I find myself
insupportably wretched, and I feel my wretchedness
the more, because I am compelled to
conceal it.

My brother was married yesterday, and is
departed with his bride for Bexly Hill, where
his mother and mine, with your unhappy
Fanny, are to meet them in a few days—I
am heartily glad the ceremony is over, and
this very important matter, which has so long
occupied and agitated my mother, at length arranged.
As her son cannot be unmarried,
(which he will probably desire to be before the
end of the week, from mere fickleness of disposition)
she will now fancy him settled in the
world, and I hope be more settled herself,
though I have lately learned, that Mrs. Fairfax,
who, to the last moment, murmured internally,
at giving her daughter to a commoner,
(though his fortune reconciled her to the
deficiency) is plotting with my mother, and making G12v 144
making interest with all her great friends, to
procure for Mr. Waverly an Irish peerage—
The preamble to the patent will apply with infinite
propriety to my brother, when it speaks
of his good services to his country—However, in the
plentiful showers of new coronets which daily
fall, one, I doubt not, will find its way to
his head; but, I suppose, a great difficulty
will be to determine what title he shall assume
—Every pretty name, and words of elegant
termination, in ville, and wood, and ton, and
ford, and bury, and wick, seem to be already
monopolized and engaged; but, if he were
not my brother, I should venture to propose
the very proper appellation of Baron Weathercock
—Now don’t, my dear Geraldine, put on
an air of displeasure; I would not be flippant
about these relations of ours, though the whole
courtship that preceded this marriage has been
to me a course of inexpressible torment) but
when I reflect on their behaviour to you, I
find it impossible to command myself—The
cold, supercilious insolence of that antiquated
piece of affection, Mrs Fairfax, with whom,
there is no crime so great as being in inconvenient
circumstances; nor any recommendation
so irresistible as riches and title—The pride
and arrogance of her eldest daughter, now my
sister-in-law, who, under an effected and over
acted mildness of manners, believes that the
world was made only to do homage to her
charms; and the yet more offensive conceit of
Anastatia, whose whipt syllabubs of science she
compels every one to taste and to admire,
form together such a group, as it is quite impossible
not to fly from if one could.—But I,
alas! am chained to it under pain of being “put H1r 145
“put into everlasting liberty”—for, I believe,
were my mother to know how very much
I dislike these people, she would, without
much compunction, discard me, and put me
to board somewhere or other on the interest
of my fortune—and can I wonder at this after
her behaviour to you?

You tell me, however, that I ought to bear
whatever is inflicted by a parent’s hand; and
so, my dear Geraldine, I am learning as fast
as I can, to check the natural impetuosity
of my nature, “and smitten on one cheek, to turn
the other”
.—I will not indulge any of those satirical
sallies that you have so often disapproved,
but grow softly, sweetly sentimental,
like the amiable Anastatia, and, when she is
collecting round her all the men in the room
(whether old or young, ugly or handsome,
fools or wits) by the pretty languishing airs
she gives herself, and totally neglecting every
one else, with a rude indifference, as to their
opinions, which is often extremely shocking;
I will very humbly take my station behind her,
and study those inimitable graces which render
her so attractive.—She treats me like an
insignificant child—and sometimes in the drawling
quality tone, which she affects, speaking
in the roof of her mouth as if she had lost her
palate, she calls me poor, dear little Fanny!
—Certainly I have not twenty thousand
pounds as she has—nor have I a genius to
write charades, songs and sonnets—nor to act
plays, and read in public.—I hope, however,
you don’t think I say all this from envy, for
I assure you, that with her humble three thousand
pounds, and inferior advantages of every
kind, poor, dear, little Fanny would not Vol. II. H change H1v 146
change with the accomplished Anastatia.—I
never seemed much worth her notice in any
way, not even an object of her contemptuous
pity, till Mr. Bethel shewed me so much
friendly attention, and was so much with me.
Mr. Bethel is, you know, related to the
Fairfax family, and though it is well understood
that he does not intend to marry again,
and is, on account of his two children, a man
whom Miss Anastatia would not accept of,
yet could she not bear the preference he has
always shewn me; and has sometimes been
unable to repress her indignation at his want
of taste.—Since he has been gone, she has
perceived the dejection of my spirits, and
whenever she has had an opportunity has affected
to condole with me on the departure of
my sage lover—and my disappointment—It is in
such conversation, if conversation it may be
called, that I am to pass the tedious days of
the next month, with the new married couple,
and their relations and acquaintance.—Oh!
Geraldine, why cannot I dedicate these days
to you?

Mr. Bethel is gone back to his house in
Kent; he told me some time before the cruel
event of your being sent for to France, that
his friend Desmond was, he believed, coming
to Bath: but the most unnaccountable circumstance
of my mother’s suspicions being excited
about him, has, as I gather from Mr.
Bethel’s
hints, entirely put an end to that
project―and he is now gone, his friend
knows not whither; but he says, most probably
into the North of England (where he
has many connexions) for the rest of the
Summer.

I own H2r 147

I own I regret, though perhaps I ought rather
to rejoice at, not seeing him here; but
do not fancy, my dear sister, that this wish
has any thing to do with that partiality for
Desmond, which I was once simple enough
to indulge, and partly to avow—No predilection
of that sort can last long, after a conviction
of its never being returned, and I must
have the most perfect conviction of that, in
regard to Mr. Desmond, whose heart is certainly
devoted to another—though who that
other is, it is better, perhaps, for neither of us
to enquire.

The idle rumours that had been spread on
that subject, are now dying away.—Other
stories, equally gratifying to the curious malignity
of the people, who call themselves the
world, have succeeded; and except some sarcasms
on the part of Mrs. Fairfaxsome affected
concern on that of Miss Anastatia, and
some airs of consequential and mysterious apprehension
from the new Mrs. Waverly, I
have heard nothing about Desmond’s Welch
expedition, on which you will therefore, I
hope, make yourself easy.

One of the stories that for some days engrossed
the conversation of the Bath circles,
till it was superceded yesterday by the splendid
wedding of Mr. Waverly, was the sad calamity
that has befallen poor Miss Elford; you
know, I believe, that six or eight weeks since,
she departed from hence in order to make her
usual Summer tour among her illustrious
friends, for the last time before her marriage;
and having staid a week with one friend, and
a week with another, and ten days with a
third, her lover, Dr. MDougal, was to have H2 met H2v 148
met her at the most northern of these visits,
and with no other guard, save her own purity”
she was to entrust herself to him to go
into Scotland, where his family reside, and
where she was to have become Mrs. MDougal.

As none of those friends, with whom she
formerly corresponded, heard from her, they
concluded that these arrangements were prosperously
succeeding; and within these ten or
fourteen days, they have been looking with
impatience for an account of the celebration
at Edinburgh of these happy nuptials—When
suddenly a report prevails among the acquaintance
of the Doctor, that on his arrival four
or five weeks since, at the seat of his
Father’s, from whence he was to have met
his future bride at York, he received the very
unexpected intelligence, that an uncle who
had been many years in the West-Indies,
where he had a wife and a son, and from whose
riches no expectations were therefore formed,
had buried both within the course of eighteen
months, and at length followed them
himself, leaving about forty thousand pounds
between Dr. MDougal and his sister, a
widow, not young, and without children—
so that it was probable the Doctor would
possess the whole.—In consequence of this accumulation
of good fortune, report goes on
to say, that Miss Elford has lost her admirer,
who now feels it unnecessary to unite himself
to a woman whom he does not love, in order
to forward his interest in his profession
—and that the deserted damsel, in the last
despair at this disappointment, cannot bear
to shew herself in a place which she left with such H3r 149
such very different hopes, but has hid herself
and her blasted expectations in some remote
part of England.

It is at once amusing and mortifying, to
remark the secret pleasure with which the soidisant
friends of poor Miss Elford ralaterelate this,
—The day before Mr. Waverly’s marriage,
an assembly, chiefly, consisting of the tabbies,
who are the delight of my mother and Mrs.
Fairfax
, was held at the house of the latter;
and while amid their cards, this fertile subject
was introduced, I could not but smile at,
while I regret, the fallacy of professed friendship,
and the wonderful malignity of human
nature.—The good fortune of Dr. MDougal,
raised all their spleen.—Yet I could see that
they secretly rejoiced, that their “worthy
friend,”
Miss Elford, was not to share it,
while as if to revenge her cause, they loaded
the poor Doctor with every abusive epithet
which their fertile malice could suggest—and
with the most fulsome affectation of pity towards
the deserted Ariadne, they expressed a terrible
abhorrence of the cruelty of this modern Theseus;
who had, as one of them affirmed,
left her in a dreary part of Scotland, where
he had appointed to meet her; but where,
instead of himself, she was saluted by a cold
letter, taking leave of her for ever—part of
which letter this well-informed gentlewoman
even repeated.

I observed, that during this conversation,
my mother, who in such sort of confabulations
is seldom backward, was unusually reserved
she said it might be all very true, for
she had no intelligence from dear Philadelphia
to the contrary; but still she was willing to hope H3v 150
hope for the best.—You must agree with me,
my dear sister, that my mother is not very
apt to keep to herself her knowledge on any
topic, particularly when she fancies, or knows
she possesses, on the subject in discussion, more
information than those who are speaking of
it—Nevertheless, I am convinced, that she
on this knows a great deal more than she
chuses to tell; and has, for once, some reason
for silence, so strong as to conquer her
desire of giving her knowledge to her admiring
auditors.—How she should come by this
information, indeed, I cannot guess; or why,
if she corresponds with her dear Philadelphia,
it should all of a sudden be kept so profound
a secret—But conjectures on this head are
useless, nor is it a matter that much deserves
the trouble of investigation.—My mother, perhaps,
having changed her bosom friend (for
one, of what the common people call a
crony, she must always have) has a mind to
dismiss her quietly, and not by joining in any
sarcasm against her, irritate her (especially in
these very irritable moments) to disclose the
purport of these long conferences which she
and Miss Elford used to have together; during
which, I believe, there was no transaction
of her past life that she did not relate to this
dear Philadelphia; nor any measures for her
future conduct, in regard to her family, that
she was not suffered to dictate.—The elderly
ladies have a mortal aversion to great intimacy
between two girls—and many have been
the chidings and remonstrances I have endured,
for walking and whispering and gigling with
the young people of my own age, who have
happened to be thrown in my way.—’Twas for H4r 151
for no good, my mother used to say, that
these violent intimacies subsisted—I wonder
what good ever arises from the caballing of
a dowager, and an old spinster.—I dare say,
if these conferences could be fairly related,
those of the Misses would be found the most
innocent of the two; for theirs, I believe,
generally turns upon the topic of gaiety, vanity
and love—and those of the ladies of a
certain age, upon hatred, malice, and all
uncharitableness.

Ah! my dearest sister, while I am writing
all this where are you? Your short incoherent
letter Which does not appear.
informed me, indeed, that you were
safe as far as Rouen; but what has happened
since?—I tremble at every sentence of French
news; and the people among whom I live
are such inveterate and decided enemies to
the revolution, that they exaggerate with
malicious delight, all the mischief they hear
of, and represent the place whither you are
going as a scene of anarchy, famine, and
bloodshed—I have heard stories that I am
sure are improbable, and I hope impossible—
and when my mother, the other day, was
relating one of them “on the authority of
a dear friend, of a dear friend of hers, a Lord
somebody, just come through Paris in his way
from Italy”
—I could not help saying—“And
you believe all this Madam?”

“Believe it girl?—yes to be sure—I not
only believe, but know it.”

“And yet, Madam, it was at such a time,
and consigned to such a man as your son-inlaw,
Verney, that you insisted upon sending
your daughter, Geraldine, to Paris.”

I don’t H4v 152

I don’t know that I ever recollect seeing my
mother so angry, nor can I guess when her
indignation for my impertinence would have
subsided—if luckily for me, the upholsterer
had not that moment entered with the patterns
of some linens and chintz of which the new
furniture at Bexley Hill is to consist.—Her
daughter Geraldine, and her daughter Fanny,
were in a moment equally forgotten; and
she sent in a great hurry for her son to
call a council with Miss Fairfax on this important
point.—A very serious debate ensued,
which, as Mr. Waverly was of the
party, I knew would not very speedily end:
and before they could settle the first question,
whether the chintz furniture of the west bed
chamber should be lined with sky blue, or
grass green, I made my escape.

I direct this letter to the care of the banker
at Paris, who Mr. Bethel assures me will
know your abode there, and carefully convey
it to you.―Oh! how anxiously I long to
hear from you―how painfully does my
imagination dwell on the difficulties you may
encounter, unprotected as you are; yet how
decidedly convinced I am, that the greatest
evil that can befall you would be meeting with
your husband.

It is with a bleeding heart, my dear Geraldine,
I say this; and, with a bleeding heart
I await your letters, which heaven grant may
bring me better accounts of you than my affrighted
fancy suggests.

May heaven protect you, and all you love.

Fanny Waverly.

Let- H5r 153

Letter XVII.

To Miss Waverly.

Once more, my dearest sister, I have
again a transient respite, after such a series
of mental and bodily sufferings as I have not
in my former letters, Which do not appear. very fully insisted
upon, because it was enough for me to endure
them, without tearing to pieces, by
the description, the sensible heart of my
Fanny.

I will now, however, when I can look
back upon these situations and sensations with
some degree of calmness, recapitulate briefly
my little travels, the account of which must
have been broken and disjointed, by the hurried
and incoherent letters I wrote from Rouen
and Paris.

I need not remind you of the state of languor
in which I landed at Dieppe, after what
was, they told me, a quick passage of seventeen
hours.—I expected, the next morning,
to have seen some symptonssymptoms, in the town,
of the misery, which I was assured, the revolution
had occasioned; but every thing is
the same as it was when we passed this way to
England, six years since, except that, instead
of processions of les Carmes déchaussés, ou les
Pères de l’ Assomption
, we now see small partiesH5 ties H5v 154
of armed citizens parading the streets,
at certain hours, as they go to their exercise,
or to relieve the guard; much better looking
men, and much fitter to be entrusted with
the care of their town than the miserable
looking, half-starved soldiers, that I remember
to have seen exercising on the walls when we
were here before, who seemed likely, from
actual want, to pillage, rather than protect
the coast—These, on the contrary, are all
men armed voluntarily to defend themselves,
their families, and their property; and, in a
short time, when the advantages of freedom
are felt, and the disadvantages of obtaining it
by force forgotten, these associations will be
as Smollett describes his countrymen, in one of
the most beautiful odes that ever was written.
“With hearts resolv’d, and hands prepar’d, The blessings they enjoy—to guard.”

That these blessings are not yet fully felt,
seems to be the only complaint that the enemies
to the freedom of France can alledge
against it; as if, immediately after such a
change, all could subside into order, and
“every man sit down under his own vine and
his own fig-tree.”

We know, from daily experience, that
even in a private family, a change in its œconomy
or its domestics, disturbs the tranquillity
of its members for some time—It must surely
then happen, to a much greater degree, in a
great nation, whose government is suddenly
dissolved by the resolution of the people; and which, H6r 155
which in taking a new form, has so many
jarring interests to conciliate—A country too,
where genuine patriotism having been always
a prohibited sentiment, every man, whose
property or talents give him weight, has been
so long accustomed to consult his own interest,
that the sacrifices to be made for general good
appear too difficult to the individual, and
he shrinks, from private inconvenience,
which is certain and immediate, when remote
though general benefit is to be obtained
by it.

We began our land journey the next day,
save one, after our landing—Some little
difficulties occurred about the number of
post-horses that were to draw our carriage,
on account of six persons being in it; though,
of those six, three were infants in lap (these
arrangements, which seem so strange and
teizing to the English, are, I imagine, a remnant
of former despotism, which gave the
profits of the posts to government at its own
discretion).

The country is very fine around Rouen.
Hills, resembling the high downs in Sussex,
arise immediately around it, but the prospect
from the summit of that to which the
road led us, is infinitely more beautiful
than any I ever saw—The Seine winding
through a lovely vale of great extent, and
the port of Rouen crowded with vessels—
the town and suburbs—the old and magnificent
cathedral—all embosomed with trees,
with the finest meadows beyond them, and
an infinite number of châteaux scattered
through the whole landscape, render it
altogether such a view as I never saw equaled H6v 156
equaled in England; but, indeed, I have not,
in my own country, been a great traveller.

On the summit of the hill, and just as the
road led along a chalky hollow, which had
been cut to ease the steepness of the acclivity,
we were met by a procession of priests,
chanting solemnly in Latin, and, as I apprehend,
carrying the host to some sick person
—They were preceded by a small party of
the national guard, in their uniform and
under arms—The priests, one of whom
carried a large crucifix of silver, gilt, were
to the number of eighteen or twenty, all
men in the flower of their age, and remarkably
well-looking—I ordered the postillions
to stop, and my servants to pull off their
hats, while the procession passed, which had
in it a solemnity particularly affecting; as
the dirge they were singing in excellent voices,
fell, or was resumed in aweful responses
echoing along the hollow cliffs of chalk
—The mournful music was in unison with
the melancholy temper of my mind, and I
involuntarily shed tears, as I apostrophised
the departing spirit, to whom these religious
men were carrying the sacred wafer, which,
in their opinion, secures its future happiness
“Poor trembling being!” said I, “thou
art, perhaps, about to quit, reluctantly, a
world, to which some tender connexion,
some scene of promised happiness attaches
thee!―With reluctant and fearful heart,
thou wilt receive what is to be, in thy opinion,
a passport to the bosom of thy God!
―while I, a wretched wanderer, in a
wretched world, would most willingly exchange
situations with thee; and with thy faith H7r 157
faith and thy prospects, lay down, even with
pleasure, a life which, according to the course
of nature, may be very long, according to
all present probability, must be very miserable.”

These thoughts occured as the figures slowly,
and with down-cast eyes, passed close to
my coach―The procession was finished
by another small party of the national guard
“All religion, however,” said I, “is
not abolished in France—they told me it
was despised and trampled on; and I never
enquired, as every body ought to do, when
such assertions are made—Is all this true?”

As we proceeded, nothing could appear
more beautiful than the extensive plains of
Normandy, which, under all the disadvantages
of bad cultivation, and the tumults existing
these last two years, which are certainly
inimical to the labour of the husbandman,
do, literally, laugh and sing―This appearance
of plenty would convince me of
the truth of what Mr. Desmond once assured
me, if I ever could doubt of facts which I
hear from so accurate and candid a judge; I
mean that the deficiency of bread, (la dissette
du pain
) which, in eighty-nine and ninety,
was so severely felt at Paris, was artificial,
and created by those, who not only had the
power to monopolize for their own profit,
but others who had it in view to reduce the
people by famine to obedience—to turn their
thoughts from the acquisition of freedom, to
the preservation, on any terms, of existence.

It has been affirmed, and never contradicted,
that the civil magistrates of Paris, and
the intendants of the provinces, had caused
the corn to be cut down in the green blade —The H7v 158
—The effect of this atrocious wickedness,
was, however, exactly the reverse of that
which was intended—The transaction was
discovered, and can we wonder it was resented?
—The wretched projectors fell victims
to the indignation of the people; and
the cry of “du pain, du pain, pour nous
& pour nos enfans,” Bread, bread, for us and our children.
was loudly urged in
the ears of royalty, when royalty was believed
to have encouraged such atrocity.

While humanity drops her tears at the sad
stories of those individuals who fell the victims
of popular tumult so naturally excited,
pity cannot throw over these transactions a
veil thick enough to conceal the tremendous
decree of justice, which, like “the hand
writing upon the wall,”
will be seen in colours
of blood, and however regretted, must
still be acknowledged as the hand of justice.

This excursion into the field of politics,
where, for the most part, only thistles can be
gathered, and where we, you know, have always
been taught that women should never
advance a step, may, perhaps, excite your
surprize—You will possibly wonder that,
under the pressure of those evils which so
lately surrounded me, I should, for a moment,
find my spirits enough disengaged to
enter into disquisitions so little attractive—
The truth is, that whenever I am not suffering
under any immediate alarm, my mind,
possessing more elasticity than I once thought
possible, recovers itself enough to look at the
objects around me, and even to contemplate
with some degree of composure, my own present
circumstances, and the prospect before me, H8r 159
me, which would a few, a very few months
since, have appeared quite insupportable.

It is to my sister, to my second self I write,
and from her I do not fear such a remark
as was made on some French woman of fashion,
(who I cannot now recollect) who, being
separated from her husband, changed her religion
to that (whatever it was) which he
did not profess—“She has done it,”
said a wit, “that she might never meet her
husband either in this world or the next”

―Thus it might, perhaps, be said,
that I determine never to think on any article
(even on these, whereon my age and sex
might exempt me from thinking at all) like
Mr. Verney; and therefore, as he is, he
knows not why a very furious aristocrat, that
obscured1 wordwith no better reason, become democrat.

But I do assure you, my Fanny, that however
ridiculous Mr. Verney’s adherence may
seem to the cause of persons of whom he
knows nothing but their vices and their follies,
my inconsequential opinion would not be put
in the other scale, were I not convinced, that
every principle, all that we owe to God, our
fellow creatures and ourselves, is clearly on the
other side the question.

This must be from conviction, for it cannot
be from the prejudice of education—
we were always brought up as if we were
designed for wives to the Vicars of Bray
My father, indeed, would not condescend to
suppose that our sentiments were worth forming
or consulting; and with all my respect
for his memory, I cannot help recollecting
that he was a very Turk in principle, and
hardly allowed women any pretensions to souls, H8v 160
souls, or thought them worth more care than
he bestowed on his horses, which were to look
sleek, and do their paces well.

As to our mother, I am afraid our filial
duty, highly as I venerate the principle, cannot
conceal from us, that she suffered, in her
department, no sentiments to be adopted
which did not square with the substantial
rules of domestic policy; for every single
man of large fortune, though decrepid with
age, or distorted by the hand of Nature,
though half an ideot from his birth, or rendered
worse than an ideot by debauchery, we
were taught to throw out encouragement;
and, I really believe, if the wandering Jew,
or the yellow dwarf, or any other fabled
being of hideous description, could have been
sent on earth to have personified men of eight
or ten thousand a year, we should have found
it difficult to have escaped being married to
them, if they had offered good settlements.

Riches and high birth—(the latter rather
because it generally includes the former, than
for its own sake) riches and high birth were
ever the most certain recommendations to the
favor of my mother—Merit unattended by
these advantages, we were always taught to
shun; she knew that, unless we were blinded
by early prejudice, it would force itself irresistibly
on unadulterated minds; and against such
impressions she was constantly on her guard.

With what vigilance did she contrive, at
Bexley Hill, to exclude from all our parties
every young man who had nothing else to recommend
him, than his deserving to be noticed.
—I remember, when a regiment of horse was H9r 161
was quartered for some time at Wells, how
eagerly she solicited the company of those of
the officers, who were reputed to be men of
fortune, while, if any subaltern, of inferior
expectations, was introduced to her table,
how cold, how reluctant were her civilities!

That I have been most unhappily the victim
of this mercenary spirit, I do not, however,
mean to make matter of reproach to my mother
—Happiness, in her estimation, consists
in being visited by the opulent; in giving and
receiving good dinners; in having at Bath,
or in London, the reputation of having fashionable
parties, and very full rooms; of curtsying,
at church, to all the best dressed part
of the congregation; and being looked upon
as a very sensible woman, and one who knows
the world; of being appealed to by the yellow
admirals and gouty generals, as a person
of great sagacity in cases, whether of
medicine, or cards, or anecdote; and of
being considered as a perfect judge of etiquette;
and a woman of the highest respectability.

Now, as these circumstancescircumstances do, in her
idea, constitute the summum bonum, can you
wonder that she endeavoured to procure their
certain possession for us?—That she has failed,
at least, in regard to me, is not to be imputed
to her as an error; her judgment was
originally wrong; the fault of the head
rather than the heart.―She could not
have succeeded, because, had Mr. Verney’s
self-indulgences left me all these blessings,
on which my mother sets so high a value,
I should, if I had been compelled to have entered H9v 162
entered into their routine, have been infinitely
more miserable than I am now.

