Oh dear! yes, sir, said Lucy; but I was not bid to say any thing about that. To be sure, my lady did cry sadly, and sighed as if her heart would break; but I don't know what was the matter with her.
Well, said Glanville, excessively shocked at this intelligence, go to your lady: I am going home—You may bring me her message to my own apartment.
Lucy did as she was desired; and Mr. Glanville, impatient as he was to unravel the mystery, yet dreading lest his presence should make Arabella be guilty of some extravagance before the servants who were with her, he followed slowly after her, resolving, if possible, to procure a private interview with the lovely visionary, for whose sorrow, though he suspected it was owing to some ridiculous cause, he could not help being affected.
Arabella, who had walked as fast as her legs would carry her, got home before Lucy could overtake her, and retiring to her chamber, gave way to a fresh burst of grief, and bewailed the infidelity of Glanville in terms befitting a Clelia or Mandana.
As soon as she saw Lucy enter, she started from her chair with great emotion.
Thou comest, said she, I know, to intercede for that ungrateful man, whose infidelity I am weak enough to lament; but open not thy mouth, I charge thee, in his defence.
No, indeed, madam, said Lucy.
Nor bring me any account of his tears, his desperation, or his despair, said Arabella, since questionless he will feign them all to deceive me.
Here Glanville, who had watched Lucy's coming, and had followed her into Arabella's apartment, appeared at the door.
Oh Heavens! cried Arabella, lifting up her fine eyes, can it be that this disloyal man, unawed by the discovery of his guilt, again presumes to approach me!——
Dearest cousin, said Glanville, what is the meaning of all this?—How have I disobliged you?—What is my offence? I beseech you, tell me.
Ask the inconstant Ariamenes[1], replied Arabella, the offence of the ungrateful Glanville. The betrayer of Cynecia can best answer that question to the deceiver of Arabella; and the guilt of the one can only be compared to the crimes of the other.
Good God! interrupted Mr. Glanville, fretting excessively, what am I to understand by all this? On my soul, madam, I don't know the meaning of one word you say.
Oh dissembler! said Arabella, is it thus that thou wouldest impose upon my credulity? Does not the name of Ariamenes make thee tremble then? And canst thou hear that of Cynecia without confusion?
Dear Lady Bella, said Glanville smiling, what are these names to me?
False man, interrupted Arabella, dost thou presume to sport with thy crimes then? Are not the treacheries of Ariamenes the crimes of Glanville? Could Ariamenes be false to the princess of Gaul, and can Glanville be innocent towards Arabella?
Mr. Glanville, who had never heard her, in his opinion, talk so ridiculously before, was so amazed at the incomprehensible stuff she uttered with so much emotion, that he began to fear her intellects were really touched. This thought gave him a concern that spread itself in a moment over his countenance. He gazed on her with a fixed attention, dreading, yet wishing she would speak again; equally divided between his hopes that her next speech would remove his suspicion, and his fears, that it might more confirm it.
Arabella, taking notice of his pensive posture, turned away her head, lest, by beholding him, she should relent, and treat him with less severity than she had intended; making at the same time a sign to him to be gone.
Indeed, Lady Bella, said Glanville, who understood her perfectly well, I cannot leave you in this temper. I must know how I have been so unfortunate as to offend you.
Arabella, no longer able to contain herself, burst into tears at this question: with one hand she made repeated signs to him to be gone, with the other she held her handkerchief to her eyes, vexed and ashamed of her weakness.
But Mr. Glanville, excessively shocked at this sight, instead of leaving her, threw himself on his knees before her, and taking her hand, which he tenderly pressed to his lips—
Good God! my dearest cousin, said he, how you distract me by this behaviour! Sure something extraordinary must be the matter. What can it be that thus afflicts you?—Am I the cause of these tears?—Can I have offended you so much?—Speak, dear madam—Let me know my crime. Yet may I perish if I am conscious of any towards you——
Disloyal man, said Arabella, disengaging her hand from his, does then the crime of Ariamenes seem so light in thy apprehension, that thou canst hope to be thought innocent by Arabella? No, no, ungrateful man, the unfortunate Cynecia shall have no cause to say that I will triumph in her spoils. I myself will be the minister of her revenge; and Glanville shall suffer for the crime of Ariamenes.
Who the devil is this Ariamenes? cried Glanville, rising in a passion. And why am I to suffer for his crime, pray? For Heaven's sake, dear cousin, don't let your imagination wander thus. Upon my soul, I don't believe there is any such person as Ariamenes in the world.
Vile equivocator, said Arabella; Ariamenes, though dead to Cynecia, is alive to the deluded Arabella. The crimes of Ariamenes are the guilt of Glanville: and if the one has made himself unworthy of the princess of Gaul, by his perfidy and ingratitude, the other by his baseness and deceit, merits nothing but contempt and detestation from Arabella.
Frenzy, by my soul, cried Glanville mutteringly between his teeth: this is downright frenzy. What shall I do?——
Hence, from my presence, resumed Arabella, false and ungrateful man; persecute me no more with the hateful offers of thy love. From this moment I banish thee from my thoughts for ever; and neither as Glanville or as Ariamenes will I ever behold thee more.
Stay, dear cousin, said Glanville holding her (for she was endeavouring to rush by him, unwilling he should see the tears that had overspread her face as she pronounced those words): hear me, I beg you, but one word. Who is it you mean by Ariamenes?—Is it me?—Tell me, madam, I beseech you—This is some horrid mistake—You have been imposed upon by some villainous artifice—Speak, dear Lady Bella—Is it me you mean by Ariamenes? For so your last words seemed to hint.——
Arabella, without regarding what he said, struggled violently to force her hand from his: and finding him still earnest to detain her, told him with an enraged voice, that she would call for help, if he did not unhand her directly.
Poor Glanville, at this menace, submissively dropped her hand; and the moment she was free, she flew out of the room, and locking herself up in her closet, sent her commands to him by one of her women, whom she called to her, to leave her apartment immediately.
[1]This enigmatical way of speaking upon such occasions, is of great use in the voluminous French romances; since the doubt and confusion it is the cause of, both to the accused and accuser, gives rise to a great number of succeeding mistakes, and consequently adventures.
[1]This enigmatical way of speaking upon such occasions, is of great use in the voluminous French romances; since the doubt and confusion it is the cause of, both to the accused and accuser, gives rise to a great number of succeeding mistakes, and consequently adventures.
Mr. Glanville, who stood fixed like a statue in the place where Arabella had left him, was roused by this message, which though palliated a little by the girl that delivered it, who was not quite so punctual as Lucy, nevertheless filled him with extreme confusion. He obeyed however immediately, and retiring to his own apartment, endeavoured to recall to his memory all Lady Bella had said.
