The Lady's museum: By the author of The Female Quixote. [pt.1]

Table of contents

- [frontispiece]

- [titlepage]

- The TRIFLER. [NUMBER I.]

- OF THE STUDIES proper for WOMEN. Translated from the French.

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA.

- A SONG, in PHILANDER. A Dramatic Pastoral.

- On reading a POEM written by a Lady of Quality.

- An ODE

- To DEATH. An irregular ODE.

- THE HISTORY OF THE DUTCHESS of BEAUFORT.

- THE LADY's MUSEUM. The TRIFLER. [NUMBER II.]

- Conclusion of the HISTORY of the DUTCHESS of BEAUFORT

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

- AN ACCOUNT OF THE VESTAL VIRGINS.

- THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE.

- PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES.

- INTRODUCTION.

- OF THE UNIVERSE AS CONSIDERED Under a GENERAL VIEW.

- THE LADY'S GEOGRAPHY.

- A DESCRIPTION of AMBOYNA, AND OF The other ISLANDS dependent on it.

- NATURAL HISTORY of the Islands of AMBOYNA.

- The MANNERS and CUSTOMS of the Inhabi tants of AMBOYNA.

- THE LADY's MUSEUM. The TRIFLER. [NUMBER III.]

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

- TO THE Author of the LADY's MUSEUM.

- THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

- The following Essay, on the original inhabitants of Great Britain, is the composition of a noble man, distinguished for his genius, taste, and learning. AN ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN.

- THE TRYAL OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. Extracted from the Archives of Normandy, by John Nagerel, canon and archdeacon of the church of Nostre Dame at Rouen. Communicated to the author by a friend.

- PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONTINUED.

- Of the Metamorphoses of ANIMALS, and the several Changes observable in ANIMAL LIFE.

- THE LADY's MUSEUM. The TRIFLER. [NUMBER IV.]

- TO THE Author of the LADY'S MUSEUM.

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

- TO THE Author of the LADY'S MUSEUM.

- TO THE Author of the LADY'S MUSEUM.

- ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN CONTINUED.

- TO THE Author of the LADY's MUSEUM.

- [The following Treatise on the Education of Daughters is written by the celebrated Archbishop of Cambray, and translated by a Friend of the Author of the Museum.]

- CHAP. I. Of the Importance of the Education of Daughters.

- THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

- PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONTINUED.

- Of the Metamorphoses of ANIMALS, and the several Changes observable in ANIMAL LIFE.

- The Natural HISTORY of the FORMICA-LEO, or LION-PISMIRE.

- THE LADY's GEOGRAPHY CONTINUED.

- Of the MANNERS and CUSTOMS of the Inhabi tants of AMBOYNA.

- THE LADY's MUSEUM. The TRIFLER. [NUMBER V.]

- TO THE AUTHOR of the TRIFLER.

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT and SOPHIA CONTINUED.

- TO THE Author of the LADY's MUSEUM.

- THE HISTORY OF BIANCA CAPELLO.

- ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN, CONTINUED.

- TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS.

- CHAP. II. The Inconveniences of the common Methods of Education.

- CHAP. III. What are the first Grounds of Education.

- THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

- PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONTINUED.

- Of the methods NATURE has furnished various ANIMALS withal, to elude the attacks of, and prevent pursuits from, their enemies.

- THE LADY's GEOGRAPHY CONTINUED.

- Of the MANNERS and CUSTOMS of the Inhabi tants of AMBOYNA.

THE LADY's MUSEUM.

AS I do not set out with great promises to the public of the wit, humour, and morality, which this pamphlet is to contain, so I expect no reproaches to fall on me, if I should happen to fail in any, or all of these articles.

My readers may depend upon it, I will always be as witty as I can, as humorous as I can, as moral as I can, and upon the whole as entertaining as I can. However, as I have but too much reason to distrust my own powers of pleasing, I shall usher in my pamphlet with the performance of a lady, who possibly would never have suffered it to appear in print, if this opportunity had not offered.

If her sprightly paper meets with encouragement enough to dispel the diffidence natural to a young writer, she will be prevailed upon, I hope, to continue it in this Museum; I shall therefore, without any farther preface, present it to my readers.

Frontispiece to the Lady's Museum.

THE Lady's Museum

By the Author of the Female Quixote

VOL. I.

HON SOIT Q••• MAL Y PENSE

DIEU ET MON DROIT

London: Printed for J. Newberry in St Paul's Church-Yard, and J. Coote in Pater Noster Row.

The TRIFLER. [NUMBER I.]

CAST your eyes upon paper, madam; there you may lock innocently, said a polite old gentleman of my acquaintance to me, one day, in the words of a wit to a fine lady. A compliment is no unpleasing way of conveying advice to a young woman, and when that advice may be so construed, as to become perfectly agreeable to her own inclinations, it is certain to be well received, and quickly complied with. It is indeed very clear to me, that my friend in this borrowed admonition recommended reading to eyes which he probably thought were too intent upon pleasing; but I, with a small deviation from the sense, applied it, to what is I freely own my predominant passion; and therefore resolved to write, still pursuing the same darling end, though by different means.

So frankly to acknowledge the desire of pleasing to be my predominant passion, is in other words, to confess myself, one of that ridiculous species of beings, called a coquet.—This will be said by some, and thought by others, for all do not say what they think on such occasions.

Yet to that laudable principle, in women mistaken for coquetry, we owe the thunder of eloquence in the senate, as well as the glitter of dress in the drawing-room. An animated speech, and a well-chosen silk, are equally the effects of a desire to please, both in the patriot and the beauty: and if the one is ever observed to be silent, and the other without ornaments, it is because he is persuaded, that silence is most expressive; and she, that negligence is most becoming.

But for this active principle, the statesman would be no politician, and the general no warrior. The desire of fame, or the desire of pleasing, which, in my opinion, are synonimous terms, produces application in one and courage in the other. It is the poet's inspiration, the patriot's zeal, the courtier's loyalty, and the orator's eloquence. All are coquets, if that be coquetry, and those grave personages and the fine lady are alike liable to be charged with it.

But it will be objected, that the distinguishing characteristic of a coquet is to use her powers of pleasing to the ungenerous purpose of giving pain; the same may be said of each of the others. All human excellence, as well as human happiness, is comparative. We are admired but in proportion as we excel others, and whoever excels is sure to give pain, to his inferiors in merit, either from envy or emulation; passions which produce sensations nearly alike, although their consequences are very different.

I hope I have now fully proved, that I, tho' a woman, young, single, gay, and ambitious of pleasing, deserve not the odious appellation of coquet; I say, I hope, I have proved it, for I am but eighteen, and not used to be contradicted in an argument.

"If seldom your opinions err;

"Your eyes are always in the right,"

says the gallant Prior. Hence it follows that we always triumph in a dispute, though I cannot help allowing, that we often triumph without victory.

Universally as I could wish to please in this paper, yet I shall be contented, if it finds only a favourable acceptance with my own sex, to whose amusement it is chiefly designed to contribute.

To introduce it to them under the denomination of a trifle may be thought an affront to their understandings. But in the choice of my title, I remembered the fable of the mountain that brought forth a mouse. That I have promised little is my security from censure; if I give more it will be my best claim to praise. I should indeed have thought some apology necessary for an undertaking of this kind, had I not been persuaded, it was a mighty easy one, from its being so frequently attempted, and by persons too of my own sex.

The subjects I propose to treat of will be such as reading and observation shall furnish me with; for, with a strong passion for intellectual pleasures, I have likewise a taste for many of the fashionable amusements, and in the disposition of my time, I have contrived to gratify both these inclinations; one I thought too laudable to be restrained, the other I found too pleasing to be wholly subdued.