But to go on with the brief history of travels,
which I have hitherto only related in a
vague and disjointed way, I may as well take
up the word miserable, with which I concluded
the last sentence, and tell you, that miserable,
very miserable I was at Rouen: not, however,
from finding the country—“en feu &
en sang,” In blood and fire—or, as we say, under fire and sword.
as I had been assured I should do,
by some emigrants with whom I conversed at
Brighthelmstone; but from my own sad reflections,
and the uncertainty of what was to
be my destiny on my arrival at Paris.

Far from finding my approach to this city
(Rouen) impeded by any of the popular confusion
of which we have been told so much,
I must give you a description of the scene.

It was about half past nine o’clock, when
we entered the long double avenue of elms,
which begins above a mile from the town.
—The day had been very warm, and the evening
was deliciously serene—The moon, nearly
at the full, was reflected in long lines of radiance
on the silver bosom of the Seine, which
is here much broader and clearer than at Paris;
and the oars of boats, going up the river, were
heard at intervals, as they dashed the sparkling
water, mingled with the somewhat mournful,
yet not unpleasing, sound of the sailors
on the quay above, drawing up their anchors
to depart.—As we advanced, the noise of
the postillions, who delight in cracking their
whips and hooting as they approach a town, interrupted, H10r 163
interrupted, but could not drown the enlivening
notes of the fifes, clarinets, and organs
of the Savoyards, to which two or three parties
were gaily dancing, by the road side, while
many others were walking under the trees,
enjoying the beauty of the night.—The nearer
we approached the town, the more numerous
and well dressed were the groups we
perceived, till near the former barrier, it
might be justly called a crowd who seemed
to have no object but the pleasure of a gay
walk by moon-light after a hot day—“And
this,”
cried I, as I surveyed them, “this is
a specimen of universal national misery—of
the fierce and sanguinary democracy so pathetically
lamented by Mr. Burke!”

The next morning I received from the
French merchant, to whom Mr. Bethel gave
me letters, every attention which I could have
claimed on a long acquaintance; he regulated
every thing for our future journey in the way,
least likely to occasion fatigue to me, and
after resting at Rouen one day, we again
went forward towards Paris.

Had my mind been less cruelly occupied
by the certainty of present evils, or could
I have looked forward with more calmness
to the scenes that awaited me at Paris, I
should have contemplated, with peculiar pleasure,
the uncommon charms of the country
that borders the Seine near Vernon—a town
remarkably dirty and melancholy, situated in
a spot of which imagination cannot conceive
the beauty.

Around Rouen it is very fine; but, perhaps,
as I had passed that country before, I was H10v 164
was less struck with it now, and as I then travelled
what is called the upper way to Paris,
I did not go through Vernon.

The Seine, along whose banks the road
lies for many miles, is here very broad and
very rapid—broken by several beautiful
little islands, where the willow dips its
trembling leaves into the current, and mingled
with the darker shade of alders, the poplar
rises in luxuriant spires above.—On the
opposite side of the river there are coppices
edging the water, or green lines of meadow
ground—hills resembling the Southern Downs
of England arise beyond these―with
here and there a scattered vineyard, the first
I had seen in France—But a little beyond
Vernon there are other hills of the most extraordinary
forms I ever remarked—they appear,
at the distance from which I surveyed
them, like immense circular masses of stone
or marble, piled on each other, or assembled
in rows, as if some supernatural beings of
extraordinary strength had thrown them there
—The singularity of their outline gives to the
whole landscape, for some miles, a very romantic
appearance, and the road from which
it is surveyed is equally wild and picturesque
—for it lies under a ridge of high
chalk rock, beneath which are a few cottages,
partly formed of the rock itself, and
half hid with vines.

You will wonder, perhaps, that in the
state of mind I was, as I passed through
this country, I should be able to give so much
attention to it as to make out even this slight
description—But I find, that from a habit of suffering, H11r 165
suffering, the mind acquires the power to
suffer; and, if it resists at all, becomes every
year less acutely sensible; it must at least be
so with me, for I now look forward with
melancholy composure to events that appear
inevitable, of which the bare idea a few years,
or even a few months ago, would have driven
me, I think, to frenzy.—I see no end
of my calamities but in the grave—and
having in a great measure ceased to hope, it
were ridiculous to fear—Fate can have nothing
worse in store for me than separation
from those I love, embittered by poverty and
contempt—Long lingering years, varied only
by different shades of wretchedness, is all my
prospect.—Torn for ever from my dearest
connections, and doomed to be the unresisting
victim of a man, whose conduct is a continual
disgrace to himself, his family, and his
country.

“Regretter ce ceux qu’on aime, est un
bien en comparaison de vivre avec ce qu’on
hait”
says de la Rochefaucault.—I do not
hate Mr. Verney—God forbid I should; but
yet I own his late conduct, in regard to
Monsieur de Romagnecourt, and other circumstances
that have accidentally come to
my knowledge, have raised in me such a dread
of him, that there is no humiliation to which
I had not rather submit, than that of considering
myself as his slave.―Yet to repeat
the words of a pathethicpathetic French poem,
I was reading yesterday, “Tel j’étois, tel je suis encore, Ne respirant que pour souffrir.” But H11v 166
But I have strangely wandered from the
narrative I undertook, to give more connectedly
than you can gather it from my former
letters.

I pass over the rest of my journey from
Vernon to Mante, where we remained one
night; and, in which, if there was any thing
remarkable, I did not see it—for as I approached
Paris my spirits sunk, and every
league became more and more depressed—
Yet what I felt was the calm desperation of
incurable calamity, and not those sudden
paroxysms of anxiety which are yielded to,
when hope represents the possibility of redress;
and the agitated mind, in the most
acute moments of sorrow, looks round for
succour.—I had nothing to hope.—and what
I then had to fear was of a nature so dreadful
and so peculiar, that I hardly dared trust my
mind with its contemplation.

At length we arrived at Paris, and I saw
myself in l’Hotel de Moscovie; for though
Mr. Verney’s letter had ordered me to take
up my abode at the magnificent hotel of his
illustrious friend, Monsieur le Duc de Romagnecourt,
I had, in this instance, and by
the advice of Mr. Bethel, determined to disobey
him—I had written from Dieppe to Mr.
Verney
, to say I should await his orders at
l’Hotel de Muscovie; but there were no letters
there for me, or had any person been
there enquiring after me.―As I was
extremely fatigued, I determined, though it
was yet only early in the evening, to do no
more that night, than announce my arrival to
the banker, to whom Mr. Bethel, and his friend, H12r 167
friend, had given me letters; and deferring
till the next day, every determination as to a
future plan, to endeavour to procure some
repose to my children and myself―In
this I succeeded so far, as to see them all well
the following morning, and to find my own
spirits rather more tranquil than I could expect,
when, at nine o’clock, I received a note
from Monsieur Bergasse, to whom my letters
were addressed, saying that he would wait on
me at ten.

I could not avoid explaining to him, though
it was with extreme reluctance, the orders I
had received from Mr. Verney.―I saw at
once that he was startled at them, and believed
that no husband who either regarded his
wife or his honour, would have given such
directions.―He informed me, however,
that though the Duc de Romagnecourt had
quitted Paris some time before the flight of
the King, and the splendid preparations
making for his return from England, had been
countermanded; yet it was likely that Mr.
Verney
, who might not have received my letter
from Dieppe, had sent to the Duke’s
house his instructions how I should proceed
since the political changes that had
happened after his first desiring me to meet
him in France, had probably changed his intentions
in regard to me and to himself.

To the hotel de Romagnecourt, therefore,
Mr. Bergasse was so good as to go for me;
he very soon returned with a letter from Mr.
Verney
, directing me to remain there till his
arrival, and informing me that he was going
for a very short time to the neighbourhood of Avignon, H12v 168
Avignon, with his dear friends Messieurs de
Romagnecourt
, de Bellizet and de Boisbelle;
the former and latter of whom had just
rejoined him―and that, in the mean
time, I should find that every accommodation
had been directed by the Duke to await
me at Paris.

I could see by the whole turn of this letter,
which was not indeed written with
much art, that Mr. Verney had calculated that
the money he remitted to me for my journey,
could do no more than defray the expences of
it; and that on my arrival at Paris, necessity
must conquer the repugnance I might
feel at being thus made over, as an inhabitant
of the house of Monsieur de Romagnecourt.

This gentleman also had taken the trouble
to write to me; and with many extravagant
expressions of attachment and admiration, expressed
his regret at my cruelty in not deigning
to accompany him, and his delight at my
charming condescension in coming at all―
His ardent hopes that this, his letter, would
find me in entire possession of his house at
Paris, where he had given directions that his
carriages and servants should be at my command;
and of all of which he besought me
to consider myself as sole mistress.

Oh! Fanny, what would have become of
your unhappy sister, but for the kind interposition
of Mr. Bethel.—Thus forced by
my mother’s inhumanity into a foreign country,
without money or friends, where could I
have found refuge for myself and my poor
little ones, whose natural protector most unnaturallynaturally I1r 169
consigns their mother to a destiny
more terrible than the most humble poverty.

Good God! is it possible that I am writing
thus of the father of these children, for whose
sake only I endure life?―I dare not
trust my pen with another line on that subject
“Oh! that way madness lies; let me shun that, No more of that—” Shakespeare.

The determination I at length came to was,
to remain at the hotel de Moscovie, where I
found very good accommodations, till I heard
again from the unfortunate man whose property
I am―but on no account to meet
him, if I could avoid it, till he had relinquished
every idea of compelling me, either
with him or alone, to become an inmate in
the house of Monsieur de Romagnecourt.―
The manner in which I perceived Monsieur
Bergasse
heard the name of that nobleman
spoken of, confirmed, too certainly, all the
fears I had of Mr. Verney’s motive for cultivating
an intimacy, from which most husbands
would have recoiled―and, if contempt
and abhorrence of his principles, could engender
hatred against the father of George,
of Harriet, and of William, surely I should
be justified in feeling it.

Oh! how impossible it is to help relapsing
continually into a topic so heavily pressing on
the heart―Let me, however, close the
detail of my wandering, till I settled here.—
I remarked, in the little time I had to remark Vol. II. I any I1v 170
any thing, that I never saw so many people,
of all ages, scarred and seamed with the smallpox,
as I had observed since my being at Paris.
―I was told that it was owing to the
inveterate prejudices inculcated by the priests,
who even now persisted in teaching, that to
disarm this cruel disease of its malignity, was
to offend heaven, which intended that it
should blind, cripple, or render spectacles of
horror, those whose lives it spared―I enquired
if it was now in Paris—I was answered
that it was always in Paris.—Terrified
at this intelligence, I sent to my friend
Monsieur Bergasse, entreating him to look
out for an house at some of the villages
around it—He very obligingly undertook
the enquiry, and on Friday informed
me, that he had heard of a maison burgois, Houses in France were, till now distinguished by
maisons bourgois, fit only for citizens or inferior people
—and maisons noble, belonging to men of rank, or
to les terres titres.

but well furnished, and fit to be immediately
inhabited, at Meudon.—I entreated him instantly
to engage it―he did so; and,
on my arrival, I found it infinitely more
comfortable than I expected.―Here
then I am, my Fanny, waiting in anxiety, but
not with impatience, Mr. Verney’s further orders
―With sensations very different your
letters are expected by your affectionate

Geraldine.

Have you heard from Mr. Desmond?—
I thought he would before now have written
to me.
Mr. I2r 171 Mr. Bethel, I hope, is still at Bath.—
I conclude I might by this time send my compliments
to our newly acquired sister; but
probably she will readily dispense with that
ceremony.—Do you recollect in the novel
of Sidney Biddulph (one of the best that we
have in our language) how poor Sidney is
treated in her adversity by the haughty wife
of her brother, Sir George? Perhaps there
is a little similarity in our destinies―But
I have no Faulkland!

I2 Let- I2v 172

Letter XVIII.

To Miss Waverly.

You ask me, my sister, for a further description
of my abode, if that can be called an
abode where I am only a transient lodger, and
from whence I every moment expect to receive
a summons to depart—for Alas!—I know not
whither!

You ask, too, my motives for prefering this
place, which in my last letter I told you was
melancholy, to Versailles or St. Cloud, where
I could equally have the advantage of gardens
—or to Chaillot, Passy, or some other
pleasant village, more immediately adjoining to
Paris.—My dear Fanny, I prefer this place,
because it is melancholy, and because it is retired.

Here, as I wander over the deserted gardens,
I seldom meet any body but the men,
who keep them in something like order, and
who do not even look back at me, or mark my
solitary walks.

There are at Meudon, two palaces, one of
very ancient structure and long, quite uninhabited
—the other built, or at least repaired, by
the Dauphin, father of the present King which
Louis the XVIth has occasionally inhabited, and
which contains many handsome apartments—
they both stand in the same garden, which has
never received any modern improvements—and in I3r 173
in many parts of it the borders are destitute of
their former ornaments; and, of many of the
trees and shrubs that remain, “The boughs are moss’d with age, And high tops bald with dry antiquity.” Shakespeare.

Adjoining to the most ancient of these royal
houses, which terminates a long avenue and a
large court, is a chapel with an arched gateway,
leading to it from the garden, and surrounded
by paved passages and high cloisters—and it is
on some broken steps, that near these almost
ruinous buildings, lead from the lower to the
upper garden, I frequently take my pensive
seat and mark the sun sinking away above the
high coppices that are beyond the gardens; (and
I imagine from a part of them, though I have
not yet ventured to wander so far.)—A yet
more cheerful seat I have found for my less melancholy
moods, on the wall of the terrace on
the opposite side, which looks down immediately
on the village of Meudon—where, among
its pleasant-looking houses, they still point out
the habitation of the celebrated Rabelais.—
As I never enjoyed, because, perhaps, I do not
understand his works, I contemplate it not with
so much pleasure as it would afford those who
can admire them.—Of late, my Fanny, I have
found this view too riante, and have adhered almost
every evening after I have put my little
ones to bed, to the old steps—where I hear
no sounds but the bell of the convent of Capuchins
(which is on a high ridge of land, concealed
by trees about half a mile from the old palace) I3v 174
palace) or the wind murmuring hollow through
the iron gratings and stone passages that lead
round the chapel, from whose windows of painted
glass I can fancy the sullen genius of superstition
peeps forth, sighing over his departed
power, in melancholy responses to the summons,
that call the monks to their evening devotions.

I often meet, as I come through the avenue,
some of these venerable fathers, who, with slow
steps, and downcast eyes, their cowl frequently
covering their faces, and their arms crossed upon
their breasts, pass me—apparently so occupied
by their holy meditations, as not to
hold an insignificant being like me, worth even
a salutation.

But why should that seem discourteous,
which is probably a part of their religion? I
ought also to consider, that besides the gloomy
austerity of their order, they are now, perhaps,
more austere, because they are unhappy—
They believe their altars are violated, and their
profession rendered odious.—They fear their
subsistence may fail them, and that they may
be turned out into a world which is seldom too
kind to the unfortunate, and is likely to treat
their misfortunes with ridicule instead of pity.
—I have observed, within this last week,
one among them who seems more restlessly
wretched than the rest—I remark him every
day pass by the windows of the house where I
live, with a basket in one hand, and a staff in
the other―his hood always concealing his
face, and his tall figure bending as if weighed
down by calamity.

After I4r 175

After the morning duties are over, I see him
glide among the trees in the garden, or among
the vines that clothe the declivity towards the
village; more than once he has come forth of
an evening from the cloistered passages of the
chapel, and, with solemn step, crossed near me,
to attend the last offices of the evening, when
he hears the bell from the convent echo among
the winding colonades.

There is something particularly affecting to
me, in beholding this solitary mourner―
whose griefs though they are probably of a different
kind from mine, are possibly as poignant.
—Perhaps he was once a gay and thoughtless
inhabitant of the world—He may have seen
(for he does not appear to be a young man)
these now deserted palaces, blazing in the splendour
of a voluptuous court—Among its vanished
glories, he may have lost all he loved;
and he has now, it may be, no other consolation
than visiting in the cimetieré of the chapel, the
stone on which time is destroying even the
sepulchral memorial of this beloved object.

As I thus make out, in my imagination, his
melancholy story, I shed tears; I shudder at
the distress I have drawn—Oh! Fanny!—
among all the miseries of humanity, the most
insupportable is surely the death of those we
love; and yet how full of contradiction is the
human heart—I know there are many, many
evils in life to which death is infinitely preferable
—I know that I myself prefer it to the
continuance of such an existence as has long
been mine; yet to out-live you, my children,
and one or two of my friends, presents an idea of
calamity which would deprive me of my reason.

How I4v 176

How have I been led by the poor desponding
Monk into this digression?—I hardly know
and have not now much time to revise what I
have written, as a messenger goes to Paris this
evening, who is to take my letter; I return,
therefore, to my subject as abruptly as I quitted
it, to tell you the little that remains to be
said about my house—It is just like other French
houses; and its only recommendation to me is
the melancholy sort of repose, and the solitary
walks, which its immediate neighbourhood to
the gardens of Meudon afford me.

The windows command great part of the
view between this place and Paris, to which, it
would be difficult for the pencil to do justice—
with a pen, it were hopeless to attempt it.

The first yellow tints of Autumn are hardly
stealing on the trees, encreasing, however,
where they have touched them, the beauty of the
foliage—The sky is delightfully serene; and a
sun-set in the gardens here exceeds what I ever
saw in England for warmth and brilliancy of colouring
—No dew falls, even when the sun
is gone, though we may call the evenings now
autumnal evenings—I am generally out with
my children till past seven o’clock, and after I
have attended them to their beds, I still find it
mild and warm enough to allow me to perform
my vespers in the open air.

You, my Fanny—at least, till your tenderness
for me taught it to you—you have
never been unhappy, and have never known
(O! may you never know) the strange and,
perhaps, capricious feelings of the irretrievably
wretched—Since I have found myself
so, I have taken up a notion that I do not
breathe freely, while I am within the house; and I5r 177
and like the poor maniac, who wandered about
in the neighbourhood of Bristol, I fancy “that
nothing is good but liberty and fresh air.”

In consequence of this sensation, I live allday
about the gardens; while the sun is high,
Peggy attends me with the three children, in
some shady part of them; and George often
amuses himself with catching the little brown
lizards which abound in the grass, and among
the tufts of low shrubs on this dry soil—He
brings them to me―I bid him take
great care not to hurt them—I explained to him,
that they have the same sense of pain as he has,
and suffer equally under pressure and confinement
—He looks very grave, as I endeavour to
impress this on his mind; and then gently putting
them down, cries, “no! no! indeed!
I will not hurt you, poor little things!”

How much a tone, a look, an almost imperceptible
expression of countenance will awaken
to new anguish an heart always oppressed like
mine!—As, liberating his prisoners, he says
this—I look round on him, his sweet sister, and
his baby-brother, and internally sighing, say,
“Oh! would I were sure, if ever your poor
mamma is torn from you, that nobody will hurt
you, poor little things!”

What ails me, to be thus unusually weak,
this evening? I believe the heat of the day has
overcome me—I will go and walk, as I did
last night, when I have finished my letter.

I shall probably meet my fellow sufferer, for
such I am sure he is, the solitary Capuchin—I
have just seen him walk towards the palace garden.
—Well!—and is there not satisfaction in
beholding a being, who, whatever may have I5 been I5v 178
been his misfortunes, seems to have found consolation
and fortitude in religion—I have often
entertained an half-formed wish that he would
speak to me—perhaps his own sufferings may
have taught him that tender sympathy with
the sufferings of others, which is often so soothing
to the sick heart, and he might speak of
peace to me!

I am sadly distressed here for want of
books; the few which, with such a quantity
of necessary baggage, I was able to
bring with me, I have now exhausted; and
though my good friend, Monsieur Bergasse,
has sent me some from Paris, they happen
to be such as I cannot read with any pleasure
—I have supposed it not impossible
that the Monk might supply me from the
library of his convent.

This deficiency of books has compelled me
to have recourse to my pen and my pencil
to beguile those hours, when my soul, sickening
at the past, and recoiling from the future,
would very fain lose its own mournful
images in the witchery of fiction, or in some
pursuit; though, alas! it is too true, that
the mind will stray from the fingers; and
that I cannot find, either in work or in
drawing, enough employment to keep me
from sad and bitter reflection.

Reason as vainly tells me, that nothing can
be worth the unceasing solicitude I feel—
Were it only for myself, I surely should not
indulge it; nor would I magnify or dwell
upon the actual and possible miseries of my
destiny, but for my children!—for those I
love so much better than myself!—I cannot help I6r 179
help being sensible of such agonizing anxiety
as occupation cannot charm, nor reason
conquer.

I have found, however, a melancholy delight
in describing these sufferings—I usually
take my evening seat on the flight of steps
I have described to you—Sometimes, when
I am in more tranquil spirits, I sketch, in my
port-folio, the wild flowers and weeds that
grow among the buildings where I sit—In
some parts, ivy holds together the broken
piles of brick, from whence the cement has
fallen—The stone-crop, and the toad-flax,
cover or creep among the masses of disjointed
marble, several sorts of antirhinum still wave
their pink and purple blossoms along the edges
of the wall; and last night I observed mingled
with them, a root of the field poppy,
still in flower—On the qualities of this plant
I fell into a reverie.—To you, my Fanny,
and to you only, I entrust the little wild ode
—almost, indeed, an impromptu, which this
contemplation produced.

Ode to the Poppy.

Not for the promise of the labor’d field,

Not for the good the yellow harvests yield,

I bend at Ceres’ shrine;

For dull, to humid eyes appear,

The golden glories of the year;

Alas!—a melancholy worship’s mine!

I hail I6v 180

I hail the Goddess for her scarlet flower

Thou brilliant weed

That dost so far exceed,

The richest gifts gay Flora can bestow;

Heedless I pass’d thee, in life’s morning hour,

(Thou comforter of woe,)

’Till sorrow taught me to confess thy power.

In early days when Fancy cheats,

A various wretch I wove;

Of laughing springs luxuriant sweets,

To deck ungrateful love:

The rose or thorn, my numbers crown’d,

As Venus smil’d, or Venus frown’d;

But Love, and Joy, and all their train, are flown;

E’en languid Hope no more is mine,

And I will sing of thee alone;

Unless, perchance, the attributes of grief,

The cypress bud and willow leaf,

Their pale, funeral foliage, blend with thine.

Hail, lovely blossom!—thou can’st ease,

The wretched victims of disease;

Can’st close those weary eyes, in gentle sleep,

Which never open but to weep;

For, oh! thy potent charm,

Can agonizing pain disarm;

Expel imperious memory from her seat,

And bid the throbbing heart forget to beat.

Soul-soothing plant!—that can such blessings give,

By thee the mourner bears to live!

By thee the hopeless die!

Oh! ever friendly to despair,

Might sorrow’s palid votary dare

Without a crime, that remedy implore,

Which bids the spirit from its bondage fly,

I’d court thy palliative aid no more;

No more I’d sue, that thou shouldst spread,

Thy spell around my aching head,

But would conjure thee to impart,

Thy balsam for a broken heart;

And by thy soft Lethean power,

(Inestimable flower)

Burst these terrestrial bonds, and other regions try,

Geraldine Verney.

Let- I7r 181

Letter XIX.

To Mr. Bethel.

I have been long in writing to you,
Bethel, and now hardly know whence to date
my letters, as I am, and have been, and
shall be, upon the ramble for some time—
I am unhappy, and the unhappy are always
restless.

What a challenge on political affairs does
your last letter contain!—In the present
state of my spirits I cannot contend with you
were I disposed to do it; but I am willing
to allow, that much of your eulogium on the
constitution of England is just; and that it
is so good, that it ought to be better.

If we see an individual who has a thousand
good qualities that excite our esteem and admiration,
and yet know he has two or three
failings that render all his virtues of little avail,
we very naturally say, what pity that
this man, who is so brave, so sensible, so humane,
should, by a strange inconsistency of
character, be so corrupt, so easily led away
by objects unworthy of him—so warped by
prejudice, so blind to his own interest—And
thus it is with all the affairs of life, perhaps;
that any degree of perfection makes us
regret that the object in which it exists is not
perfect.