The ambiguity of her style, which had led him into a suspicion he had never entertained before, her last words had partly explained, if, as he understood she did, she meant him by Ariamenes. Taking this for granted, he easily conceived some plot grounded on her romantic notions had been laid, to prepossess her against him.
Sir George's behaviour to her rushed that moment into his thoughts: he instantly recollected all his fooleries, his history, his letter, his conversation, all apparently copied from those books she was so fond of, and probably done with a view to some other design upon her.
These reflections, joined to his new-awakened suspicions that he was in love with her, convinced him he was the author of their present misunderstanding; and that he had imposed some new fallacy upon Arabella, in order to promote a quarrel between them.
Fired almost to madness at this thought, he stamped about his room, vowing revenge upon Sir George, execrating romances, and cursing his own stupidity, for not discovering Sir George was his rival, and, knowing his plotting talent, not providing against his artifices.
His first resolutions were, to set out immediately for Sir George's seat, and force him to confess the part he had acted against him: but a moment's consideration convinced him, that was not the most probable place to find him in, since it was much more likely he was waiting the success of his schemes in London, or perhaps at Richmond.
Next to satiating his vengeance, the pleasure of detecting him in such a manner, that he could not possibly deny or palliate his guilt, was next his heart.
He resolved therefore to give it out that he was gone to London, to make Lady Bella believe it was in obedience to her commands that he had left her, with a purpose not to return till he had cleared his innocence; but, in reality, to conceal himself in his own apartment, and see what effects his reputed absence would produce.
Having thus taken his resolution, he sent for Mr. Roberts, his father's steward, to whose care he had entrusted Lady Bella in her retirement, and acquainting him with part of his apprehensions with regard to Sir George's attempts upon his cousin; he imparted to him his design of staying concealed there, in order to discover more effectually those attempts, and to preserve Lady Bella from any consequence of them.
Mr. Roberts approved of his design; and assured him of his vigilance and care, both in concealing his stay, and also in giving him notice of every thing that passed.
Mr. Glanville then wrote a short billet to Arabella, expressing his grief for her displeasure, his departure in obedience to her orders, and his resolution not to appear in her presence till he could give her convincing proofs of his innocence.
This letter he sent by Roberts, which Arabella condescended to read, but would return no answer.
Mr. Glanville then mounting his horse, which Roberts had ordered to be got ready, rode away, and leaving him at a house he sometimes put up at, returned on foot, and was let in by Mr. Roberts at the garden-door, and conducted unseen to his chamber.
While he passed that night, and great part of the next day, meditating on the treachery of Sir George, and soothing his uneasiness with the hopes of revenge; Arabella, no less disquieted, mused on the infidelity of her lover, the despair of Cynecia, and the impossibility of her ever being happy. Then ransacking her memory for instances in her romances of ladies equally unfortunate with herself, she would sometimes compare herself to one lady, sometimes to another, adapting their sentiments, and making use of their language in her complaints.
Great part of the day being spent in this manner, the uneasy restlessness of her mind made her wish to see Cynecia again. She longed to ask her a hundred questions about the unfaithful Ariamenes, which the suddenness of her departure, and her own astonishment prevented her from doing, when she made that fatal discovery, which had cost her so much uneasiness.
Sometimes a faint hope would arise in her mind that Cynecia might be mistaken, through the great resemblance that possibly was between Ariamenes and Glanville.
She remembered that Mandana had been deceived by the likeness of Cyrus to Spitridates; and concluded that illustrious prince inconstant, because Spitridates, whom she took for Cyrus, saw her carried away without offering to rescue her.
Dwelling with eagerness upon this thought, because it afforded her a temporary relief from others more tormenting, she resolved to go to the park, though she had but little hopes of finding Cynecia there; supposing it but too probable that the disturbance which the sight, or fancied sight, of Ariamenes had given her, would confine her for some days to her chamber. Yet however small the probability was of meeting with her, she could not resist the impatient desire she felt of going to seek her.
Dispensing therefore with the attendance of any other servant but Lucy, she left her apartment, with a design of resuming her usual walk, when she was met, at her stepping out of the door, by Lady L——'s three daughters (who had visited her during her residence at Richmond) and another young lady.
These ladies, who to vary the scene of their rural diversions, were going to cross over to Twickenham, and walk there, pressed Lady Bella to accompany them. Our melancholy heroine refused them at first; but upon their repeated importunity, recollecting that the princess of Gaul had informed her she resided there, she consented to go, in hopes some favourable chance might bring her in their way, or discover the place of her retreat, when she could easily find some excuse for leaving her companions, and going to her.
Mr. Roberts, who according to his instructions, narrowly watched Arabella's motions, finding she did not command his attendance as usual, resolved however to be privately of this party. He had but just time to run up and acquaint Mr. Glanville, and then followed the ladies at a distance, who taking boat, passed over to Twickenham, which he also did as soon as he saw them landed.
Mr. Glanville, who did not doubt but Roberts would bring him some intelligence, sat waiting with anxious impatience for his return. The evening drew on apace, he numbered the hours, and began to grow uneasy at Arabella's long stay. His chamber-window looking into the garden, he thought he saw his cousin, covered with her veil as usual, hasten down one of the walks. His heart leaped at this transient view: he threw up the sash, and looking out, saw her very plainly strike into a cross-walk, and a moment after saw Sir George, who came out of a little summer-house, at her feet. Transported with rage at this sight, he snatched up his sword, flew down the stairs into the garden, and came running like a madman up the walk in which the lovers were. The lady observing him first, for Sir George's back was towards him, shrieked aloud, and not knowing what she did, ran towards the house, crying for help, and came back as fast, yet not time enough to prevent mischief: for Mr. Glanville, actuated by an irresistible fury, cried out to Sir George to defend himself, who had but just time to draw his sword and make an ineffectual pass at Mr. Glanville, when he received his into his body, and fell to the ground.
Mr. Glanville losing his resentment insensibly, at the sight of his rival's blood, threw down his sword, and endeavoured to support him; while the lady, who had lost her veil in her running, and to the great astonishment of Mr. Glanville, proved to be his sister, came up to them, with tears and exclamations, blaming herself for all that had happened. Mr. Glanville, with a heart throbbing with remorse for what he had done, gazed on his sister with an accusing look, as she hung over the wounded baronet with streaming eyes, sometimes wringing her hands, then clasping them together in an agony of grief.
Sir George having strength enough left to observe her disorder, and the generous concern of Glanville, who, holding him in his arms, entreated his sister to send for proper assistance, Dear Charles, said he, you are too kind, I have used you very ill, I have deserved my death from your hand—You know not what I have been base enough to practise against you——If I can but live to clear your innocence to Lady Bella, and free you from the consequences of this action, I shall die satisfied—
His strength failing him at these words, he fainted away in Mr. Glanville's arms; who though now convinced of his treachery, was extremely shocked at the condition he saw him in.