I am already aware that I have talked too much of myself: it is indeed a subject one cannot easily quit, and perhaps I am not sorry, that in introductory papers of this sort, the writers have generally given some account of themselves. Every one knows that long custom has the force of a law; and, in obedience to this, I shall fill up my first paper with a short history of myself.

I am the daughter of a gentleman remarkable only in this, that during the course of a pretty long life, he never lost a friend, or made an enemy. From which singular circumstance I leave the reader to collect his character. My mother was generally allowed to be a well bred-woman, and an excellent economist. In her youth she was extremely indulged by her parents, who, on account of a slight disorder in her eyes, would not suffer her to use her needle, or look into a book, except on Sundays or holidays, when she was permitted to read two or three verses of a chapter in the Bible.

My mother therefore grew up, not only without any taste, but with a high contempt for reading; and those of her female acquaintance who had made any proficiency that way were sure to be distinguished by her, with the opprobrious term of being book-learned, which my mother always pronounced with a look and accent of ineffable scorn.

My sister, who is a year younger than myself, so entirely engrossed her affection, that I was wholly neglected by her. My fondness for reading, which I discovered very early, encreased her dislike of me. As she seldom chose to have me in her sight, I had opportunities sufficient to indulge myself in this favourite amusement, for I had taken possession of all the books my brother left behind him, when he went to the university; but having great sensibility of soul, I was so affected with my mother's partial fondness for my sister, and neglect of me, that young as I then was, I often past whole nights in tears, lamenting my misfortune.

But this sensibility entirely ruined me with my mother; for, being one day excessively shocked at some new instance of her partiality, I went up sobbing to the nursery, and had recourse to a book for my relief. It happened to be Aesop's Fables: I opened it at the following one, which striking my imagination, then full of the preference given by my mother to my sister, I followed a sudden impulse, and sent it to my mother, desiring she would be pleased to read it; for I did not doubt but she would make a proper application of it.

An ape had twins: she doated upon one of them, and did not much care for the other. She took a sudden fright one day, and in a hurry whips up her darling under her arm, and took no heed of the other, which therefore leaped astride upon her shoulders. In this haste down she comes, and beats out her favourite's brains upon a stone, while that which she had on her back came off safe and sound.

My mother, surprised at the novelty of the request, read the fable, and immediately afterwards came up to the nursery in great wrath, and corrected me severely, for calling her an ape, prophetically declaring that a girl who at nine years old could be so wicked, as to compare her mother to an ape, would never come to good.

Every one who came to the house was told the horrid crime I had been guilty of, the servants held me in the utmost detestation for comparing my mother to an ape, never mentioning it, without lifted up hands and eyes, in abhorrence of such early undutifulness.

My father, who had loved me with great tenderness, was dead when this incident happened; and the most effectual way of paying court to my mamma being to caress my sister, and take no notice of me, I met with very few friends, either at home or abroad.

In this state of humiliation and disgrace my brother found me, at his return from the university. When my sister and I were presented to him, my mother did not fail to relate the crime for which I had suffered so much, shewing him the book, which she had kept carefully ever after, with the leaf doubled down, at the fatal fable, declaring she thought herself very unhappy in having given birth to a child who was likely to prove so great an affliction to her; ‘for may not every thing that is bad, said she, be expected from a girl who at her years could compare her mother to an ape? ’

My brother read the fable, and my mother leaving the room to give some necessary orders, he ran eagerly to me, snatched me up in his arms, and gave me a hundred kisses. My little heart was so sensibly affected with a tenderness to which I had not been accustomed, that I burst into tears.

My mother at her return found me sobbing, with the violence of my emotions, and did not doubt but my brother had been chiding me. He told her gravely, that since I was so fond of reading, he would regulate my studies himself, and take care I should read no books which might teach me to be undutiful.

To this dear brother I owe the advantage of a right education, which I had like to have missed. After my mother's death he took me entirely under his own care. My sister chose to reside with an aunt, whose heir she expects to be; and while she is a slave to the caprices of an old woman, I have the pleasure of being the mistress of a well-ordered family, for I keep my brother's house; and by endeavouring to make him an useful as well as agreeable companion, enjoy the sweet satisfaction of shewing every day my gratitude for obligations it can never be in my power to return.

OF THE STUDIES proper for WOMEN.
Translated from the French.

TO prohibit women entirely from learning is treating them with the same indignity that Mahomet did, who, to render them voluptuous, denied them souls; and indeed the greatest part of women act as if they had really adopted a tenet so injurious to the sex, and appear to set no value upon that lively imagination, that sprightly wit which makes them more admired than beauty itself.

When we consider the happy talents which women in general possess, and how successfully some have cultivated them, we cannot without indignation observe the little esteem they have for the endowments of their minds which it is so easy for them to improve. They are, as Montaigne says, flowers of quick growth, and by the delicacy of their conception, catch readily and without trouble the relation of things to each other. It is a melancholy consideration that the most precious gifts of nature should be stifled, or obscured by a shameful neglect.

The charms of their persons, how powerful soever, may attract, but cannot fix us; something more than beauty is necessary to rivet the lover's chain. By often beholding a beautiful face, the impression it first made on us soon wears away. When the woman whose person we admire is incapable of pleasing us by her conversation, languor and satiety, soon triumph over the taste we had for her charms: hence arises the inconstancy with which we are so often reproached; it is that barrenness of ideas which we find in women that renders men unfaithful.

The ladies may judge of the difference there is among them, by that which they themselves make between a fool who teases them with his impertinence, and a man of letters who entertains them agreeably; a very little labour would equal them to the last, and perhaps give them the advantage. This is a kind of victory which we wish to yield them. We would, without envy, see them dividing with us a good, whose value is always greater than the labour by which it is acquired.

The more they shall enlarge their notions, the more subjects of conversation will be found between them and us, and the more sprightly and affecting will that conversation be. How many delicate sentiments, how many nice sensibilities are lost by not being communicable, and in which we should feel an increase of satisfaction could we meet with women disposed to taste them!

But what are the studies to which women may with propriety apply themselves? This question I take upon myself to answer; and I intreat the ladies to pardon me, if among all the sciences which exercise the wonderful activity of the human mind, I pronounce that only some are fit to be cultivated by them. I would particularly recommend to them to avoid all abstract learning, all thorny researches, which may blunt the finer edge of their wit, and change the delicacy in which they excel into pedantic coarseness.

If their sex has produced Daciers [*] and Chatelets [†], these are examples rarely found, and fitter to be admired than imitated: for who would wish to see assemblies made up of doctors in petticoats, who will regale us with Greek and the systems of Leibnitz. The learning proper for women is such as best suits the soft elegance of their form, such as may add to their natural beauties, and qualify them for the several duties of life. There is nothing more disgustful than those female theologians, who, adopting all the animosity of the party they have thought fit to join, assemble ridiculous synods in their houses, and form extravagant sects. A Bourignon [‡] a virgin of Venice [§], a madame Guyon [*], are characters more detestable than libertines, like Ninon [†].

It is in such parts of learning only as afford the highest improvement that we invite women to share with us. All that may awaken curiosity, and lend graces to the imagination, suits them still better than us. This is a vast field where we may together exercise the mind; and here they may even excel us without mortifying our pride.

History and natural philosophy are alone sufficient to furnish women with an agreeable kind of study. The latter, in a series of useful observations and interesting experiments, offers a spectacle well worthy the consideration of a reasonable being. But in vain does nature present her miracles to the generality of women, who have no attention but to trifles: she is dumb to those who know not how to interrogate her.

