Dear sensibility, O la!I heard a little lamb cry, ba;Says I, so you have lost mamma?Ah!The little lamb, as I said so,Frisking about the field did go,And frisking, trod upon my toe.Oh!
Dear sensibility, O la!I heard a little lamb cry, ba;Says I, so you have lost mamma?Ah!
Dear sensibility, O la!
I heard a little lamb cry, ba;
Says I, so you have lost mamma?
Ah!
The little lamb, as I said so,Frisking about the field did go,And frisking, trod upon my toe.Oh!
The little lamb, as I said so,
Frisking about the field did go,
And frisking, trod upon my toe.
Oh!
'Neat enough,' said I, 'only that it wants the wordlovein it.'
'True,' cried Stuart; 'for all modern poems of the kind abound in the word, though they seldom have much of the feeling.'
'And pray, my good friend,' asked I archly, as I bound up my golden ringlets—'What is love?'
'Nay,' said he, 'they say that talking of love is making it.'
Plucking a thistle that sprang from the bank, I blew away its down with my balmy breath, merely to hide my confusion.
Surely I am the most sensitive of all created beings!
Betterton had now reached us, out of breath after his race, and utterly unable to articulate.
'Betterton,' cried I, 'what is love?'
''Tis,' said he, gasping, ''tis—'tis——'
'The gentleman,' cried Stuart, 'gives as good a description of it as most of our modern poets; who make its chief ingredients panting and broken murmurs.'
'Now in my opinion,' said I, 'love is a mystical sympathy, which unfolds itself in the glance that seeks the soul,—the sentiment that the soul embodies—the tender gaiety—the more delicious sadness—the stifled sigh—the soft and malicious smile—the thrill, the hope, the fear—each in itself a little bliss. In a word, it is the swoon of the soul, the delirium of the heart, the elegant inebriety of unsophisticated sentiment.'
'If such be love,' said Stuart, 'I fear I shall never bring myself to make it.'
'And pray,' said I, 'how would you make love?'
'There are many modes,' answered he, 'and the way to succeed with one girl is often the way to fail with another. Girls may be divided into the conversable and inconversable. He who can talk the best, has therefore the best chance of the former; but would a man make a conquest of one of the beautiful Inutilities, who sits in sweet stupidity, plays off the small simpers, and founds her prospects in life on the shape of her face, he has little more to do than call her a goddess and make himself a monkey. Or if that should fail, as he cannot apply to her understanding, he must have recourse to her feeling, and try what the touch can do for him. The touch has a thousand virtues. Only let him establish a lodgment on the first joint of her little finger, he may soon set out on his travels, and make the grand tour of her waist. This is, indeed, to have wit at his fingers' ends; and this, I can assure you, is the best and shortest way to gain the hearts of those demure misses, who think that all modesty consists in silence, that to be insipid is to be innocent, and that because they have not a word for a young man in public, they may have a kiss for him in private.'
'Come,' said I, 'let us talk of love in poetry, not prose. I want some pretty verses to fill up my memoirs; so, Betterton, now for an amorous ode to your mistress.'
Betterton bowed and began:
TO FANNYSay, Fanny, why has bounteous heaven,In every end benign and wise,Perfection to your features given?Enchantment to your witching eyes?Was it that mortal man might viewThy charms at distance, and adore?Ah, no! the man who would not woo,Were less than mortal, or were more.The mossy rose that scents the sky,By bee, by butterfly caress'd,We leave not on the stalk to die,But fondly snatch it to the breastThere, unsurpassed in sweets, it dwells;—Unless the breast be Fanny's own:There blooming, every bloom excels;—Except of Fanny's blush alone.O Fanny, life is on the wing,And years, like rivers, glide away:To-morrow may misfortune bring,Then, gentle girl, enjoy to-dayAnd while a lingering kiss I sip,Ah, start not from these ardent arms;Nor think the printure of my lipWill rob your own of any charms.For see, we crush not, though we tread,The cup and primrose. Fanny smiled.Come then and press the cup, she said,Come then and press the primrose wild.
TO FANNY
TO FANNY
Say, Fanny, why has bounteous heaven,In every end benign and wise,Perfection to your features given?Enchantment to your witching eyes?
Say, Fanny, why has bounteous heaven,
In every end benign and wise,
Perfection to your features given?
Enchantment to your witching eyes?
Was it that mortal man might viewThy charms at distance, and adore?Ah, no! the man who would not woo,Were less than mortal, or were more.
Was it that mortal man might view
Thy charms at distance, and adore?
Ah, no! the man who would not woo,
Were less than mortal, or were more.
The mossy rose that scents the sky,By bee, by butterfly caress'd,We leave not on the stalk to die,But fondly snatch it to the breast
The mossy rose that scents the sky,
By bee, by butterfly caress'd,
We leave not on the stalk to die,
But fondly snatch it to the breast
There, unsurpassed in sweets, it dwells;—Unless the breast be Fanny's own:There blooming, every bloom excels;—Except of Fanny's blush alone.
There, unsurpassed in sweets, it dwells;—
Unless the breast be Fanny's own:
There blooming, every bloom excels;—
Except of Fanny's blush alone.
O Fanny, life is on the wing,And years, like rivers, glide away:To-morrow may misfortune bring,Then, gentle girl, enjoy to-day
O Fanny, life is on the wing,
And years, like rivers, glide away:
To-morrow may misfortune bring,
Then, gentle girl, enjoy to-day
And while a lingering kiss I sip,Ah, start not from these ardent arms;Nor think the printure of my lipWill rob your own of any charms.
And while a lingering kiss I sip,
Ah, start not from these ardent arms;
Nor think the printure of my lip
Will rob your own of any charms.
For see, we crush not, though we tread,The cup and primrose. Fanny smiled.Come then and press the cup, she said,Come then and press the primrose wild.
For see, we crush not, though we tread,
The cup and primrose. Fanny smiled.
Come then and press the cup, she said,
Come then and press the primrose wild.
'Now,' cried Stuart, 'I can give you a poem, with just as much love in it, and twice as much kissing.'
'That,' said I, 'would be a treasure indeed.'
He then began thus:
TO SALLYDawn with stains of ruddy light,Streaks her grey and fragrant fingers,While the Ethiop foot of night,Envious of my Sally, lingers.Upward poplars, downward willows,Rustle round us; zephyrs sprinkleLeaves of daffodillies, lilies,Pennyroyal, periwinkle.Rosy, balmy, honied, humid,Biting, burning, murmuring kisses,Sally, I will snatch from you, midLooks demure that tempt to blisses.If your cheek grow cold, my dear,I will kiss it, till it flushes,Or if warm, my raptured tear,Shall extinguish all its blushes.Yes, that dimple is a valley,Where sports many a little true love,And that glance you dart, my Sally,Might melt diamonds into dew love.But while idle thus I chat,I the war of lips am missing.This, this, this, and that, that, that,These make kissing, kissing, kissing.
TO SALLY
TO SALLY
Dawn with stains of ruddy light,Streaks her grey and fragrant fingers,While the Ethiop foot of night,Envious of my Sally, lingers.
Dawn with stains of ruddy light,
Streaks her grey and fragrant fingers,
While the Ethiop foot of night,
Envious of my Sally, lingers.
Upward poplars, downward willows,Rustle round us; zephyrs sprinkleLeaves of daffodillies, lilies,Pennyroyal, periwinkle.
Upward poplars, downward willows,
Rustle round us; zephyrs sprinkle
Leaves of daffodillies, lilies,
Pennyroyal, periwinkle.
Rosy, balmy, honied, humid,Biting, burning, murmuring kisses,Sally, I will snatch from you, midLooks demure that tempt to blisses.