Miss Glanville renewing her tears and exclamations at this sight, he was obliged to lay Sir George gently upon the ground, and ran to find out somebody to send for a surgeon, and to help him to convey him into the house.
In his way he was met by Mr. Roberts, who was coming to seek him; and with a look of terror and confusion told him, Lady Bella was brought home extremely ill—that her life had been in danger, and that she was but just recovered from a terrible fainting fit.
Mr. Glanville, though greatly alarmed at this news, forgot not to take all possible care of Sir George; directing Roberts to get some person to carry him into the house, and giving him orders to procure proper assistance, flew to Lady Bella's apartment.
Her women had just put her to bed, raving as in a strong delirium. Mr. Glanville approached her, and finding she was in a violent fever, dispatched a man and horse immediately to town, to get physicians, and to acquaint his father with what had happened.
Mr. Roberts, upon the surgeon's report that Sir George was not mortally wounded, came to inform him of this good news; but he found him incapable of listening to him, and in agonies not to be expressed. It was with difficulty they forced him out of Arabella's chamber into his own; where throwing himself upon his bed, he refused to see or speak to any body, till he was told Sir Charles and the physicians were arrived.
He then ran eagerly to hear their opinions of his beloved cousin, which he soon discovered, by their significant gestures and half-pronounced words, to be very bad. They comforted him however, with hopes that she might recover; and insisting upon her being kept very quiet, obliged him to quit the room. While all the necessary methods were taken to abate the violence of the disease, Sir Charles, who had been informed by his steward of his son's duel with Sir George, was amazed to the last degree at two such terrible accidents.
Having seen his son to his chamber, and recommended him to be patient and composed, he went to visit the young baronet; and was not a little surprised to find his daughter sitting at his bed's head, with all the appearance of a violent affliction.
Indeed Miss Glanville's cares were so wholly engrossed by Sir George, that she hardly ever thought of her cousin Arabella, and had just stepped into her chamber while the surgeons were dressing Sir George's wound, and renewed her attendance upon him as soon as that was over.
Miss Glanville, however, thought proper to make some trifling excuses to her father for her solicitude about Sir George. And the young baronet, on whom the fear of death produced its usual effects, and made him extremely concerned for the errors of his past life, and very desirous of atoning for them, if possible, assured Sir Charles, that if he lived he would offer himself to his acceptance for a son-in-law; declaring that he had basely trifled with the esteem of his daughter, but that she had wholly subdued him to herself by her forgiving tenderness.
Sir Charles was very desirous of knowing the occasion of his quarrel with his son, but Sir George was too weak to hold any further conversation; upon which Sir Charles, after a short visit retired, taking Miss Glanville along with him.
That the reader, whose imagination is no doubt upon the stretch to conceive the meaning of these two extraordinary incidents, may be left no longer in suspense, we think proper to explain them both in the following chapter, that we may in the next pursue our history without interruption.
Our fair and afflicted heroine, accompanied by the ladies we have mentioned, having crossed the river, pursued their walk upon its winding banks, entertaining themselves with the usual topics of conversation among young ladies, such as their winnings and losings at brag, the prices of silks, the newest fashions, the best hair-cutter, the scandal at the last assembly, &c.
Arabella was so disgusted with this (as she thought) insipid discourse, which gave no relief to the anxiety of her mind, but added a kind of fretfulness and impatience to her grief, that she resolved to quit them, and with Lucy, go in quest of the princess of Gaul's retreat.
The ladies, however, insisted upon her not leaving them; and her excuse that she was going in search of an unfortunate unknown, for whom she had vowed a friendship, made them all immediately resolve to accompany her, extremely diverted with the oddity of the design, and sacrificing her to their mirth by sly leers, whispers, stifled laughs, and a thousand little sprightly sallies, which the disconsolate Arabella took no notice of, so deeply were her thoughts engaged.
Though she knew not which way to direct her steps, yet concluding the melancholy Cynecia would certainly choose some very solitary place for her residence, she rambled about among the least frequented paths, followed by the young ladies, who ardently desired to see this unfortunate unknown; though, at Arabella's earnest request, they promised not to show themselves to the lady, who, she informed them, for very urgent reasons, was obliged to keep herself concealed.
Fatiguing as this ramble was to the delicate spirits of Arabella's companions, they were enabled to support it by the diversion her behaviour afforded them.
Every peasant she met, she enquired if a beautiful lady disguised did not dwell somewhere thereabout.
To some she gave a description of her person, to others an account of the domestics that were with her; not forgetting her dress, her melancholy, and the great care she took to keep herself concealed.
These strange enquiries, with the strange language in which they were made, not a little surprised the good people to whom she addressed herself; yet moved to respect by the majestic loveliness of her person, they answered her in the negative, without any mixture of scoff and impertinence.
How unfavourable is chance, said Arabella, fretting at the disappointment, to persons who have any reliance upon it! This lady that I have been in search of so long without success, may probably be found by others who do not seek her, whose presence she may wish to avoid, yet not be able.
The young ladies finding it grow late, expressed their apprehensions at being without any attendants; and desired Arabella to give over her search for that day. Arabella at this hint of danger, enquired very earnestly, if they apprehended any attempts to carry them away? And without staying for an answer, urged them to walk home as fast as possible, apologizing for the danger into which she had so indiscreetly drawn both them and herself; yet added her hopes, that, if any attempt should be made upon their liberty, some generous cavalier would pass by who would rescue them: a thing so common, that they had no reason to despair of it.
Arabella, construing the silence with which her companions heard these assurances into a doubt of their being so favoured by fortune, proceeded to inform them of several instances wherein ladies met with unexpected relief and deliverance from ravishers.
She mentioned particularly the rescue of Statira by her own brother, whom she imagined for many years dead; that of the princess Berenice by an absolute stranger; and many others, whose names, characters and adventures she occasionally ran over; all which the young ladies heard with inconceivable astonishment. And the detail had such an effect upon Arabella's imagination, bewildered as it was in the follies of romances, that espying three or four horsemen riding along the road towards them, she immediately concluded they would be all seized and carried off.
Possessed with this belief, she uttered a loud cry, and flew to the water-side; which alarming the ladies, who could not imagine what was the matter, they ran after her as fast as possible.
Arabella stopped when she came to the water-side, and looking round about, and not perceiving any boat to waft them over to Richmond, a thought suddenly darted into her mind, worthy those ingenious books which gave it birth.
Turning therefore to the ladies, who all at once were enquiring the cause of her fright—
It is now, my fair companions, said she, with a solemn accent, that the Destinies have furnished you with an opportunity of displaying in a manner truly heroic, the sublimity of your virtue, and the grandeur of your courage to the world.
The action we have it in our power to perform will immortalize our fame, and raise us to a pitch of glory equal to that of the renowned Clelia herself.