Of this nature is the regret I feel in regard
to my country—I would have our
boast of her excellence just—I would not have it
the mere cant which we have learned by rote, and I7v 182
and repeat by habit; though when we venture
to think about it, we know that it is vanity
and prejudice, and not truth, when we speak
of its wonderful perfection; and that even
those who are its most decided partizans, are
continually betrayed into an acknowledgment
of its defects.—Boswell, in his life of Johnson
says, that “in the British parliment, any
question, however unreasonable or unjust, may
hebe carried by a venal majority.”
—This is acknowledged
truth; and it follows, that while
the means of corruption exist to an extent so
immense, there must be a venal majority,
and, of course, every question, however ruinous,
will be carried.—While this is the case
and while every attempt to remedy this original
sin
of the constitution is opposed (though
the necessity of that remedy has been allowed
by the greatest statesmen of our country) while
every proposal to make it really what it is only
nominally, raises a cry as if the subversion
of the whole empire was intended—I cannot
agree to unlimited praise—and, though most
certainly willing to allow to you, that a greater
portion of happiness is diffused among
the subjects of the British government, than
among any other people upon earth; but this
rather proves that their condition is very
wretched, than that ours is perfectly happy.
—Carried on a little in the same way, was
the argument that I heard not long since,
against the abolition of the detestable Slave
Trade—I was pleading for it with a member of
parliament
, who has an estate in the West Indies,
and who has been there himself, some
years ago, when he commanded a man of war I8r 183
war—I talked warmly (for I had just been
reading the reports of the committee) and I
talked from my heart.—My adversary, well
hackneyed in the ways of men, treated all I
could say as the ill-digested speculation of a
hot-head enthusiast, who knew nothing of the
matter.—“You are young, Mr. Desmond,”
said he, “very young, and have but little
considered the importance of this trade to the
prosperity of the British nation; besides, give
me leave to tell you, that you know nothing
of the condition of the negroes neither, nor
of their nature—They are not fit to be treated
otherwise than as slaves, for they have not
the same senses and feeling as we have—A
negro fellow minds a flogging so little, that
he will go to a dance at night, or at least
the next day, after a hearty application of the
cat—They have no understanding to qualify
them for any rank in society above slaves:
and, indeed, are not to be called men—they
are monkies.”
“Monkies! Sir!” exclaimed I,
“that is, indeed, a most extraordinary assertion.
—Monkies! I believe, indeed, they are
a very distinct race from the European—So
also is the straight-haired and fine formed
Asiatic—So are the red men of north America
—But where, amid this variety, does the
man end, and the monkey begin? I am afraid
if we follow whither this inquiry will lead us,
that we shall find ourselves more degraded
than even by the whimsical system of Lord
Monboddo
.—If the negro, however, is a monkey,
let me hazard one remark—that their very
near affinity to us, is too clearly ascertaineded I8v 184
by the alliances we have formed with
them; nay, I have even heard that captains
of our ships of war, have often professed that
they prefer the sable nymphs of Africa to the
fairer dames of Europe ‘The pale unripen’d beauties of the North.’

And, if I recollect aright, Sir I have formerly,
in moments of unguarded conviviality,
heard you say, that when you were a young
man, and in the sea service, you had yourself
indulged this partiality for these monkey
ladies.”

This parried, a little, the round assertion
that negroes were not men; but he still insisted
upon it that they had little or no feeling;
it was not, however, very difficult to
prove, as far as proof can on such a point be
brought, that their physical and moral sensibility
is more acute than ours.—I will not
lengthen my letter by repeating these proofs,
because I am persuaded you are not disposed
to dispute them; but go on to say, that after
I had carried almost every article against him,
my adversary was compelled to take shelter
under such an argument as yours.—“Perhaps,”
said he, “the negroes are sometimes
beat, but not half so much as our soldiers are
—The punishment inflicted on soldiers is infinitely
more severe.”

“Does not that, Sir,” said I, “rather
prove that our military punishments are inhuman,
than that the negroes have nothing to
complain of?”

Thus, I9r 185

Thus, my dear Bethel, it seems to me, that
instead of proving that we are extremely happy,
you prove only that we are comparatively
so; and, for my part, I never could, as many
people do, derive consolation from the reflection
that the existence of evil in the person
of another, diminished the sense of what
I felt in my own.

Do not, however, misunderstand me; I
think that our form of government is certainly
the best—not that can be imagined
—but that has ever been experienced;
and, while we are sure that practice is in
its favour, it would be most absurd to dream
of destroying it on theory.—If I had a very
good house that had some inconveniencies
about it, I should not desire to pull it down,
but I certainly should send for an architect
and say, “alter this room―it is too dark
—remove those passages—they are too
intricate—make a door here, and a staircase
there; make the kitchen more habitable
for my servants, and then my house will
be extremely good”
—But I should be very
much startled if my architect was to say,
“Sir, I dare not touch your house—if I
let in more light, if I take down those partitions,
and make the other changes you desire,
I am very much afraid that the great timbers
will give way, and the party-walls crush you
beneath their ruins.”

As I do not know when I shall see you, I
shall continue to write—and wish very much
to hear from you often.—If you send your
letters to Messrs. Sibthorpe and Griffith, bankers
in London, on whom I draw for money as I9v 186
as I want it, they will always be able, during
the rest of my ramble, to trace my route
by my drafts and letters on business.

Adieu! dear Bethel,
Ever your’s faithfully,

Lionel Desmond

Let- I10r 187

Letter XX.

To Mr. Desmond.

I stifle, I repress all curiosity, Desmond
—I have often told you I never desired
to interfere with your affairs, farther than
you wished me to do so—farther than you
thought I could be useful to you: and therefore,
though I read, with wonder and concern,
a letter not dated, either as to place or
time—A letter, in which the name of Geraldine
is not mentioned; and in which you
seem not to know either where you are or where
you shall be—I will not say more upon it,
than that I am always glad to hear of you, upon
your own terms.

When will the time come to which I have
so long and so vainly been looking forward?
—When shall I see you living in Sedgewood
in that most respectable of all characters, the
independent English gentleman?—I never
wanted your society so much as I do now;
but, perhaps, never was so unlikely to have
it; and all that I find here, is so little to my
taste, that I shall be glad to return to Bath,
which it is judged necessary for me soon to
do.

This dislike of society, however, arises not
from its quantity, but its quality—Since Sir
Robert Stamford
has settled in the neighbourhood,
his house, which is almost always full,
supplies the market-town with idle or curious morning I10v 188
morning visitors; and at the coffee-house,
where I very seldom go, I happened on calling
yesterday, to meet your Uncle Major
Danby
, and I learned that, attracted by the
reputation of Epicurean living, he had
accepted the invitation often given by his old
acquaintance Sir Robert, and was on a fortnight’s
visit at Linwell.

I found the Major had collected round
him the Curate, the Attorney, the Attorney’s
Clerk, the Riding Surveyor, the Master
of an Academy, “where youth are genteely
educated,”
and two or three of the principal
tradesmen of the town; and that, from a
very long oration on politics which they had
heard with conviction and admiration, he had
glided away on a descriptive tour to his own
seat near Bath; and was giving a catalogue raisonée
of its conveniences, obliquely preferring
them all to the accumulations of the same
luxuries at Linwell.

“I own,” said he, “Sir Robert has been
at a great expence, an immense expence—
but the thing, my dear Sir,”
(addressing himself
to the Attorney) “the thing is judgment
—judgment in laying out money is every
thing.”

“Aye, Sir, to be sure,” answered this
gentleman, (who was, I found, an enemy
of Sir Robert’s, because he was employed
in election matters by a great man of the opposite
party)—“aye, certainly; and, as
you say, how should Sir Robert Stamford
have this judgment?—seeing, that it was
but a very few years ago that he knew more of I11r 189
of a fi, fa and latitats, John Doe and Richard
Roe
, than about raising foreign fruits and
ice creams—I don’t wish to speak in disparagement
of the profession neither—for
an honest attorney is a very honorable
thing.”

“And, I am sure, it is a very rare one,”
interrupted a blunt tradesman, in a smooth
black wig, and leather breeches—“a very
rare one—and, for aught I ever saw or heard
to the contrary, you may put all the honest
lawyers that ever was, in your eye, and never
see the worse.”

“That’s not so civil a speech, Sir,” said
Mr. Grimbold, the Exciseman; “Sir Robert
Stamford
, Sir, my worthy patron, is
a man of honor, Sir, and a gentleman,
Sir; and as for having practis’d the
law, Sir, and thereby raised himself to his
present rank, it does him credit, Sir, and
shews that this government and administration
fairly and justly rewards merit, Sir.”

“Come, come, Mr. Grimbold,” cried
the Attorney, “we know very well that the
greatest merit Sir Robert has in your eyes,
is his having rewarded your merit, and made
you a riding-officer; because of the votes
for this here borough of ours, that are in
your family, Mr. Grimbold—”

“Yes! yes!” said Mr. Doughty, another
tradesman, we understand trap, and so
does our good neighbour—As to me, I am
free to speak without favour or affection—We
all know what Sir Robert Stamford was—
What then!—which of us that had been as much I11v 190
much in luck would not have done the same
thing?—I have nothing to say to that—
Whatever a man can make in the way of
business, whether it be as to lawyer, or a
tradesman, or a place at court, is all fair
enough; and I, for my part, don’t want to
cry Sir Robert down, though he does not
deal at my shop; he went to Gill’s when
he settled here—for why? ’Twas natural
enough, Gill could command three votes—
certain I have but one; but Sir Robert, though
he is not a constant customer, lays out a
good deal of money with me, and I’ve no
fault to find.”

While this conversation, so expressive of
the candor and disinterested conduct of British
electors, went on, I stood perdu behind Mr.
Grimbold
; a tall personage, whose broad
shoulders, however, just permitted me to peep
over at the Major, who had not yet espied
me—I saw he became extremely restless at
being compelled to hear so much of the consequence
of his friend Sir Robert, when he
was thinking only how he might best display
his own—Not very curious in his auditors,
he is well contented to be heard; and detests
a man who interrupts him worse than a pickpocket.

He now raised his voice in the vain hope
of being still attended to—The worthy
Burgesses of W― had got upon a topic much
more interesting to them, than a description
of pastures, the beef of which they should
never partake, and of pineries, the produce
of which not even an election could send them a share; I12r 191
a share; and he therefore bustled up to quit
the circle, when perceiving me, he advanced,
and very cordially shook hands with me—We
walked away together, and fell into conversation
on the views, and the soil, and the
husbandry in this part of the country; which,
he said, was very much inferior to that tract
of the country of Somerset, round his house
at Ashford-hall.

This uncle of yours has, to a very extravagant
degree, a trait of character which
I have, in my way through life, once or
twice remarked before—Whatever he does,
is better done than any other man living could
have done it—whatever he says is without
appeal—whatever he possesses is more extraordinary,
more excellent, than are the
same things in the possession of his neighbours.

His house and gardens are the best in the
county—his men do more work—his crops
are more luxuriant—and so fond is he of
being always the most active and the most
important, that I have heard him boast of having,
in his judicial capacity for the county of
Somerset, committed in the course of one
year, more prisoners to the county jail than
any three of his brethren of the bench.

You know, that being an old batchelor,
and somewhat of an epicure, he is at home,
what the vulgar call a cot; and has laid
down his spontoon for the tasting spoon,
converted his sword into a carving knife,
and his sash into a jelly bag—It is not her
youth or her beauty, that recommended
his present favorite housekeeper; but the skill I12v 192
skill she had acquired in studying under a
French cook, at the house of a great man,
who acquired an immense fortune in the
American war, by obtaining the contract
for potatoes and sour crout—But even to
this gentlewoman, skilled as she is in “all
kinds of made dishes, pickling, potting,
and preserving,”
and tenderly connected
with her, as the prying world supposes the
Major to be; he does not leave the sole
direction of that important department, his
kitchen; which when he is at home, he
always superintends himself.—“Aye, aye,”
said he, in this last conversation, “let those
alone for good eating who know what it is
to have lived badly.—I remember when we
were in camp in Germany, and had nothing
to drink but water from a pond that swarmed
with vermin, and not enough of that—and
nothing to eat but such bread as I would
not now give to my hog—while the money
went into the pockets of the contractors.”

“You now live in happier times, Major,
said I.

“Aye, that we do, indeed—these times
are very good times, if the damned scoundrels
of presbyterians and non-conformists would
but let us be quiet that think them good;
and not be disturbing the public tranquillity,
and be cursed to the roundheaded sons of
b―s.”
—Then looking more important,
he added, “To tell you very seriously my
thoughts, Mr. Bethel, I don’t much like the
present appearance of affairs—there is a very
troublesome mutinous spirit got among the dissen- K1r 193
dissenters—These riots that happened in July at
Birmingham”

“Nay, dear Major Danby,” cried I,
“it was not the dissenters who rioted
there”

“No; but it was owing to them and
their seditious meetings. For my part, I
rejoice that they fell into the pit they had
dug for others—I wish that they had all been
blown up together, and the country well
rid of them.—I’ll tell you what, Bethel, if
I had commanded on that occasion, I should
have been apt, I believe, to have protected
those honest men in what they did against
your confounded saints.—Those canting puritans
are all water drinkers, fellows that sing
and pray—I’d extirpate the whole race.”

“You would really?”

“Yes, by G― would I, before they
do any more mischief—What business have
they to mutter, and raise disturbances, and
complain of their grievances? I hope government
will never grant them an ace—let them
grumble on, but not influence the opinion
of other people.—At present I am a little
uneasy at the face of affairs—I have a stake
in the hedge, Mr. Bethel, a pretty considerable
stake, and I don’t desire to see it trampled
down.”

“I don’t know,” replied I, “any body
that does.”

“Yes, yes, but I do know such—You
are, indeed, a temperate man—a man who
has seen a good deal of the world—You have
a stake also of some consequence; so, indeed, Vol. II. K and K1v 194
and a very valuable one, has my nephew,
Desmond—But what d’ye think now of
him?—He’s as discontented as any Praise-
God-Bare-Bones of them all—I can’t imagine
what possesses the puppy—he’s not like any
other young fellow of his age; instead of
sporting his money like a man of spirit, on
the turf, or with the bones, he goes piping about
and talks of unequal representation, and the
weight of taxes, and the devil knows
what; things, with which a young fellow
of six-and-twenty has no concern
at all—And then, as for his amours;
instead of keeping a brace or two of
pretty wenches, he goes sneaking after
a married woman―to be sued for damages,
and, perhaps, run through the
body.”

“Sneaking about after a married woman,
Sir,”
said I, “pray explain.”

“Come, come, Bethel,” replied your
sage uncle, “don’t affect ignorance—I
believe you are a trusty confidant, but here
your secrecy is a mere joke—the thing is
notorious.”

“I must beg an explanation, Major
Danby
,”
cried I, with some warmth—
since you think me concerned, it is the
more necessary.”
“Why, if I must explain
then, can you really now suppose that we
don’t all know the history of Mrs. Verney?”
“The history of Mrs. Verney,
Sir!—Upon my honour I must recommend
it to you to speak more cautiously of a
woman of whom malice itself cannot injurejure K2r 195
the reputation—A woman who is an
example of a blameless wife, to a very
worthless husband—and the best mother,
daughter, and sister―”

“Why damn it now, Bethel, how can
you fancy all this will do with me? If
Mrs. Verney has a penchant for Lionel, with
all my soul.—I know very well that if the
stupid puppy, her husband, had as many
horns as the beast in the revelations, he
deserves them all, and Desmond has as
good a chance as another, with any woman;
but I think he’s a fool to be at such a
cursed expence about it, and then to fancy
himself so snug, like a woodcock that hides
its head, and believes itself secure,—Hah!
ha! hah!”

“Upon my word, Major, I must still
declare myself ignorant of your meaning.”

He absolutely shouted, in his coarse
boisterous way, but seeing me look very
grave, he at length checked his mirth, and
said—“Why lookee, Bethel, when a young
fellow lays down between three and four
thousand pounds, to release from execution
the effects of a man he despises and contemns;
when he goes down incog. to the retirement
of such a man’s wife, and stays near
a month in her neighbourhood; when he is
known to have declined the most advantageous
offers of alliance from the families of
some of the finest young women in England
on her account; and when he is actually, at
this time, gone abroad with her; or, however,
concealed somewhere or other, how K2 the K2v 196
the plague can you suppose the world will
not talk? It is well enough known,
that Verney is a savage and a scoundrel,
who will sell his wife to the
best bidder—Why don’t Lionel offer
him her price at once, for now you
may depend upon it he’ll be sued and
Verney will get devilish damages.”

I was, as you will easily believe, thunderstruck
by a speech in which truth
was so blended with falsehood, that
while I was compelled to allow some
part of it to be true, it seemed hopeless,
with such a man, to contend, that
much of it was an infamous supposition.
—How make your uncle Danby believe,
that you should, on a system of
affection, merely platonic, have advanced
this money? (of which it is wonderful
that he should be informed) on
a system merely platonic
, go and live perdu
in Herefordshire? On a system merely platonic,
be now concealed in France, in
the neighbourhood of Geraldine—for
such I am afraid is the fact.—Dear Desmond!
behold the consequences of
your indiscretion!—See what cruel (and,
as I am convinced) what unjust reflections
you have been the means of throwing
on the woman you love—consider
all the consequences that may follow.
—However hopeless the undertaking
appeared, I endeavoured to convince Major
Danby
, that in whatever way you might
have interfered to be serviceable to Mrs. Verney, K3r 197
Verney
, for whom you had a very great
friendship; yet that all this originated,
on your part, not from any designs
prejudicial to the honour of Mrs. Verney,
but from your pity for an amiable woman
involved in undeserved calamities;
that you certainly were not in France now,
but in the North of England; and that Mrs.
Verney
was with her husband.

All the answer I could obtain to this
was, “Pooh! pooh!—Pshaw! pshaw!
we know better.”
—I could neither convince
the Major of the fallacy of the reports
he had heard, or prevail upon him
to name the authors.—Tired with the conversation,
and heartily vexed, I left him
soon after; nor could the account he was
again going to begin of his own importance,
which is an idea ever uppermost in
his mind, prevail upon me longer to attend
to him.—I returned home, and he
went back to Sir Robert Stamford’s, there
to entertain the respectable society (among
whom I find is Lord Newminster and Sir
James Deybourne
) with an account of my
consternation at the knowledge he has of
your affairs.

I own to you, Desmond, that this dialogue
has occasioned to me very cruel disquiet.
—If this letter reaches you before
the mischief is irreparable, by the universal
dissemination of these reports, so injurious
to the peace, perhaps so fatal to the
life of Geraldine; appear, I conjure you,
shew yourself in England—convince her friends K3v 198
friends and the world that you have not
followed her to France; and vindicate, at
once, her fame and the veracity of

Your faithful servant,

E. Bethel.

Let- K4r 199

Letter XXI.

To Mr. Bethel.

You lately accustomed me, dear Sir, to
confide to you the cruel uneasiness that preyed
upon my heart, in regard to my sister
Verney; and surely you will forgive me, if I
once more intrude upon you—when I am,
on her account, infinitely more unhappy than
ever, and when I have no friend but you to
whom I dare speak of her.

It is now two days since I have been in possession
of a sixth letter from her, since she
has been in France; it is dated, as the two
preceding letters were, from Meudon; it
gives me an account of her situation; it describes
the scene around her; they are her
words—her sentiments—her ideas—and she
has even added a beautiful little ode, which
as I read it, gave me such a picture of her
despondent state of mind, as drew tears from
my eyes.

As there were, however, some parts of this
letter which I could not, with propriety, shew
my mother, as the sentiments might have raised
her anger, and the poetry her aversion, I
said nothing to her of my having received such
a letter.—She, herself, had long ceased to enquire,
earnestly, about my sister; and therefore,
in this concealment, or rather silence, I
had not to reproach myself with breach of dutyty K4v 200
and tenderness, in trifling with maternal
solicitude.

I believed my mother was quite easy about
Geraldine, and content not to be at any expence
herself, was perfectly satisfied with
whatever dispositions Mr. Verney might chuse
to make about his wife and his children.

You will suppose then, that I was extremely
surprised yesterday.—I was at work in
my own room, when my mother, about a
quarter of an hour after the arrival of the letters
from the post, entered it; I saw immediately
that something had discomposed
her; but as trifles very often affect her
more than things of consequence, I concluded
that her maid had made up her Mecklin
lace awkwardly, or had put too much
starch in her new Japan muslin; and that having
vented as much of her anger on the poor
girl as it was probable she would bear at one
sitting, I was to afford Mrs. Waverly entire
ease, by listening (as in duty bound) to the
residuum; which seemed, by its acrimony, to
inflame her features, and agitate her whole
frame.—“Daughter Frances,” cried she,
“have you heard lately from Mrs. Verney?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“And pray where is she”

“In France, Madam, at Meudon, where
she was when she wrote to you”

“’Tis false”—replied my mother, anger
flashing from her eyes, and trembling on her
tongue—“’tis a bare-faced, infamous falsehood,
and you know it is.”

“Good God! dear Madam! you terrify
and amaze me! what can you mean?”

“I mean, K5r 201

“I mean, I mean—I dare hardly trust myself
to utter a sentence so disgraceful—You,
Miss, deceitful, worthless, wicked girl, know
it, however, but too well.”

“My dear Madam, what do I know? For
mercy’s sake do not agitate yourself thus!—
Whatever I know about our poor Geraldine,
I am sure I never made any mystery of: tell
me, I beseech you, what do I know?”

“Odious, base, little hypocrite—you know
that this disgrace to my blood, this viper who
is to destroy the honour of my family, is not
in France; perhaps never has been there;
but has been, and is, I believe in my conscience,
still at that farm-house in Herefordshire,
where she lived before—where she has lain-in
—yes, Miss, lain-in of a girl, and is the declared
mistress of that villain, Desmond, who
has been there with her; and perhaps, is with
her yet!”

The moment I could recover from my immediate
surprise, the ridiculous impossibility
of this story struck me so forcibly, that my
terrors were, for a moment, dissipated; and I
recollected myself enough to say (perhaps
with a look of too much contempt, considering
it was my mother to whom I spoke) “upon
my word, Madam, a very curious legend
—Have the goodness to tell me, to whose admirably
fertile invention you owe it—If dear,
good
Miss Elford had not been quite removed
from this part of the world, I should have
given her the honour of it.”

I said this quite by guess, and not at all supposing
I was right; but I saw instantly by my
mother’s countenance, that my conjecture was K5 just, K5v 202
just, and my alarm subsided still more,—I was
now sure, that, not only this falsehood, but
the facts that happened during Geraldine’s real
residence at Bridge-foot, came from Miss Elford;
and having conquered my first perturbation,
I managed the rest of the dialogue so
as to procure from my mother’s unguarded
warmth, all the intelligence I desired; though
it has not, on reflection, given my mind all
the ease I expected.—Miss Elford has a relation
whose residence is at Ross, and to the house
of this relation she retired, when overwhelmed
with anguish and disappointment, by the
sudden desertion of her mercenary lover.—
The inn where the French nobleman and his
suite put up, was exactly opposite this her melancholy
retirement—A group much less
marked by singularity of appearance, would
have attracted the attention of an insulated
being, eagerly attentive to every occurrence
that afforded any thing to gratify her natural
love of malicious enquiry, now sharpened
by internal wretchedness and discontent—The
foreigners no sooner appeared, than Miss Elford
became stationary at her window, and
she saw an Englishman with them, in whom
she immediately recollected the person of Mr
Desmond
.

The chambermaid of the inn was well
known to her; she contrived to send for her
over, to pick out all she knew then of the
guests, and to engage her to make farther enquiries
—In consequence of which the woman
soon informed her, that Mr. Desmond
had been living some time at the cottage at
Bridgefoot, very near the residence of Mrs Verney; K6r 203
Verney
; that he returned thither before the
foreign gentlemen, and afterwards accompanied
Geraldine to Glocester.—All this,
with some additions of her own, was transmitted
to my mother, under the strictest injunctions
of secrecy.—This explains all
those circumstances that gave me such pain
and astonishment, when my mother had taken
such a sudden antipathy to Mr. Desmond,
and so strenuously insisted on Geraldine’s going
to her husband.