Rosy, balmy, honied, humid,
Biting, burning, murmuring kisses,
Sally, I will snatch from you, mid
Looks demure that tempt to blisses.
If your cheek grow cold, my dear,I will kiss it, till it flushes,Or if warm, my raptured tear,Shall extinguish all its blushes.
If your cheek grow cold, my dear,
I will kiss it, till it flushes,
Or if warm, my raptured tear,
Shall extinguish all its blushes.
Yes, that dimple is a valley,Where sports many a little true love,And that glance you dart, my Sally,Might melt diamonds into dew love.
Yes, that dimple is a valley,
Where sports many a little true love,
And that glance you dart, my Sally,
Might melt diamonds into dew love.
But while idle thus I chat,I the war of lips am missing.This, this, this, and that, that, that,These make kissing, kissing, kissing.
But while idle thus I chat,
I the war of lips am missing.
This, this, this, and that, that, that,
These make kissing, kissing, kissing.
The style of this poem reminded me of Montmorenci, and at the same moment I heard a rustling sound behind me. I started. ''Tis Montmorenci!' cried I.
Agitated in the extreme, I turned to see.—It was only a cock-sparrow.
'I deserve the disappointment,' said I to myself, 'for I have never once thought of that amiable youth since I last beheld him. 'Sweetest and noblest of men,' exclaimed I, aloud, 'say, dost thou mourn my mysterious absence? Perhaps the draught of air that I now inhale is the same which thou hast breathed forth, in a sigh for the far distant Cherubina!'
'That cannot well be,' interrupted Stuart, 'or at least the sigh of this unknown must have been packed up in a case, and hermetically sealed, to have come to you without being dispersed on the way.'
'There you happen to be mistaken,' answered I. 'For in the Hermit of the Rock, the heroine, while sitting on the coast of Sardinia, seemed to think it highly probable, that the billow at her feet might be the identical billow which had swallowed up her lover, about a year before, off the coast of Martinique.'
'That was not at all more improbable than Valancourt's theory,' said Stuart.
'What was it?' asked I.
'Why,' said he, 'that the sun sets, in different longitudes, at the same moment. For when his Emily was going to Italy, while he remained in France, he begged of her to watch the setting of the sun every evening, that both their eyes might be fixed upon the same object at once. Now, as the sun would set, where she was in Italy, much earlier than where he was in France, he certainly took the best of all possible methods to prevent their looking at it together.'
'But, Sir,' said Betterton, 'heroes and heroines are not bound to understand astronomy.'
'And yet,' answered Stuart, 'they are greater star-gazers than the ancient Egyptians. To form an attachment for the moon, and write a sonnet on it, is the principal test of being a heroine.'
As he spoke, a painted butterfly came fluttering about me. To pursue it was a classical amusement, for Caroline of Lichfield made a butterfly-hunt her pastime; so springing on my feet, I began the chace. The nimble insect eluded me for a long time, and at last got over the paling, into the little garden. I followed it through a small gate, and caught it; but alas! bruised it in the capture, and broke one of its wings. The poor thing sought refuge in a lily, where it lay struggling a few moments, and then its little spirit fled for ever.
What an opportunity for a sonnet! I determined to compose one under the willow. A beautiful rose-bush was blushing near the lily, and reminded me how pastoral I should look, could I recline on roses, during my poetical ecstasy. But would it be proper to pick them? Surely a few could do no harm. I glanced round—Nobody was in sight—I picked a few. But what signified a few for what I wanted? I picked a few more. The more I picked, the more I longed to pick—'Tis human nature; and was not Eve herself tempted in a garden? So from roses I went to lilies, from lilies to carnations, thence to jessamine, honey-suckle, eglantine, sweet-pea; till, in short, I had filled my bonnet, and almost emptied the beds. I then hurried to the willow with my prize; sentenced Stuart and Betterton to fifty yards banishment, and constructed a charming couch of flowers, which I damasked and inlaid with daisies, butter-flowers, and moss.
Enraptured with my paradisaical carpet, I flung myself upon it, and my recumbent form, as it pressed the perfumes, was indeed that of Mahomet's Houri. Exercise and agitation had heightened the glow of my cheeks, and the wind had blown my yellow hair about my face, like withered leaves round a ripened peach. I never looked so lovely.
In a short time I was able to repeat this sonnet aloud.
SONNETWhere the blue stream reflected flowerets pale,A fluttering butterfly, with many a freak,Dipped into dancing bells, and spread its sailOf azure pinions, edged with jetty streak.I snatched it passing; but a pinion frail,Ingrained with mealy gold, I chanced to break.The mangled insect, ill deserving bane,Falls in the hollow of a lily new.My tears drop after it, but drop in vain.The cup, embalmed with azure airs and dew,And flowery dust and grains of fragrant seed,Can ne'er revive it from the fatal deed.So guileless nymphs attract some traiterous eye,So by the spoiler crushed, reject all joy and die.
SONNET
SONNET
Where the blue stream reflected flowerets pale,A fluttering butterfly, with many a freak,Dipped into dancing bells, and spread its sailOf azure pinions, edged with jetty streak.I snatched it passing; but a pinion frail,Ingrained with mealy gold, I chanced to break.The mangled insect, ill deserving bane,Falls in the hollow of a lily new.My tears drop after it, but drop in vain.The cup, embalmed with azure airs and dew,And flowery dust and grains of fragrant seed,Can ne'er revive it from the fatal deed.So guileless nymphs attract some traiterous eye,So by the spoiler crushed, reject all joy and die.
Where the blue stream reflected flowerets pale,
A fluttering butterfly, with many a freak,
Dipped into dancing bells, and spread its sail
Of azure pinions, edged with jetty streak.
I snatched it passing; but a pinion frail,
Ingrained with mealy gold, I chanced to break.
The mangled insect, ill deserving bane,
Falls in the hollow of a lily new.
My tears drop after it, but drop in vain.
The cup, embalmed with azure airs and dew,
And flowery dust and grains of fragrant seed,
Can ne'er revive it from the fatal deed.
So guileless nymphs attract some traiterous eye,
So by the spoiler crushed, reject all joy and die.
Now that the pomp of composition was over, I began to think I had treated the owner of the garden extremely ill. I felt myself guilty of little less than theft, and was deliberating on what I ought to do, when an old, grey-headed peasant came running towards me from the garden.
'Miss!' cried he, 'have you seen any body pass this way with a parcel of flowers; for some confounded thief has just robbed me of all I had?'
I raised myself a little to reply, and he perceived the flowers underneath.
'Odd's life!' cried he, 'so you are the thief, are you? How dare you, hussey, commit such a robbery?'
'I am no hussey, and 'tis no robbery,' cried I; 'and trust me, you shall neither have apology nor compensation. Hussey, indeed! Sir, it was all your own fault for leaving that uncouth gate of your's open. I am afraid, Sir, that you are a shockingly ignorant old man.'
The peasant was just about to seize me, when Stuart ran up, and prevented him. They had then some private conversation together, and I saw Stuart give him a guinea. The talismanic touch of gold struck instant peace, and a compact of amity followed. Indeed, I have ever found, that even my face, though a heroine's, and with all its dimples, blushes, and glances, could never do half so much for me as the royal face on a bit of gold.
The peasant was now very civil, and invited us to rest in his cottage. Thither we repaired, and found his daughter, a beautiful young woman, just preparing the dinner. I felt instantly interested in her fate. I likewise felt hungry; so calling her aside, I told her that I would be happy to have a dinner, and, if possible, a bed, at the cottage; and that I would recompense her liberally for them, as I was a lady of rank, but at present in great affliction.