Yet surely it requires but a small degree of attention to be struck with that wonderful harmony which reigns throughout the universe, and to be ambitious of investigating its secret springs. This is a large volume which is open to all; here a pair of beautiful eyes may employ themselves without being fatigued. This amiable study will banish languor from the sober amusements of the country, and repair that waste of intellect which is caused by the dissipations of the town. Women cannot be too much excited to raise their eyes to objects like these, which they but too often debase to such as are unworthy of them.

The sex is more capable of attention than we imagine: what they chiefly want is a well directed application. There is scarcely a young girl who has not read with eagerness a great number of idle romances, and puerile tales, sufficient to corrupt her imagination and cloud her understanding. If she had devoted the same time to the study of history, she would in those varied scenes which the world offers to view, have found facts more interesting, and instruction which only truth can give.

Those striking pictures, that are displayed in the annals of the human race, are highly proper to direct the judgment, and form the heart. Women have at all times had so great a share in events, and have acted so many different parts, that they may with reason consider our archives as their own: nay, there are many of them who have written memoirs of the several events of which they had been eye-witnesses. Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Madame de Némours, Madame de Motteville, are of this number. Christina of Pisan, daughter to the astronomer, patronised by the Emperor Charles the fifth, has given us the life of that prince; and long before her, the princess Anna Comnenus wrote the history of her own times. We call upon the ladies to assert their rights, and from the study of history to extract useful lessons for the conduct of life.

This study, alike pleasing and instructive, will naturally lead to that of the fine arts, which it is fit the ladies should have a less superficial knowledge of. The arts are in themselves too amiable to need any recommendation to the sex: all the objects they offer to their view have some analogy with women, and are like them adorned with the brightest colours. The mind is agreeably soothed by those images which poetry, painting, and musick trace out to it, especially if they are found to agree with purity of manners. It was these three charming arts, which, in the last reign, rendered Mademoiselle Chéron so celebrated; a lady in whom the talents of Sappho, of M—, and of Rosalba were united.

To familiarize ourselves with the arts is in some degree to create a new sense. So agreeably have they imitated nature, nay, so often have they embellished it, that whoever cultivates them, will in them always find a fruitful source of new pleasures. We ought to provide against the encroachments of languor and weariness by this addition to our natural riches; and surely when we may so easily transfer to ourselves the possession of that multitude of pleasing ideas which they have created, it would be the highest stupidity to neglect such an advantage.

There is no reason to fear that the ladies, by applying themselves to these studies, will throw a shade over the natural graces of their wit. No; on the contrary, those graces will be placed in a more conspicuous point of view: what can equal the pleasure we receive from the conversation of a woman who is more solicitous to adorn her mind than her person? In the company of such women there can be no satiety; every thing becomes interesting, and has a secret charm which only they can give. The delightful art of saying the most ingenious things with a graceful simplicity is peculiar to them: it is they who call forth the powers of wit in men, and communicate to them that easy elegance which is never to be acquired in the closet.

But what preservative is there against weariness and disgust in the society of women of weak and unimproved understanding? In vain do they endeavour to fill the void of their conversation with insipid gaiety: they soon exhaust the barren funds of fashionable trifles, the news of the day, and hackneyed compliments; they are at length obliged to have recourse to scandal, and it is well if they stop there: a commerce in which there is nothing solid must be either mean or criminal.

There is but one way to make it more varied and more interesting. If ladies of the first rank would condescend to form their taste upon our best authors, and collect ideas from their useful writings, conversation would take another cast: their acknowledged merit would banish that swarm of noisy impertinents who flutter about them, and who endeavour to render them as contemptible as themselves: men of sense and learning would then frequent their assemblies, and form a circle more worthy of the name of good company

In this new circle gaiety would not be banished, but refined by delicacy and wit. Merit is not austere in its nature; there is a calm and uniform chearfulness that runs through the conversation of persons of real understanding, which is far preferable to the noisy mirth of ignorance and folly. Those societies formed by the Sevignes, the Fayetts, the Sabliéres, with the Vivonnes, the La Fares, and Rochefoucaults, were surely more pleasing than the assemblies of our days. Among them learning was not pedantic, nor wisdom severe; and subjects of the highest importance were treated with all the sprightliness of wit.

The ladies must allow me once more to repeat to them that the only means of charming, and of charming long, is to improve their minds; good sense gives beauties which are not subject to fade like the lillies and roses of their cheeks, but will prolong the power of an agreeable woman to the autumn of her life [*]. If the sex would not have their influence confined to the short triumph of a day, they must endeavour to improve their natural talents by study, and the conversation of men of letters. Neglect will not then steal upon them in proportion as their bloom decays; but they will unite in themselves all the advantages of both sexes.

We live no longer in an age when prejudice condemned women as well as the nobility, to a shameful ignorance. The ridicule with which pedantry was treated had so much discredited every kind of knowledge, that there were many ladies who thought it graceful to murder the words of their native language; but some were still found, who, shaking off the yoke of fashion, ventured to think justly, and speak with propriety; and even at this time there are a small number who are not ashamed of being more learned than the idle man of fashion, and the fluttering courtier.

Notes

*
Anne le Fevre, wife of monsieur Dacier. She translated Florus, Terence, and Homer, and added very learned notes of her own.
↵

†
Gabriella Emilia de Bréteuil, marchioness du Châtelet. She explained Leibnitz, translated Newton, and commented upon him. We have philosophical institutions of hers, which prove the force of her wonderful genius to all who have learning enough to render them capable of judging of it.
↵

‡
Antoinette Bourignon, a celebrated visionary, who purchased the island of Nordstrand, to establish a sect of mysticks there. She composed nineteen large volumes, and wasted a very considerable fortune by her attempts to propagate her extravagant dreams.
↵

§
The virgin of Venice, an old woman, who, supported by Postel, called herself the Messiah of women.
↵

*
Madame Guyon, a lady of great beauty and fortune, who in the reign of Louis XIV. preached the doctrine of pure love, and renewed the extravagances of quietism.
↵

†
Ninon Lenclos, a woman of gallantry in the last age.
↵

*
It was by her wit that the Dutchess of Valentinois charmed three successive monarchs, and preserved her influence to an extreme old age. It was to their wit that Madame de Vérac, Madam Tencin, and several other ladies owed their power of charming when their youth was fled. The graces of a fine understanding, improved by study, never grow old.
↵

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA.

HARRIOT and Sophia were the daughters of a gentleman, who, having spent a good paternal inheritance before he was five and thirty, was reduced to live upon the moderate salary of a place at court, which his friends procured him to get rid of his importunities. The same imprudence by which he had been governed in affairs of lesser importance directed him likewise in the choice of a wife: the woman he married had no merit but beauty, and brought with her to the house of a man whose fortune was already ruined nothing but a taste for luxury and expence, without the means of gratifying it.

Harriot, the eldest daughter of this couple, was, like her mother, a beauty, and upon that account, as well as the conformity of her temper and inclinations to hers, engrossed all her affection.

Sophia she affected to despise, because she wanted in an equal degree those personal attractions, which in her opinion constituted the whole of female perfection. Meer common judges however allowed her person to be agreeable; people of discernment and taste pronounced her something more. The striking sensibility of her countenance, the soft elegance of her shape and motion, a melodious voice in speaking, whose varied accents enforced the sensible things she always said, were beauties not capable of striking vulgar minds, and which were sure to be eclipsed by the dazzling lustre of her sister's complexion, and the fire of two bright eyes, whose motions were as quick and unsettled as her thoughts.

While Harriot was receiving the improvement of a polite education, Sophia was left to form herself as well as she could; happily for her a just taste and solid judgment supplied the place of teachers, precept, and example. The hours that Harriot wasted in dress, company, and gay amusements, were by Sophia, devoted to reading.