But how shall I account for what, on the
same authority, my mother has now heard,
that my sister, attended by a gentleman, the
description of whom answers to the person of
Mr. Desmond, returned to Bridge-foot about
three weeks since, where she was, in a few
days, delivered of a daughter; that her attendants,
consisting of two women, are French,
who cannot speak a syllable of English.—
The gentleman, who accompanied her, left
the place about ten days ago; but the lady is
supposed to be still there.

I know, that were not Geraldine incapable
of such conduct, unversed in deceit and possessing
a heart as free from guilt as her mind
is ingenuous and candid, there are numberless
other objections to the probability of her being
so situated—Yet, as Miss Elford had
most certainly truth for the general ground
of her former assertions, how is it possible to
convince my mother that all she relates now
is mere fabrication?—How is it possible to
convince the malicious, prying world of this?
—Indeed the particulars are so minute which
Miss Elford had sent, it is almost impossible to K6v 204
to suppose, that with all her art, or all her
malice, she could have the cunning to invent,
or the effrontery so boldly to assert them,
and to dare any one to disprove facts; which
she assures my mother, only her tender regard
for her could induce her to bring forward
so positively—“My heart, dear, dear,
Mrs. Waverly,”
says the canting prude, “my
heart bleeds for every pang which justice and
truth oblige me (to prevent your being deceived
and imposed upon) thus to inflict on
your’s!”

Dear Sir! what am I to think of all this?
—That my sister Geraldine, whom I know to
be in France, should be at this village in Herefordshire,
I know is impossible—I own it
is much more likely that Miss Elford, through
malice or error, or both, has invented the
story, or taken some other person for her—
Yet, as the report will not only be injurious
to the fame of my beloved sister, but may be
attended with consequences fatal to the life
of your beloved friend—I own, that though I
despised it at first, I now feel most completely
alarmed; and entreat you to have
the goodness to tell me, by the return of
the post, whether you know where Mr. Desmond
is; and whether you think any measures
ought to be pursued; and what to
prevent the farther progress of a calumny
from which so much mischief is to be apprehended.

Imagine with what impatience I wait to
hear again from my sister—and how often I
have examined and re-examined the contents
and the post-marks of those letters I have alreadyready K7r 205
received from her.—When an evil,
of whatever nature, is certain, the mind, by
degrees, acquires firmness to endure it; but
the pain of uncertainty and conjecture, like
what I now suffer, is of all others the most
intolerable—I have not closed my eyes during
the last night; or have I had one moment’s
tranquillity of mind since my mother’s
angry communication—To add to my excessive
vexation, she has related the whole, in
the most unguarded way, to Mrs. Fairfax and
her daughter, to my brother and his wife,
and to a certain Lord Fordingbridge, who is
here on a visit to Mr. Waverly; and I think,
the lover of Miss Anastatia—There are,
therefore, no hopes of stifling the report;
and if I can judge by the manner of the ladies,
there is not one of them who fails to
hope it may be found true.—Geraldine is
too lovely, and has been too much admired,
not to be disliked by women who are so remarkable
for their wish to monopolize all
admiration; and they are glad of an opportunity
to exclude from the family a part of
it, who might, they apprehend, in consequence
of Verney’s mad dissipation, be, at
some time or other, a weight on the pecuniary
interest of the rest.

Lord Fordingbridge met with Desmond
abroad, and seems to have conceived some
personal dislike to him.—My brother has
been debating, whether he ought not to apply
to him for immediate satisfaction; but
of his pursuing that idea, I should not have
very accute apprehensions, if I did not see
that Lord Fordingbridge, towards whom he looks K7v 206
looks as to an oracle, (for he is reckoned a
young man of eminent abilities) did not seem
very much inclined to urge him to such a
step—The whole conversation of the circle
here, has been engrossed by this affair ever
since yesterday; of course, it is terribly painful
to me; but I dare not absent myself
from it long together, and have stolen the
time I have been writing this from my pillow,
though not from my repose; for, till I am
less distracted by conjectures and apprehensions,
I have no hope of obtaining any.—
Pardon, dear Sir, this incoherent letter—I really
do not know what I am about; and never
in my life had so much occasion for that
friendly advice, with which you have so often
honored and obliged,

Sir,
Your most grateful and obedient servant,

Frances Waverly.

Let- K8r 207

Letter XXII.

To Miss Waverly.

It was late last night dear Madam, before
I received your letter—However I am flattered
by being thus honoured with your confidence,
the purport of it has given me extreme
uneasiness—the more so, as what I have
to say, in reply, will not, I fear, relieve you
from any part of your’s.

I agree with you, however, in opinion—
opinion, surely, founded on the securest
ground; that our dear Mrs. Verney is incapable
of the conduct which is, by Miss Elford’s
representation, and Mrs. Waverly’s
credulity, imputed to her—Yet, convinced as
I must, on reflection, be of this, I am, at the
same time, compelled to acknowledge, that
there is an air of mystery in the letters of Mr.
Desmond
to me, so unlike his usual style of
confidence and candor, that I account for it
no otherwise than by supposing there is something
in his situation, which it is necessary to
conceal even from me.

These letters are not dated, so that I know
not whither they come from, or how long they
are written before I receive them—But it is
probable that Desmond is at a great distance,
as he receives my letters which are sent to the
care of his bankers in London, very long after
they are written.

I will own to you, that this reserve of my friend’s, K8v 208
friend’s, which I never, till lately experienced
from him, has hurt me extremely—Yet,
perhaps, I am wrong; there are circumstances
and situations, which a man of honor cannot,
and ought not, to reveal to his most intimate
friends.

I thought, however, that upon the footing
we always have been together, I, who can
have no object in view but his service, might
attempt to discover how I might more quickly
convey my letters to him, particularly as some
affairs relative to one of his estates, required
his immediate answer—I, therefore wrote to
the second partner in the banking-house he is
connected with, who is more particularly entrusted
with his concerns, and begged an address
to Mr. Desmond, stating my reasons for
asking it—I received last night a very polite
answer from this gentleman, assuring me, that
he would convey any letter to Mr. Desmond,
as safely and expeditiously as possible; but,
that to give his address, even to me, would be
a breach of a promise solemnly given, which,
he was sure I would not ask him to commit.

What am I to think of this?—and why
should Desmond’s residence be a secret to me,
unless—but I will not torment you or myself,
dear Miss Waverly, with conjectures, which
I stifle as soon as they arise—Perhaps I may
have a letter from him to day; but as I send
this to the post at six miles distance, by the
messenger who brings back my letters, I cannot,
if I wait the man’s return, answer your’s
so soon as you desire—All I can now do, therefore,
is to assure you, that I will send you
the earliest intelligence I receive; and if such difficulties K9r 209
difficulties should arise, as make my being
near of any use to you, in your present state
of solicitude, in regard to friends so dear to
us both, I will hasten my journey to Bath.—
If I have any news of Desmond by the post
of this day, I will write to-morrow,

I have the honor to be,
Dear Madam,
With great esteem,
Your most obedient and faithful servant,

Bethel.

Let K9v 210

Letter XXIII.

To Miss Waverly.

Dear Madam,

In pursuance of my promise, in my letter
of yesterday, I enclose you a pacquet I
received from Mr. Desmond, by the return
of my messenger—Though it is wholly
foreign to the topic that so deeply interests
us, and can serve, perhaps, only to encrease
uneasy apprehensions; for it must be remarked
with wonder, that Desmond, who,
with whatever subject he began his letters,
generally spoke more of Mrs. Verney than
any other, now seems to force himself upon
political affairs, (about which, till a few
months since, he was totally indifferent) in
order to escape from naming her who once
engrossed all his attention.

The letter came, as usual, from his bankers
in London; and, I own, serves rather to
irritate than appease my uneasiness. I await
your farther commands with impatience—

And am,
Dear Madam,
With perfect esteem,
Your most obliged servant,

E. Bethel.

From K10r 211

From some passages of the enclosed
letter, one would conjecture that Desmond
is in France—I know not what to think
of it.

Let- K10v 212

Letter XXIV.

To Mr. Bethel.

I thank you, dear Bethel, for your account
of my worthy uncle, whom you seem,
indeed, to have studied more than I have
done—Perhaps, according to worldly maxims,
I have done wrong to have neglected him so
much; but, to the overbearing and dictatorial
consequence he assumes, I never could
submit, even if I had happened to want the
advantage I might have acquired by it.—The
gross epicurism in which he indulges himself,
while he repeats, with exaggeration, the vices
of others, are traits of character so offensive
to me, that whenever we meet, I am far
from gaining his good opinion by flattery and
acquiescence; and find it as much as I can do,
to conceal the disgust I feel.—As we see each
other, however, so seldom, and I levy no tax
either on his affections or his pocket, I could
wish he would not remember our relationship
only to make me the object of his enquiries
and his comments.—What business has he
to talk of Mrs. Verney?—he, who never in
his life was sensible of an attachment to a
woman of honor, nor was ever capable of
understanding such a character as hers.—The
gross and odious reflections which he has
taken the unwarrantable liberty to utter, I
should find it impossible to avoid resenting,
were he still nearer related to me—I hope,
therefore, before I see him again, that he will K11r 213
will be furnished with some other topic of
conversation, by his coffee-house friends at
Bath.—Men who having once had active bodies
and inactive minds, are now deprived,
by disease, of the former advantage, and are
compelled to give to their shallow understandings
obnoxious activity; to prevent a total
stagnation of existence; or by the silly women,
at whose card parties he passes his evenings,
many of whom owe the prodigious
virtue on which they value themselves, to
that want of personal beauty, which prevented
their ever being in danger. “Casta est, quam nemo rogavit,”
says the proverb—Heaven forgive me, if I
judge uncharitably, but I very much suspect,
that in common minds among the sex, this
extreme and exquisite sense of delicacy,
which always acquires peculiar energy after
thirty-five, is much oftener the offspring of
disappointed pride, than angelic purity—
Among the good matrons and virgins of this
description, my uncle is a very oracle—
Among them he retails the conversation of
the morning, and they make up together, in
their evening vigils, these scandalous anecdotes,
from even which Geraldine cannot
escape, though, if they had not the power
to give her a moment’s pain, I am sure they
would not give me a moment’s thought.—
Now, however, she is in France, and these
arrows “dipped in double poison,” will not,
I trust, reach her, unless some “d―n’d good natured K11v 214
natured friend” The Critic.
should take the trouble, in
pure kindness, to feather the shafts so as that
they may reach her.

I remember, that when I used to see more
of Major Danby than I have now done for
these last years, I used to consider, with some
degree of wonder, the odd construction of
his mind, which nature intended to be a good,
plain, common mind; but having acquired a
roughness, from being early in life a soldier
of fortune, he saw himself in unexpected affluence,
at a middle period of life, when he
had learned the value of money, by having
struggled with the want of it—And the moment
he quitted his profession, he lost the
open, manly character it gives, and acquired
nothing meritorious in place of those qualities;
for he became a little of a literary man—a
little more of a politician—still more of an
epicurean—and above all, a man of great
consequence to himself—His mind now resembles
a quilt I have seen at an inn, composed
by the industrious landlady, in a sort
of work, which, I believe, the women call
patch-work; triangular or square shreds sewn
together to form a motley whole—here a
little bit of chintz, surrounded by pieces of
coarse and tawdry cotton; there a piece of
decca work, joined to a scrap of dowlas; in
one place a remnant of the fine gown of the
Lady of the manor; in the next, a relict of
the bed-gown of her house-maid—So oddly,
in the composition of my good uncle, is a
fragment of gentleman-like qualities tacked to K12r 215
to great patches of obsolete principles and
hard prejudices—to an obstinate adherence to
his own gratifications, and a prodigious attachment
to his own imagined consequence—
But a truce with the Major—I have bestowed
more words upon him than ever I recollect
to have done before, and more than, perhaps,
I shall ever do again.

In wandering round the world, I hear more
of politics than of any other subject—and I
am always glad to attend to them, when
the events under discussion are of consequence
enough to attract my attention, and detain it
a little from the internal wretchedness I bear
about me.

The enemies of the French revolution are,
at present, in dismay—for the King has signed
the constitution, and they begin seriously to
fear that the liberties of France will be firmly
established—Their great hope, however, is in the
confederacy of “the kings of the earth” against
it, particularly that of the Northern powers;
which, if they do unite, will be the first
instance, in the annals of mankind, of an
union of tyrants to crush a people who profess
to have no other object than to obtain, for
themselves, that liberty which is the undoubted
birth-right of all mankind—I do not, my
friend, fear that all “these tyrannous breathings
of the North”
will destroy the lovely tree that
has thus taken vigorous root in the finest
country of the world, though it may awhile
check its growth, and blight its produce; but
I lament, that in despite of the pacific intentions
of the French towards their neighbours,
its root must be manured with blood —I la- K12v 216
—I lament still more, the disposition which
too many Englishmen shew to join in this unjust
and infamous crusade against the holy standard
of freedom; and I blush for my country!

I must, however, remark, that those in
whom I have observed this disposition, are
all either courtiers themselves, or connected
with courtiers—And I know not whether to
admire most their English sentiments or their
English
versality; for among them, I recollect,
are some gentlemen, who, three years
since, when the speeches of Mr. Burke were
said to press so hardly on a gentleman then,
and still before the highest tribunal of his
country, exclaimed against the proceedings of
that great orator with the utmost indignation
—They then declared, in all companies, that
he prostituted his eminent talents to the purposes
of party—and, to the purposes of party,
sacrificed his veracity.

But now, when in the book written against
the patriots of France, he has done the same
thing—when he advances opinions, and
maintains principles absolutely opposite to all
the professions of his political life—when he
dresses up contradictions with the gaudy
flowers of his luxuriant imagination, in one
place, and in another, knowingly misrepresents
facts, and swells the guilt of a few, into
national crimes; to prove the delinquency of
a whole people struggling for the dearest
rights of humanity, Mr. Burke is become, in
the opinion of these my courtier acquaintance,
the most correct, as well as the most eloquent
of men—for he is of their party—he is becomecome L1r 217
the champion of the placeman—and
the apologist of the pensioner.

As for his political adversaries, who have
taken up the guantletgauntlet, he has chosen to throw
down—What have they done to excite such
a terrible outcry?—They have shewn many
prejudices, which we have been so accustomed
to, that we never thought of looking at
them.

They have endeavoured to convince us of
the absurdity and folly of war—the inefficacy
of conquest—the imposition which all European
nations have submitted to, who have,
for ages, paid for the privilege of murdering
each other—These writers have told us what,
I apprehend, Locke, and Milton, and Bacon,
and (what is better than all) common sense
has told us before, that government is not
for the benefit of the governors, but the governed;
that the people are not transferable
like property; and their money is very ill bestowed,
when, instead of preventing the evils
of poverty, it is taken from them, to support
the wanton profusion of the rich.—And what
is there in all this, that in other times, Mr.
Burke
himself, and Mr. Burke’s associates,
have not repeatedly re-echoed through their
speeches?—Once, it is certain, these gentlemen
seemed to agree with Voltaire, who somewhere
says, “A mesure que les pays sont barbares, ou
que les cours sont faible, le cérémonial est
plus en vogue—La vraie puissance, & la vraie
politesse, dedaignent la vanité.” “In proportion as countries are rude, or their governments
feeble, ceremony is more requisite—True power and
true politeness, alike disdain and pageantry and vanity.”

Vol. II. L But L1v 218

But let us allow, in contradiction to Mr.
Burke’s
former opinion, (who once wished to
see even the sun of royalty shorn of his superfluous
beams) let us allow, that a very
great degree of splendor should surround the
chief magistrate of a great and opulent nation
—Let us allow, that the illustrious personage,
who now fills that character, has, from his
private and public virtues, a claim to the
warmest affections of his people; that towards
him and his family, the greatest zeal and attachment
should be felt, and every support
of his dignity cheerfully given; yet, can it
be denied, that the people are enduring needless
burthens, with which all this has nothing
to do?

Let any man (whose name neither is, nor
is ever likely to be in the court-calendar (the
red book) look deliberately over it—let him
reckon up the places that are there enumerated
—a great many of which are sinecures—
let him inquire the real amount of the salaries
annexed to them, (for they are not enumerated)
and the real services performed—
then let him consider whether these places
would exist, but for the purposes of corruption
—let him reckon of how many oppressive taxes
the annihilation of these places, would preclude
the necessity.

I might add, that the list of pensioners,
could it ever be fairly got at, might come
under the same consideration—Is there upon
that list many, are there any names, that have
found a place there because their owners have
grown old, without growing rich in the service
of their country?—Does deserted merit? does L2r 219
does indigent genius find, in the bounty of
that country, an honorable resource against
unmerited misfortune? Alas! no!—To those
who have only such recommendations, the
pursuit of court favor is hopeless indeed—
But the meretricious nymph receives, with
complacent smiles, the superannuated pander
of a noble patron, his cast mistresses, his
illegitimate children, his discarded servants,
his aunts, great aunts, and fifth cousins—If
the nobleman himself is a sure ministerial man
in the upper house, he is sure of some degree
of favor; but it is measured to him in pro­ proportion
proportion
to the influence he has in the
lower; and it is to reward such men, to gratify
their dependents, that the poor pittance
of the mechanic is lessened—the prices of the
most necessary articles of life raised upon the
smutched artificer,” and a share of his fourteen
pence a day “wrung from the hard
hands”
of the laborer.

Either these things are true, or they are
not—If they are not true, the persons who are
interested in the refutation of them, are marvellously
silent!—If they are true, can your
most enthusiastic admiration of our present
glorious establishment, conceal from you, that
they should be put an end to?

You say, my dear Bethel, that you wish
for my society in our favorite county—If ever
I should return thither, to meet you, would
be my principal, indeed only inducement;
but, alas! warm and sincere as my friendship
for you is, it cannot alone replace, it
cannot make amends for all I have lost; yet,
I know, you will say I have lost nothing that L2 I ever L2v 220
I ever possessed; and that if I could once
determine to look out for some other enjoyments
than those my romantic fancy had
described, I might yet find as reasonable a
portion of happiness as any human being has
a right to expect—All this may be very true,
and very reasonable; but I have, unhappily,
a degree of felicity, impressed on my mind,
which was once attainable; and though I know
it is attainable no longer, I am like the unhappy
man who is said to have died in consequence
of the love he had conceived for a
picture, which, after many inquiries, proved
to be that of the fair Gabrielle—I know
there are a hundred, nay, a thousand other
plans and people, with whom other men
might sit down contented; but I have made
up a “fair idea,” and losing that, all is to me
a blank.

You are always lamenting, in the warmth
of your friendly zeal, that my prospects are
thus blasted on my entrance into life; but
why?—What do you call their being blasted?
—I might, it is true, be a member of parliament,
and give a silent vote for, or make
an unregarded speech against government,
which my slight influence could not render
better or worse—I might have married
some fine lady, with a fine fortune, who
would have done me the honor to bear my
name abroad, and rendered me completely
wretched at home: and this you call, my
good friend, following my prospects—Alas!
I would not recall uneasy recollections to your
mind, but I must ask—Did you find happiness
in this career, which you now lament my neglecting L3r 221
neglecting to pursue?—Or can you decide,
whether I shall finally be wrong or right in
following one very opposite.

It is amazing to me, that with your mind,
you cannot comprehend the delight of living
only for one beloved object, though hopeless
of any other return than what the purest
friendship may authorise—It is still more
wonderful that you cannot understand this,
when this object is Geraldine, of whom you
think so highly—Oh! Bethel! is it possible you
can have seen her in those scenes which have
called forth all the perfections of that lovely
mind, and not allow me to be right, when I
say with Petrarch “Pur me consola, che languir per lei Meglio e, che gioir d’altra—”

Adieu! my friend, continue to write to
me; and be assured ever of the truest attachment
and regard of

Your’s,

Lionel Desmond.

Let- L3v 222

Letter XXV.

To Mr. Bethel.

Dear Sir,

A slight indisposition that my mother
has had, and the sudden departure of Mr.
and Mrs. Waverly
, to visit some distant friends
of the Fairfax family, brought us back to
Bath sooner than we intended—Your last letter
followed me hither; and, in thanking
you for it, and for that it enclosed from Mr.
Desmond
, I have to inform you of some very
singular circumstances that have happened
since our return.

I was surprised yesterday morning, by the
servant’s informing me that a French gentleman
was below, and desired to speak to me;
my mother was in the room, and I could
not conceal my apprehensions, that this stranger
brought me some intelligence of Geraldine
—I trembled as I asked her whether she
would be pleased to admit him?

“What kind of a man is he?” inquired
Mrs. Waverly, sternly, of Matthew.

“Lord, Madam,” replied he, “quite a
gentleman-like, handsomish-kind of a man;
really a good-looking person, considering he
is a foreigner.”

“Let him be shewn up,” answered my mother,
who had not so much intended inquiring
after his good looks, as whether they
were the looks of a visitor, or of a solicitor of L4r 223
of charity—“I cannot speak to him,”
said she, “you must make out, child, what
his business is.”

I had not time to analyse the confused
emotions I felt, before a gentleman entered
the room, who appeared to me one of the
most elegant men I had ever seen—If his
person prejudiced me in his favor, you may
believe that favorable prejudice was not lessened,
when he announced himself to be Monsieur
de Montfleuri
; the intimate and beloved
friend of Desmond.

I felt instantly as if I had known him for
ages, and was sorry I could not acquire courage
to tell him so in his own language; yet
he spoke English extremely well, and divided
his attentions with so much true politeness between
my mother and me, that though she
was prepared to dislike him, first, because he
was a foreigner, and secondly because he was
the avowed friend of Desmond, she insensibly
relaxed into a smile, then gave him a general
invitation to her house during his visit to
Bath; and, before he took leave, even pressed
him to make her house his most usual
home—He answered, that his stay at
Bath would be short, but that he should most
undoubtedly avail himself of her obliging permission
to pay his respects to her.

He left us—and during his visit had
never named Mr. Desmond, but in his introductory
speech—I longed to ask him where
he was, but was with-held by a thousand fears
that have since appeared ridiculous—I
would have asked him in French, but as he
spoke English so well, it would have been unpolite;polite; L4v 224
yet I suffered inconceivable anxiety till
evening, when I was engaged to go to a ball,
at the upper rooms, where, I flattered myself,
I should meet him—I was not disappointed
Montfleuri was the first person I saw
on entering the room—He immediately
came up to me; and as he did not think himself
qualified to join in English country dances,
and as I was the only person in the room
with whom he was acquainted, I disengaged
myself from the gentleman with whom I was
going to dance, and had a great deal of conversation
with Monsieur de Montfleuri, which,
of course, turned principally on Mr. Desmond.

You will easily imagine, dear Sir! how
earnestly I wished to ask him several questions
about his friend; but, though he spoke in
the most unreserved terms of the good qualities
of Desmond, and of their long friendship,
I observed that he carefully avoided saying
much of his present situation or prospects—
At length, I ventured to ask him where his
friend now was?—He replied, that he
did not certainly know, as it was some time
since he heard from him—“Is he,” said I,
afraid of pressing too far on a subject, from
which he seemed to recede, “is he in France
or in England?”

Monsieur de Montfleuri, whose eyes are the
most penetrating I ever saw, looked at me as
if he would read my very soul—I shrunk,
I believe, from his inquiring and piercing
eyes; for, I own, they distressed me extremely
—nor did what he said serve to relieve
me—“Desmond,” said he, “is a very
fortunate man, to occasion to you, Mademoiselle,selle, L5r 225
so much friendly solicitude”
—I believe
I looked very foolish; and though I hardly
know why, I was discouraged from repeating
my question.

But, on consideration, after I returned
home, my anxiety was by no means abated by
an interview, which, I had hoped, would
entirely subdue it—The more I considered
the conversation I had with Monsieur de
Montfleuri
, the more I was persuaded, that
there was some mystery hung over the present
situation of Desmond.—I have seen Monsieur
de Montfleuri
this morning; he dines
with us to day; and says, that though he
came to Bath with no other intention than to
pay his compliments to us, and a family
from France, with whom he is acquainted;
yet he is so flattered by the civility he has received,
and so happy in being allowed the
honor of cultivating our acquaintance, that
he shall prolong his stay, and not return to
France for, at least, a fortnight.