She said she would be very glad to accommodate me, if her father would permit her; and she then went to consult him. After a private conference between them and Stuart, she told me that her father was willing to let me remain. So we soon agreed upon the terms, and a village was at hand, where Stuart and Betterton might dine and sleep.
Before they left me, they made me give a solemn promise not to quit the cottage, till both of them should return, the next morning.
Stuart took an opportunity of asking me, whether he could speak to me in private, that evening.
'At ten o'clock to-night,' answered I, 'I will be sitting at the casement of my chamber. Trill a lamenting canzonet beneath it, as a signal, and I will admit you to a stolen interview.'
Betterton and he then departed, but not in company with each other.
Dinner is announced.
Adieu
At dinner, a young farmer joined us; and I soon perceived that he and the peasant's daughter, Mary, were born for each other. They betrayed their mutual tenderness by a thousand little innocent stratagems, that passed, as they thought, unobserved.
After dinner, when Mary was about accompanying me to walk, the youth stole after us, and just as I had got into the garden, he drew her back, and I heard him kiss her. She came to me with her face a little flushed, and her ripe lips ruddier than before.
'Well, Mary,' said I, 'what was he doing to you?'
'Doing, Ma'am? Nothing, I am sure.'
'Nothing, Mary?'
'Why, Ma'am, he only wanted to be a little rude, and kiss me, I believe.'
'And you would not allow him, Mary?'
'Why should I tell a falsehood about it, Ma'am?' said she. 'To be sure I did not hinder him; for he is my sweetheart, and we are to be married next week.'
'And do you love him, Mary?'
'Better than my life, Ma'am. There never was such a good lad; he has not a fault in the wide world, and all the girls are dying of envy that I have got him.'
'Well, Mary,' said I, 'I foresee we shall spend a most delicious evening. We will take a rural repast down to the brook, and tell our loves. The contrast will be beautiful;—mine, the refined, sentimental, pathetic story; your's the pretty, simple, little, artless tale. Come, my friend; let us return, and prepare the rustic banquet. No souchong, or bohea; (blessed names these!) no hot or cold cakes—Oh! no, but creams, berries, and fruits; goat's milk, figs, and honey—Arcadian, pastoral, primeval dainties!'
We then went back to the cottage, but could get nothing better than currants, gooseberries, and a maple bowl of cream. Mary, indeed, cut a large slice of bread and butter for her private amusement; and with these we returned to the streamlet. I then threw myself on my flowery couch, and my companion sat beside me.
We helped ourselves. I took rivulet to my cream, and scooped the brook with my rosy palm. Innocent nymph! ah, why couldst thou not sit down in the lap of content here, and dance, and sing, and say thy prayers, and go to heaven with this nut-brown maid?
I picked up a languishing rose, and sighed as I inhaled its perfume, and gazed on its decay.
'Such, Mary,' said I, 'such will be the fate of you and me. How soft, how serene this evening. It is a landscape for a Claud. But how much more charming is an Italian or a French than an English landscape. O! to saunter over hillocks, covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper and tamarise, while shrubs fringe the summits of the rocks, or patches of meagre vegetation tint their recesses! Plantations of almonds, cypresses, palms, olives, and dates stretch along; nor are the larch and ilex, the masses of granite, and dark forests of fir wanting; while the majestic Garonne wanders, descending from the Pyrenees, and winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay.
'Is not all this exquisite, Mary?'
'It must, Ma'am, since you say so,' replied she.
'Then,' continued I, 'though your own cottage is tolerable, yet is it, as in Italy, covered with vine leaves, fig-trees, jessamine, and clusters of grapes? Is it tufted with myrtle, or shaded with a grove of lemon, orange, and bergamot?'
'But Ma'am,' said Mary, ''tis shaded by some fine old elms.'
'True,' cried I, with the smile of approaching triumph. 'But do the flowers of the spreading agnus castus mingle with the pomegranate of Shemlek? Does the Asiatic andrachne rear its red trunk? Are the rose-coloured nerit, and verdant alia marina imbost upon the rocks? And do the golden clusters of Eastern spartium gleam amidst the fragrant foliage of the cedrat, the most elegant shrub of the Levant? Do they, Mary?'
'I believe not, Ma'am,' answered she. 'But then our fields are all over daisies, butterflowers, clover-blossoms, and daffodowndillies.'
'Daffodowndillies!' cried I. 'Ah, Mary, Mary, you may be a very good girl, but you do not shine in description. Now I leave it to your own taste, which sounds better,—Asiatic andrachne, or daffodowndillies? If you knew any thing of novels, you would describe for the ear, not for the eye. Oh, my young friend, never, while you live, say daffodowndillies.'
'Never, if I can help it, Ma'am,' said Mary. 'And I hope you are not offended with me, or think the worse of me, on account of my having said it now; for I could safely make oath that I never heard, till this instant, of its being a naughty word.'
'I am satisfied,' said I. 'So now let us tell our loves, and you shall begin.'
'Indeed, Ma'am,' said she, 'I have nothing to tell.'
'Impossible,' cried I. 'Did William never save your life?'
'Never, Ma'am.'
'Well then, he had a quarrel with you?'
'Never, in all his born days, Ma'am.'
'Shocking! Why how long have you known him?'
'About six months, Ma'am. He took a small farm near us; and he liked me from the first, and I liked him, and both families wished for the match; and when he asked me to marry him, I said I would; and so we shall be married next week; and that is the whole history, Ma'am.'
'A melancholy history, indeed!' said I. 'What a pity that an interesting pair, like you, who, without flattery, seem born for one of Marmontel's tales, should be so cruelly sacrificed.'
I then began to consider whether any thing could yet be done in their behalf, or whether the matter was indeed past redemption. I reflected that it would be but an act of common charity,—hardly deserving praise—to snatch them awhile from the dogged and headlong way they were setting about matrimony, and introduce them to a few of the sensibilities. Surely with very little ingenuity, I might get up an incident or two between them;—a week or a fortnight's torture, perhaps;—and afterwards enjoy the luxury of reuniting them.
Full of this laudable intention, I sat meditating awhile; and at length hit upon an admirable plan. It was no less than to make Mary (without her own knowledge) write a letter to William, dismissing him for ever! This appears impossible, but attend.
'My story,' said I, to the unsuspecting girl, 'is long and lamentable, and I fear, I have not spirits to relate it. I shall merely tell you, that I yesterday eloped with the younger of the gentlemen who were here this morning, and married him. I was induced to take this step, in consequence of my parents having insisted that I should marry my first cousin; who, by the by, is a namesake of your William's. Now, Mary, I have a favour to beg of you. My cousin William must be made acquainted with my marriage; though I mean to keep it a secret from my family, and as I do not wish to tell him such unhappy tidings in my own hand-writing—and in high life, my fair rustic, young ladies must not write to young gentlemen, your taking the trouble to write out the letter for me, would bind me to you for ever.'
'That I will, and welcome,' said the simple girl; 'only Ma'am, I fear I shall disgrace a lady like you, with my bad writing. I am, out and out, the worst scribbler in our family; and William says to me but yesterday, ah, Mary, says he, if your tongue talked as your pen writes, you might die an old maid for me. Ah, William, says I, I would bite off my tongue sooner than die an old maid. So, to be sure, Willy laughed very hearty.'