Like her, we may expect statues erected to our honour; like her, be proposed as patterns to heroines in ensuing ages; and like her, perhaps, meet with sceptres and crowns for our reward.
What that beauteous Roman lady performed to preserve herself from violation by the impious Sextus, let us imitate, to avoid the violence our intended ravishers yonder come to offer us.
Fortune, which has thrown us into this exigence, presents us the means of gloriously escaping; and the admiration and esteem of all ages to come, will be the recompence of our noble daring.
Once more, my fair companions, if your honour be dear to you, if an immortal glory be worth your seeking, follow the example I shall set you, and equal with me the Roman Clelia.
Saying this, she plunged into the Thames, intending to swim over it, as Clelia did the Tyber.
The young ladies, who had listened with silent astonishment at the long speech she had made them, the purport of which not one of them understood, screamed out aloud at this horrid spectacle, and wringing their hands, ran backwards and forwards like distracted persons, crying for help. Lucy tore her hair, and was in the utmost agony of grief; when Mr. Roberts, who, as we have said before, kept them always in sight, having observed Arabella running towards the water-side, followed them as fast as he could, and came time enough up to see her frantic action. Jumping into the river immediately after her, he caught hold of her gown, and drew her after him to the shore. A boat that instant appearing, he put her into it, senseless, and to all appearance dead. He and Lucy supporting her, they were wafted over in a few moments to the other side. Her house being near the river, Mr. Roberts carried her in his arms to it; and as soon as he saw her show signs of returning life, left her to the care of the women, who made haste to put her into a warm bed, and ran to find out Mr. Glanville, as we have related.
There remains now only to account for Sir George and Miss Glanville's sudden appearance, which happened, gentle reader, exactly as follows.
Miss Glanville having set out pretty late in the afternoon, with a design of staying all night at Richmond, as her chaise drove up Kew Lane, saw one of her cousin's women, Deborah by name, talking to a gentleman, whom, notwithstanding the disguise of a horseman's coat, and a hat slouched over his face, she knew to be Sir George Bellmour.
This sight alarming her jealousy, and renewing all her former suspicions that her cousin's charms rivalled hers in his heart, as soon as she alighted, finding Arabella was not at home, she retired in great anguish of mind to her chamber, revolving in her mind every particular of Sir George's behaviour to her cousin in the country; and finding new cause for suspicion in every thing she recollected, and reflecting upon the disguise in which she saw him, and his conference with her woman, she concluded herself had all along been the dupe of his artifice, and her cousin the real object of his love.
This thought throwing her into an extremity of rage, all her tenderest emotions were lost in the desire of revenge. She imagined to herself so much pleasure from exposing his treachery, and putting it out of his power to deny it, that she resolved, whatever it cost her, to have that satisfaction.
Supposing therefore Deborah was now returned, she rung her bell, and commanded her attendance on her in her chamber.
The stern brow with which she received her, frightened the girl, conscious of her guilt, into a disposition to confess all, even before she was taxed with any thing.
Miss Glanville saw her terror, and endeavoured to heighten it, by entering at once into complaints and exclamations against her, threatening to acquaint her father with her plots to betray her lady, and assuring her of a very severe punishment for her treachery.
The girl, terrified extremely at these menaces, begged Miss Glanville, with tears, to forgive her, and not to acquaint Sir Charles or her lady with her fault; adding, that she would confess all, and never while she lived, do such a thing again.
Miss Glanville would make her no promises, but urged her to confess: upon which Deborah, sobbing, owned, that for the sake of the presents Sir George had made her, she consented to meet him privately from time to time, and give him an account of every thing that passed with regard to her lady; not thinking there was any harm in it. That according to his desires, she had constantly acquainted him with all her lady's motions, when, and where she went, how she and Mr. Glanville agreed, and a hundred other things which he enquired about. That that day in particular, he had entreated her to procure him the means of an interview with her lady, if possible; and understanding Mr. Glanville was not at Richmond, she had let him privately into the garden, where she hoped to prevail upon her lady to go.
What! said Miss Glanville, surprised, is Sir George waiting for my cousin in the garden then?
Yes, indeed, madam, said Deborah: but I'll go and tell him to wait no longer; and never speak to him again, if your ladyship will but be pleased to forgive me.
Miss Glanville having taken her resolution, not only promised Deborah her pardon, but also a reward, provided she would contrive it so, that she might meet Sir George instead of her cousin.
The girl, having the true chambermaid spirit of intrigue in her, immediately proposed her putting on one of her lady's veils; which as it was now the close of the evening, would disguise her sufficiently; to which Miss Glanville, transported with the thoughts of thus having an opportunity of convincing Sir George of his perfidy, and reproaching him for it, consented, and bid her bring it without being observed into her chamber.
Deborah informing her, that Sir George was concealed in the summer-house, as soon as she had equipped herself with Arabella's veil, she went into the walk that led to it; and Sir George, believing her to be that lady, hastened to throw himself at her feet, and had scarce got through half a speech he had studied for the purpose, when Mr. Glanville gave a fatal interruption to his heroics, in the manner we have already related.
Richmond was now a scene of the utmost confusion and distress. Arabella's fever was risen to such a height, that she was given over by the physicians; and Sir George's wounds, though not judged mortal at first, yet by the great effusion of blood had left him in so weak a condition, that he was thought to be in great danger.
Sir Charles, almost distracted with the fears of the consequences of Sir George's death, entreated his son to quit the kingdom; but Mr. Glanville, protesting he would rather die than leave Arabella in that illness, he was obliged to give bail for his appearance, in case Sir George died: this affair, notwithstanding all endeavours to prevent it, having made a great noise.
Poor Sir Charles, oppressed as he was with the weight of all these calamities, was yet obliged to labour incessantly to keep up the spirits of his son and daughter. The settled despair of the one, and the silent swelling grief of the other, cut him to the heart. He omitted no arguments his paternal affection suggested to him, to moderate their affliction. Mr. Glanville often endeavoured to assume a composure he was very far from feeling, in order to satisfy his father. But Miss Glanville, looking upon herself to be the cause of Sir George's misfortune, declared she should be miserable all her life, if he died.
Arabella in her lucid intervals, being sensible of her danger, prepared for death, with great piety and constancy of mind, having solemnly assured Mr. Glanville of her forgiveness, who would not at that time enter into an explanation of the affair which had given her offence, for fear of perplexing her. She permitted his presence often in her chamber, and desired with great earnestness the assistance of some worthy divine in her preparations for death. The pious and learned doctor ——, at Sir Charles's intimation of his niece's desire, came constantly twice a day to attend her. Her fever, by a favourable crisis, and the great skill of her physicians, left her in a fortnight; but this violent distemper had made such a ravage in her delicate constitution, and reduced her so low, that there seemed very little probability of her recovery. Doctor ——, in whom her unfeigned piety, her uncommon firmness of mind, had created a great esteem and tenderness for her, took all opportunities of comforting, exhorting, and praying by her. The occasion of her illness being the subject of every body's conversation at Richmond, he gently hinted it to her, and urged her to explain her reasons for so extravagant an action.