Dear Sir! how shall I remain so long in suspence
about this odious report?—Yet I feel
it to be impossible to speak of it to Monsieur
de Montfleuri
, nor do I dare entrust my mother
with such a delicate negociation; for,
it is but too probable, that she would speak of
Desmond, perhaps of my sister, with asperity
that would be extremely improper, and would
defeat her purpose.

I have reason to believe that her intelligence
fails, either by the removal of Miss Elford,
or the disappearance of those objects, whoever
they were, that gave her ground for her
report; for within these few days, my motherL5 ther L5v 226
has not renewed the conversation; but
seems again occupied by some scheme for the
aggrandizement of Mr. Waverly.

In the mean time, I have observed, with
wonder, the favor Monsieur de Montfleuri
has obtained in her sight—For him, she
seems to have conquered her aversion to foreigners;
and her peculiar aversion to Frenchmen
—nay, she is almost persuaded, that
since he is a partizan of the French revolution,
it cannot be quite so dreadful a thing as people
have represented it.—I never observed
so strong and prompt an effect, from elegance
of manners, (which he certainly possesses
in an eminent degree) as in this sudden
impression Montfleuri has made on my
mother—But it must, however, be added,
that she has pretty good intelligence as to his
fortune, knows it to be a very large one, at
present, and likely to be much encreased by
his accession to the estate of the Count
d’Hauteville
, his uncle, whose only heir he is.
—You know my mother well enough to understand,
that were Monsieur Montfleuri a
Cherokee, or a Chicksaw, his country would
be no objection to a place in her esteem, if
he had a good property; and his manners and
understanding, though they were the first in
the world, no recommendation to her favor
without it.

But I am writing on, as if you had nothing
else to do but to attend to my letters—pray pardon
me; and recollect, in my excuse, that I
have not, in the world, any other person to
whom I can open my heart on the cruel subject
which weighs upon it.

What L6r 227

What I mean to ask of you, (though I have
made so many digressions, still unwilling to intrude
upon you with what may, perhaps, be
an improper request) is, whether there would
be any impropriety in your writing to Montfleuri,
to ask intelligence about our friend—
Perhaps this is impracticable—if it is, pray
forget my asking; and forgive it, in consideration
of the excessive anxiety I feel.—I have
had no letter from Geraldine; and every hour
encreases that solicitude, which I can neither
satisfy or repress.

Whatever you have learned, I beg to hear
by an early post; and that I may be allowed
to remain,

Sir,
Your much obliged,
And most obedient servant,

Frances Waverly.

I enclose, in one of the franks that brings
this voluminous letter, a billet from dearest
Louisa, who impatiently expects your return
to Bath.—I have not once broken your injunction,
not to take her to a ball, or any public
meeting, till you come.

Let- L6v 228

Letter XXVI.

To Miss Waverly.

Dear Madam,

It is, indeed, impracticable for me to apply
to Mr. de Montfleuri, to inquire into the
past conduct or actual situation of Mr. Desmond;
if there are any circumstances in that
conduct with which he has chosen rather to
confide to M. de Montfleuri than to me, you
will see at once the impropriety of my expressing
any curiosity on affairs with which he
did not himself think proper to entrust me.—
I lament that I cannot, in this instance,
obey your commands with that alacrity which
it would, on almost any other occasion, be
my pride to shew.

As to the report which you have traced to
Miss Elford, and which has given you so much
disquiet, perhaps it is best to let it die of itself.
—I shall, in a few days . . . I was here interrupted
by the arrival of a messenger from
W. bringing the inclosed extraordinary letter;
which, from the direction—“to be forwarded
instantly”
—the post master sent over, without
waiting for the arrival of the servant I usually
send—I am too much confused, by the
contents of this letter, to be able to make any
remarks on it; or indeed, to advise what
should be done.

Let me hear as soon as you have received and L7r 229
and considered it; and, if I can be of any use,
I will instantly set out for Bath—though I
know not what good I can do; or, indeed,
what can be done at all.

I am, dear Miss Waverly,
Your faithful servant,

E. Bethel.

Let- L7v 230

Letter XXVII. This letter was enclosed to Miss Waverly by Mr.
Bethel
.

To Mr. Bethel.

It were vain to attempt secrecy any
longer—She is gone! She is gone to meet
that very fate from which I have, with watchful
affection, being endeavouring to save her.
—I left her only for one day on indispensable
business—I found, on my return, that
she was set out on a moment’s notice for the
South of France, by the direction of her
husband. Alone!—she is gone alone!
and has not taken even a servant with her.
—Her children, to whom she has always
been so tenderly attached, she has left at Meudon,
to the care of servants; and in such
haste did she depart, that she gave no direction
whether she should be written to.—It is some
infamous stratagem of De Romagnecourt’s
to get her into his power—And I, fool
that I was, have been afraid of openly avowing
myself, of taking those measures which
would have saved her; and now, perhaps,
now it is too late!—Whither can I turn
me? what can I do?—To sit down
quietly under the apprehensions that crowd
upon my mind, is impossible.

I am this moment returned from Meudon,
where, by a mere accident I witnessed the distress L8r 231
distress of her servants, left with the children
in such a state of anxiety and suspence.—
She gave to the young woman, who has long
lived with her, all the money she had about
her, and an order on Bergasse for more.—
This has given me the only ray of comfort
I have received—Bergasse may inform me
whither she is gone, and I will instantly
follow her, whatever may be the consequences.
—She said to the servants that Mr.
Verney
was wounded in a quarrel and lay
very ill in the neighbourhood of Avignon;
and that thither she was going to him—
But it is not so; it is a finesse of Romagnecourt’s,
to which her husband has lent his
name.—It is impossible to describe to you
what I feel—I will leave my letter open
till I return from speaking to Bergasse.
(Three o’clock)—I have seen him; all he
could inform me was, that about five,
yesterday evening, Mrs. Verney came to
him in great apparent distress.—She read
to him part of a letter, written by Mr.
Verney
, in an hand hardly legible, which
informed her of his having been wounded
in a scuffle in the streets of Avignon, and
laying in great danger at a cottage about
two miles from the town, where he entreated
her to hasten to him, that he might
put into her hands the means of securing
his remaining fortune to his children; and
ask and obtain forgiveness for all the
injuries he had done to them, and to herself.

Bergasse assured me, he endeavoured to
dissuade her from setting out alone, on such L8v 232
such an occasion, and for a part of the
country where to travel, is really hazardous.
—She answered, should Mr. Verney
die, without having seen her, she should
never forgive herself, or ever taste again
one moment’s content.—That to personal
danger she was totally indifferent, and only
entreated him to supply her family at Meudon
with money; and if she did not return within
a month, to send them back to England, to
the care of her mother.—

“I never saw,” said Bergasse, so lovely
a woman, nor ever felt so interested for
any one before—I would have laid down
my life at that moment, to have served
her, but what could I do?—she would not
hear of sending any other person to inquire
into the real situation of her husband;
she would not hear of my procuring any
person to accompany her, who would, she
said, be of no use to her—All that she
would suffer me to do, for her service, was
to hire a chaise, as lighter and more expeditious
than the coach she came in from England
—I saw her get into it—She promised
to write to me the instant she got to the
place described by Mr. Verney’s letter—
I saw her depart.”

Though it was very true, that Mr. de
Bergasse
could do no more, I could, in
the agony of mind I was in, have cursed
him, for not stopping her—I gave him
however, a draft for money, that her children
may be assured of a supply; and I
now write this, my dear Bethel, while
Warham is gone for the post horses, on which L9r 233
which I will instantly follow this dear unhappy,
but ever adorable woman—Good
God!—my senses forsake me, when I reflect
the hazardous journey she has undertaken;
when I reflect that she has perhaps thrown
herself into the hands of an unprincipled
monster, in a country where he has probably
power to execute whatever he undertakes,
and where, the confusion it is
in, may give him unquestioned opportunity
to commit any outrage with impunity

Warham is at the door with the horses—
I fly to overtake her—that may not yet be
impossible—this hope alone animates me—

I would write to Fanny Waverly, and
to Montfleuri, for all mystery must now
be at an end—But I know not, very exactly,
where Montfleuri is; and if you send
this, or the purport of it, to Miss Waverly,
it will save me time—God bless you my
dear friend?—Oh! would you were here
to assist me, in the pious office of saving the
most perfect of human beings, from a fate
so dreadful, as that, which I am persuaded,
awaits Geraldine.

Lionel Desmond.

ElT- L9v 234

Letter XXVIII.

To Mr. Desmond.

There is nothing, you have told me
sometimes, more singular than I am—You
might have added, unless it be yourself.—
But I am going to give you, my friend, a new
proof of my eccentricity, for after having escaped
till now, and having borne away an
unwounded heart, from eyes, the brightest
that France, or England, or America, could
produce, I am desperately in love.—Mad!
for your Mrs. Verney’s sister, and shall
most certainly marry the lovely little Fanni,
if she will accept of me—Why did you not
give me notice of the danger that awaited
me in coming here?—It was not right to
suffer me to run into an embarrassment that
you know, I have always had the presentiment,
would be a very serious one if ever it
came to me—I have vowed a hundred times
never to marry, but this beautiful little Englishwoman
who can resist?—My affairs however,
are in a prosperous train—The good mamma
looks kindly upon me, and my charming
Fanni, does not hate me, if there is any trusting
to the language of the eyes—There is
a brother it seems, to be consulted; But I
imagine, if my goddess and I agree, we shall
neither the one or therother, pay great attention to his L10r 235
his opinion—I do not love to be long in
suspence, and, when I determine to commit
a folly, I like to have it over at once—So
I go this day to Mistress Waverly, to make
my overture in form, for to tell the truth,
I have already secured the fair Fanni, who is
a little afraid the mother may make some objection,
on the account of religion; but I am
much in a mistake, or the idol of her worship
is money; and, if she does not fancy, that
since the revolution, all the lands in France
have agreed not to bear corn, wine, and oil
—I persuade me that I can make out an
account of my estate, which will satisfy all
her scruples about the soul of her daughter,
which assuredly, I shall not lead out of the
path that has been followed by the souls of
her ancestors
, or divert, from any other, it
may like better to follow—My ambition lying
quite in another line—If I bring matters to a
speedy conclusion, I shall be married like a
good Lutheran or Calvinist, or whatever is
orthodox in the British church—and, having
secured my sweet little English woman,
according to her own ritual, shall set forward
immediately for France—This, I suppose,
is the only thing I have done these four
years, that will please Monseigneur le Comte
d’Hauteville
, to whom I mean to announce it
in due form.—He may now flatter himself
that his family will not be utterly extinguished;
but what signifies it, when they will be
under the cruel necessity of being only Messieurs,
and not Mes Seigneurs—My good uncle,
however, lives in hopes of a counter-revolution,
and piously puts up his orisons for an L10v 236
an invasion of his native country by Austrians,
Russians, and Prussians, to restore Frenchmen
to their senses and their seignories—The remedy,
it must be confessed, is somewhat violent.

I pray you, Desmond, to write to me immediately,
and tell me what part of France I
shall find you in. I hope you are made quite
content by the purport of my last letter, as
to the subject of our long and mutual inquietude.
—Nothing but silence and prudence is
wanting now to put an end to all farther pain
upon this affair; and I differ so much from
all the rest of the world in such circumstances,
that, I think, I have done much better than
if I had killed my friend, or been killed myself,
because he was amiable, and my sister
was a woman.—An Epicurean is, at least, a
peaceable animal.—Poor Josephine is quite
well in London; and, by this time, you have
seen Madame Verney in possession of her
charge.—If Boisbelle should have his head
broke, A broken head in England conveys a very different
idea, but “lui casser la tete”—means, in the French idiom, to
shoot a man through the head, or kill him.
as I think it very likely he may, we
might make a double wedding—if, however,
Josephine should alter her mind—Unless that
happens, I hope you will never meet, though
I have no great notion that her convent scheme
will hold long.

I direct this to you by your usual address at
Paris.—I expect an immediate answer—and
your felicitations on my having, at least, taken
a resolution to marry, and become an honest man, L11r 237
man, which you have so often recommended;
I hope I shall not repent it—but I have doubts
about the wisdom of it sometimes.—If my
wife should be ill-tempered, I shall run away
from her—If she should be dull, I shall be
weary of her—fatigued, if she have the folly
to be jealous of me—and if she be very
much a coquette, I shall be jealous of her.—
How many rocks are here, in this perilous
voyage, on which to wreck one’s happiness!
—but never mind!—courage!—I am determined
to venture—My Fanni is a little angel,
and I must have her—There is a good
many chances of being reasonably happy with
her, at least, for three or four years, and that
is as much as any body has a right to expect.
—I find I am unreasonably unhappy without
her, and every time I see her I become
more and more intoxicated with my passion.
How, if our good mamma should refuse her
consent?—I do believe, that if such a
perverse accident should arrive, I have interest
enough with my nymph to persuade her
to trust herself with me without it, and take
our chance for forgiveness afterwards—But
this is unlikely—I shall give the old lady a
carte blanche, and let her name her own trustees
O! Ca ira—Ca ira!

Ever devotedly your’s,
My dear friend,

Jonville De Montfleuri.

Do L11v 238

Do you not think I improve in my English?
—Since I have been acquainted with my Fanni,
I have thrown away my dictionary.
I have undone my letter again, to say to
you, that I have Mrs. Waverly’s full consent,
and am the most happy of men.

Still I have to add—My Fanni has received
the letter you wrote from Paris, the first of
this month, which you sent to that Mr. Bethel,
who is to be her trustee.—This hastens
our marriage.—It is fixed for Sunday; and
we come to France instantly.—I am almost as
uneasy as my dear girl is, who has done nothing
but weep ever since, at the fate of her
sister. Desmond, you have not ever been
quite so ingenuous with me about Mrs. Verney,
as I had, I think, a claim to expect.
We shall go immediately to Meudon, to the
four children who are there; and, surely, by
the time of our arrival, there will be received
some account of what is become of you and
Mrs. Verney; her husband too!—I did not
think any thing could have given me so
much concern.

Let- L12r 239

Letter XXIX.

To Mr. Bethel.

Never, my dear Bethel, did the most
feverish dreams of fiction produce scenes more
painful, or more terrific, than the real events
to which I have been a witness, and in which
I have been an actor, since the date of my
last letter—They are far from being yet
at an end—With anxiety, such as it is impossible
to describe, I await the catastrophe!—
but I owe it to you, to put you, as soon and
as much as I can, out of the suspense and
uneasiness in which my last letter involved
you, though, possibly, it be only to give you
new suspense and new uneasiness—Before this
letter reaches you, however, my fate, must
probably be decided.

I write from the cabin of a Vigneron, at
Salon, near Avignon—How I came hither,
and the extraordinary circumstances that attended
my journey, I will endeavour to collect
my agitated and scattered thoughts enough
to tell you.

As well as I remember, I wrote to you
very hastily from Paris, in consequence of
Mrs. Verney’s sudden departure, who was
then gone forward alone, to attend her husband;
who represented himself wounded and
dying in the neighbourhood of Avignon; but
that you may more clearly comprehend the whole L12v 240
whole of the subsequent narrative, it may,
perhaps, be necessary to tell you how I came
so well acquainted with the situation and sudden
removal of Geraldine.

You have remonstrated with me so often and
so vainly, on my passion for her, that the subject
was sometime since exhausted between us—I
could not, however, so candidly reveal to you
my purpose, as I had, on almost every occasion
of my life, been accustomed to do, for
reasons, with which she had no concern; but
if I did not relate my actions, I attempted not
to put on them any false appearance; and
since I could not tell you the truth, I forbore
to date my letters, and would not mislead you
by misrepresentations; which, had I not abhorred
every kind of deception, might have
been easily done―I must now, however,
relate as much as concerns my own
wanderings―undertaken from a motive
which, however blameable it might appear,
I could not contend with—The event has
shewn that, where the intention is perfectly
pure, it is not always wrong to follow the
dictates of the heart, even when they impel
us to act contrary to the maxims of the world,
and even in defiance of its censure.

Know then, my dear Bethel, that when
you sent me intelligence of the sudden departure
of Geraldine for France—when I heard,
that the persevering infamy of her husband,
and the unfeeling brutality of her mother,
contributed to drive her into the snare from
which I believed, I had seen her secured,
when she quitted Herefordshire—I could not
patiently await the event―I determined
though with anxiety of a very different kind upon M1r 241
upon my mind; to follow her, and to protect
her, if possible, from the wretch, who would
thus basely avail himself of his legal right to
render wretched, this most lovely and
injured woman—Compared with her safety,
every other consideration on earth was insignificant;
yet I was conscious that, were it
known, even by her own family, I had
followed her to France, some part of the inconvenience,
from which it was the wish of
my life to save her, would be incurred; and
that conviction, added to other circumstances,
compelled me to conceal my intentions even
from you.

I sat out for Brighthelmstone the very next
day after I had intelligence of her departure,
and travelling along the coast, I reached that
place late in the evening of the next day.
Geraldine and her family were at the
Old Ship waiting for a wind—I dared not,
therefore, go to that house, which I on other
occasions used to frequent, but I took a private
lodging; and ordered my servants, who
were known, because they have both lived
with me so many years, to keep out of sight.

The wind was so high and so contrary for
three days, that the packet she was going in
could not get out—It was not possible for me
to engage my passage in the same vessel—
Others were on the point of sailing with the
change of the wind; but, as these might wait
for passengers, and I might thus be detained
after her, I chose rather to hire one of the
largest fishing boats, the master of which, for
a certain consideration, was to convey me to
Dieppe, and to sail immediately after the packet.
—The air of mystery I was compelled to Vol. II. M observe, M1v 242
observe, and the high terms I was willing to
give for a conveyance so apparently inferior
to the packets, excited in the fishermen, with
whom I opened my negociation, much surprise
and many conjectures; the most favourable
of which, to me were, that I had
been engaged in a duel, and, from its fatal
consequence, was compelled to make my
escape; or, that I was employed by Government
to carry on some negociation with the
French aristocratic party, and was going to
Paris incog. for fear of the reverdere of the
democracy; yet, I am persuaded, notwithstanding
the credit I obtained for these gentleman-like
motives, that if there had, just at
that time, happened to have been any delinquent
sought for by public justice, who was
supposed likely to attempt escaping to France,
I should have stood a chance of being carried
to Lewes, and committed for further examination.

After thirty-six tedious hours, during which
I never ventured out but of a night, for a
solitary walk along the westward shore, where
there was the least danger of my meeting any
of my acquaintance, (of whom I found the
place was full;) the wind changed, and a
steady gale springing from the north-east, the
packet came out of harbour in the evening
of the second day; and, at seven o’clock in
the evening, I had notice from Warham,
whom I had sent to reconnoitre, that the passengers
were about to embark.

I would have given the world to have dared
assist the beautiful and interesting exile, who
I could only watch at a distance—I buttoned
a horseman’s coat round me, pulled my hat over M2r 243
over my eyes, and in a crowd of French and
English who were bustling around the door of
the ship tavern, to get their baggage down to
the shore, I ventured to pass quite close to the
lovely but melancholy group, for which my
anxious heart was so deeply affected.—I saw
Geraldine pale, languid, and dejected, yet
forcing herself to appear calm and cheerful, in
order to quiet the apprehensions of her English
servant, Peggy, who had never seen the
sea before, and now hung back, afraid of venturing
on an element which she had beheld a
few hours before, black with tempest that
threatened destruction.—The poor girl, who
was weeping bitterly, had the youngest child
in her arms; the old Frenchwoman carried
little Hariet; and the eldest boy was led by
his mother, who endeavoured to quiet his eager
inquiries of what they were going to do?

They proceeded thus down to the sea; I
still remained within hearing, for I observed
that Geraldine was too much absorbed in attention
to her children, to make many observations
on the objects around her; and I believed,
it was impossible for her to know me.
—I saw her, Bethel, with calm resolution
step forward to meet her destiny; for herself
she seemed to suffer nothing, but towards the
sea, which was still high, and the rough
waves breaking at her feet, she seemed to cast
her imploring eyes, and then turned them,
humid with tears, which she yet struggled to
suppress, on her children.—George, who had
been very silent for a moment, now asked,
whether they were all to go on that great
pond?—His mother, in a faultering voice,
replied—“Yes, my love, I hope you M2 are M2v 244
are not afraid?”
“No;” replied the
dear little fellow, “not afraid, Mamma, of
going, if you go—but see how frightened poor
Harriet is, let us not take her if she is so
frightened.”

The little girl, terrified at the noise of the
people, and the rushing of the water, now
reached out her arms to her mother, who
soothed her, as she hid her face in her bosom
—This obliged her to disengage her hand
from George, who alarmed at the privation,
clung to her gown, fixing his expressive eyes
eagerly on her face, and refusing the attention
of your servant, honest Thomas, who
would have taken him up in his arms—Had
a painter been there, who could have been
indifferent enough to the scene to have exercised
his art, he might have made a sketch of
this group that would have spoken most forcibly
to the heart—what then must I have felt, who
was within ten yards of Geraldine, and dared
not speak to her?

The baggage was now stowed, and the
boat ready to put off—I had need of all my
resolution at that moment, and all the consideration
of the ill consequences that might attend
my rashness, to prevent my stepping forward
to take her in my arms to the boat;
but a gigantic son of the ocean, stalked in his
sea boots through the waves like another Polypheme,
and seizing her and her child, which
clung shrieking to her bosom, lifted them into
it; while another, with as little ceremony,
carried off Peggy and the infant she had the
charge of; your good old Thomas took care
of the little boy, whom he placed close to his
mother; the French gentlewoman followed, and M3r 245
and all the passengers being now embarked,
the boat with a furious crash, put off from
the shingles—the spray flashed over it, and I
saw in the pale and dismayed countenance of
Peggy, that she gave herself up for lost.—
Geraldine, I believe, was sensible of nothing
but the terrors of her children, whom she now
collected round her, having the two youngest
of them in her arms and the eldest clinging
to her—I saw her countenance as she hung
over them—and never, never shall I lose the
impression it made on my heart.

The boat now made its way quickly towards
the packet—I sent Warham away to order
my honest fisherman to be ready; and,
while my boat was preparing, I went up to
the high cliffs on the eastern end of the town,
to mark the progress towards the packet, of
that, which contained the being to whom my
heart is devoted.

Had I not before determined to follow her,
I should now have done it; so terrible did
the encreasing distance appear, as leaning
over the cliff, I parodied the speech of Imogen,
and as the boat lessened to my view, I could,
like her, have “Turn’d mine eyes and wept.”
But it was now more to the purpose to hasten
after her; I saw the men were ready. Warham
and John had brought and stowed my
baggage; I went down to the shore and threw
myself into the boat; and desiring the men to
set all the canvas they had, the light vessel
overtook and passed the packet before it was
quite dark, and at four o’clock the next morningning M3v 246
I landed at Dieppe, some hours before
the packet.

I might now, perhaps, without any fear of
subjecting Geraldine to remarks, have appeared;
but I knew so well that though the world
should be silent, she herself would be rendered
uneasy by it, that I checked myself; and
though, on the road, I never was a league
distant from her, she had not the least suspicion
of my being in the same country.

At Paris I took up my abode in another hotel
in the same street, and as she was wholly
given up to her children, and never went out,
it was not difficult to escape being known.—
It was an infinite relief to me to learn, that
Mr. Verney was not at Paris, and that Geraldine
steadily refused to take up her residence
at the hotel of Monsieur de Romagnecourt,
whither he had consigned her―for about
eight days after her arrival, she removed to
Meudon; and thither, though it could not be
done without difficulty, I determined to attend
her.

If your friend, my dear Bethel, had been
so disposed, he could, perhaps, have performed
the Proteus of intrigue, as well as any modern
hero in that line of acting―but, in
this instance, so far was I from meditating to
injure, that my whole purpose was to protect
from injury the object of my tender attachment
—It was, to me, a most flattering and
soothing idea, that I was deputed to watch
over this angelic woman, with the fond affection
of a guardian spirit—I felt myself ennobled
by the charge, and would not have exchanged
by the sublime pleasure it afforded me, for
any less elevated indulgence that the epicurean doctrine M4r 247
doctrine might offer.—I know, that with all
your good sense, and all your right notions of
friendship, you have no more comprehension
of this sort of attachment than of the Rosicrusian
mystery—Not much more, perhaps than
Montfleuri, who ridicules my platonism as a
degree of visionary insanity, and believes nothing
about it—Not much more, thatthan my worthy
uncle, the Major, who has as little idea of
true disinterested love, as he has of patriotism
or charity, or rectitude, or of refraining,
when it comes in his way, from a good dinner.