We then returned home, and retired to my chamber, where I dictated, and Mary wrote as follows:
'Dear William,'Prepare your mind for receiving a great and unexpected shock. To keep you no longer in suspense, learn that I ammarried.'Before I had become acquainted with you, I was attached to another man, whose name I must beg leave to conceal. About a year since, circumstances compelled him to go abroad, and before his departure, he procured a written promise from me, to marry him on the first day of his return. You then came, and succeeded in rivalling him.'As he never once wrote, after he had left the country, I concluded that he was dead. Yesterday, however, a letter from him was put into my hand, which announced his return, and appointed a private interview. I went. He had a clergyman in waiting to join our hands. I prayed, entreated, wept—all in vain.'Ibecame his wife.'O William, pity, but do not blame me. If you are a man of honour and of feeling, never shew this letter, or tell its contents to one living soul. Do not even speak to myself on the subject of it.'You see I pay your own feelings the compliment of not signing the name that I now bear.'Adieu, dear William: adieu for ever.'
'Dear William,
'Prepare your mind for receiving a great and unexpected shock. To keep you no longer in suspense, learn that I ammarried.
'Before I had become acquainted with you, I was attached to another man, whose name I must beg leave to conceal. About a year since, circumstances compelled him to go abroad, and before his departure, he procured a written promise from me, to marry him on the first day of his return. You then came, and succeeded in rivalling him.
'As he never once wrote, after he had left the country, I concluded that he was dead. Yesterday, however, a letter from him was put into my hand, which announced his return, and appointed a private interview. I went. He had a clergyman in waiting to join our hands. I prayed, entreated, wept—all in vain.
'Ibecame his wife.
'O William, pity, but do not blame me. If you are a man of honour and of feeling, never shew this letter, or tell its contents to one living soul. Do not even speak to myself on the subject of it.
'You see I pay your own feelings the compliment of not signing the name that I now bear.
'Adieu, dear William: adieu for ever.'
We then returned to the sitting-room, and found William there. While we were conversing, I took an opportunity to slip the letter, unperceived, into his hand, and to bid him read it in some other place. He retired with it, and we continued talking. But in about half an hour he hurried into the room, with an agitated countenance; stopped opposite to Mary, and looked at her earnestly.
'William!' cried she, 'William! For shame then, don't frighten one so.'
'No, Mary,' said he, 'I scorn to frighten you, or injure you either. I believe I am above that. But no wonder my last look at you should be frightful. There is your true-lover's knot—there is your hair—there are your letters. So now, Mary, good-bye, and may you be for ever happy, is what I pray Providence, from the bottom of my broken heart!'
With these words, and a piteous glance of anguish, he rushed from the room.
Mary remained motionless a moment; then half rose, sat down, rose again; and grew pale and red by turns.
''Tis so—so laughable,' said she at length, while her quivering lip refused the attempted smile. 'All my presents returned too. Sure—my heavens!—Sure he cannot want to break off with me? Well, I have as good a spirit as he, I believe. The base man; the cruel, cruel man!' and she burst into a passion of tears.
I tried to sooth her, but the more I said, the more she wept. She was sure, she said, she was quite sure that he wanted to leave her; and then she sobbed so piteously, that I was on the point of undeceiving her; when, fortunately, we heard her father returning, and she ran into her own room. He asked about her; I told him that she was not well;—the old excuse of a fretting heroine; so the good man went to her, and with some difficulty gained admittance. They have remained together ever since.
How delicious will be the happy denouement of this pathetic episode, this dear novellette; and how sweetly will it read in my memoirs!
Adieu.
The night was so dark when I repaired to the casement, that I have been trying to compose a description of it for you, in the style of the best romances. But after having summoned to my mind all the black articles of value that I can recollect—ebony, sables, palls, pitch, and even coal, I find I have nothing better to say, than, simply, that it was a dark night.
Having opened the casement, I sat down at it, and repeated these lines aloud.
SONNETNow while within their wings each feather'd pair,Hide their hush'd heads, thy visit, moon, renew,Shake thy pale tresses down, irradiate air,Earth, and the spicy flowers that scent the dew.The lonely nightingale shall pipe to thee,And I will moralize her minstrelsy.Ten thousand birds the sun resplendent sing,One only warbles to the milder moon.Thus for the great, how many wake the string,Thus for the good, how few the lyre attune.
SONNET
SONNET
Now while within their wings each feather'd pair,Hide their hush'd heads, thy visit, moon, renew,Shake thy pale tresses down, irradiate air,Earth, and the spicy flowers that scent the dew.The lonely nightingale shall pipe to thee,And I will moralize her minstrelsy.
Now while within their wings each feather'd pair,
Hide their hush'd heads, thy visit, moon, renew,
Shake thy pale tresses down, irradiate air,
Earth, and the spicy flowers that scent the dew.
The lonely nightingale shall pipe to thee,
And I will moralize her minstrelsy.
Ten thousand birds the sun resplendent sing,One only warbles to the milder moon.Thus for the great, how many wake the string,Thus for the good, how few the lyre attune.
Ten thousand birds the sun resplendent sing,
One only warbles to the milder moon.
Thus for the great, how many wake the string,
Thus for the good, how few the lyre attune.
As soon as I had finished the sonnet, a low and tremulous voice, close to the casement, sung these words:
SONGHaste, my love, and come away;What is folly, what is sorrow?'Tis to turn from, joys to-day,Tis to wait for cares to-morrow.O'er the river,Aspens shiverThus I tremble at delay.Light discovers,Vowing lovers:See the stars with sharpened ray,Gathering thicker,Glancing quicker;Haste, my love, and come away.
SONG
SONG
Haste, my love, and come away;What is folly, what is sorrow?'Tis to turn from, joys to-day,Tis to wait for cares to-morrow.O'er the river,Aspens shiverThus I tremble at delay.Light discovers,Vowing lovers:See the stars with sharpened ray,Gathering thicker,Glancing quicker;Haste, my love, and come away.
Haste, my love, and come away;
What is folly, what is sorrow?
'Tis to turn from, joys to-day,
Tis to wait for cares to-morrow.
O'er the river,
Aspens shiver
Thus I tremble at delay.
Light discovers,
Vowing lovers:
See the stars with sharpened ray,
Gathering thicker,
Glancing quicker;
Haste, my love, and come away.
I sat enraptured, and heaved a sigh.
'Enchanting sigh!' cried the singer, as he sprang through the window; but it was not the voice of Stuart.
I screamed loudly.
'Hush!' cried the mysterious unknown, and advanced towards me; when, to my great relief, the door was thrown open, and the old peasant entered, with Mary behind him, holding a candle.
In the middle of the room, stood a man, clad in a black cloak, with black feathers in his hat, and a black mask on his face.
The peasant, pale as death, ran forward, knocked him to the ground, and seized a pistol and carving-knife, that were stuck in a belt about his waist.
'Unmask him!' cried I.
The peasant, kneeling on his body, tore off the mask, and I beheld—Betterton!
'Alarm the neighbours, Mary!' cried the peasant.
Mary put down the candle, and went out.
'I must appear in an unfavourable light to you, my good man,' said this terrifying character; 'but the young lady will inform you that I came hither at her own request.'
'For shame!' cried I. 'What a falsehood!'
'Falsehood!' said he. 'I have your own letter, desiring me to come.'
'The man is mad,' cried I. 'I never wrote him a letter.'
'I can produce it to your face,' said he, pulling a paper from his pocket, and to my great amazement reading these lines.
'Cherubina begs that Betterton will repair to her window, at ten o'clock to-night, disguised like an Italian assassin, with dagger, cloak, and pistol. The signal is to be his singing an air under the casement, which she will then open, and he may enter her chamber.'
'I will take the most solemn oath,' cried I, 'that I never wrote a line of it. But this unhappy wretch, who is a ruffian of the first pretensions, has a base design upon me, and has followed me from London, for the purpose of effecting it; so I suppose, he wrote the letter himself, as an excuse, in case of discovery.'
'Then he shall march to the magistrate's,' said the peasant, 'and I will indict him for house-breaking!'