In the divine frame Arabella was then in, this action appeared to her rash and vain-glorious, and she acknowledged it to be so to her pious monitor: yet she related the motives which induced her to it, the danger she was in of being carried away, the parity of her circumstances then with Clelia, and her emulous desire of doing as much to preserve her honour as that renowned Roman lady did for hers.
The good doctor was extremely surprised at this discourse: he was beginning to think her again delirious; but Arabella added to this account such sensible reasoning on the nature of that fondness for fame, which prompted her to so rash an undertaking, that the doctor left her in strange embarrassment, not knowing how to account for a mind at once so enlightened, and so ridiculous.
Mr. Glanville meeting him as he came out of her chamber, the doctor took this opportunity to acknowledge the difficulties Arabella's inconsistent discourse had thrown him into. Mr. Glanville taking him into his own apartment, explained the nature of that seeming inconsistency, and expatiated at large upon the disorders romances had occasioned in her imagination; several instances of which he recounted, and filled the doctor with the greatest astonishment and concern. He lamented pathetically the ruin such a ridiculous study had brought on so noble a mind; and assured Mr. Glanville he would spare no endeavours to rescue it from so shocking a delusion.
Mr. Glanville thanked him for his good design, with a transport which his fears of his cousin's danger almost mingled with tears; and the doctor and he agreed to expect for some few days longer an alteration for the better in the health of her body, before he attempted the cure of her mind. Mr. Glanville's extreme anxiety had made him in appearance neglect the repentant Sir George, contenting himself with constantly sending twice a day to enquire after his health, but had not yet visited him.
No sooner had the physicians declared that Arabella was no longer in danger, than his mind being freed from that tormenting load of suspense under which it had laboured while her recovery was yet doubtful, he went to Sir George's chamber, who by reason of his weakness, though he was also upon the recovery, still kept his bed.
Sir George, though he ardently wished to see him, yet conscious of the injuries he had both done and designed him, could not receive his visit without extreme confusion: but entering into the cause of their quarrel, as soon as he was able to speak, he freely acknowledged his fault, and all the steps he had taken to supplant him in Arabella's affection.
Mr. Glanville understanding by this means, that he had bribed a young actress to personate a princess forsaken by him; and had taught her all that heap of absurdity with which she had imposed upon Arabella, as has been related, desired only by way of reparation, that when his cousin was in a condition to be spoken to upon that subject, he would condescend to own the fraud to her; which Sir George faithfully promising, an act of oblivion passed on Mr. Glanville's side for all former injuries, and a solemn assurance from Sir George of inviolable friendship for the future. An assurance, however, which Mr. Glanville would willingly have dispensed with: for though not of a vindictive temper, it was one of his maxims, that a man who had once betrayed him, it would be an error in policy ever to trust again.
The good divine, who had the cure of Arabella's mind greatly at heart, no sooner perceived that the health of her body was almost restored, and that he might talk to her without the fear of any inconvenience, than he introduced the subject of her throwing herself into the river, which he had before lightly touched upon, and still declared himself dissatisfied with.
Arabella, now more disposed to defend this point than when languishing under the pressure of pain and dejection of mind, endeavoured by arguments founded upon romantic heroism, to prove, that it was not only reasonable and just, but also great and glorious, and exactly conformable to the rules of heroic virtue.
The doctor listened to her with a mixed emotion, between pity, reverence, and amazement: and though in the performance of his office he had been accustomed to accommodate his notions to every understanding, and had therefore accumulated a great variety of topics and illustrations; yet he found himself now engaged in a controversy for which he was not so well prepared as he imagined, and was at a loss for some leading principle, by which he might introduce his reasonings, and begin his confutation.
Though he saw much to praise in her discourse, he was afraid of confirming her obstinacy by commendation: and though he also found much to blame, he dreaded to give pain to a delicacy he revered.
Perceiving however, that Arabella was silent, as if expecting his reply, he resolved not to bring upon himself the guilt of abandoning her to her mistake, and the necessity of speaking forced him to find something to say.
Though it is not easy, madam, said he, for any one that has the honour of conversing with your ladyship to preserve his attention free to any other idea than such as your discourse tends immediately to impress, yet I have not been able while you was speaking, to refrain from some very mortifying reflections on the imperfection of all human happiness, and the uncertain consequences of all those advantages which we think ourselves not only at liberty to desire, but obliged to cultivate.
Though I have known some dangers and distresses, replied Arabella gravely, yet I did not imagine myself such a mirror of calamity as could not be seen without concern. If my life has not been eminently fortunate, it has yet escaped the great evils of persecution, captivity, shipwrecks and dangers to which many ladies, far more illustrious both by birth and merit than myself, have been exposed. And indeed though I have sometimes raised envy, or possibly incurred hatred, yet I have no reason to believe I was ever beheld with pity before.
The doctor saw he had not introduced his discourse in the most acceptable manner; but it was too late to repent.
Let me not, madam, said he, be censured before I have fully explained my sentiments.
That you have been envied I can readily believe: for who that gives way to natural passions has not reason to envy the Lady Arabella? But that you have been hated, I am indeed less willing to think, though I know how easily the greater part of mankind hate those by whom they are excelled.
If the misery of my condition, replied Arabella, has been able to excite that melancholy your first words seemed to imply, flattery will contribute very little towards the improvement of it. Nor do I expect from the severity of the sacerdotal character, any of those praises, which I hear perhaps with too much pleasure, from the rest of the world.
Having been so lately on the brink of that state, in which all distinctions but that of goodness are destroyed, I have not recovered so much levity but that I would yet rather hear instructions than compliments.
If therefore you have observed in me any dangerous tenets, corrupt passions, or criminal desires, I conjure you discover me to myself. Let no false civility restrain your admonitions. Let me know this evil which can strike a good man with horror, and which I dread the more, as I do not feel it.
I cannot suppose that a man of your order would be alarmed at any other misery than guilt: nor will I think so meanly of him whose direction I have entreated, as to imagine he can think virtue unhappy, however overwhelmed by disasters or oppression.
Keep me therefore no longer in suspense: I expect you will exert the authority of your function, and I promise you on my part, sincerity and submission.
The good man was now completely embarrassed; he saw his meaning mistaken, but was afraid to explain it, lest he should seem to pay court by a cowardly retraction: he therefore paused a little, and Arabella supposed he was studying for such expressions as might convey censure without offence.