A good old gentleman, who was nearly related to her father, perceiving this taste in her, encouraged it by his praises, and furnished her with the means of gratifying it, by constantly supplying her with such books as were best calculated to improve her morals and understanding. His admiration encreasing in proportion as he had opportunities of observing her merit, he undertook to teach her the French and Italian languages, in which she soon made a surprising progress; and by the time she had reached her fifteenth year, she had read all the best authors in them, as well as in her own.

By this unwearied application to reading, her mind became a beautiful store-house of ideas: hence she derived the power and the habit of constant reflection, which at once enlarged her understanding, and confirmed her in the principles of piety and virtue.

As she grew older the management of the family entirely devolved upon her; for her mother had no taste for any thing but pleasure, and her sister was taught to consider herself as a fine lady, whose beauty could not fail to make her fortune, and whose sole care it ought to be to dress to the greatest advantage, and make her appearance in every place where she might encrease the number of her admirers.

Sophia, in acquitting herself of the duties of a house-keeper to her mother, shewed that the highest intellectual improvements were not incompatible with the humbler cares of domestic life: every thing that went through her hands received a grace and propriety from the good sense by which she was directed; nor did her attention to family-affairs break in upon her darling amusement reading.

People who know how to employ their time well are always good economists of it. Sophia laid out hers in such exact proportions, that she had always sufficient for the several employments she was engaged in: the business of her life, like that of nature, was performed without noise, hurry, or confusion.

The death of Mr. Darnley threw this little family into a deplorable state of indigence, which was felt the more severely, as they had hitherto lived in an affluence of all things, and the debts which an expence so ill proportioned to their income had obliged Mr. Darnley to contract, left the unhappy widow and her children without any resource. The plate, furniture, and every thing valuable were seized by the creditors. Mrs. Darnley and her daughters retired to a private lodging, where the first days were passed in weak despondence on the part of the mother, in passionate repinings on that of the eldest daughter, and by Sophia in decent sorrow and pious resignation.

Mrs. Darnley however, by a natural consequence of her thoughtless temper, soon recovered her former gaiety. Present evils only were capable of affecting her; reflection and forecast never disturbed the settled calm of her mind. If the wants of one day were supplied, she did not consider what inconveniences the next might produce. As for Harriot she found resources of comfort in the exalted ideas she had of her own charms; and having already laid it down as a maxim, that poverty was the most shameful thing in the world, she formed her resolutions accordingly.

Sophia, as soon as her grief for the loss of her father had subsided, began to consider of some plan for their future subsistence. She forbore however to communicate her thoughts on this subject to her mother and sister, who had always affected to treat every thing she said with contempt, the mean disguise which envy had assumed to hide their consciousness of her superior merit; but she opened her mind to the good old gentleman, to whom she had been obliged for many of her improvements. She told him that being by his generous cares qualified to undertake the education of a young lady, she was desirous of being received into the family of some person of distinction in the quality of governess to the daughters of it, that she might at once secure to herself a decent establishment, and be enabled to assist her mother. She hinted that if her sister could be also prevailed upon to enter into the service of a lady of quality, they might jointly contribute their endeavours to make their mother's life comfortable.

Mr. Herbert praised her design, and promised to mention it to Mrs. Darnley, to whom he conceived he might speak with the greater freedom, as his near relation to her husband, and the long friendship which had subsisted between them, gave him a right to interest himself in their affairs. The first words he uttered produced such an emotion in Mrs. Darnley's countenance, as convinced him that what he had farther to say would not be favourably received. She coloured, drew herself up with an air of dignity, looking at the same time at her eldest daughter with a scornful smile.

Mr. Herbert, however, continued his discourse, when Harriot, with a pertness which she took for wit, interrupted him with a loud laugh, and asked him, if going to service was the best provision he could think of for Mr. Darnley's daughters?

Mr. Herbert, turning hastily to her, replied with a look of great gravity, and in a calm accent, ‘Have you, miss, thought of any thing better?’

Harriot, without being disconcerted, retorted very briskly,‘People who have nothing but advice to offer to their friends in distress, ought to be silent till they are asked for it.’

‘Good advice, miss, replied the old gentleman with the same composure, is what every body cannot, and many will not give; and it is at least an instance of friendship to hazard it, where one may be almost sure of its giving offence.’ But, continued he, turning to Sophia, ‘my young pupil here has I hope not profited so little by her reading as not to know the value of good counsel; and I promise her she shall not only command the best that I am capable of giving, but every other assistance she may stand in need of.’ Saying this, he bowed and went away, without any attempts from Mrs. Darnley to detain him.

Poor Sophia, who was supposed by her silence to have acquiesced in the old gentleman's proposal, was exposed to a thousand reproaches for her meanness of spirit. She attempted to shew the utility, and even the necessity of following his advice; but she found on this occasion, as she had on many others, that with some persons it is not safe to be too reasonable. Her arguments were answered with rage and invective, which soon silenced her, and increased the triumph of her imperious sister.

Mr. Herbert, apprehensive of the ill treatment she was likely to be exposed to, offered to place her in the family of a country clergyman, and to pay for her board till such a settlement as she desired could be procured for her; but the tender Sophia, not willing to leave her mother while she could be of any use to her, gratefully declined his offer, still expecting that the increasing perplexity of their circumstances might bring her to relish his reasonable counsels, and that she might have the sanction of her consent to a step which prudence made necessary to be taken.

A legacy of a hundred pounds being left her by a young lady who tenderly loved her, and who died in her arms, she immediately presented it to her mother, by whom it was received it with a transport of joy, but without any reflection upon the filial piety of her who gave it.

Sophia's good friend, though he did not absolutely approve of this exalted strain of tenderness, yet did not fail to place the merit of it in the fullest light; but Harriot, who never heard any praises of her sister without a visible emotion, interrupted him, by saying, that Sophia had only done what she ought; and that she herself would have acted in the same manner, if the sum had been twenty times larger.

The same delicacy which induced Sophia to divest herself of any particular right to this small legacy, made her see the misapplication of it without discovering the least mark of dislike. Harriot, who governed her mother absolutely, having represented to her, that the obscurity in which they lived was not the means to preserve their old friends, or to acquire new ones; and that it was their business to appear again in the world, and put themselves in the way of fortune, which could not be done without making a decent appearance at least; Mrs. Darnley, who thought this reasoning unanswerable, consented to their changing their present lodgings for others more genteel, and to whatever expences her eldest daughter judged necessary to secure the success of her scheme.

Sophia lamented in secret this excess of imprudence; and to avoid being a witness of it, as well as to free her mother from the expence of her maintenance, she resolved to accept of the first genteel place that offered; but the natural softness and timidity of her temper made her delay as long as possible mentioning this design to her mother and sister, lest it should be construed into a tacit reproach of them for a conduct so very different.

Indeed her condition was greatly altered for the worse, since the present she had made of her legacy. Her mother and sister had never loved her much, and their tenderness for her was now entirely lost in the uneasy consciousness of having owed an obligation to her, for which they could not resolve to be grateful. They no longer considered her as an insignificant person whose approbation or dislike was of no sort of consequence, but as a saucy censurer of their actions, who assumed to herself a superiority, on account of the paultry assistance she had offered them: every thing she said was construed into upbraidings of the benefit she had conferred upon them. If she offered her opinion upon any occasion, Harriot would say to her with a malicious sneer, ‘To be sure you think you have a right to give us laws, because we have had the misfortune to be obliged to you.’ And Mrs. Darnley, working herself up to an agony of grief and resentment for the fancied insult, would lift up her eyes and cry, ‘How much is that mother be pitied who lives to receive alms from her child!’