A man half so frantic as Betterton I never beheld. He foamed, he grinned, he grinded the remnants of his teeth; and swore that Stuart was at the bottom of the whole plot.
By this time, Mary having returned with two men, we set forward in a body to the magistrate's, and delivered our depositions before him. I swore that I did not write the letter, and that, to the best of my belief, Betterton harboured bad designs against me.
The peasant swore that he had found the culprit, armed with a knife and pistol, in his house.
The magistrate, therefore, notwithstanding all that Betterton could say, committed him to prison without hesitation.
As they were leading him away, he cast a furious look at the magistrate, and said:
'Ay, Sir, I suppose you are one of those pensioned justices, who minister our vague and sanguinary laws, and do dark deeds for our usurping oligarchy, that has assumed a power of making our most innocent actions misdemeanours, of determining points of law without appeal, of imprisoning our persons without trial, and of breaking open our houses with the standing army. But nothing will go right till we have a reform in Parliament—neither peace nor war, commerce nor agriculture——'
'Clocks nor watches, I suppose,' said the magistrate.
'Ay, clocks nor watches,' cried Betterton, in a rage. 'For how can our mechanics make any thing good, while a packed parliament deprives them of money and a mart?'
'So then,' said the magistrate, 'if St. Dunstan's clock is out of order, 'tis owing to the want of a reform in Parliament.'
'I have not the most distant doubt of it,' cried Betterton.
''Tis fair then,' said the magistrate, 'that the reformists should take such a latitude as they do; for, probably, by their encouragement of time-pieces, they will at last discover the longitude.'
'No sneering, Sir,' cried Betterton. 'Now do your duty, as you call it, and abide the consequence.'
This gallant grey Lothario was then led off; and our party returned home.
Adieu.
I rose early this morning, and repaired to my favourite willow, to contemplate the placid landscape. Flinging myself on the grass, close to the brook, I began to warble a rustic madrigal. I then let down my length of tresses, and, stooping over the streamlet, laved them in the little urn of the dimpling Naiad.
This, you know, was agreeable enough, but the accident that befel me was not. For, leaning too much over, I lost my balance, and rolled headlong into the middle of the rivulet. As it was shallow, I did not fear being drowned, but as I was a heroine, I hoped to be rescued. Therefore, instead of rising, as I might easily have done, there I lay, shrieking and listening, and now and then lifting up my head, in hopes to see Stuart come flying towards me on the wings of the wind, Oh no! my gentleman thought proper to make himself scarce; so dripping, shivering, and indignant, I scrambled out, and bent my steps towards the cottage.
On turning the corner of the hedge, who should I perceive at the door, but the hopeful youth himself, quite at his ease, and blowing a penny trumpet for a chubby boy.
'What has happened to you?' said he, seeing me so wet.
'Only that I fell into the brook,' answered I, 'and was under the disagreeable necessity of saving my own life, when I expected that you would have condescended to take the trouble off my hands.'
'Expected!' cried he. 'Surely you had no reason for supposing that I was so near to you, as even to have witnessed the disaster.'
'And it is, therefore,' retorted I, 'that you ought to have been so near me as to have witnessed it.'
'You deal in riddles,' said he.
'Not at all,' answered I. 'For the farther off a distrest heroine believes a hero, the nearer he is sure to be. Only let her have good grounds for supposing him at her Antipodes, and nine times out of ten she finds him at her elbow.'
'Well,' said he, laughing, 'though I did not save your life, I will not endanger it, by detaining you in your wet dress. Pray hasten to change it.'
I took his advice, and borrowed some clothes from Mary, while mine were put to the fire. After breakfast, I once more equipped myself in my Tuscan costume, and a carriage being ready for us, I took an affectionate leave of that interesting rustic. Poor girl! Her attempts at cheerfulness all the morning were truly tragical; and, absorbed in another sorrow, she felt but little for my departure.
On our way, Stuart confessed that he was the person who wrote the letter to Betterton in my name; and that he did so for the purpose of entrapping him in such a manner as to prevent him from accompanying me farther. He was at the window during the whole scene; as he meant to have seized Betterton himself, had not the peasant done so.
'You will excuse my thus interfering in your concerns,' added he; 'but gratitude demands of me to protect the daughter of my guardian; and friendship for her improves the duty to a pleasure.'
'Ah!' said I, 'however it has happened, I fear you dislike me strangely.'
'Believe me, you mistake,' answered he. 'With a few foibles (which are themselves as fascinating as foibles can be), you possess many virtues; and, let me add, a thousand attractions. I who tell you blunt truths, may well afford you flattery.'
'Flattery,' said I, pleased by his praises, and willing to please him in return by serious conversation, 'deserves censure only when the motive for using it is mean or vicious.'
'Your remark is a just one,' observed he. 'Flattery is often but the hyperbole of friendship; and even though a compliment itself may not be sincere, our motive for paying it may be good. Flattery, so far from injuring, may sometimes benefit the object of it; for it is possible to create a virtue in others, by persuading them that they possess it.'
'Besides,' said I, 'may we not pay a compliment, without intending that it should be believed; but merely to make ourselves agreeable by an effort of the wit? And since such an effort shews that we consider the person flattered worthy of it, the compliment proves a kind intention at least, and thus tends to cement affection and friendship.'
In this manner Stuart insensibly led me to talk on grave topics; and we continued a delightful conversation the remainder of the day. Sometimes he seemed greatly gratified at my sprightly sallies, or serious remarks; but never could I throw him off his guard, by the dangerous softness of my manner. He now calls me the lovely visionary.
Would you believe that this laughing, careless, unpathetic creature, is a poet, and a poet of feeling, as the following lines will prove. But whether he wrote them on a real or an imaginary being, I cannot, by any art, extract from him.
THE FAREWELLGo, gentle muse, 'tis near the gloomy day,Long dreaded; go, and say farewell for me;A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say,For far she hastens hence. Ah, hard decree!Tell her I feel that at the parting hour,More than the waves will heave in tumult wild:More than the skies will threat a gushing shower,More than the breeze will breathe a murmur mild.Say that her influence flies not with her form,That distant she will still engage my mind:That suns are most remote when most they warm,That flying Parthians scatter darts behind.Long will I gaze upon her vacant home,As the bird lingers near its pilfered nest,There, will I cry, she turned the studious tome;There sported, there her envied pet caressed.There, while she plied accomplished works of art,I saw her form, inclined with Sapphic grace;Her radiant eyes, blest emblems of her heart,And all the living treasures of her face.The Parian forehead parting clustered hair,The cheek of peachy tinct, the meaning brow;The witching archness, and the grace so rare,So magical, it charmed I knew not how.Light was her footstep as the silent flakesOf falling snow; her smile was blithe as morn;Her dimple, like the print the berry makes,In some smooth lake, when dropping from the thorn.To snatch her passing accents as she spoke,To see her slender hand, (that future prize)Fling back a ringlet, oft I dared provoke,The gentle vengeance of averted eyes.Yet ah, what wonder, if, when shrinking aweWithheld me from her sight, I broke my chain?Or when I made a single glance my law,What wonder if that law were made in vain?And say, can nought but converse love inspire?What tho' for me her lips have never moved?The vale that speaks but with its feathered choir,When long beheld, eternally is loved.Go then, my muse, 'tis near the gloomy dayOf parting; go, and say farewell for me;A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say,Whate'er engage her, wheresoe'er she be.If slumbering, tell her in my dreams she sways,If speaking, tell her in my words she glows;If thoughtful, tell her in my thoughts she strays,If tuneful, tell her in my song she flows.Tell her that soon my dreams unblest will prove;That soon my words on absent charms will dwell;That soon my thoughts remembered hours will love;That soon my song of vain regrets will tell.Then, in romantic moments, I will frame,Some scene ideal, where we meet at last;Where, by my peril, snatched from wreck or flame,She smiles reward and talks of all the past.Now for the lark she flies my wistful lay.Ah, could the bard some winged warbler be,Following her form, no longer would he say,Go, gentle muse, and bid farewell for me.