Sir, said she, if you are not yet satisfied of my willingness to hear your reproofs, let me evince my docility, by entreating you to consider yourself as dispensed from all ceremony upon this occasion.
Your imaginations, madam, replied the doctor, are too quick for language; you conjecture too soon what you do not wait to hear, and reason upon suppositions which cannot be allowed you.
When I mentioned my reflections upon human misery, I was far from concluding your ladyship miserable, compared with the rest of mankind; and though contemplating the abstracted idea of possible felicity, I thought that even you might be produced as an instance that it is not attainable in this world, I did not impute the imperfection of your state to wickedness, but intended to observe, that though even virtue be added to external advantages, there will yet be something wanting to happiness.
Whoever sees you, madam, will immediately say, that nothing can hinder you from being the happiest of mortals, but want of power to understand your own advantages. And whoever is admitted to your conversation, will be convinced that you enjoy all that intellectual excellence can confer; yet I see you harassed with innumerable terrors and perplexities, which never disturb the peace of poverty or ignorance.
I cannot discover, said Arabella, how poverty or ignorance can be privileged from casualty or violence; from the ravisher, the robber, or the enemy. I should hope rather that if wealth and knowledge can give nothing else, they at least confer judgment to foresee danger, and power to oppose it.
They are not indeed, returned the doctor, secured against real misfortunes, but they are happily defended from wild imaginations: they do not suspect what cannot happen, nor figure ravishers at a distance, and leap into rivers to escape them.
Do you suppose then, said Arabella, that I was frighted without cause?
It is certain, madam, replied he, that no injury was intended you.
Disingenuity, sir, said Arabella, does not become a clergyman—I think too well of your understanding to imagine your fallacy deceives yourself: why then should you hope that it will deceive me?
The laws of conference require that the terms of the question and answer be the same.
I ask, if I had not cause to be frighted? Why then am I answered, that no injury was intended?
Human beings cannot penetrate intentions, nor regulate their conduct but by exterior appearances. And surely there was sufficient appearance of intended injury, and that the greatest which my sex can suffer.
Why, madam, said the doctor, should you still persist in so wild an assertion?
A coarse epithet, said Arabella, is no confutation. It rests upon you to show, that in giving way to my fears, even supposing them groundless, I departed from the character of a reasonable person.
I am afraid, replied the doctor, of a dispute with your ladyship; not because I think myself in danger of defeat, but because being accustomed to speak to scholars with scholastic ruggedness, I may perhaps depart, in the heat of argument, from that respect to which you have so great a right, and give offence to a person I am really afraid to displease.
But if you will promise to excuse my ardour, I will endeavour to prove that you have been frighted without reason.
I should be content, replied Arabella, to obtain truth upon harder terms, and therefore entreat you to begin.
The apprehension of any future evil, madam, said the divine, which is called terror, when the danger is from natural causes, and suspicion, when it proceeds from a moral agent, must always arise from comparison.
We can judge of the future only by the past, and have therefore only reason to fear or suspect, when we see the same causes in motion which have formerly produced mischief, or the same measures taken as have before been preparatory to a crime.
Thus, when the sailor in certain latitudes sees the clouds rise, experience bids him expect a storm. When any monarch levies armies, his neighbours prepare to repel an invasion.
This power of prognostication, may, by reading and conversation, be extended beyond our own knowledge: and the great use of books, is that of participating, without labour or hazard, the experience of others.
But upon this principle how can you find any reason for your late fright?
Has it ever been known that a lady of your rank was attacked with such intentions, in a place so public, without any preparations made by the violator for defence or escape?
Can it be imagined that any man would so rashly expose himself to infamy by failure, and to the gibbet by success?
Does there in the records of the world appear a single instance of such hopeless villainy?
It is now time, sir, said Arabella, to answer your questions, before they are too many to be remembered.
The dignity of my birth can very little defend me against an insult to which the heiresses of great and powerful empires, the daughters of valiant princes, and the wives of renowned monarchs, have been a thousand times exposed.
The danger which you think so great, would hardly repel a determined mind; for in effect, who would have attempted my rescue, seeing that no knight or valiant cavalier was within view?
What then should have hindered him from placing me in a chariot? Driving it into the pathless desert? And immuring me in a castle, among woods and mountains? Or hiding me perhaps in the caverns of a rock? Or confining me in some island of an immense lake?
From all this, madam, interrupted the clergyman, he is hindered by impossibility.
He cannot carry you to any of these dreadful places, because there is no such castle, desert, cavern, or lake.
You will pardon me, sir, said Arabella, if I recur to your own principles:
You allow that experience may be gained by books: and certainly there is no part of knowledge in which we are obliged to trust them more than in descriptive geography.
The most restless activity in the longest life can survey but a small part of the habitable globe: and the rest can only be known from the report of others.
Universal negatives are seldom safe, and are least to be allowed when the disputes are about objects of sense; where one position cannot be inferred from another.
That there is a castle, any man who has seen it may safely affirm. But you cannot, with equal reason, maintain that there is no castle, because you have not seen it.
Why should I imagine that the face of the earth is altered since the time of those heroines, who experienced so many changes of uncouth captivity?
Castles, indeed, are the works of art; and are therefore subject to decay. But lakes, and caverns, and deserts, must always remain.
And why, since you call for instances, should I not dread the misfortunes which happened to the divine Clelia, who was carried to one of the isles of the Thrasymenian lake?
Or those which befell the beautiful Candace, queen of Ethiopia, whom the pirate Zenodorus wandered with on the seas?
Or the accidents which embittered the life of the incomparable Cleopatra?
Or the persecutions which made that of the fair Elisa miserable?
Or, in fine, the various distresses of many other fair and virtuous princesses: such as those which happened to Olympia, Bellamira, Parisatis, Berenice, Amalazontha, Agione, Albysinda, Placidia, Arsinoe, Deidamia, and a thousand others I could mention.
To the names of many of these illustrious sufferers I am an absolute stranger, replied the doctor.
The rest I faintly remember some mention of in those contemptible volumes with which children are sometimes injudiciously suffered to amuse their imaginations; but which I little expected to hear quoted by your ladyship in a serious discourse.
And though I am very far from catching occasions of resentment, yet I think myself at liberty to observe, that if I merited your censure for one indelicate epithet, we have engaged on very unequal terms, if I may not likewise complain of such contemptuous ridicule as you are pleased to exercise upon my opinions by opposing them with the authority of scribblers, not only of fictions, but of senseless fictions; which at once vitiate the mind and pervert the understanding; and which if they are at any time read with safety, owe their innocence only to their absurdity.
From these books, sir, said Arabella, which you condemn with so much ardour, though you acknowledge yourself little acquainted with them, I have learnt not to recede from the conditions I have granted, and shall not therefore censure the licence of your language, which glances from the books upon the readers.