As it was less easy to be concealed at Meudon
than at Paris; and as I languished for the
pleasure of gazing, unperceived, on that lovely
countenance, I was compelled to take a disguise;
the means of doing so were offered
me by the vicinity of the convent of Capuchins
—I need not relate the manner in
which, by the help of Warham, I contrived
this; it is enough that I succeeded without being
at all suspected, and was frequently within
a few paces of Geraldine and her children
—Every hour encreasing my attachment to
her, for I every hour saw new occasion to admire
the sweetness of her temper, her tender
maternal attention—her mild fortitude, and
the graces which set off these virtues.—Oh!
Bethel! this woman, whose conduct is so irreproachable,
while united to such a man as
Verney, what would she have been if given to
one who felt her value, and endeavoured to
deserve her?—If, contending almost ever
since her marriage with calamity and regret,
she has not only shewn the noblest qualities of
the heart, but has cultivated her understanding,ing, M4v 248
and added every ornament to every virtue;
what would she have been if the watchful
tenderness of unabated love had shielded
her from all inconvenience and evil, and left
to her only the practice of the milder virtues,
and the cultivation of ornamental talents?—
But whither am I wandering—in what dreams
am I indulging myself?—dreams of what
might have been; as if to embitter the sad reflection
of what is; or to irritate the terror
with which my soul recoils from the picture of
what may be.

Yes! my dear friend, at the moment I am
writing, and with apparent composure, this
long narrative, I know not whether the most
miserable destiny is not hanging over me;
and, at all events, I am certain, that Geraldine
must go through as much and as painful
suffering as can be felt by innocence—Guilt
and self-reproach can alone inflict incurable
anguish.

I will, however, since this state of suspence
may, perhaps, last much longer, endeavour
to command myself enough to continue my
narrative.

While I continued at Meudon, I every day,
and sometimes every hour of the day, indulged
myself with the sight of Geraldine—I saw
her morning walks, in pensive meditation,
and heard the sigh which anxiety drew from
her bosom as she turned her lovely eyes to heaven,
to implore its protection for her children;
I watched her as she sought the shade at noon,
when she sometimes tried to beguile her pain,
by playing with them on the grass, or by contemplating
the wonderful structure of the
leaves and flowers, which they gathered and brought M5r 249
brought to her—Sometimes I saw her attempt
to read, but her thoughts seemed to wander
from her book, and her own situation was
too uneasy and uncertain to allow her to attend
to the fictitious distress of novels, or moralize
on the real miseries represented by history
—Her evening walk was always towards
the upper gardens, from whence she descended
a long flight of steps adjoining the chapel of
the old palace, which led to the lower; and
there, after her children were gone to their
repose, I have seen her sit whole hours; sometimes
employed with her pencil, and sometimes
apparently absorbed in thought—and
failing to recollect it was necessary to return
home, till reminded of it by the surrounding
darkness.

Oh! what would I not then have given to
have dared to approach her? what, to have
been sure, that one of those anxiousanxious thoughts
which crowded on her mind, was fraught
with good wishes and good will towards me?
—yet, though in these respects I could not be
satisfied—indeed, Bethel, I enjoyed, during
this period, comparative happiness—I saw
her in present safety, and every hour rendered
less, the probability of her husband’s schemes
being carried into effect; as the return of his
friends to their former oppressive power became
every day less probable—I saw her
health, which had been very much injured by
long solicitude, now visibly amending; for
though that solicitude was far from being at
an end, the comparative repose she enjoyed,
aided by the fine air of this country, had already
a visible and happy effect on her frame
—The pale rose returned to her cheeks; and M5 her M5v 250
her eyes, though they were often filled with
tears, regained their mild lustre—Those lovely
arms which had lost their beautiful embonpoint,
when I saw her at Bridgefoot, were now
“blanc & potelé,” as when they first attracted
my admiration—But plain prose cannot do
justice to her personal beauty; and, I am
afraid, if I run into poetry, you will find (if
you have not found it already) new cause to
doubt of, and to ridicule my professions of
platonism.

Yet, very certain it is, that if I could have
seen her perfectly freed from all her apprehensions
of future difficulties—if I might have
been allowed to converse with her a few hours
every day—have been admitted to a place in
her heart, as her friend and her brother, I
should have been well content, nor ever have
wished (at the expence of disturbing her tranquility)
for any other happiness the world
could afford—So, entirely, do I subscribe to
the opinion of a French moralist, who says,

“Etre avec des gens qu’on aime, cela suffit;
rêver, leur parler, ne leur parler point;
penser à eux, penser à des choses plus indifferent,
mais auprès d’eux; tout est egal.” La Bruyere.

An event, however, happened, that I had long
expected, and which relieved my mind from a
weight of anxiety and pain—It was nothing that
related to Geraldine; but it made my presence
at Paris necessary for some hours—I went thither,
therefore, on the noon of Wednesday;
and on my return, on the following morning,
about twelve o’clock, I repaired, still as a
capuchin, (though I now intended, in a few days, M6r 251
days, to throw off my disguise) to the spot
where, at that hour of the day, I usually saw
Geraldine with her children—Alas! there was
now no Geraldine!—But after waiting about
a quarter of an hour near the spot, I saw the
children approach with their maid, and perceived
that the poor girl was in an agony of
tears sobbing audibly as she vainly attempted
to pacify and appease the dear boy, who was
eagerly insisting on being suffered to go to his
mamma.

The idea that illness or accident had befallen
Geraldine, dissipated, in a moment, all
my resolutions of precaution and concealment;
without even attempting to disguise my voice,
or conceal my features, I spoke hastily to Peggy
“Good God,” said I, “what is the
matter, and where is your mistress;?”

The sudden sight of me, in such a place,
and in such a dress, added to the terror and
confusion of the poor girl, whom I was obliged
to support to a seat, where she fell into a
sort of fit; and I never felt, I think, more
awkwardly and uneasily situated than I did,
for some moments, while I endeavoured to
reason her into some degree of recollection,
and to soothe the eldest boy, who continued
to entreat her to take him to his mother; and
who, at first, shrunk from my melancholy and
uncouth appearance---At length I learned, to
my inexpressible terror, that at two o’clock,
the day before, an express had been sent to
Geraldine by Mr. Bergasse, with a letter,
which he had received from the Hotel de Romagnecourt;
it was from Verney, and related,
that having, with a party of his friends, joined M6v 252
joined the aristocratic side in the disputes existing
at Avignon, he had been wounded in a
skirmish, where many of his friends were killed
—that he lay at a miserable auberge, at the
village of Salon, near two leagues beyond
Avignon, whither he had, with difficulty, escaped
—that de Romagnecourt and Boisbelle
had fled farther, and were gone he knew not
whither—and that thus deserted, in a place
where there was no medical assistance he
entreated her to send him money and some
friend, who might receive his last directions in
regard of his family—He added—“I should
ask you to come yourself, if I did not feel
conscious that I have not deserved your
kind attention; otherwise, it would be the
only consolation I could receive in dying;
or, if I live, you would be entitled to my
everlasting gratitude.”

It was this sentence which determined Geraldine
to set out immediately―listening
to nothing but what she believed to be the
voice of duty, she gave herself no time to
reflect on danger which affected only herself;
and without any other preparation than
putting up a small quantity of linen, giving
orders about her children, and providing
for their subsistence during her absence, she set
out for Paris; and, I believe I related to you,
in my first hurried letter, her departure from
thence, in despite of the remonstrances and
entreaties of Bergasse, who, seeing her so
determined, could do no more than facilitate
and render easy the journey she was resolved
to undertake.

Geraldine, unattended, even by a servant,
had been gone near twenty hours, when I began M7r 253
began my journey—Every body at Paris told
me, that the SouthrenSouthern Provinces were infested
by associations of aristocrats; who encouraged
by the hopes of being speedily restored to
their former situation, by the armies which
were assembling under the exiled princes,
had, en attendant mieux, armed those who
were content still to remain in vassalage
and had fortified their castles, from whence
they sent out parties to attack and destroy all
whose religious or political creed differed
from their own; and that it was supposed
to be under the auspices of these great men,
that many parties of banditti ravaged the
provinces, carrying with them terror and
devastation; miseries which were often imputed
to those who had armed only in defence of
their families and their freedom. Oh! Bethel!
what cruel apprehensions these
accounts raised for the safety of Geraldine
They were, indeed, such as drove me almost
to distraction; but I, though I almost despaired
of overtaking and saving her from the horrors
into which she had rushed from a mistaken
principle of duty; the desire of being serviceable
to her was the only sentiment I could
attend to; and I therefore added to my own
English servants, a Swiss, who was recommended
to me for his honesty and resolution,
and a Frenchman, who had formerly served me
as vallet de place, and of whom I had a very
good opinion—These four men were completely
armed, as I was myself, with two brace
of pistols each, and a couteau de chasse; and
as I surveyed my little troop, I thought, that
if we could once overtake Geraldine, we should be M7v 254
be able, at least to convey her in safety, to the
place of her destination.

Just as I was on the point of departure by
the straight road to Lyons, Bergasse recollected,
that Verney had directed his wife, in
case either she or any friend came to him,
that they might travel through Clermont,
instead of the usual route, because if he was
able to be removed, he hoped he might reach
the chateau d’Hauteville, in Auvergne, where
a great number of his friends had agreed, by
the consent of the Count, to a rendezvous
—In this case, a letter was to be left at the
post-house at Clermont, to inform her of his
being at Hauteville, though this information
served only to strengthen my prepossession
that this was altogether an infamous and
treacherous contrivance to put Geraldine into
the power of the Duc de Romagnecourt, I
determined, at all events, to pursue this
road.—At the chateau d’Hauteville, I thought
I should, at least, have some little interest
on the strength of my friendship with Montfleuri;
and, upon the whole, I considered
this rather as a circumstance in my favour
than otherwise; for though it did not make
me less apprehensive of the danger Geraldine
might incur, it seemed to lend probability to
my hopes of being a protection to her.

I find she has herself, since the present
suspence, dreadful as it is, has given her
leave to look back on the past related to
her sister the circumstances of her journey;
and as Fanny will send you that letter; and
I had rather you would learn what passed from
any hand than from mine; I will only add
to this great packet, an assurance, that if it
leaves you, my friend, in doubt, as to my fate, M8r 255
fate, and that of Geraldine; that uncertainty
must, in a very few days, very few hours
beterminatedbe terminated; and that exquisite happiness,
or irretrievable misery, must be the decided
lot of

Your’s, ever faithfully,


Lionel Desmond.

Let- M8v 256

Letter XXX.

To Miss Waverly.

What scenes, my dear sister, have
passed since I wrote to you last!—In what
a scene do I now write!—When I look back
upon the past, or consider the present, I
sometimes wonder to find myself living, oftener
doubt my existence!—and ask, whether
the sufferings I have lately experienced, are not
the hideous paintings of disease on the disordered
brain of a wretch in a fever?—I am
now, however, for the first time since I left
Meudon, collected enough to attempt giving
you an account of all that has befallen
me.

Perhaps I was rash in plunging into danger,
which, before my departure from Paris,
Monsieur Bergasse forcibly represented to me—
I hardly dare investigate the real motive of
this—for were I to examine too narrowly my
own heart, I might, perhaps, find that right
actions do sometimes arise from wrong feelings.
―Had I loved Mr. Verney, as the
possessor of my first affections—as the father
of my children—in short, as almost any other
man might have been beloved, I should not,
perhaps, have felt so very strongly the impulse
of duty only, and should not have been urged,
by its rigid laws, to incur dangers, against
which, the service of pure affection, though the M9r 257
the strongest of all motives, could hardly fortify
the heart.

Being now, however, but too sensible, that
whatever share of tenderness my young heart
once gave him, he had long since thrown
away; and that duty alone bound me to him,
I determined to fulfil what seemed to be my
destiny—to be a complete martyr to that duty,
and to follow whithersoever it led.

A wretch, who is compelled to tremble on
the brink of a precipice, has often been known
to throw himself headlong from it, and rush
to death rather than endure the dread of it—
This sort of sensation was, I think, what I
felt; and as to my powers of endurance, I
was like a victim, whose limbs being broken
on the wheel, is, awhile, released from it,
that he may acquire strength to bear accumulated
tortures—The short respite I had felt at
Meudon, after all my apprehensions on setting
out for Paris, had just this effect---my
spirits had acquired energy enough to enable
me to suffer, without sinking entirely under
them, the horrors that overtook me.

Hardly knowing what I did, and impressed
only with the predominant idea, that I ought,
at all hazards, to attend my husband, that I
might contribute to his recovery, or receive
his dying injunctions, I left Paris, by the
road he had directed, without even a servant,
and taking with me only a small packet of linen,
and money enough for my journey---I
travelled in a state of mind, I cannot describe,
during the first day, and would have continued
to pursue my route during the following
night, if my desolate and helpless appearance had M9v 258
had not encouraged the resistance of the people
at the post-houses and the postillions---I had
no means of enforcing my wishes; and was
under the necessity of submitting to remain in
a miserable post-house, at a village called La
Briare
, where I arrived at night-fall—There
were, however, women in the house of decent
appearance; they seemed desirous of contributing,
as well as they could, to my repose—
I obtained, from excessive fatigue, a few
hours sleep and by day-break, the next morning,
I proceeded on my way, sustained by a
sort of desperate resolution which I had never
before felt.

The second and third day passed nearly as
the first---I travelled as far as I could find people
willing to convey me, and then, in any
house that would give me a shelter, lay down
in my clothes.

On the fourth, they told me I was in Auvergne;
and, towards evening, I stopped at
a solitary post-house, situated on the edge of an
extensive forest, and in a country, where,
hardly any traces of civilization appeared—
The people who came out, upon my asking
for horses, had a wild and savage appearance
—A tall, swarthy, meagre figure, presented
himself at the door of my carriage, and told
me he was the post-master—I begged of him
to let me have horses to go on towards Clermont
—he told me he had none---that a
company of banditti, whom, in the present
state of the police, justice had not been able
to disperse, had been, for many days, ravaging
the country, and had taken from him all
his horses—Then it was that, for the first
time during this melancholy journey, I was sensible M10r 259
sensible of fear―I looked round me,
and saw only faces which seemed to me to
belong to the banditti the man described; and
his own had, beyond any I ever saw, the terrific
look which Salvator gives to his assassins—
The country around was more dreary than
the wildest heath in England—It was a wide
uncultivated plain, surrounded with woods,
which seemed to be endless—I knew not,
whether to prefer venturing into them, or
remain at the gloomy and miserable habitation
before me.—Any debate however, on this
point, was soon put an end to, by the declaration
of the postillion who had brought me
hither, that he could go no farther.

I now certainly felt, in all its force, the
horrors of my situation, and fancy even augmented
them—There was, I thought, a sort
of savage pleasure on the countenance of the
man who called himself the post-master, as he
opened the door of the chaise—I entered
trembling, and hardly able to support myself,
into a kind of kitchen, which seemed to serve
for every purpose, to the groupe of hideous figures
that were assembled in it—If I had before
shuddered, at the looks of the men, who
surrounded my chaise, those of three women,
who now crowded about me, gave me infinitely
more alarm; I know not how, under
the immediate impression I felt, I was able to
make such observations; but the elder of them
struck me, as being an exact representation
of Horace’s Canidia—The two others were
younger, and more rebust, equally hideous
however, and more masculine—They spoke to
each other, as they examined my dress, in a
language of which I understood only a few words, M10v 260
words, repeating often the word, Anglaise!
with an air of derision.—A fire of vine stalks
and turf was made in the chimney of the room,
which was floored only with earth, or rather
with mud—and never will the circle, that
gathered round it, be erased from my recollection
—The blaze of the fire, threw catching
lights upon their harsh features; and, as all
their eyes were fixed on me, I fancied myself
surrounded by dæmons.----My imagination
flew back to my children; it represented my
lovely cherubs calmly sleeping, unconscious
of the situation of their unhappy mother; who
was now, I thought, torn from them for ever
---Their poor father too, occurred to me---
dying, perhaps, in a place equally wretched;
among people equally savage.---That I had put
myself into the present danger from a motive
of duty to him, was the only consideration that
supported me---What would have been my reflections
if the pursuit of any guilty attachment
had led me hither?

Though I did not entirely understand the
patois in which these rude people conversed,
I yet heard enough to make me comprehend
they were waiting for some-body; they
looked frequently at me, and repeated,
“cette Angloise,” and “nos Messieurs.”—The
women sometimes laughed immoderately, and
sometimes one of them went to the door,
as if to look for the arrival of the people they
expected—this scene lasted above an hour.
—One of the women began to prepare supper
—a coarse cloth, disgustingly dirty, was
spread on a board that reached the whole
length of the kitchen—The pot au feu was
brought forward to receive a supply of leeks; a large M11r 261
a large dish of onions and garlic was heated;
with something they called beef; and all this
was, I learned from their conversation, for
les Messieurs, whose arrival they awaited.

I felt myself sinking fast under the horrible
apprehension, that these expected guests were
the banditti of whom I had been told, and
that this was an house of rendezvous.---The
dreadful stories of murders and assassinations
that I had heard, or read of, now crowded on
my imagination---I found it would soon be
impossible to support myself, and a state of insensibility,
at such a period, might subject me to
the most hideous insults.---I begged one of the
women to give me a little wine—she brought
some, which I drank; and, on her request for
money, I took out a parcel of assignats I had
in my pocket—She immediately seized them,
and carried them to one of the men, who
looked at them by the fire light, then turned
towards me his hideous countenance, and
grinning horribly, nodded to me, and thrust
them all into his pocket.

This seemed as if it would have been the
signal to plunder me, if some other project had
not been in agitation---I have since been amazed
how I retained my senses and recollection
under such circumstances of horror! which
had now, indeed continued till my aggravated
apprehensions were arisen to a height it was
impossible long to endure.

But now the feet of several horses were heard
upon the pave—An exclamation from the people
within the house—“Eh! voila donc nos,
Messieurs!”
left me no doubt that these were
the troop of ruffians who scoured the country
for prey—They seemed, however, to be in con- M11v 262
contention, for voices were heard very loud, and
three pistols went off very quickly.—My ears
were then invaded by dreadful groans, as of a
person killed; groans so loud, that they were
distinguishable amidst the clamour of several
harsh voices, which was now increased by the
hallooing of the men, and the shrieks of two of
the women who had gone out from the hovel;
where I sat in a state I have not language to
describe; the beldam alone remaining with
me, who fixed her terrible eyes upon me, and
approached me in an attitude as if she were
about to strike me, with a long knife, which
she had been using over the fire—I arose to
avoid her, when a figure, covered with blood,
rushed into the room, staggered towards the
chimney, and fell at my feet; at the same instant,
a very loud voice cried in English----
“Sir! Sir! Mr. Desmond! for God sake!
Mr. Desmond!”
—My senses then forsook
me.

When I recovered them it was yet dark;
by the single candle, on a table near, I found
myself on a sort of bed in a wretched room;
around which, as I cast my eyes, all the terrors
I had passed through rushed upon my recollection.
was a rug hung up on one
side the bed, which concealed some person behind
it; an impulse of fear made me put it
hastily aside---and I saw, not the hag who had
apparently attempted my life; not one of the
ruffians from whom I had dreaded greater horrors,
but Desmond himself.—“Thank God!”
cried he, she lives!”—Oh! Fanny, the
sound of that voice, those words, the suddenness
of beholding such a friend protecting me
—It is possible?---Ah! no, it is not; to convey, M12r 263
convey, by language, any idea of my sensation
at that moment—I have, indeed, no very
clear recollection of them myself, for in a short
time my faintness returned---I only remember
that I gave both my hands into those of Desmond,
who hung over me; and telling him I
was dying, recommended my children to him
---bade him carry them to England, to put
them under your care—blessed him for his
friendship—and then closed my eyes, in the
persuasion that I should open them no more.

Again, however, the tender attention of
this inestimable friend restored me to life;
when I became sensible the second time,
he was on the other side of the bed, bathing
my temples with brandy, and chaffing
my hands; behind him stood an Englishman,
whom I knew to be his servant, and
whose appearance, the moment I recovered
myself enough to remark it, struck me
with new fear---His cheek was cut across,
and his cloths stained with blood; he
held under one arm a case of pistols, and
a hanger was slung to the wrist of the other.
On a table, close to the head of the bed,
lay another case of pistols, and Desmond
had put a broad sword on the bed.----I
turned my enquiring looks on him---he
did not seem to be wounded, but his whole
appearance indicated that something very
extraordinary had happened---he was pale,
his eyseyes were swoln as with extreme fatigue;
and, I observed, that he cast them
eagerly towards the door of the room, and
listened anxiously to every noise.

When he saw me again sensible, he besought
me to swallow some wine which he offered M12v 264
offered me---I obeyed in silence; for I was
not, at that moment, able to speak.---I found
however my strength and recollection returning;
and, at length I asked him the meaning
of all I saw.

“Will you, dearest Mrs. Verney?” said
he, “will you only oblige me so far as not
to ask till you are in a place of safety?”
---
“Am I not safe,” cried I, “any where
with you?”
---“You should be,” answered
he, “if my arm, or those of my servants
could serve you—if we were sure of being
able to protect you against numbers, our
lives would be held well sacrificed in the attempt:
but the men with whom we engaged
last night at the door of this cottage, little
knowing the dear invaluable life it contained
are free-booters; men, who having been
armed by the resisting aristocracy against the
liberties of the country, have thrown off their
allegiance to their employers, and now prey
upon its property.---In reaching this post-house
we met a party of eight of them, who immediately
attacked us; we disarmed and
wounded two—I hope not to death---The
other six, after a faint attempt to revenge
their comrades, in which I am afraid a
third was desperately wounded, fled to
the woods; and we easily repelled the endeavours
of the people here, who are their
associates, to assist them---The sudden sight
of you, to all appearance dead, put every
thing out of my head but the necessity of
securing these people; which, with my small
party I could not so effectually do, but that
one of the men is escaped, who, together
with the wretches who attacked us, will most N1r 265
most certainly return hither; and though
in such a cause it is, I think, no boast to say,
I feel myself an host; yet I own I dread worse
ten thousand times worse than death, the
consequences to you, if superior numbers
should render my endeavours to guard you,
fruitless”

Oh! Fanny! what images of distracting
terror did this set before me?---The
most dreadful of them was, that of Desmond
sacrificing his life to save me.---I
was no longer sensible of that weakness
which, a moment before, lay heavy on
me like the hand of death; but starting up
I excalimedexclaimed---“Oh! Desmond! for God’s
sake let us go! I am able to go in any
manner, indeed I am---only do not leave
me, and my strength will not fail me
whatever it may be necessary for me to undertake.”

“Do you then think,” said he, “you
could be removed in the chaise?”
---I hurried
from the bed, protesting I could.---
He then told me he had three servants
below—one of whom, on his calling aloud,
came up---He bade him instantly harness
to the chaise whatever horses he could find
He did so; and in a few moment I was,
I know not how, seated in it with Desmond;
who, I Believe had, with the aid of one
of his servants, lifted me down the ladder
which led to the lower room; for I recollect
that on attempting to descend, my strength
and spirits again wholly failed me.

One of Desmond’s servants, a Swiss, was
mounted as postillion; two English and a
French servant rode by its side; and Desmond
himself was in the chaise, only preventing Vol. II. N my N1v 266
my falling to the bottom by supporting me
in his arms.—With my returning senses,
however, the consciousness returned of
the exertion I ought to make that so much
friendship might not be rendered abortive;
and that I might not, by being needlessly
burthensome to him, endanger his life—
I struggled then against the sick languor which
had been occasioned by the dreadful scene
I had passed—and again inquired, “to
what fortunate circumstance I owed the protection
he had afforded me.”