Poor Sophia used to answer no oftherwise than by tears: but this was sure to aggravate her fault; for it was supposed that she wept and appeared afflicted only to shew people what ungrateful returns she met with for her goodness.

Thus did the unhappy Sophia, with the softest sensibility of heart and tendered affections, see herself excluded from the endearing expressions of a mother's fondness, only by being too worthy of it, and exposed to shocking suspicions of undutifulness for an action that shewed the highest filial affection: so true it is, that great virtues cannot be understood by mean and little minds, and with such, not only lose all their lustre, but are too often mistaken for the contrary vices.

While Sophia passed her time in melancholy reflections, Harriot, being by her generous gift enabled to make as shewy an appearance as her mourning habit would permit, again mixed in company, and laid baits for admiration. Her beauty soon procured her a geat number of lovers; her poverty made their approaches easy; and the weakness of her understanding, her insipid gaiety, and pert affectation of wit, encouraged the most licentious hopes, and exposed her to the most impertinent addresses.

Among those who looking upon her as a conquest of no great difficulty formed the mortifying design of making a mistress of her, was Sir Charles Stanley, a young baronet of a large estate, a most agreeable person, and engaging address: his fine qualities made him the delight of all who knew him, and even envy itself allowed him to be a man of the strictest honour and unblemished integrity.

Persons who connect the idea of virtue and goodness with such a character, would find it hard to conceive how a man who lives in a constant course of dissimulation with one part of his species, and who abuses the advantages he has received from nature and fortune in subduing chastity, and ensnaring innocence, can possibly deserve, and establish a reputation for honour! but such are the illusions of prejudice, and such the tyranny of custom, that he who is called a man of gallantry shall be at the same time esteemed a man of honour, though gallantry comprehends the worst kind of fraud, cruelty, and injustice.

Sir Charles Stanley had been but too successful in his attempts upon beauty, to fear being rejected by Miss Darnley; and knowing her situation, he resolved to engage her gratitude at least before he declared his designs. He had interest enough to procure the place her father enjoyed for a gentleman who thought himself happy in obtaining it, though charged with an annuity of fourscore pounds a year for the widow of his predecessor.

Sir Charles, in acquainting Miss Darnley with what he had done in favour of her mother, found himself under no necessity of insinuating his motive for the extraordinary interest he took in the affairs of this distrest family. Harriot's vanity anticipated any declaration of this sort, and the thanks she gave him were accompanied with such an apparent consciousness of the power of her charms as convinced him his work was already more than half done.

He was now received at Mrs. Darnley's in the quality of a declared lover of Harriot's; and although amidst all his assiduities he never mentioned marriage, either the mother and daughter did not penetrate into his real designs, or were but too much disposed to favour them.

The innocent heart of Sophia was at first overwhelmed with joy for the happy provision that had been made for her mother, and the prospect of such an advantageous match for her sister, when Mr. Herbert, who knew the world too well to be imposed upon by these fine appearances, gently hinted to his young favourite, his apprehensions of the baronet's dishonourable views.

Her delicacy was so shocked by this suspicion, that she could scarce forbear expressing some little resentment of it; but reflecting that this ardent lover of Harriot's had not yet made any proposals of marriage, her good sense immediately suggested to her that such affected delays in a man who was absolutely independent, and with a woman whose situation made it a point of delicacy to be early explicit on that head, could only proceed from intentions which he had not yet dared to own.

Chance had so ordered it, that hitherto she had never seen Sir Charles Stanley; whenever he came, she was either employed in the family-affairs, or engaged with her books, which it was no easy matter to make her quit. Besides, as she had no share in his visits, and as her sister never shewed any inclination to introduce her to him, she thought it did not become her to intrude herself upon his acquaintance. Sir Charles indeed, knowing that Mrs. Darnley had another daughter, used sometimes to enquire for her, but was neither surprised nor disappointed that she never made her appearance.

Sophia, however, was determined to be in the way when he came next, that she might have an opportunity of observing his behaviour to her sister; and fondly flattered herself that she should discover nothing to the disadvantage of a person whom her grateful heart had taught itself to love and esteem as their common benefactor.

Sir Charles at the next visit found Sophia in the room with her sister. He instantly saw something in her looks and person which inspired him with more respect than he had been used to feel for Mrs. Darnley and Harriot; a dignity which she derived from innate virtue, and an exalted understanding. Struck with the uncommon sensibility of her countenance, he began to consider her with an attention which greatly disgusted Harriot, who could not conceive that where she was present any other object was worthy notice.

Sophia herself was a little disconcerted by the young baronet's so earnestly gazing on her; and in order to divert his looks, opened a conversation in which her sister might bear a part. Then it was, that without designing it, she displayed her whole power of charming: that flow of wit which was so natural to her, the elegant propriety of her language, the delicacy of her sentiments, the animated look which gave them new force, and sent them directly to the heart, and the moving graces of the most harmonious voice in the world, were attractions, which though generally lost on fools, seldom fail of their effect on the heart of a man of sense.

Sir Charles was wrapt in wonder and delight; he had no eyes, no ears, but for Sophia: he scarce perceived that Harriot was in the room.

The insolent beauty, astonished at such unusual neglect, varied her attitude and her charms a thousand different ways to draw his attention; but found all was to no purpose. Had she been capable of serious reflection, she might now have discovered what advantages her sister, though far inferior to her in beauty, gained over her, by the force of her understanding: she might now have seen,

"How beauty is excelled by modest grace,

"And wisdom, which alone is truly fair."

But too ignorant to know her own wants, and too conceited to imagine she had any, she was strangely perplexed how to account for so sudden an alteration in Sir Charles.

Her uneasiness, however, grew so great, that she was not able to conceal it. She shifted her seat two or three times in a minute, bit her lips almost through, and frowned so intelligibly, that Sophia at last perceiving her agitation, suddenly recollected herself, and quitted the room upon pretence of business.

When she was gone, Harriot drawing herself up, and assuming a look which expressed her confidence in the irresistible power of her charms, seemed resolved to make her lover repent the little notice he had taken of her in this visit by playing off a thousand scornful airs upon him; but she was more mortified than ever when upon turning her eyes towards him, in full expectation of finding his fixed upon her, she saw them bent upon the ground, and such a pensiveness in his countenance as all her rigors could never yet occasion.

She was considering what to say to him to draw him out of this reverie, when Sir Charles, on a sudden raising his eyes, turned them towards the door with a look of mingled anxiety and impatience, and then, as if disappointed, sighed and addressed some indifferent conversation to Harriot.

The lady, now quite provoked, had recourse to an artifice which her shallow understanding suggested to her, as an infallible method of awakening his tenderness, and this was to make him jealous. Without any preparation therefore, she introduced the name of Lord L—, a young nobleman who was just returned from his travels, and lavishing a thousand encomiums upon his person, and his elegant taste in dress, added, ‘That he was the best bred man in the world, and had entertained her so agreeably one night at the play, when happening to come into a box where she was with a lady of her acquaintance, that they did not mind a word the players said, he was so diverting.’

Sir Charles coldly answered, ‘That Lord L. was a very pretty youth, and that he was intimately acquainted with him.’

‘Oh then, cried Harriot, with a great deal of affected joy, I vow and protest you shall bring him to see me.’

‘Indeed you must excuse me madam,’ said Sir Charles, with some quickness.

Harriot, concluding her stratagem had taken effect, was quite transported, and renewed her attacks, determined to make him suffer as much as possible; but the young baronet, whose thoughts were full of Sophia, and whose emotion at the request Harriot had made him, was occasioned by fears very different from those she suspected, took no further notice of what she said, but interrupted her to ask how old her sister Sophia was?