These books, sir, thus corrupt, thus absurd, thus dangerous alike to the intellect and morals, I have read; and that I hope without injury to my judgment, or my virtue.
The doctor, whose vehemence had hindered him from discovering all the consequences of his position, now found himself entangled, and replied in a submissive tone—
I confess, madam, my words imply an accusation very remote from my intention.
It has always been the rule of my life, not to justify any words or actions because they are mine.
I am ashamed of my negligence, I am sorry for my warmth, and entreat your ladyship to pardon a fault which I hope never to repeat.
The reparation, sir, said Arabella smiling, over-balances the offence, and by thus daring to own you have been in the wrong, you have raised in me a much higher esteem for you.
Yet I will not pardon you, added she, without enjoining you a penance for the fault you own you have committed; and this penance shall be to prove—
First, that these histories you condemn are fictions.
Next, that they are absurd.
And lastly, that they are criminal.
The doctor was pleased to find a reconciliation offered upon so very easy terms, with a person whom he beheld at once with reverence and affection, and could not offend without extreme regret.
He therefore answered with a very cheerful composure:
To prove those narratives to be fictions, madam, is only difficult, because the position is almost too evident for proof.
Your ladyship knows, I suppose, to what authors these writings are ascribed?
To the French wits of the last century, said Arabella.
And at what distance, madam, are the facts related in them from the age of the writer?
I was never exact in my computation, replied Arabella; but I think most of the events happened about two thousand years ago.
How then, madam, resumed the doctor, could these events be so minutely known to writers so far remote from the time in which they happened?
By records, monuments, memoirs, and histories, answered the lady.
But by what accident, then, said the doctor smiling, did it happen these records and monuments were kept universally secret to mankind till the last century?
What brought all the memoirs of the remotest nations and earliest ages only to France?
Where were they hidden that none could consult them but a few obscure authors?
And whither are they now vanished again that they can be found no more?
Arabella having sat silent a while, told him, that she found his questions very difficult to be answered; and that though perhaps the authors themselves could have told whence they borrowed their materials, she should not at present require any other evidence of the first assertion:
But allowed him to suppose them fictions, and required now that he should show them to be absurd.
Your ladyship, returned he, has, I find, too much understanding to struggle against demonstration, and too much veracity to deny your convictions: therefore some of the arguments by which I intended to show the falsehood of these narratives may be now used to prove their absurdity.
You grant them, madam, to be fictions?
Sir, interrupted Arabella eagerly, you are again infringing the laws of disputation.
You are not to confound a supposition of which I allow you only the present use, with an unlimited and irrevocable concession.
I am too well acquainted with my own weakness to conclude an opinion false, merely because I find myself unable to defend it.
But I am in haste to hear the proof of the other positions, not only because they may perhaps supply what is deficient in your evidence of the first, but because I think it of more importance to detect corruption than fiction.
Though indeed falsehood is a species of corruption, and what falsehood is more hateful than the falsehood of history?
Since you have drawn me back, madam, to the first question, returned the doctor, let me know what arguments your ladyship can produce for the veracity of these books.
That there are many objections against it, you yourself have allowed, and the highest moral evidence of falsehood appears when there are many arguments against an assertion, and none for it.
Sir, replied Arabella, I shall never think that any narrative, which is not confuted by its own absurdity, is without one argument at least on its side. There is a love of truth in the human mind, if not naturally implanted, so easily obtained from reason and experience, that I should expect it universally to prevail where there is no strong temptation to deceit; we hate to be deceived, we therefore hate those that deceive us; we desire not to be hated, and therefore know that we are not to deceive. Show me an equal motive to falsehood, or confess that every relation has some right to credit.
This may be allowed, madam, said the doctor, when we claim to be credited; but that seems not to be the hope or intention of these writers.
Surely, sir, replied Arabella, you must mistake their design; he that writes without intention to be credited, must write to little purpose; for what pleasure or advantage can arise from facts that never happened? What examples can be afforded by the patience of those who never suffered, or the chastity of those who were never solicited? The great end of history is to show how much human nature can endure or perform. When we hear a story in common life that raises our wonder or compassion, the first confutation stills our emotions; and however we were touched before, we then chase it from the memory with contempt as a trifle, or with indignation as an imposture. Prove, therefore, that the books which I have hitherto read as copies of life, and models of conduct, are empty fictions, and from this hour I deliver them to moths and mould; and from this time consider their authors as wretches who cheated me of those hours I ought to have dedicated to application and improvement, and betrayed me to a waste of those years in which I might have laid up knowledge for my future life.
Shakespeare, said the doctor, calls just resentment the child of integrity; and therefore I do not wonder, that what vehemence the gentleness of your ladyship's temper allows should be exerted upon this occasion. Yet though I cannot forgive these authors for having destroyed so much valuable time, yet I cannot think them intentionally culpable, because I cannot believe they expected to be credited. Truth is not always injured by fiction. An admirable writer[1]of our own time, has found the way to convey the most solid instructions, the noblest sentiments, and the most exalted piety, in the pleasing dress of a novel[2], and, to use the words of the greatest genius[3]in the present age, "has taught the passions to move at the command of virtue." The fables of Æsop, though never I suppose believed, yet have been long considered as lectures of moral and domestic wisdom, so well adapted to the faculties of man that they have been received by all civilized nations; and the Arabs themselves have honoured his translator with the appellation of Locman the Wise.
The fables of Æsop, said Arabella, are among those of which the absurdity discovers itself, and the truth is comprised in the application; but what can be said of those tales which are told with the solemn air of historical truth, and if false convey no instruction?
That they cannot be defended, madam, said the doctor, it is my purpose to prove; and if to evince their falsehood be sufficient to procure their banishment from your ladyship's closet, their day of grace is near an end. How is any oral, or written testimony, confuted or confirmed?
By comparing it, says the lady, with the testimony of others, or with the natural effects, and standing evidence of the facts related, and sometimes by comparing it with itself.
If then your ladyship will abide by this last, returned he, and compare these books with ancient histories, you will not only find innumerable names, of which no mention was ever made before, but persons who lived in different ages, engaged as the friends or rivals of each other. You will perceive that your authors have parcelled out the world at discretion, erected palaces, and established monarchies wherever the conveniency of their narrative required them, and set kings and queens over imaginary nations. Nor have they considered themselves as invested with less authority over the works of nature, than the institutions of men; for they have distributed mountains and deserts, gulphs and rocks, wherever they wanted them; and whenever the course of their story required an expedient, raised a gloomy forest, or overflowed the regions with a rapid stream.
I suppose, said Arabella, you have no intention to deceive me; and since, if what you have asserted be true, the cause is undefensible, I shall trouble you no longer to argue on this topic, but desire now to hear why, supposing them fictions, and intended to be received as fictions, you censure them as absurd?