THE FAREWELL
THE FAREWELL
Go, gentle muse, 'tis near the gloomy day,Long dreaded; go, and say farewell for me;A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say,For far she hastens hence. Ah, hard decree!
Go, gentle muse, 'tis near the gloomy day,
Long dreaded; go, and say farewell for me;
A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say,
For far she hastens hence. Ah, hard decree!
Tell her I feel that at the parting hour,More than the waves will heave in tumult wild:More than the skies will threat a gushing shower,More than the breeze will breathe a murmur mild.
Tell her I feel that at the parting hour,
More than the waves will heave in tumult wild:
More than the skies will threat a gushing shower,
More than the breeze will breathe a murmur mild.
Say that her influence flies not with her form,That distant she will still engage my mind:That suns are most remote when most they warm,That flying Parthians scatter darts behind.
Say that her influence flies not with her form,
That distant she will still engage my mind:
That suns are most remote when most they warm,
That flying Parthians scatter darts behind.
Long will I gaze upon her vacant home,As the bird lingers near its pilfered nest,There, will I cry, she turned the studious tome;There sported, there her envied pet caressed.
Long will I gaze upon her vacant home,
As the bird lingers near its pilfered nest,
There, will I cry, she turned the studious tome;
There sported, there her envied pet caressed.
There, while she plied accomplished works of art,I saw her form, inclined with Sapphic grace;Her radiant eyes, blest emblems of her heart,And all the living treasures of her face.
There, while she plied accomplished works of art,
I saw her form, inclined with Sapphic grace;
Her radiant eyes, blest emblems of her heart,
And all the living treasures of her face.
The Parian forehead parting clustered hair,The cheek of peachy tinct, the meaning brow;The witching archness, and the grace so rare,So magical, it charmed I knew not how.
The Parian forehead parting clustered hair,
The cheek of peachy tinct, the meaning brow;
The witching archness, and the grace so rare,
So magical, it charmed I knew not how.
Light was her footstep as the silent flakesOf falling snow; her smile was blithe as morn;Her dimple, like the print the berry makes,In some smooth lake, when dropping from the thorn.
Light was her footstep as the silent flakes
Of falling snow; her smile was blithe as morn;
Her dimple, like the print the berry makes,
In some smooth lake, when dropping from the thorn.
To snatch her passing accents as she spoke,To see her slender hand, (that future prize)Fling back a ringlet, oft I dared provoke,The gentle vengeance of averted eyes.
To snatch her passing accents as she spoke,
To see her slender hand, (that future prize)
Fling back a ringlet, oft I dared provoke,
The gentle vengeance of averted eyes.
Yet ah, what wonder, if, when shrinking aweWithheld me from her sight, I broke my chain?Or when I made a single glance my law,What wonder if that law were made in vain?
Yet ah, what wonder, if, when shrinking awe
Withheld me from her sight, I broke my chain?
Or when I made a single glance my law,
What wonder if that law were made in vain?
And say, can nought but converse love inspire?What tho' for me her lips have never moved?The vale that speaks but with its feathered choir,When long beheld, eternally is loved.
And say, can nought but converse love inspire?
What tho' for me her lips have never moved?
The vale that speaks but with its feathered choir,
When long beheld, eternally is loved.
Go then, my muse, 'tis near the gloomy dayOf parting; go, and say farewell for me;A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say,Whate'er engage her, wheresoe'er she be.
Go then, my muse, 'tis near the gloomy day
Of parting; go, and say farewell for me;
A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say,
Whate'er engage her, wheresoe'er she be.
If slumbering, tell her in my dreams she sways,If speaking, tell her in my words she glows;If thoughtful, tell her in my thoughts she strays,If tuneful, tell her in my song she flows.
If slumbering, tell her in my dreams she sways,
If speaking, tell her in my words she glows;
If thoughtful, tell her in my thoughts she strays,
If tuneful, tell her in my song she flows.
Tell her that soon my dreams unblest will prove;That soon my words on absent charms will dwell;That soon my thoughts remembered hours will love;That soon my song of vain regrets will tell.
Tell her that soon my dreams unblest will prove;
That soon my words on absent charms will dwell;
That soon my thoughts remembered hours will love;
That soon my song of vain regrets will tell.
Then, in romantic moments, I will frame,Some scene ideal, where we meet at last;Where, by my peril, snatched from wreck or flame,She smiles reward and talks of all the past.
Then, in romantic moments, I will frame,
Some scene ideal, where we meet at last;
Where, by my peril, snatched from wreck or flame,
She smiles reward and talks of all the past.
Now for the lark she flies my wistful lay.Ah, could the bard some winged warbler be,Following her form, no longer would he say,Go, gentle muse, and bid farewell for me.
Now for the lark she flies my wistful lay.
Ah, could the bard some winged warbler be,
Following her form, no longer would he say,
Go, gentle muse, and bid farewell for me.
I write from an inn within a mile of Lady Gwyn's. Another hour and my fate is decided.
Adieu.
At length, with a throbbing heart, I now, for the first time, beheld the mansion of my revered ancestors—the present abode of Lady Gwyn. That unfortunate usurper of my rights was not denied to me; so I alighted; and though Stuart wished much to be present at the interview, I would not permit him; but was ushered by the footman into the sitting-room.
I entered with erect, yet gentle majesty; while my Tuscan habit, which was soiled and shrivelled by the brook, gave me an air of complicated distress.
I found her ladyship at a table, classifying fossils. She was tall and thin, and bore the remains of beauty; but I could not discover the family face.
She looked at me with some surprise; smiled, and begged to know my business.
'It is a business,' said I, 'of the most vital importance to your ladyship's honour and repose; and I lament that an imperious necessity compels me to the invidious task of acquainting you with it. Could anything add to the painful nature of my feelings, it would be to find that I had wounded yours.'
'Your preamble alarms me,' said she. 'Do, pray be explicit.'
'I must begin,' said I, 'with declaring my perfect conviction of your ignorance, that any person is existing, who has a right to the property which your ladyship at present possesses.'
'Assuredly such a notion never entered my head,' said she, 'and indeed, were such a claim made, I should consider it as utterly untenable—in fact, impossible.'
'I regret,' said I, 'that it is undeniable. There are documents extant, and witnesses living, to prove it beyond all refutation.'
Her ladyship, I thought, changed colour, as she said:
'This is strange; but I cannot believe it. Who would have the face to set up such a silly claim?'
'I am so unfortunate as to have that face,' answered I, in a tone of the most touching humility.
'You!' she cried with amazement. 'You!'
'Pardon me the pain I give you,' said I, 'but such is the fact; and grating as this interview must be to the feelings of both parties, I do assure you, that I have sought it, solely to prevent the more disagreeable process of a law-suit.'
'You are welcome to twenty law-suits, if you wish them,' cried she, 'but I fancy they will not deprive me of my property.'
'At least,' said I, 'they may be the means of sullying the character of your deceased lord.'
'I defy the whole world,' cried she, 'to affix the slightest imputation on his character.'
'Surely,' said I, 'you cannot pretend ignorance of the fact, that his lordship had the character of being—I trust, more from misfortune, than from inherent depravity; for your ladyship well knows that man, frail man, in a moment of temptation, perpetrates atrocities, which his better heart afterwards disowns.'
'But his character!' cried she. 'What of his character?'
'Ah!' said I, 'your ladyship will not compel me to mention.'