‘I dare engage, replied Harriot, you would never have supposed her to be younger than I am.’

The baronet smiled, and looking at his watch, seemed surprised that it was so late, and took his leave.

Miss Darnley following him to the door of the room, cried, ‘Remember I lay my commands upon you to bring my Lord L. to see me.’

Sir Charles answered her no otherwise than by a low bow, and she returned, delighted at the parting pang which she supposed she had given him. Vanity is extremely ingenious in procuring gratifications for itself. Harriot did not doubt but that she had tormented Sir Charles sufficiently; and it was the unshaken confidence which she had in the power of her charms, that hindered her from discovering the true cause of the new disgust she had conceived for her sister. However, it was so great that she could scarcely speak to her civilly, or endure her in her sight: yet she found an increase of pleasure in talking to her mother when she was present of the violent passion Sir Charles Stanley had for her, and in giving an exaggerated account of the professions he made her.

Sophia did not listen to this sort of discourse with her usual complaisance. Her mind became insensibly more disposed to suspect the sincerity of the baronet's passion for her sister: she grew pensive and melancholy, sought solitude more than ever, and loved reading less.

This change, which her own innocence hid from herself, was quickly perceived by Mr. Herbert, who loved her with a parent's fondness, and thought nothing indifferent which concerned her. He took occasion one day to mention Sir Charles Stanley to her, and asked her opinion of his person and understanding, keeping his eyes fixed upon her at the same time, which disconcerted her so much that she blushed; and though she commended him greatly, yet it was easy to discover that she forbore to say all the good she thought of him, for fear of saying too much.

Mr. Herbert no longer doubted but this dangerous youth had made an impression on the innocent heart of Sophia, which was still ignorant of its own emotions.

He had perceived for some time that Sir Charles had changed the object of his pursuits: his visits now were always short, unless Sophia was in the way: he brought her all the new books and pamphlets that came out which were worth her reading: he adopted the purity and delicacy of her sentiments, declared himself always of the side she espoused: he talked of virtue like a man who loved and practised it, and set all his good qualities in the fairest light: he presented Harriot from time to time with fashionable trifles, and sent Sophia books enough to furnish out a little library, consisting of the best authors, in English, French, and Italian, all elegantly bound, with proper cases for their reception: he praised whatever she approved, and appeared to have great respect and consideration for Mr. Herbert, because he observed she loved and esteemed him.

That faithful friend of the virtuous Sophia trembled for her danger, when he considered that by this artful management the baronet was strengthening himself every day in her good opinion, and seducing her affections under the appearance of meriting her friendship; yet he did not think it proper to give her even a hint of her situation. A young maid has passed over the first bounds of reservedness who allows herself to think she is in love.

Mr. Herbert would not familiarize her with so dangerous an idea: he knew her extreme modesty, her solid virtue; he was under no apprehensions that she would ever act unworthy of her character; but a heart so nicely sensible, so delicately tender as hers, he knew must suffer greatly from a disappointed passion; and this was what he wanted to prevent, not by wounding her delicacy with suggesting to her that she was in love, but by preserving her from the encroachments of that passion.

He reminded her of the design she had formerly mentioned to him of entering into the service of a lady, and was rejoiced to find that she still continued her resolution. Harriot's natural insolence and ill temper, irritated by the change she now plainly saw in Sir Charles, made home so disagreeable to Sophia, that she wished impatiently for an opportunity of providing for herself, that she might no longer live upon the bounty of her sister, who often insinuated that their mother's annuity was her gift.

Mr. Herbert, who had other reasons besides those she urged, from freeing her from so uneasy a dependance, promised to be diligent in his enquiries for something that would suit her.

Neither Mrs. Darnley nor Harriot opposed this design, which soon came to the knowledge of Sir Charles, who had bribed a servant of the family to give him intelligence of every thing that passed in it.

Impatient to prevent the execution of it, and tortured by the bare apprehension of Sophia's absence, he resolved to break through that constraint he had so long laid upon himself, and acquaint her with his passion.

But it was not easy to find an opportunity of speaking to her alone. At length having contrived to get Harriot engaged to a play, and prevailed upon a maiden kinswoman of his to invite Mrs. Darnley to a party of whist, he went to the house at his usual hour of visiting this little family, and found Sophia at home, and without any company.

Not all the confidence he derived from his rank and fortune, his fine understanding; and those personal graces which gave him but too much merit in the eyes of many women, could hinder him from trembling at the thought of that declaration he was about to make. As soon as he came into Sophia's presence he was awed, disconcerted, and unable to speak; such was the power of virtue, and such the force of a real passion! Two or three times he resolved to begin, but when he looked upon Sophia, and saw in her charming eyes that sparkling intelligence which displayed the treasures of the soul that animated them; when he observed the sweet severity of her modest countenance, the composed dignity of her behaviour, he durst not own a passion which had views less pure than the perfect creature that inspired it.

His conversation for near an hour was so confused, so disjointed, and interrupted by such frequent musings, that Sophia was amazed, and thought it so disagreeable, and unlike what it used to be, that she was not sorry when he seemed disposed to put an end to his visit.

Sir Charles indeed rose up to be gone, but with so deep a concern in his eyes as increased Sophia's perplexity. She attended him respectfully to the door of the room, when he suddenly turning back, and taking her hand, ‘Do not hate me, said he, nor think ill of me, if I tell you that I love and adore you.’

Sophia, in the utmost confusion at such a speech, disengaged her hand from his, and retiring a few steps back, bent her eyes on the ground, and continued silent.

Sir Charles, emboldened by her confusion, made a tender, and at the same time respectful declaration of the passion he had long felt for her.

Sophia, not willing to hear him enlarge upon this subject, raised her eyes from the ground, her cheeks were indeed overspread with blushes, but there was a grave composure in her looks that seemed a bad omen to Sir Charles.

‘I have hitherto flattered myself, sir, said she, that you entertained a favourable opinion of me, how happens it then that I see myself to-day exposed to your raillery?’

The baronet was beginning a thousand protestations, but Sophia stopt him short. ‘If your professions to me are sincere, said she, what am I to think of those you made to my sister?’

Sir Charles expected this retort, and was the less perplexed by it, as he needed only to follow the dictates of truth to form such an answer as was proper to be given. ‘I acknowledge, said he, that I admired your sister, and her beauty made as strong an impression upon me as mere beauty can make upon a man who has a taste for higher excellencies. I sought Miss Darnley's acquaintance. I was so happy as to do her some little service. I wished to find in her those qualities that were necessary to fix my heart—Pardon my freedom, Miss Sophia, the occasion requires that I should speak freely. Miss Darnley, upon a nearer acquaintance, did not answer the idea I had formed to myself of a woman whom I could love for life; and the professions I made her, as you are pleased to call them, were no more than expressions of gallantry; a sort of homage which beauty, even when it does not touch the heart, exacts from the tongue. My heart was not so easy a conquest—tell me not of raillery, when I declare that none but yourself was ever capable of inspiring me with a real passion.’

The arrival of Mr. Herbert proved a grateful interuption to Sophia, in whose innocent breast the tenderness and apparent sincerity of this declaration raised emotions which she knew not how to disguise.

Sir Charles, though grieved at this unseasonable visit, yet withdrew, not wholly desparing of success. He had heedfully observed the changes in Sophia's face while he was speaking, and thought he had reason to hope that he was not indifferent to her. Loving her as he did with excessive tenderness, what pure and unmixed satisfaction would this thought have given him, had he not been conscious that his designs were unworthy of her! The secret upbraidings of his conscience disquieted him amidst all his flattering hopes of success; but custom, prejudice, the insolence of fortune, and the force of example, all conspired to suppress the pleadings of honour and justice in favour of the amiable Sophia, and fixed him in the barbarous resolution of attempting to corrupt that virtue which made her so worthy of his love.