The only excellence of falsehood, answered he, is its resemblance to truth; as therefore any narrative is more liable to be confuted by its inconsistency with known facts, it is at a greater distance from the perfection of fiction; for there can be no difficulty in framing a tale, if we are left at liberty to invert all history and nature for our own conveniency. When a crime is to be concealed, it is easy to cover it with an imaginary wood. When virtue is to be rewarded, a nation with a new name may, without any expense of invention, raise her to the throne. When Ariosto was told of the magnificence of his palaces, he answered, that the cost of poetical architecture was very little; and still less is the cost of building without art, than without materials. But their historical failures may be easily passed over, when we consider their physical or philosophical absurdities; to bring men together from different countries does not shock with every inherent or demonstrable absurdity, and therefore when we read only for amusement, such improprieties may be borne: but who can forbear to throw away the story that gives to one man the strength of thousands; that puts life or death in a smile or a frown; that recounts labours and sufferings to which the powers of humanity are utterly unequal; that disfigures the whole appearance of the world, and represents every thing in a form different from that which experience has shown? It is the fault of the best fictions, that they teach young minds to expect strange adventures and sudden vicissitudes, and therefore encourage them often to trust to chance. A long life may be passed without a single occurrence that can cause much surprise, or produce any unexpected consequence of great importance; the order of the world is so established, that all human affairs proceed in a regular method, and very little opportunity is left for sallies or hazards, for assault or rescue; but the brave and the coward, the sprightly and the dull, suffer themselves to be carried alike down the stream of custom.
Arabella, who had for some time listened with a wish to interrupt him, now took advantage of a short pause. I cannot imagine, sir, said she, that you intend to deceive me, and therefore I am inclined to believe that you are yourself mistaken, and that your application to learning has hindered you from that acquaintance with the world in which these authors excelled. I have not long conversed in public, yet I have found that life is subject to many accidents. Do you count my late escape for nothing? Is it to be numbered among daily and cursory transactions, that a woman flies from a ravisher into a rapid stream?
You must not, madam, said the doctor, urge as an argument the fact which is at present the subject of dispute.
Arabella blushing at the absurdity she had been guilty of, and not attempting any subterfuge or excuse, the doctor found himself at liberty to proceed:
You must not imagine, madam, continued he, that I intend to arrogate any superiority, when I observe that your ladyship must suffer me to decide, in some measure authoritatively, whether life is truly described in those books; the likeness of a picture can only be determined by a knowledge of the original. You have yet had little opportunity of knowing the ways of mankind, which cannot be learned but from experience, and of which the highest understanding, and the lowest, must enter the world in equal ignorance. I have lived long in a public character, and have thought it my duty to study those whom I have undertaken to admonish or instruct. I have never been so rich as to affright men into disguise and concealment, nor so poor as to be kept at a distance too great for accurate observation. I therefore presume to tell your ladyship, with great confidence, that your writers have instituted a world of their own, and that nothing is more different from a human being, than heroes or heroines.
I am afraid, sir, said Arabella, that the difference is not in favour of the present world.
That, madam, answered he, your own penetration will enable you to judge when it shall have made you equally acquainted with both: I have no desire to determine a question, the solution of which will give so little pleasure to purity and benevolence.
The silence of a man who loves to praise is a censure sufficiently severe, said the lady. May it never happen that you should be unwilling to mention the name of Arabella. I hope wherever corruption prevails in the world, to live in it with virtue; or, if I find myself too much endangered, to retire from it with innocence. But if you can say so little in commendation of mankind, how will you prove these histories to be vicious, which, if they do not describe real life, give us an idea of a better race of beings than now inhabit the world.
It is of little importance, madam, replied the doctor, to decide whether in the real or fictitious life most wickedness is to be found. Books ought to supply an antidote to example, and if we retire to a contemplation of crimes, and continue in our closets to inflame our passions, at what time must we rectify our words, or purify our hearts? The immediate tendency of these books, which your ladyship must allow me to mention with some severity, is to give new fire to the passions of revenge and love; two passions which, even without such powerful auxiliaries, it is one of the severest labours of reason and piety to suppress, and which yet must be suppressed if we hope to be approved in the sight of the only Being, whose approbation can make us happy. I am afraid your ladyship will think me too serious.
I have already learned too much from you, said Arabella, to presume to instruct you, yet suffer me to caution you never to dishonour your sacred office by the lowliness of apologies.
Then let me again observe, resumed he, that these books soften the heart to love, and harden it to murder. That they teach women to exact vengeance, and men to execute it; teach women to expect not only worship, but the dreadful worship of human sacrifices. Every page of these volumes is filled with such extravagance of praise, and expressions of obedience, as one human being ought not to hear from another; or with accounts of battles, in which thousands are slaughtered for no other purpose than to gain a smile from the haughty beauty, who sits a calm spectatress of the ruin and desolation, bloodshed and misery, incited by herself.
It is impossible to read these tales without lessening part of that humility, which by preserving in us a sense of our alliance with all human nature, keeps us awake to tenderness and sympathy, or without impairing that compassion which is implanted in us as an incentive to acts of kindness. If there be any preserved by natural softness, or early education, from learning pride and cruelty, they are yet in danger of being betrayed to the vanity of beauty, and taught the arts of intrigue.
Love, madam, is, you know, the business, the sole business of ladies in romances. Arabella's blushes now hindered him from proceeding as he had intended. I perceive, continued he, that my arguments begin to be less agreeable to your ladyship's delicacy: I shall therefore insist no longer upon false tenderness of sentiment, but proceed to those outrages of the violent passions which, though not more dangerous, are more generally hateful.
It is not necessary, sir, interrupted Arabella, that you strengthen by any new proof a position which when calmly considered cannot be denied. My heart yields to the force of truth; and I now wonder how the blaze of enthusiastic bravery could hinder me from remarking, with abhorrence, the crime of deliberate unnecessary bloodshed.
I begin to perceive that I have hitherto at least trifled away my time, and fear that I have already made some approaches to the crime of encouraging violence and revenge. I hope, madam, said the good man with horror in his looks, that no life was ever lost by your incitement. Arabella seeing him thus moved, burst into tears, and could not immediately answer. Is it possible, cried the doctor, that such gentleness and elegance should be stained with blood? Be not too hasty in your censure, said Arabella, recovering herself: I tremble indeed to think how nearly I have approached the brink of murder, when I thought myself only consulting my own glory; but whatever I suffer, I will never more demand or instigate vengeance, nor consider my punctilios as important enough to be balanced against life.
The doctor confirmed her in her new resolutions, and thinking solitude was necessary to compose her spirits after the fatigue of so long a conversation, he retired to acquaint Mr Glanville with his success; who in the transport of his joy was almost ready to throw himself at his feet, to thank him for the miracle, as he called it, that he had performed.