“Stay,” answered he, “my dear friend,
stay till you see whether that protection has
been effectual!—Let it not now dwell upon
your spirits, when they may be required for
greater exertions”
“You apprehend
danger then?”
inquired I.—“Less and
less,”
replied he, “every step we advance;
but still, perhaps, there is some—My servants,
however, are well armed and resolute
and if the worst should happen”

I dared not ask what—what if the worst
should happen?—I cast my eyes around—
the dawn just afforded light enough to shew,
that we were travelling across an extensive
plain, towards the woods that on all sides
surrounded it—Into these woods we entered
Desmond looking anxiously from
the windows, and directing the driver which
road to take—“Whither do we go?”
said I, “and is there not danger of meeting
these dreadful men again?”

“There certainly is,” answered he—
“but the danger would have been greater
to have remained where we were—It is
now possible we may escape them, and reach N2r 267
reach the little village of Aiqueperce, which
I know is within a league of these woods,
and not above six from the château d’Hauteville.

“It is thither,” said I, “that Mr.
Verney
thought it possible he might be well
enough to remove—”

“And yet,” interrupted Desmond, “it
is a very long journey from the neighbourhood
of Avignon, where his letter is dated,
to the house of Monsieur D’Hauteville.”

I cannot, my Fanny, relate all the conversation
which was held by fits and starts
Desmond rather declining it, and trying
rather to sooth my inquiries, than to satisfy
them—While the more I reflected on his arrival
at such a place, and at such a time,
the more wonderful appeared the intervention
of providence in my favour.

I saw that Desmond had some strange
suspicions on his mind which were raised
by the directions I had received from Mr.
Verney
, to take such, and so dangerous
a circuit to reach Avignon, when the most
obvious way was by Lyons—and I felt,
too cruelly felt, that Mr. Verney’s former
conduct too well justified those suspicions.—
Present terror, in some measure deprived me
of reflection, or it must have struck me as
strange that if Desmond apprehended any
danger at Hauteville he should rather bend
his course thither than towards Clermont,
which he told me was a large town, not much
farther distant.

We travelled on through the woods for
some miles; it was one of those cold, damp,
gloomy mornings, which impresses a dreary N2 idea N2v 268
idea that the sun has forsaken the world.
—The wind sighed hollow among the
half stripped trees; and the leaves slowly
fell from the boughs, heavy from rain—The
road, rough, and hardly passable, seemed
leading us to the dark abode of desolation
and despair; yet, when I saw, as I reclined
my head against the side of the chaise, that
Desmond was with me—as I found his arm
sometimes supporting me—and heard his voice
speaking of hope and comfort, I found that
all local evils were unheeded; and that nothing
had power to produce again the stupor
from which I had so lately recovered, but
the dread of seeing his life in danger—My
sister! if such a sentiment should be deemed
culpable in a married woman, let the circumstances,
under which it was felt, be
at least considered before she is condemned.

At last we emerged from the fearful solitude
and approached a lone village, which Desmond
believed to be Aiqueperce; it was not that,
however, but another, a league from it—
But as the people seemed inoffensive and hospitable,
he determined to stop there for such
refreshment as it afforded---He would have persuaded
me to have gone to bed for some hours,
assuring me that he would become a sentinel
without the door of my room, to guard
against every alarm—but, besides that, I
should have found it impossible to obtain any
repose, I thought it better not to loose a moment
in pursuing our journey, and getting
as far as possible from the part of the country
which was described as being infested with
banditti—We were yet above seven leagues
from Hauteville; the greater part of our route N3r 269
route lay, according to the account of the
villagers, through a country as dreary in
itself, and as dangerous from the parties of
unlicensed free booters that frequented it,
as that we had already passed––After a
slight refreshment, therefore, we hastened
on; meeting, indeed, with no impediments
but those of dreadful roads.––The horses were
quite tired; and though we again stopped
to give them food and rest for above two hours,
they were so exhausted, that it was with the
utmost difficulty, and only in a foot pace,
that they crossed the great and wild plain
which, as Desmond told me, lay before the
avenue to the castle of Hauteville; but it
was now dark, and I could discern nothing
---My spirits were quite worn out, and my
heart sunk in utter despondence; never indeed
could be imagined a situation so strange as
mine.---I was going, I hardly knew with
what hope, to a place where Desmond, while
he conducted me thither, seemed to apprehend
that dangers and distresses, of which, however,
he evaded explaining the nature, awaited
me; but he agreed with me in thinking,
that as I had there a probability of being
informed of the situation of Mr. Verney, I
acted right in going––He sighed deeply as he
assented to my reasons, and generally concluded
the short conversations, which were
frequently renewed on this subject, with
saying---“At least, while you will allow me
the honour of remaining with you, I will
defend you with my life.”

At length a distant and faint light, glimmering
through the trees, told us we were
very near the castle; as we approached it the light N3v 270
light disappeared—and the night was so dark,
that the Swiss who drove us, could no longer
discern whither he was going.—On a sudden,
one of the three horses fell into what appeared to
be a deep fossé; the harness of ropes fortunately
gave way, or the chaise must have been
dragged after him—the other horses, however,
though down, were disengaged from
this, by the breaking of the tackle; and Desmond,
leaping from the chaise, snatched me
out—and having seen me safe on the ground,
advanced with the other three men to the assistance
of the postillion.

I was unable to stand—I staggered to a tree
against which I leaned, so overcome with fatigue
and terror, that I feared my senses would
again forsake me.—Desmond having disengaged
the remaining horses from the chaise,
and sent the French servant forward to try
to obtain a light, that the other poor animal
might be relieved, came to me; but he was
obliged to find me by my voice, for it was
impossible to see even the nearest objects.—
“Good God! how cold you are—how you
tremble!”
cried he, as he took my hand—
“are you able, no surely you are not, to
walk forward?---and yet, perhaps, if you are,
it will be unsafe to venture.––Since I was here
last, some rude kind of fortification seems to
have been made---There was no ditch around
the castle before---and I know no longer how
to guide you safely”
—I was unable to answer
him––He was terrified at my silence; and
supposing me again in the situation in which
he had so lately seen me, he called aloud for
lights and for assistance.—One of the servants
came up to him; two of the others were by this N4r 271
this time gone to endeavour to obtain admittance
into the castle, and the fourth remained
with the horses.

The anguish that Desmond seemed to feel
for me, roused me from the state into which
I had fallen—I assured him I was able to walk
on; and he supported me, as step by step,
his servant Warham going first; we endeavoured
to find, or rather to feel our way towards
the house.

Every way, however, in front, where Desmond
said there was formerly only a rail, a
deep fossé intercepted our passage.---The heavy
clouds which had occasioned darkness so total,
were now driven away by the sudden
rising of the wind; and we could just discern
the château before us----and attempt to cross
the ditch in some other place by going round
it.

When I reflected whither I was going, and
to what purpose Desmond was, on my account,
incurring so much fatigue and so much
hazard, I cannot describe the emotions that
arose in my mind; nor do I know how I
found strength to traverse this melancholy
place, still finding it inaccessable.---Desmond
now hallooed in hopes his own servants would
hear and answer him; after near a quarter
of an hour, one of them came towards us,
but still on the other side of the fossé; he said
that he had fallen into it in endeavouring to
find his way to the house, and that it was
half full of water, but that he had scrambled
up on the other side, and found one of the
entrances to the castle, where he had knocked
and called in vain for some time; that he had
then attempted to force the door, which seemed,ed, N4v 272
by some accident, to be incompletely
fastened; that he had entered a great hall
where the embers were yet a light on the
hearth, but that he could make no one hear,
and was afraid of going any farther.

Desmond now enquired where he could pass
the fossé, and bade his servant walk round it,
as there must somewhere be a bridge---Within
a few paces a slight draw bridge was found,
which the man easily let down---We passed
it; and he led us to the door by which he had
himself entered.

Never was so dismal a place so long and
eagerly sought for.---The faint embers served
just to shew that it was a large and high vaulted
room; but as my clothes were wet through,
for it had rained, at intervals, the whole evening,
Desmond was so glad to find a fire, that
he seemed, in his eagerness for my immediate
relief, regardless of all that did not tend to
that object.---By this time the English groom,
who had also been sent to the château, had
found the same door; and after having helped
to make up the fire, and light a candle, he
went out with Warham, to assist the Swiss,
who remained with the horses, and to shew
him the way over the draw-bridge; the
Frenchman only remaining with us.

I now saw, in the countenance of Desmond,
an expression of doubt and uneasiness, which
alarmed me more than any fears he could
openly have expressed—I endeavoured
first to convince him that I was less incommoded
by my wet clothes than he seemed to
apprehend; and then to inquire what he
thought of our situation.––“The people you
expected to find,”
said I, “the people whom my N5r 273
my letter gave me reason to suppose might be
here, are certainly not here”
“God knows,”
replied he, “perhaps these men have fallen
into the snare they have laid for others––The
desperados, whom they have armed against
their country, have, perhaps, turned those
arms against themselves—The ruffians have,
possibly, driven out the owner of this castle,
or his friends, for I do not believe he has
been lately here himself; and it may be in
possession of some such wretches as those we
have escaped from---It is better, however, to
know at once.”

“You will not leave me?” said I, terrified
at the idea of his going on this search––
“Never,” replied he, “but with my life;
but, when the other men arrive, we will,
some of us, go round the rooms of the castle
---That there are inhabitants, the light we
saw in the windows, and unextinguished embers
of fire, ascertains; that there has existed
some necessity for defence, the works around
the house, which were certainly not here before,
leaves no manner of doubt. What Mr.
Verney
said to you, is evidence enough that
here the aristocratic party of these provinces
had a rendezvous; yet, if it were still assembled
here, it is improbable the members of it
should be so little on their guard, or that the
noise we have made should not have alarmed
them.

From this conversation I discovered, that
Desmond apprehended the place we were in,
was in the possession of ruffians and banditti
---a circumstance infinitely more terrific than
any other that could be imagined---I observed
that he listened to every noise---kept his pistols N5 in N5v 274
in his hand, and inquired solicitously of the
French servant whether his fire-arms were
properly charged?---I do not believe that a
quarter of an hour was ever passed in a more
uneasy state; for so long it was before the
other three men came to us---When they arrived,
Desmond questioned them whether they
had seen any signs of inhabitants while they
remained within view of the whole front of
the castle—they answered none.

Desmond then told them, he wished to inquire,
beby some persons going round the rooms,
whether there were any women who could
prepare a bed for me; but none of them
knew the way---and none of them seemed
very desirous of undertaking the exploit without
him––while I was as resolutely determined
not to remain behind, if he went---On surveying
the room where we were, it appeared
to be a sort of servants hall---Every thing in
it was dirty and in disorder---The piece of
candle which one of the men had found, was
nearly extinguished, and we saw no means
of renewing the light when it was burnt out
---My fears were so much greater of the people
that Desmond seemed to apprehend were
within the house, than of any fatigue I could
encounter without it, that I could, most willingly,
have left it without any farther inquiry;
but, besides that, the horses were incapable
of going farther, he, probably, knew
that our escape was impossible---for that, if
such were the inhabitants of the château d’Hauteville,
detached parties of them were in the
woods, with whom we should infallibly meet.
—I saw, with dreadful alarm, the debate
he held with himself, what it would be best to do N6r 275
do―At length he determined to see who
was in the house; and, securing the door by
which we had entered, he determined that we
should all go on this inquiry.

He directed Warham to go first with the
candle—I trembled like an aspin leaf, as
he took my arm within his, to lead me
along—the other three servants followed—
“Be not so alarmed,” said he, as we crossed
a long stone passage, “there are five of us;
and, I think, any nearly equal number must
be fortunate if they gain any advantage.”

We now entered a dark and gothic hall—
Warham stumbled over something, he stooped
and took it up; it was one of those caps to
travel in of a night, used sometimes in England,
but oftener in France; a bullet had
pierced it, and it was on one side covered
with blood—Warham, with a countenance
where terror was strongly marked, shewed it
to his master—I felt that he grasped my arm
closer within his, but betrayed no other signs
of fear, and calmly bade Warham go on.

We ascended the stairs, and came to a corridor;
in one of the rooms opening into it,
Desmond told me he had formerly slept—The
corridor was long, and several rooms adjoined
to it—Desmond thought he heard a sound
—he bade us listen!—What a pause of horror!
―We distinctly heard the loud
breathing of some person or persons—“We
will know,”
said Desmond, “at all events,
who they are.”

You know that, in France, it is impossible
to open a door, from without, but with the
key—Desmond, therefore, did not hesitate,
having once taken his resolution, but, with a violent N6v 276
violent blow against the door, he aroused the
person who slept in the room—A loud, masculine
voice inquired what he wanted, and he
bade him instantly open the door.

I shrunk back with dread—for, in a moment,
a hideous figure appeared at it, who
asked, why such haste, and whether they had
brought any prisoners?—This sufficiently convinced
me that Desmond’s conjectures were true;
and I know not how I sustained my trembling
limbs, while Desmond, without giving the
man time for recollection, disengaged himself
from me, and sprung upon him like a lion—
“Villain!” said he, “what prisoners!—
Your life is at my mercy—Tell me instantly
—Where is the Count d’Hauteville? and in
whose possession is his house.

The man appeared to me to be twice as
tall and athletic as Desmond; but guilt and
fear are inseparable―He either was incapable
of making, or feared to make any resistance,
but called for mercy with the most
abject supplications—Desmond told him it
would be granted, on condition of his immediately
informing him by what authority he
was in that house—who was there with him—
and to whom he belonged.

The man said that he was one of a troop
armed for the defence of the castle, by the order
of the Count d’Hauteville, who was, himself,
gone to Italy—That other noblemen,
friends to the cause, had fortified it against
the municipal guard, to whom they were determined
never to submit—That these noblemen
had, within a few days, left the place;
and that the vassals they had left behind, had
continued, by their orders, in the castle, from whence N7r 277
whence they had, occasionally, made excursions
against the national guard.

“And against travellers,” said Desmond
vehemently interrupting him, “whom you
have robbed and murdered—Is it not so?”

The man denied their having murdered any
one, but owned, that they thought themselves
justified in plundering the partizans of democracy,
who were endeavouring to plunder the
noble persons, by whom they were employed
and paid.—The eyes of Desmond flashed fire
at this information—“Tell me instantly,”
cried he, “what number of men there is in
the house?”
“Only myself,” answered he,
“and one more, with some women that belong
to us—The rest of our gentlemen are out,
and when you came, I believed it to be them.”

“And how many are there of these
‘gentlemen’ out marauding.”
“There are
eight.”

Desmond, with admirable presence of mind,
sent two of the men to secure the companion
to this worthy person, who was, he said, in
the next room—Both these ruffians had been
so intoxicated the preceding evening, that they
were, perhaps, incapable of resistance—They
made none—Desmond’s servants conveyed
them to a room in the most ancient part of
the castle, which was, when the feudal system
was in all its force, a place of confinement
for the wretched vassals, over whom those barbarous
customs gave the seigneur the power
of life and death—It was still strongly secured;
for the privilege, though not so often exerted,
had never been given up—While these men
were securing in one part of this building,
Desmond, with his trembling companion still hanging N7v 278
hanging on his arm, went with the other men
and drew up the bridge, thus preventing the
entrance of the eight ruffians, who it was
likely would immediately return.—Four women
were now assembled in extreme terror---
Desmond assured them that he waged no war
against them, but that he must insist upon their
not attempting to give any intelligence to the
persons without, and upon their furnishing me
with assistance and refreshment.

He then, as we seemed to be now in a tolerable
state of security, would have had me
take some repose, for he saw that I was hardly
able to support myself; this, however, I refused;
for I knew that to attempt sleeping in
such circumstances would be to no purpose.---
As one of his servants had found his way across
the fossé, of the depth of which he was ignorant,
the men who were out for the purposes
of robbery, were certainly able to cross
it.—I saw still the possibility, nay the probability
of danger to him, and of such scenes as
my soul sickened at; the cap which Warham
had picked up now lay on a great table in the
room to which we had returned—and the idea
that the murdered body of some unhappy person
to whom it belonged, might be concealed
in the house, made me shudder as I surveyed
it.—Suddenly the supposition that it was, perhaps,
Verney himself, occurred to me.—
Gracious heaven! what horror accompanied
that thought!—Involuntarily I caught the
hand of Desmond, who sat anxiously watching
my countenance—He inquired eagerly
what was the matter.—“Oh! Desmond!”
said I, hardly, indeed, conscious of what I
said—“Verney is here, I am persuaded he is; N8r 279
is; he came hither by appointment of his perfidious
friends—they were called away before
his arrival, and these their retainers have destroyed
him.”

He endeavoured to argue me out of a supposition
which he saw shook my whole frame.
“If you have any impression of this sort,”
said he, “I will interrogate the men below;
I will myself search the whole house.”
“Oh!
no, no,”
replied I—send your servant to do
this, but for heaven’s sake do not yourself leave
me!”

Warham was then sent with the Swiss round
the house; there was no appearance of any
person concealed in it, either dead or alive.
—The men who were in confinement below,
protested that the cap belonged to one of their
own people, who had been fired at in retreating
before a party of the national horse, and
wounded in the cheek—On this assurance I
became easier; but as I still persisted in refusing
to go to any bed above stairs, Desmond
desired the women to bring down one and
lay on the floor of the room where we were;
they did so, and he prevailed upon me to lie
down, the mere change of posture after so
many hours of fatigue and terror, was extremely
refreshing.—He had before made me
eat of some provisions the women produced,
and drink some warm wine.—He now assured
me his men were so placed that the people
from whom we aprehended danger could not
surprise us.—“We are,” said he, “five men,
resolute and well armed; we have heaven on
our side; we have your safety to contend for
—and can you imagine that we should be easily
conquered?”

“Oh! N8v 280

“Oh! no,” replied I, “I do not imagine
it; but the terror of such a scene!---to shed
blood even of the misguided wretches whom
we fear is so horrible!---Your danger---danger
for me too!”
---Tears, the first I had been
able to shed for many days, now burst from
my eyes; I found myself greatly relieved by
them---and since I saw how much he wished
me to attempt it, I endeavoured, while he
sat by me, to rest.––I even fell into a kind of
half slumber, from which I started in terror,
fancying I heard fire-arms, and saw the horrid
visages of the ruffians, but I found Desmond
only by me, assuring me that all was
perfectly safe and quiet, and I sunk once
more into something like sleep---and when I
again recovered my recollection, it was morning
was the light of day more welcome
––for it shewed me Desmond, my generous
protector in safety; and I saw his countenance
lighten with friendly pleasure, when
he found me so much restored.---The women,
by this time convinced that we meant nothing
hostile to them, or even to the men who had
been in possession of the house, if we were
not molested, were now in hopes that we
should quietly depart; they were assiduous,
therefore, in assisting me––My clothes, about
which I had never thought, were inquired for
in the chaise, and the small portmanteau I
had was produced untouched-----Desmond
waited without the door, while I, with the
assistance of the women, changed my clothes
---A very few moments, you may believe,
sufficed me; for I found he was now impatient
to pursue the plan which he had settled for
me, which was to go on, notwithstanding all passed N9r 281
passed dangers, to the village where Verney
had informed me he was, though this journey
was above seventy leagues.---Every consideration
of prudence and safety urged our immediate
departure; the men were sufficiently refreshed,
and the horses able to proceed, all but
the poor animal which had fallen into the
fossé---which was so much injured, that Desmond
in mercy ordered it to be shot, and it
was replaced by that which he had rode himself
which one of the men had led.

Before seven in the morning we left this
dismal abode; it was three leagues to Clermont
—but we arrived there without meeting
the party we had so much reason to apprehend,
and I once more saw my invaluable
friend in safety, after all the perils he had, on
my account, hazarded; and here I agreed
to take some hours repose, on condition that
he would in the mean time, attend to himself.

Early on the following morning we proceeded,
Desmond having hired two men with
fire-arms to accompany us; which made the
party, he thought, so strong as to preclude
any apprehensions from the troops of marauders,
of which we were still told.—He went
himself to the municipality at Clermont, and
informed them of the situation of the château
D’Hautville
; where it is probable the two
prisoners were released by their female friends,
as soon as we had left them.

I will not my dear sister, speak of any circumstances
of our five days journey from Clermont
to Lyons, and from thence to this place
---We met with nothing worth relating after
such scenes as I have just described; but the conversa- N9v 282
conversation I had with Desmond I will repeat
as ingenuously to you, Fanny, as I repeat
it involuntarily to my own heart.

Conscious as I am of the ties I am bound
by, and shrinking from every idea of their
violation, I will now own to you, that I have
long been unable to conceal from myself,
Desmond’s regard for me, though he never
avowed it; but, on the contrary, has entrusted
me with connexions he has formed,
that were wholly incompatible with such an
attachment, if he ever meant to acknowedge
it––I am, however, persuaded he never
did; and only the singular circumstances of
my destiny have made my affected ignorance
difficult, and, at length, impossible to be
supported.

Fanny---though I certainly should have preferred
Desmond to every other man in the
world, had it been my fortune to have been
acquainted with him before I became irrevocably
another’s---though I have received from
him the most extraordinary instances of generous
friendship---though he has more than once hazarded
his life for me––and once—Oh! how
lately, and how wonderfully, rescued me from
death!—perhaps, from worse than death!--Yet,
believe me, when I declare to you, that never
have I even in thought, transgressed the bounds
of that duty, which though it was imposed on
me when I was not a competent judge of the
engagement I entered into, I feel to be equally
binding, and whether my unhappy Verney
lives or dies, I have the comfort of
knowing, that towards him, my conduct
has been irreproachable---I break my melancholycholy N10r 283
narrative to say this, because I owe it
to truth, I owe it to myself---Indulge me then
with yet a word on this delicate and painful
subject, because I may, perhaps, speak upon
it now for the last time.

I learned then in our conversation which
became less interrupted and confused, after
we left Clermont, that Desmond had never
lost sight of me after I quitted England; that
he had followed me to Paris, and lived in disguise
at Meudon—that a circumstance of
a very peculiar nature had obliged him to go
to Paris the day I so suddenly received a summons
to attend Mr. Verney; but that on
his return, finding me gone, and learning,
by Mr. Bergasse, by what route, he had pursued
me, and but for an accident that happened
on the road, he would have overtaken
me long before that dreadful night, when he
most providentially delivered me from a situation
so very terrible, that, in reflecting on it,
I sicken with the terror it yet impresses—
When all this my Fanny, was added to the recollection
of the circumstances that happened
at Bridge-foot, and some (which though I never
thought them of much consequence, it
was not in my power to obliterate from my
mind) that happened much earlier in our acquaintance,
it would have been falsehood or
affectation, had I pretended to have been ignorant
that Desmond’s attachment to me was
not a common one; but while all its consequences
had been to me only good; while
he preserved for me the most inviolate respect,
and even promoted my executing towards
Verney, what he knew to be my duty, it N10v 284
it would have been folly and ingratitude, had
I affected resentment which certainly I did
not feel.

Still I am aware that my situation was very
strange and very improper, travelling under
the protection of a man, whom I knew
felt for me a regard which I ought not to encourage,
and dared not return—So much
obliged to him—esteeming him beyond any
other human being; every step I took, being
conscious, that I owed to him that I existed;
and all this, while I knew not but that my unfortunate
husband was dying, or possibly,
dead—Alas! I am not a stoic---perhaps my
heart is but too susceptible of gratitude and
tenderness.---How ill my early affections had
been replaced, you know but too well!—
But when my husband disdained them, they
found refuge with my children and with my
sister––Ah! Fanny! but for these resources,
should I have been less culpable than so many
other young women have been, who have
been as unhappily married?—and should I
now have possessed what softens the misery of
my destiny?—the consciousness of not having
deserved it.