Mr. Herbert having, as has been already mentioned, interrupted the conversation between Sir Charles and Sophia, was not surprised at the young baronet's abrupt departure, as he seemed preparing to go when he came in; but upon looking at Sophia, he perceived so many signs of confusion and perplexity in her countenance, that he did not doubt but the discourse which his entrance had put an end to, was a very interesting one. He waited a moment, in expectation that she would open herself to him, but finding that she continued silent and abashed, he gently took her hand, and looking tenderly upon her, ‘Tell me, my child, said he, has not something extraordinary happened, which occasions this confusion I see you in?’

‘Sir Charles has indeed been talking to me, replied Sophia blushing, in a very extraordinary manner, and such as I little expected.’

Mr. Herbert pressed her to explain herself, and she gave him an exact account of Sir Charles's discourse to her, without losing a word; so faithful had her memory been to all he said.

Mr. Herbert listened to her attentively, and found something so like candor and sincerity in the baronet's declaration, that he could not help being pleased with it. He had never indeed judged favourably of his views upon Harriot, but here the case was very different.

Harriot's ignorance, vanity, and eager desire of being admired, exposed her to the attacks of libertinism, and excited presumptuous hopes.

Sophia's good sense, modesty, and virtue, placed her out of the reach of temptation. No one could think it surprising that a man of sense should make the fortune of a woman who would do honour to his choice, and where there was such exalted merit as in Sophia, overlook the disparity of circumstances.

But justly might it be called infatuation and folly, to raise to rank and affluence a woman of Harriot's despicable turn; to make a companion for life of a handsome ideot, who thought the highest excellencies of the female character were to know how to dress, to dance, to sing, to flutter in a drawing-room, or coquet at a play; who mistook pertness for wit, confidence for knowledge, and insolence for dignity.

While he was revolving these thoughts in his mind, Sophia looked earnestly at him, pleased to observe that what the baronet had said seemed worthy his consideration.

Mr. Herbert, who read in her looks that she wished to have his advice on this occasion, but would not ask it, lest she should seem to lay any stress upon Sir Charles's declaration, told her it was very possible the baronet was sincere in what he had said to her; that his manner of accounting for his quitting her sister, was both sensible and candid; that she ought not to be surprised at the preference he gave her over Miss Darnley, since she deserved it by the care she had taken to improve her mind, and to acquire qualities which might procure her the esteem of all wise and virtuous persons.

He warned her, however, not to trust too much to favourable appearances, nor to suffer her inclinations to be so far engaged by the agreeable person and specious behaviour of Sir Charles Stanley, as to find it painful to renounce him, if he should hereafter shew himself unworthy of her good opinion.

He advised her, when he talked to her in the same strain again, to refer him to her mother and to him for an answer; and told her that he would save her the confusion and perplexity of acquainting her mother and sister with what had happened, by taking that task upon himself.

You will, no doubt, added he, be exposed to some sallies of ill temper from Miss Darnley, for robbing her of a lover; for envy is more irreconcileable than hatred: but let not your sensibility suffer much on her account: if you deprive her of a lover, you do not deprive her of one she loves: she is too vain, too volatile, and too greedy of general admiration, to be affected with the loss of Sir Charles, any farther than as her pride is wounded by it: and one would imagine she had foreseen this desertion, by the pains she has taken about a new conquest lately.

Mr. Herbert was going on, when Mrs. Darnley knocked at the door. Sophia, in extreme agitation, begged him to say nothing concerning Sir Charles that evening. He promised her he would not, and they all three conversed together upon indifferent things, till Harriot returned from the play.

Mr, Herbert then took leave of them, after inviting himself to breakfast the next morning; which threw Sophia into such terror and confusion, that she retired hastily to her own room, to conceal her disorder.

Mr. Herbert came the next morning, according to his promise; and Sophia, all trembling with her apprehensions, retired immediately after breakfast. He entered upon the business that had brought him thither; but sensible that what he had to say would prove extremely mortifying to miss Harriot, he thought it not amiss to sweeten the bitter pill he was preparing for her, by sacrificing a little flattery to her pride.

You fine ladies, said he, addressing himself to her with a smile, are never weary of extending your conquests; but you use your power with so much tyranny, that it is not surprising some of your slaves should assume courage, at last, to break your chains. Do you know, my pretty cousin, that you have lost Sir Charles Stanley; and that he has offered that heart, which you no doubt have despised, to your sister Sophia?

Miss Darnley, who had bridled up at the beginning of this speech, lost all her assumed dignity towards the end of it: her face grew pale and red by turns; she fixed her eyes on the ground, her bosom heaved with the violence of her agitations, and tears, in spite of her, were ready to force their way.

Sir Charles had indeed for a long time discontinued his addresses to her, and had suffered his inclination for her sister to appear plainly enough; but still her vanity suggested to her, that this might be all a feint, and acted only with a view to alarm her fears, and oblige her to sacrifice all her other admirers to him.

What Mr. Herbert had said therefore, struck her at first with astonishment and grief; but solicitous to maintain the fancied superiority of her character, she endeavoured to repress her emotions; and taking the hint which he had designedly thrown out to her to save her confusion,

Sir Charles has acted very wisely, said she, putting on a scornful look, to quit me, who always despised him, for one who has been so little used to have lovers, that she will be ready to run mad with joy at the thoughts of such a conquest: but after all, she has only my leavings.

Mr. Herbert, though a little shocked at the grossness of her language, replied gravely, ‘However that may be, Miss, it is certain that he has made a very open, and to all appearance, sincere declaration of love to Miss Sophia, who, not knowing how to mention this affair to her mother herself, commissioned me to acquaint her with it, that she may have her directions how to behave to Sir Charles, and what to say to him.’

‘One would have imagined, interrupted Miss Darnley eagerly, that she who sets up for so much wit, and reads so many books, might have known what to say to him.’

‘Pray, Miss, said Mr. Herbert, what would you have had her say to Sir Charles?’

‘Why truly, replied she, I think she ought to have told him that he was very impertinent, and have shewn him the door.’

‘Sure, Harriot, said Mrs. Darnley, who had been silent all this time, You forget that Sir Charles is our benefactor, and that I am obliged to him for all the little support I have.’

‘It is not likely I should forget it, retorted Miss Darnley, since I am the person who am most obliged to him for what he has done; if I mistake not, it was upon my account that he interested himself in our affairs.’

‘Well, well, Harriot, replied Mrs. Darnley, I have been told this often enough; but why should you be angry at this prospect of your sister's advancement?’

‘I angry at her advancement, madam! exclaimed Miss Harriot, not I really: I wish the girl was provided for by a suitable match with all my heart; but as for Sir Charles, I would not have her set her foolish heart upon him; he is only laughing at her.’

‘It may be so, said Mr. Herbert, though I think Miss Sophia the last woman in the world whom a man would chuse to laugh at. However, this affair is worth a little consideration—Miss Sophia, madam, pursued he, addressing himself to Mrs. Darnley, intends to refer Sir Charles entirely to you. You will be the best judge whether the passion he professes is sincere, and his intentions honourable; and I can answer for my young cousin, that she will be wholly governed by your advice, since it is impossible that you can give her any but what is most advantageous to her honour and happiness.’

Harriot, no longer able to suppress her rage and envy, was thrown so far off her guard as to burst into tears. ‘I cannot bear to be thus insulted, cried she; and I declare if Sir Charles is permitted to go on with his foolery with that vain girl, I will quit the house.’