'You have advanced too far to retreat,' cried she. 'I demand an unequivocal explanation. What of his character?'
'Well, since I must speak plain,' replied I, 'it was that of an—assassin!'
'Merciful powers!' said she, in a faint voice, and reddening violently. 'What does the horrid woman mean?'
'I have at this moment,' cried I, 'a person ready to make oath, that your unhappy husband bribed a servant of my father's to murder me, while yet an infant, in cold blood.'
''Tis a falsehood!' cried she. 'I would stake my life on its being a vile, malicious, diabolical falsehood.'
'Would it were!' said I, 'but oh! Lady Gwyn, the circumstances, the dreadful circumstances—these cannot be contradicted. It was midnight;—the bones of my noble father had just been deposited in the grave;—when a tall figure, wrapt in a dark cloak, and armed with a dagger, stood before the seneschal.It was the late Lord Gwyn!'
'Who are you?' cried she, starting up quite pale and horror-struck. 'In the name of all that is dreadful, who can you be?'
'Your own niece!' said I, meekly kneeling to receive her blessing—'Lady Cherubina De Willoughby, the daughter of your ladyship's deceased brother, Lord De Willoughby, and of his much injured wife, the Lady Hysterica Belamour!'
'Never heard of such persons in all my life!' cried she, ringing the bell furiously.
'Pray,' said I, 'be calm. Act with dignity in this affair. Do not disgrace our family. On my honour, I mean to treat you with kindness. Nay, we must positively be on terms of friendship—I make it a point. After all, what is rank? what are riches? How vapid their charms, compared with the heartfelt joys of truth and virtue! O, Lady Gwyn, O, my respected aunt; I conjure you by our common ties of blood, by your brother, who was my father, spurn the perilous toy, fortune, and retire in time, and without exposing your lost lord, into the peaceful bosom of obscurity!'
'Conduct this wretch out of the house,' said her ladyship to the servant who had entered. 'She wants to extort money from me, I believe.'
'A moment more,' cried I. 'Where is old Eftsoones? Where is that worthy character?'
'I know no such person,' said she. 'Begone, impostor!'
At the word impostor, I smiled; drew aside my ringlets with one hand, and pointed to my inestimable mole with the other.
'Am I an impostor now?' cried I. 'But learn, unfortunate woman, that I have a certain parchment too.'——
'And a great deal of insolence too,' said she.
'The resemblance of it, at least,' cried I, 'for I have your ladyship's portrait.'
'My portrait!' said she with a sneer.
'As sure as your name is Nell Gwyn,' cried I; 'for Nell Gwyn is written under it; and let me add, that you would have consulted both your own taste, and the dignity of our house better, had you got it written Eleanor instead of Nell.'
'You little impertinent reprobate!' exclaimed she, feeling the peculiar poignancy of the sarcasm. 'Begone this moment, or I will have you drummed through the village!'
I waved my hand in token of high disdain, and vanished.
'Well,' said Stuart, as I got to the carriage, 'has her ladyship acknowledged your claims?'
'No, truly,' cried I, 'but she has turned me out of my own house—think of that!'
'Then,' said he, springing from the chaise, 'I will try whether I cannot succeed better with her ladyship;' and he went into the house.
I remained in a state of the greatest perturbation till he came back.
'Good news!' cried he. 'Her ladyship wishes to see you, and apologize for her rudeness; and I fancy,' added he, with a significant nod, 'all will go well in a certain affair.'
'Yes, yes,' said I, nodding in return, 'I flatter myself she now finds civility the best of her game.'
I then alighted, and her ladyship ran forward to meet me. She pressed my hand,my-dearedme twice in a breath, told me that Stuart had given her my little history—that it was delicious—elegant—exotic; and concluded with declaring, that I must remain at her house a few days, to talk over the great object of my visit.
Much as I mistrusted this sudden alteration in her conduct, I consented to spend a short time with her, on the principle, that heroines always contrive to get under the same roof with their bitterest enemies.
Stuart appeared quite delighted at my determination, and after another private interview with her ladyship, set off for London, to make further inquiries about Wilkinson. I am, however, resolved not to release that mischievous farmer, till I have secured my title and estate. You see I am grown quite sharp.
Her ladyship and I had then a long conversation, and she fairly confessed the probability that my claims are just, but denied all knowledge of old Eftsoones. I now begin to think rather better of her. She has the sweetest temper in the world, loves literature and perroquets, scrapes mezzotintos, and spends half her income in buying any thing that is hardly to be had. She led me through her cabinet, which contains the most curious assortment in nature—vases of onyx and sardonyx, cameos and intaglios; subjects in sea-horse teeth, by Fiamingo and Benvenuto Cellini; and antique gems in jadestone, mochoa, coral, amber, and Turkish agate.
She has already presented me with several dresses, and she calls me her lovelyprotégée, and the Lady Cherubina,—a sound that makes my very heart leap within me. Nay, she did me the honour of assuring me, that her curiosity to know a real heroine was one motive for her having asked me on this visit; and that she positively considers an hour with me worth all her curiosities put together. What a delicate compliment! So could I do less, in return, than repeat my assurances, that when I succeed in dispossessing her of the property, she shall never want an asylum in my house.
Adieu.
Think of its having never once struck me, till I had retired for the night, that I might be murdered! How so manifest a danger escaped my recollection, is inconceivable; but so it was, I never thought of it. Lady Gwyn might be (for any thing I could tell to the contrary) just as capable of plotting an assassination as the Marchesa di Vivaldi; and surely her motives were far more urgent.
I therefore searched in my chamber, for some trap-door, or sliding pannel, by which assassins might enter it; but I could find none. I then resolved on exploring the galleries, corridors, and suites of apartments, in this immense mansion; in hopes to discover some place of retreat, or at least some mystery relative to my birth.
Accordingly, at the celebrated hour of midnight, I took up the taper, and unbolting my door, stole softly along the lobby.
I stopped before one of our family pictures. It was of a lady, pale, pensive, and interesting; and whose eyes, which appeared to look at me, were sky-blue, like my own. That was sufficient.
'Gentle image of my departed mother!' ejaculated I, kneeling before it, 'may thy sacred ashes repose in peace!'
I then faintly chaunted a fragment of a hymn, and advanced. No sigh met my listening ear, no moan amidst the pauses of the gust.
With a trembling hand I opened a door, and found myself in a spacious chamber. It was magnificently furnished, and a piano stood in one corner of it. Intending to run my fingers over the keys, I walked forward; till a low rustling in that direction made me pause. But how shall I paint to you my horror, my dismay, when I heard the mysterious instrument on a sudden begin to sound; not loudly, but (more terrible still!) with a hurried murmur; as if all its chords were agitated at once, by the hand of some invisible demon.
I did not faint, I did not shriek; but I stood transfixed to the spot. The music ceased. I recovered courage and advanced. The music began again; and again I paused.
What! should I not lift the simple lid of a mere piano, after Emily's having drawn aside the mysterious veil, and discovered the terrific wax doll underneath it?
Emulation, enthusiasm, curiosity prompted me, and I rushed undaunted to the piano. Louder and more rapid grew the notes—my desperate hand raised the cover, and beneath it, I beheld a sight to me the most hideous and fearful upon earth,—a mouse!
I screamed and dropped the candle, which was instantly extinguished. The mouse ran by me; I flew towards the door, but missed it, and fell against a table; nor was it till after I had made much clamour, that I got out of the room. As I groped my way through the corridor, I heard voices and people in confusion above stairs; and presently lights appeared. The whole house was in a tumult.