Let me still possess this consoling consciousness
––I will tell you, Fanny, what I have
done to secure its possession still---When I
found, too certainly, that Desmond had placed
his whole happiness in testifying to me,
by his conduct rather than his words, how
much he was attached to me, I endeavoured
for his sake and for my own, to convince him,
that the continuance of that regard, unless it
was under the regulation of reason, would be
only a source of misery to us both—“If Verney N11r 285
Verney should be no more,”
said I, “or if
my earnest endeavours to contribute to his recovery,
should fail—What have I either in
my heart or my person, to repay such affection?
nothing!---the bloom of both
are gone---You, Sir, are in a situation of life
to expect the undivided tenderness of the most
lovely and fortunate of women––I have nothing
but a spirit weighed down by long anxiety
—a person no longer boasting of any advantages
a heart trembling for the fate of
three little, helpless beings, who, if my fears
do not exaggerate, have but little to trust to
from the wreck of their father’s fortune—Let
me, Desmond, as your grateful friend, point
out where, without any of these drawbacks,
all the little advantages you found or fancied
in me, may be met with—My Fanny possesses
them all; and with them an heart worthy
of your’s uninjured by calamity, and untainted
by sorrow.”
—I will not tell you, my sister,
his answer, it was expressive of the high sense
Desmond has of your merit—I felt that I had
acquitted myself, and while my eyes overflow
with tears, I still feel it; for indeed I think I
could die happy, if you were married to Desmond,
if I knew that you united in giving to
my luckless little ones that generous tenderness
you are both so capable of feeling; and sometimes,
in deploring together, with the soothing
sympathy of kindred minds, the fate of
your lost Geraldine!

This is the only plan I, at this moment,
look forward to with any degree of satisfaction
—If poor Verney survives—Alas! I would
very fain, but cannot flatter myself, that he
will be changed—If he dies—I will retire to some N11v 286
some cheap country with my children, and
never, with my poverty and theirs, embitter
the affluent and fortunate situation of Desmond.

But it is time to close my long and distressing
narrative, and if I yield to these overwhelming
sensations, I shall not be able!—
My tears have rendered the last page illegible!

We arrived then, without any very alarming
occurence, at the village, from an auberge
in which Verney’s letter had been written—
Oh! what was my breathless agitation, as I
stopped in the chaise, while Desmond went to
inquire for him, I cannot describe, for I could
not discriminate such a combination of distracting
emotions as at that moment assailed
me.—In about a quarter of an hour Desmond
returned, and I saw, by his countenance, that
I was to expect something very dreadful—
“Verney,” cried I, “my husband, is he
there?—is he living?”
“He is there,” replied
Desmond; “and I am shocked at myself
for having supposed that he was engaged
in a scheme of dishonourable treachery, while
he lay in all the miseries of indigence and
sickness.”
—I had heard enough, and attempted
to open the chaise door—“Let me go to
him,”
cried I, “this moment—let me go.”

“Be calm, dear Madam,” replied Desmond,
“you will need all your fortitude, do
not, therefore, exhaust your strength.”
“I
will go, however,”
exclaimed I, “nothing
shall stop me—Have you seen him yourself?—

“I have.”“And does he know that I am
here?
“He does—I told him that meeting
you by a strange accident, encompassed by dangers N12r 287
dangers, into which you had hurried in your
anxiety to attend him, I could not quit you
till I had seen you hither—He expressed, as
well as he was able to express, gratitude towards
me, and affection towards you.”

Oh! my sister, judge of what I must have
felt, when Desmond, after a little more preparation,
led me into the room---a miserable
room, where lay the father of my children,
in a situation which I have not the courage minutely
to describe––His associates had deserted
him---his wounds, one of which was, at first,
supposed to be fatal, had never been properly
dressed, and now still (though we instantly
procured better assistance) it threatens a mortification;
besides this, the bones of his leg
had been broken; and it was so ill set, that,
on Desmond’s procuring a surgeon, he was
under the necessity of breaking it again---In a
condition, which I will not shock you by painting
distinctly, had Verney lain near five weeks,
without any money, but what his arms and
watch had sold for; nor any attendance, at
first, but what the reluctant charity of a woman
in the house had afforded him; but as his
money failed, that declined also; and had it
not been for one of les sœurs de la miséricorde,
who had left her convent, but still exercised the
most noble part of her profession, he told us
that he must have perished---Such was the bigotry
of the people in this part of France, that
this worthy woman was reproached for her humanity
by the savages of the village, and told,
that in trying to save the life of an heretic, she
offended God––Though this heretic had fallen
in a defence (from whatever motive) of the very
party which so piously consigned him to death, for N12v 288
for differing, as they supposed, in opinion---
Alas! poor Verney had never any opinion at
all; and now had hardly expressed, in a languid
and indistinct voice, his gratitude for my
attendance, before he besought me to prevent
the curé of the parish from persecuting him
hourly mithwith his visits and exhortations;
Desmond undertook to do this; but the charitable
nun came every day; and, indeed
without her assistance, I should have sunk
under the fatigue I have endured ever since
I have been here, now four days.

I need not remind you of the unhappy propensity
Verney has long had to intoxication—
In this habit he has indulged himself ever since
he has been told that it endangers his life;
and when he is absolutely denied it, he sinks
into a sullen or torpid state, and complains
that I will let him die of faintness and dejection.

Oh! Fanny! when I see him suffer, and
trace in his countenance, distorted, pale, and
disfigured as it is, the likeness my dear boy
bears to him, I forget all I have suffered—I
pardon all his faults—I endeavour to apologize
even for those which I fancied he intended
to commit—and I pray to heaven for his life—
and that he may be happy with his children—
That Being alone, in whose hands are life and
death, knows what is best—My only resource
against the long anxiety I have gone through,
against that which is to come, is in the consciousness
of having done my duty—I am, in
some measure, rewarded, even now, by the
unwearied, the generous, and surely the disinterested
conduct of Desmond, who, whatever
may have been his motives, or his wishes, respects O1r 289
respects that sacred duty; and never has, since
my arrival, uttered one word that could make
me reproach myself with having listened to
him.

Oh! what a heart is his!—how truly
brave!—how manly!—how generous!---
Though he has no reason to love Desmond,
the tenderest friend, the most affectionate brother
could not shew more constant attention
to his ease––Yesterday, overcome with the
fatigue of sitting up two nights, in order that
the directions of the surgeon, after the last
horrible operation, might be strictly followed,
I lay down, for a few hours, in my clothes,
leaving the young woman-servant of the house
in the room, who promised to call me if Mr.
Verney
wanted any thing---Desmond was
gone to the place where he lodges, to write
letters to England, which he was promised an
opportunity of sending that afternoon, or this
morning—Quite exhausted by excess of fatigue,
sleep fell heavier upon me than it has
done for many, many days, and when I
started from my unquiet dreams which still
haunted me, I found it was five o’clock.

I stepped softly towards the room where
Verney lay, where I heard him talking in a
loud and peremptory voice, his face was flushed
even to a purple hue; and he was arguing
angrily with Desmond, who hung over him,
speaking soothingly to him, and entreating him
to be patient!––to be pacified!––As I approached,
I saw that Verney darted towards me a
look of anger and reproach, while Desmond
had a countenance so expressive of concern for us
both!—Ah! Fanny! I found that the poor,
imprudent patient had bribed, by a promise of Vol. II. O a crown O1v 290
a crown, the foolish girl that had been left
with him, to bring him wine and brandy, of
which he had drank so liberally, that the fever
which he had, to all appearance, baffled, by
compelling his abstinence, threatened to return
—It was, indeed returned, and delirium succeeded;
this lasted till towards morning,
during all which time, Desmond sat by him,
often keeping him, by force, in bed, from
which he would otherwise have rushed, notwithstanding
his fractured limb—The scene
was often too much for me—at four o’clock he
became more calm, and then Desmond prevailed
upon me to leave the room, promising
to remain with him.

This morning he seemed a great deal better
—declares himself sensible of his folly, and
assures us he will be governed—He no longer
complains of pain, and, I think, I have never
seen him so composed as since eight o’clock
to-day; it is now ten at night—The surgeon
has not been here to-day; but Verney has
been so cool and rational, and slept so much,
that I have been enabled to finish this letter,
which I began yesterday morning.

I own I now have less apprehensions of him
than I have ever had—His age—his naturally
good constitution, are strong circumstances in
his favor; and I may remark, my Fanny, I
hope not unkindly remark, that Verney does
not suffer, as many people do, great irritation
of spirits, from excess of sensibility; and if
he is tolerably free from bodily sufferings,
feels no injury from the emotions of the
mind.

Still his condition is, I know, precarious—
Still I have much to suffer with him, and for him O2r 291
him—I am, however, relieved, by having
thus disburthened my poor heart to you!—
Pray for me, my Fanny—for my children—
and for the poor unfortunate sufferer their father.
—Perhaps, before you receive this, for
it is a long way from hence to England, he
will be well—perhaps he may not need your
prayers! I will contrive to write, from day
to day, but now I must close my letter, as
this is the only chance of sending it off for some
time.

That heaven may watch over the happiness
of My dear Fanny, is the warmest wish of
her.

Geraldine.

O2 Let- O2v 292

Letter XXXI.

To Mr. Bethel.

It is all over, my friend— Verney is
gone!―The torpor and tranquillity
which I described to you in my last letter, Which does not appear.
were the beginning of a mortification, which
proved fatal twenty hours afterwards—He
died yesterday morning.––I will not attempt
to describe the behaviour of his angelic wife,
nor the comfort it is to me to reflect, on the
exact and rigorous attention she has been
enabled to give to this unfortunate man at
the close of his life, so that her gentle heart,
when the first shock has lost its force, will be
restored to its tranquillity, and may taste of
happiness which no self reproach will interrupt.

Peace to the ashes of poor Verney! and
may his faults be forgotten by the world, as
his divine Geraldine has forgiven them.—
Bethel! his last act of his life should plead his
pardon for every folly with which it was
stained.---He was not, till a very few hours
before his death, convinced that there was no
hopes; he then seemed to collect himself as if
to shew how much better he could die than he
had lived.

He suffered no pain, and was in perfect possession O3r 293
possession of his senses; he bade Geraldine
leave him alone with me, and thus spoke to
me—

“Desmond! I know that your friendship
for me cannot have been strong enough to induce
you to make all the kind exertions for me,
which you have done since you have been
here; nor, indeed, to bring you hither—
I have been told, by several people, that you
have always been in love with my wife---Perfectly
secure of her honour, more so than I
deserved to be, not naturally of a jealous temper,
and engaged in the pleasures of the world,
as long as I had money to enjoy them, I
never heeded this; and, if my informers
meant maliciously, they lost their aim.---I
am now dying, and I owe it to you, that
death comes not with all the aggravated horrors
of poverty and wretchedness---I know you
to be a man of honour, and if Geraldine
marries again, as there is certainly reason to believe
she will, it is to you, rather than to any
other man, that I wish to confide her and my
children.”

It would be very difficult for me, Bethel,
to describe my sensations while this passed---I
answered, however, ingenuously and with
truth—“that I certainly had always preferred
Mrs. Verney to every other woman, but that
my attachment had been unknown to her, and
never would have led me to transgress the
bounds of honour towards him; but that if she
ever was at liberty, I should deem the happiness
of becoming her protector the first that
fate could give me.”

“Let me,” said he, “while I am yet able, make O3v 294
make a will in which I will give you, jointly with
her, the guardianship of my children.—Poor
things! I have nothing to give them; but
the settlements made on my marriage has prevented
my making them entirely beggars—
Perhaps, my dear friend, my death may be,
for them, the most fortunate circumstance
that could happen—I have been miserably
cheated; perhaps some of my affairs may be
retrievable.”

He then desired me to call up my two English
servants, before whom he dictated to me a
memorandum, in which he left his wife and
his children to my care, appointing her executrix,
but requesting that I would be the
guardian of his children, jointly with her,
and expressing his wishes, that if she ever
took a second husband, it might be his friend
Desmond---this he signed; it was witnessed
in due form, and when that was done, he gave
it me and bade me keep it.—He was fatigued,
and asked for a medicine which Geraldine came
in to give him—he then fell into a sort of stupor,
rather than sleep—when he awoke Geraldine
was alone with him—I know not what
passed, but when she sent for me I found her
drowned in tears, and Verney evidently dying
—In a few moments he expired in her
arms.—Bethel, if I had not hopes of living
with her, such a death would excite my
envy.

There was no affectation of violent affliction
in his lovely widow—the natural tenderness of
her heart, the thoughts of her children, and
the circumstance of their father’s dying so far
from his country, and in consequence of his unhappy O4r 295
unhappy connections, were enough to produce
those severe paroxysms of grief in which I saw
her for the first twevetwelve hours—at the end of
that time she became more calm.—As I found
it was her wish that the remains of her husband
should be conveyed to England, I determined
that it should be done, and gave orders accordingly.

Mournful as the scene was, I reflected on
what the situation of Geraldine would have
been had I not been with her; and felt a degree
of satisfaction which the possession of worlds
could not bestow.

It is now time to consider of our return to
Meudon—I have been entreating her directions;
but I see the circumstance of going, so
recently a widow, with a man of whose attachment
to her she cannot now be ignorant,
is very oppressive to her delicate sense of propriety;
yet, very certain it is, that the whole
world united to censure it, should not induce
me to quit her an instant.—Hitherto her mind,
weakened by long anguish, has not recovered
firmness enough to decide.—She weeps, and
tells me in a voice rendered inarticulate by her
tears, that she leaves the direction of all to
me.

Adieu! dear Bethel, as soon as I know our
route, I will write again, in the hope that
you will continue to let me hear from you.—
Will it seem unfeeeling if I say that I am a
happy fellow? I do not know—but I am sure
I should be very stupid if I did not feel that I am
so
—I mean, however, only comparatively happy,
for I intend to be a great deal happier; but O4v 296
but I know that it must be many tedious
months first.

I had sealed my letter, and was dispatching
it by a messenger to England, with several
from Geraldine to her family, when I was
amazed by the sudden appearance of my friend
Montfleuri, who, rushing into a lower apartment
of the poor house I inhabit in this vil-
lage, threw himself into my arms; and, before
I could recover my surprise, disengaged
himself, and put into them his wife; on whom,
with undescribable astonishment and pleasure,
I recognized Fanny Waverly, the sister of my
Geraldine.

I was very glad that this unguarded introduction
was not made to her instead of to me;
for in her present state of mind I know not
what might have been the consequence.

I contrived that the knowledge of her sister’s
being here, of whose marriage she was entirely
ignorant, might not reach her so abruptly---I
had the inexpressible happiness to find that she
considered this arrival as the most fortunate
circumstance that could have befallen her---
With what delight does she gaze on her sister
—how affecting, how interesting is the tender
friendship between them.

Montfleuri and I have now settled every thing
for our journey immediately---We shall quit
this place on the day following to-morrow;
and he is to send some of his own servants,
with two of mine, in whom I can
confide to attend the last offices that can be done O5r 297
done for poor Verney—This sad ceremony
being over, we go to Montfleuri, and from
thence to Paris, or rather to Meudon.—Now,
there is nothing wrong or improper in my attending
Geraldine—Blessings on the lovely little
Fanny for coming hither.—If Montfleuri
should forget his good resolutions, and relapse
into that libertinism which was his only fault,
I shall not forgive him; but, at present, he
seems the most truly happy, as he is always
the gayest creature in the world.

O5 Let- O5v 298

Letter XXXII.

To Mr. Bethel.

My excellent friend,

For so, I persuade myself, I may call you
—I write to you by the express wish of our
dear friend, Desmond, who begs me and ma
douce
Fanni, to tell you what he thinks we
can say better than he can himself.

And, indeed, he is so occupied with his
love and his hopes, distant as they must be,
that he sometimes seems to lament the necessity
of acknowledging that any other persons
in the world have a right to share his thoughts
or his affections—If he can sit whole hours,
silent, in the room with Geraldine, he is content
—If he knows she is engaged, or unwilling
to be in company, he takes her children
in his arms—he plays with, he caresses
them; and still he is content.—I thought
I had been tolerably in love, when I determined
on an affair, so entirely out of my way,
as marrying; but my love is really of so humble
a species, when put by the side of this
sublime passion of my friend’s, that I am
afraid my amiable Fanchon will discover the
difference, and be discontent with me.

But all this is wandering from my purpose,
which is to tell you, that we are hastening to
England, where we hope to be within this
month.

I hate O6r 299

I hate writing long letters; and therefore
I will only relate what Desmond tells
me he wishes you to know.―You
have, before now, received the commissions
with which he troubled you about poor Verney,
and we are satisfied will execute them.

We bring with us four children; and that
there may be no more mystery about this;
that Geraldine’s reputation may not suffer,
which otherwise it might do, even in your
eyes, I will confide to you the truth.

I was so indiscreet and thoughtless as to
encourage in the gay and unguarded heart of
my sister de Boisbelle, an affection for Desmond,
while he was at my house, little imagining
the cruelty I was guilty of towards
them both.—Indeed, I knew, that Josephine
had been married against her inclination; and
had an attachment, almost from her infancy,
to a naval officer, a near relation, which,
I supposed, guard enough against any other
impression; and though I used to rally her
about Desmond, I was so prepossessed with
this idea, that the possible consequence of
encouraging her apparent preference to him,
never occurred to me.---When he was wounded
at Marseilles, I flew to him, and Josephine
went with me—We attended him
through his alarming illness, and when political
business called me away, I delegated
to my sister the task of taking care of my
friend.

No part of the event was to be wondered
at, unless it was the greatness of mind which
Josephine evinced—As soon as she became
too well assured that the consequence of her indiscreet O6v 300
indiscreet attachment could not be finally concealed,
she determined to save Desmond from
any resentment which I might have felt, by
declaring to me, that it was to her own unguarded
folly, and not to any art or deception
on his part, that the blame was owing—She
told me he had promised nothing; that he
used no art to betray her; but, on the contrary,
had told her that his whole soul was
dedicated to another.—Should I have been
wise, under these circumstances, to have destroyed
my friend? or to have given him a
chance of destroying me?—I think it was
much more rational to endeavour to conceal
what could not be amended—I did so; and
it was Josephine, whom I attended, that caused
such speculation at Bridge-foot; and who,
being taken for Geraldine, occasioned to my
wife all the terror and uneasiness she has since
described to me.

Her going thither was concerted between
Geraldine and Desmond; and it was to the
generous tenderness of Geraldine that my
sister consented, and Desmond determined to
confide their child.

My sister, as soon as she recovered, went
to London; and I took care that her infant,
which was a girl, should be conveyed to Paris,
as Desmond seemed anxious, that wherever
Geraldine was, the little creature might be
put under her protection—It was to meet
and convey this charge to her, that Desmond
left Meudon on the day that Geraldine so
abruptly quitted that place.—My sister is since
gone to Italy, and is now under the protection
of Monsieur d’Hauteville—Her husband has not O7r 301
not been heard of since the night in which
Verney received the wound that cost him his
life—If he is dead, and my relation de Rivemont,
ever returns from the East-Indies,
where he has, for three years, been stationed,
it is probable that their first attachment will
end in a marriage; but I shall never deceive
him as to what has happened in his absence.

Thus, my dear Sir, I have acquited myself
in informing you of what, though Desmond
owned it was necessary you should know,
he could not prevail on himself to relate to
you.

Have you not heard in England, that Mr.
Verney
, an English gentleman, travelling for
his amusement, has been inhumanly fallen
upon by a party of the national troops, and
killed?—This is, I understand, the report
that has universally gained credit; yet, I beg
to assure you, that it was in attempting to
drive the French from Avignon, which, in a
fit of desperate valour, his party undertook;
and not in any tumult, or even by the hands
of ruffians, who are equally the dread and
scourge of all parties, that Verney fell; and
that, as I believe, Boisbelle has fallen also.

But thus it is, that, throughout the revolution,
every circumstance has, on your side
of the water, been exaggerated, falsified, distorted,
and misrepresented, to serve the purposes
of party; and thus I, as well as Desmond,
fear it will continue to be—Probably much
more cause will arise for it than has yet arisen;
for, according to every present appearance,
the hydra, despotism, is raising in every country O7v 302
country of Europe one of its detestable heads
against the liberty of France.

Should this arrive, it is true, I shall be torn
from a circle of friends, where the happiness
of my life is placed, to draw the sword once
more; but he must be a despicable wretch,
who, in such a cause, would refuse to sacrifice
his life itself.

In the mean time, however, let us not
waste the moments, as they are passing, in
dark speculations on the future; which, after
all, we cannot arrest or amend—It is still
more foolish to embitter the present with useless
regret; and, as to the past, “Mortels!—voulez-vous tolérer la vie? Oubliez, & jouissez,” Voltaire.
is a very good maxim.

Dear Sir! I wish you all happiness with
your amiable family—And am, with sincere
respect,

Your most faithful
And devoted servant,


onvilleJonville de Montfleuri.

Let- O8r 303

Letter XXXIII.

To Mr. Bethel.

Come, my dear Bethel, I beseech you
come hither, and render by your presence,
still more happy, those friends for whom you
have ever been so generously interested—Come
and see Geraldine restored to her tranquillity,
and your happy friend every day more tenderly
attached to her; and reckoning (with impatience
he vainly endeavours to stifle) the
months that must yet elapse before she can be
wholly his.—Oh! were you to see her—
were you to witness, in addition to all her
former charms, her behaviour to a mother,
who was once so harsh, so ungenerous, so
cruel to her; were you to see the compassionate
attention with which she treats her old
friend, Miss Elford, whose malicious representations
cost her so dear; were you to behold
the tender solicitude which she bestows
equally on her own children, and on my little
girl, you would love her a thousand—oh! a
million times better than ever; and would,
with me, bless the hour when I did not,
when indeed, I found I could not, take your
advice and forget her!

Bethel, my dear friend, come to me I beseech
you, that I may have somebody to
whom I can talk of Geraldine when I do not
see her—Montfleuri is too volatile; he loves his O8v 304
his wife passionately, but my adoration for
her sister he cannot comprehend; and, by the
rest of the people, I see it would be understood
still less.

And yet there are many, many hours when
I am obliged (by these detestable rules, to the
observance of which we sacrifice so many days,
and hours, and years of happiness) to be absent
from her.—Oh! ’twould be an alleviation
of their insupportable tediousness, if you
would let me talk to you about her, and hear
all the plans I have laid down for happiness—
If you will come only for a fortnight I will
return with you into Kent; it will be some
amusement to me now, to settle an house
which, in eight, or at farthest ten months
(for it is now above three since she has been a
widow) Geraldine may inhabit—I can waste
a month or six weeks there—She seems to
wish it; for, I believe, I sometimes frighten
her by my restless and vehement temper—
yet she may do with me what she pleases;
it is only when I am divided from her, to
comply with some ridiculous whim of some
formal and ridiculous old woman, that I lose
my temper.—When I am with her I am patient
and tranquil—unless an idea crosses me,
as it does now and then, that I am unworthy
of the excessive happiness of being her husband,
and that some dreadful event will tear
her from me!—If she looks pale, though
only from some slight cold or accidental fatigue,
I fancy her about to be ill, and weary
her with my apprehensions and inquiries—
She bears with all my folly patiently; or if she O9r 305
she chides, it is with a sweetness that makes
me almost love to be chidden.

Will this lovely, this adorable woman, be
indeed mine?—Did I tell you, Bethel, how
successfully I had managed the affairs of her
children?—Scarsdale seemed disposed to
give me a great deal of trouble, but now it is all
settled.—Those dear infants will be less injured
by their father’s imprudence than I apprehended;
and for their future destiny, as
to pecuniary concerns, their beloved mother is
no longer anxious.

Heavens! dare I trust myself with the rapturous
hope, that on the return of this month,
in the next year, Geraldine will bear my name
—Will be the directress of my family—
will be my friend—my mistress—my wife!
—I set before me these scenes—I imagine
these days of happiness to come—I see the beloved
group assembled at Sedgewood.—My
Geraldine—You, my dear Bethel—your
sweet Louisa—my friend Montfleuri, and his
Fanny.—I imagine the delight of living in that
tender confidence of mutual affection, which
only such a circle of friends can taste.—I go
over in my imagination our studies, our
amusements, our rural improvements; a series
of domestic and social happiness, for
which only life is worth having—I believe, I
trust it will be mine, and I exclaim— “Viver cosi vorrai, Vorrai morir cosi!”

Heaven grant it!—But till that hour arrives,
when the assurance of such felicity is more O9v 306
more completely given me—Oh! lend me,
dear Bethel, some of your calm reason to
check my impatience; and soothe, with your
usual friendship, the agitated heart—which,
whatever else may disturb it, will ever be
faithfully grateful to you, while it beats in
the bosom of your

Lionel Desmond.

The End.