'They are coming to murder me at last!' cried I, as I regained my chamber, and began heaping chairs and tables against the door. Presently several persons arrived at it, and called my name. I said not a word. They called louder, but still I was silent; till at length they burst open the door, and Lady Gwyn, with some of her domestics, entered. They found me kneeling in an attitude of supplication.
'Spare, oh, spare me!' cried I.
'My dear,' said her ladyship, 'no harm shall happen you.'
'Alas, then,' exclaimed I, 'what portends this nocturnal visit? this assault on my chamber? all these dreadful faces? Was it not enough, unhappy woman, that thy husband attempted my life, but must thou, too, thirst for my blood?'
Lady Gwyn whispered a servant, who left the room; the rest raised, and put me to bed; while I read her ladyship such a lecture on murder, as absolutely astonished her.
The servant soon after returned with a cup.
'Here, my love,' said her ladyship, 'is a composing draught for you. Drink it, and you will be quite well to-morrow.'
I took it with gladness, for I felt my brain strangely bewildered by the terror that I had just undergone. Indeed I have sometimes experienced the same sensation before, and it is extremely disagreeable.
They then left a candle in my room, and departed.
My mind still remains uneasy; but I have barricaded the door, and am determined on not undressing. I believe, however, I must now throw myself on the bed; for the draught has made me sleepy.
Adieu.
O Biddy Grimes, I am poisoned! That fatal draught last night—why did I drink it?—I am in dreadful agony. When this reaches you, all will be over.—But I would not die without letting you know.
Farewell for ever, my poor Biddy!
I bequeath you all my ornaments.
Yes, my friend, you may well stare at receiving another letter from me; and at hearing that I have not been poisoned in the least!
I must unfold the mystery. When I woke this morning, after my nocturnal perambulation, I found my limbs so stiff, and such pains in all my bones, that I was almost unable to move. Judge of my horror and despair; for it instantly flashed across my mind, that Lady Gwyn had poisoned me! My whole frame underwent a sudden revulsion; I grew sick, and rang the bell with violence; nor ceased an instant, till half the servants, and Lady Gwyn herself, had burst into my chamber.
'If you have a remnant of mercy left,' cried I, 'send for a doctor!'
'What is the matter, my dear,' said her ladyship.
'Only that you have poisoned me, my dear,' cried I. 'Dear, indeed! I presume your ladyship imagines, that the liberty you have taken with my life, authorizes all other freedoms. Oh, what will become of me!'
'Do, tell me,' said she, 'how are you unwell?'
'I am sick to death,' cried I. 'I have pains in all my limbs, and I shall be a corpse in half an hour. Oh, indeed, you have done the business completely. Lady Eleanor Gwyn, I do here, on my death-bed, and with all my senses about me, accuse you, before your domestics, of having administered a deadly potion to me last night.'
'Go for the physician,' said her ladyship to a servant.
'Well may you feel alarmed,' cried I. 'Your life will pay the forfeit of mine.'
'But you need not feel alarmed,' said her ladyship, 'for really, what I gave you last night, was merely to make you sleep.'
'Yes,' cried I, 'the sleep of the grave! O Lady Gwyn, what have I done to you, to deserve death at your hands? And in such a manner too! Had you even shewn so much regard to custom and common decency, as to have offered me the potion in a bowl or a goblet, there might have been some little palliation. But to add insult to injury;—to trick me out of my life with a paltry tea-cup;—to poison a girl of my pretensions, as vulgarly as you would a rat;—no, no, Madam, this is not to be pardoned!'
Her ladyship again began assuring me that I had taken nothing more than a soporific; but I would not hear her, and at length, I sent her and the domestics out of the chamber, that I might prepare for my approaching end.
How to prepare was the question; for I had never thought of death seriously, heroines so seldom die. Should I follow the beautiful precedent of the dying Heloise, who called her friends about her, got her chamber sprinkled with flowers and perfumes, and then gave up the ghost, in a state of elegant inebriation with home-made wine, which she passed for Spanish? Alas! I had no friends—not even Stuart, at hand; flowers and perfumes I would not condescend to beg from my murderess; and as for wine, I could not abide the thoughts of it in a morning.
But amidst these reflections, a more serious and less agreeable subject intruded itself upon me,—the thoughts of a future state. I strove to banish it, but it would not be repulsed. Yet surely, said I, as a heroine, I am a pattern of perfect virtue; and therefore, I must be happy hereafter. But was virtue sufficient? At church (seldom as I had frequented it, in consequence of its sober ceremonies, so unsuited to my taste,) I remembered to have heard a very different doctrine. There I had heard, that we cannot learn to do right without the Divine aid, and that to propitiate it, we must make ourselves acquainted with those principles of religion, which enable us to prefer duteous prayers, and to place implicit reliance on the power and goodness of the Deity. Alas, I knew nothing of religion, except from novels; and in these, though the devotion of heroines is sentimental and graceful to a degree, it never influences their acts, or appears connected with their moral duties. It is so speculative and generalized, that it would answer the Greek or the Persian church, as well as the christian; and none but the picturesque and enthusiastic part is presented; such as kissing a cross, chanting a vesper with elevated eyes, or composing a well-worded prayer.
The more I thought, the more horrible appeared my situation. I felt a confused idea, that I had led a worthless, if not a criminal life; that I had left myself without a friend in this world, and had not sought to make one in the next. I became more and more agitated. I tried to turn my thoughts back to the plan of expiring with grace, but all in vain. I then wrote the note to you; then endeavoured to pray: nothing could calm or divert my mind. The pains grew worse, I felt sick at heart, my palate was parched, and I now expected that every breath would be my last. My soul recoiled from the thought, and my brain became a confused chaos. Hideous visions of eternity rushed into my mind; I lay shivering, groaning, and abandoned to the most deplorable despair.
In this state the physician found me. O what a joyful relief, when he declared, that my disorder was nothing but a violent rheumatism, contracted, it seems, by my fall into the water the morning before! Never was transport equal to mine; and I assured him that he should have a place in my memoirs.
He prescribed for me; but remarked, that I might remain ill a whole month, or be quite well in a few days.
'Positively,' said her ladyship, 'you must be quite well in four; for then my ball comes on; and I mean to make you the most conspicuous figure at it. I have great plans for you, I assure you.'
I thanked her ladyship, and begged pardon for having been so giddy as to call her a murderess; while she laughed at my mistake, and made quite light of it. Noble woman! But I dare say magnanimity is our family virtue.
No sooner had I ceased to be miserable about leaving the world, than I became almost as much so about losing the ball. To lose it from any cause whatever, was sufficiently provoking; but to lose it by so gross a disorder as a rheumatism, was, indeed, dreadful. Now, had I even some pale, genteel, sofa-reclining illness, curable by hartshorn, I would bless my kind stars, and drink that nauseous cordial, from morning even unto night. For disguise thyself as thou wilt, hartshorn, still thou art a bitter draught; and though heroines in all novels have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.
Being on this subject, I have to lament, that I am utterly unacquainted with those refined ailments, which every girl that I read of, meets with, as things of course. The consequence is my wanting that beauty, which, touched with the languid delicacy of illness, gains from sentiment what it loses in bloom; so that really this horse's constitution of mine is a terrible disadvantage to me. I know, had I the power of inventing my own indispositions, I would strike out something far beyond even the hectics and head-aches of my fair predecessors. I believe there is not a sigh-fever; but I would fall ill of a scald from a lover's tear, or a classic scratch from the thorn of a rose.
Adieu.
This morning I awoke almost free from pain; and towards evening, I was able to appear in the drawing-room. Lady Gwyn had asked several of her friends to tea, so that I passed a delightful afternoon; the charm, admiration, and astonishment of all.
On retiring for the night to my chamber, I found this note on my toilette, and read it with a beating heart.