‘Was there ever any one so unreasonable as you are, Miss, said Mr. Herbert, have you not owned that you despised Sir Charles; and if your sister is a vain girl, will she not be sufficiently mortified by accepting your leavings, as you said just now?’

‘I am speaking to my mother, sir, replied Harriot, with a contemptuous frown; depend upon it, Madam, pursued she, that I will not stay to be sacrificed to Mr. Herbert's favourite—either she shall be forbid to give Sir Charles any encouragement, who after all, is only laughing at her, or I will leave the house.’

Saying this, she flung out of the room, leaving her mother divided between anger and grief, and Mr. Herbert motionless with astonishment.

[To be continued.]

A SONG, in PHILANDER. A Dramatic Pastoral.

Set by Mr. OSWALD.

〈♫〉

Think what the hapless virgin proves, who loves in vain, yet

〈♫〉

fondly loves; While modesty and female pride, The

〈♫〉

slighted passion seek to hide.

〈♫〉

II.

For oh! in vain the sigh's represt

That struggling heaves her anxious breast.

In vain the falling tear's with-held,

The conscious wish in vain repell'd.

III.

Her faded cheeks, and air forlorn,

Coarse jests invite, and cruel scorn.

To hopeless love she falls a prey,

And wastes in silent grief away.

On reading a POEM written by a Lady of Quality.

I.

AFRAID to be pleas'd, and with envy half fir'd,

Still wishing to blame, while by force I admir'd,

New beauties appearing as farther I read,

At last in a rage to Apollo I said:

II.

Oh thou whom the lean tribe of authors adore!

And proud of thy gifts, are content to be poor;

Say, why must a peeress thus put in her claim,

For the poet's poor airy inheritance, fame?

III.

Needs that brow which a coronet circles be bound

With the wreath that your glorious starv'd fav'rites have crown'd.

Why should she who at ease in gilt chariots may ride,

Our tir'd Pegasus mount, and so skilfully guide?

IV.

With Gallia's rich vintage, her thirst she may slake,

Then why such large draughts from our Helicon take?

And blest here with corn-fields, and meadows, and pastures,

Has she need of grants in the realm of Parnassus?

V.

Thus I: nor to answer Apollo disdain'd,

My Stella from fortune those trifles obtain'd;

In wit I decreed her supremely to shine,

When were titles and riches suppos'd gifts of mine?

But your clamours to stop, and your anger to tame,

She shall smile on your works, and her praise shall be fame.

An ODE

I.

HOW long from thy inchanting sway

Shall I my freedom, Love, maintain!

The young, the beauteous, and the gay

Still spread the pleasing snare in vain.

II.

The study'd air, the borrow'd grace,

All affectation's numerous wiles,

Send blunted darts from ev'ry face,

Conceal'd in blushes, sighs, and smiles.

III.

For these my heart feels no alarms,

Whose honest wish is but to prove

The genuine force of artless charms,

The soft simplicity of love.

IV.

The heaving bosom's fall and rise,

Compassion only should display.

The glance that can my soul surprise

To wit must owe the pointed ray.

V.

The smile that would my soul inflame,

Good nature only must bestow.

Sweet modesty, ingen'ous shame,

Must give the kindling cheek to glow.

VI.

Mere outward charms the mind delude

To own a short compulsive reign,

By wit, and virtue when subdu'd,

She forges for herself her chain.

To DEATH. An irregular ODE.

I.

OH death, thou gentle end of human pain,

Why is thy stroke so long delay'd?

Why to a wretch, who breathes but to complain,

Dost thou refuse thy welcome aid?

Still wilt thou fly the plaintive voice of woe,

And where thou'rt dreaded, only aim the blow.

II.

Oh leave, fantastick tyrant, leave,

The young, the gay, the happy, and the free:

On them bestow a short reprieve,

And bend thy fatal shafts at me.

The beauteous bride, or blooming heir,

Let thy resistless power spare,

And aim at this grief-wounded heart

That springs half way to meet the welcome dart.

III.

Still must I view with streaming eyes,

Another, and another morn arise;

Are my days length'ned to prolong my pain?

Do grief and sickness waste this frame in vain?

A finish'd wretch e'er youth has ceas'd to bloom,

By early sorrow ripen'd for the tomb.

Gabriella D'Etrees, Dutchess of Beaufort, Mistress to Henry the Great of France.
THE HISTORY OF THE DUTCHESS of BEAUFORT.

IT has been asserted by the enemies of our sex, that it is the fear of shame which keeps many women virtuous. Had those detractors lived in an age when vice ceased to incur blame in proportion as it appeared in splendor, when riches procured guilt the distinction due to virtue, and indigence drew on virtue the contempt merited by guilt, when licentiousness of conduct was the road to grandeur, and every courtezan expected to be a peeress; they would be forced to confess that she who in such corrupt times preserved a purity of manners was virtuous upon principle, since shame was no longer to be dreaded as the attendant on vice.

To such of my fair readers as love virtue for her own sake, I present the history of the dutchess of Beaufort, mistress to Henry IV. of France. Here they will see grandeur purchased by crimes, and possessed with anxiety; schemes of ambition carried far into futurity, suddenly defeated by an immature and horrible death; and hence they may learn to rejoice in that innocence which is at once their merit and their reward. The amours of Henry the Great have been recorded by many writers, who, altho' they indeed abound with facts, yet are they adorned and embellished with so many circumstances as have the appearance of being imaginary, that the whole seems either a tale invented to amuse than a real and interesting narrative:

To avoid being misled by those lively authors, I shall extract the history of the dutchess of Beaufort solely from the Memoirs of the Duke de Sully, prime-minister to Henry the Great, one of the wisest and most virtuous men of his age; and the reader will have the pleasure to see many passages in the words of that admirable writer.

Gabriella D'Etrees, afterwards so famous under the name of Dutchess of Beaufort, was descended from an ancient family in Picardy, to which the honourable post of grand-master of the artillery had been in a manner hereditary.

This young lady was so exquisitely beautiful, that she obtained the surname of Fair, to express the pre-eminence of her charms over all those of her sex and time. Henry IV. who was born a hero, and who at the most early age was called by fortune to the exertion of those qualities which so deservedly procured him the epithet of Great, had also the weakness of heroes, that alloy in his character otherwise so truly noble which serves to shew us that nothing is perfect here below. Glory was not more his passion than love; and if on certain occasions he was capable of sacrificing his tenderness to his fame, on others he made no scruple to hazard his fame to gratify his tenderness. At the time that Henry fell in love with mademoiselle D' Etrees, he was at war with his own subjects. Rebellion, sanctified by the name of religion, had given rise to the League, in which all the princes and great men of France were engaged.

The design of this formidable party was to exclude him from the succession on account of his being a protestant, and Henry III. his immediate predecessor, lost his life by the hands of an assassin, for maintaining the rights of his injured kinsman. Henry, when fighting for a kingdom, found love a stronger passion than ambition. An accidental sight of mademoiselle D' Etrees inspired him with so violent a passion for her, that he often risqued his crown, his honour, and his life, for the satisfaction of talking to her a few moments. Once in particular, when he was in a manner besieged in his camp by the duke of Parma, he disguised himself in the habit of a peasant, and passed through the enemy's guards to make her a short visit.

It is not certain whether the fair Gabriella repaid this excessive tenderness with equal sincerity. In such attachments few women separate the lover from the king. Mademoiselle D'Etrees had not understanding enough to be capable of the refinements of a delicate passion. She was interested, vain, and ambitious: she raised her hopes to the throne, and not only practised upon the weakness of Henry for this purpose, but formed cabals and intrigues to secure the success of her designs, which would in all probability have reduced her royal lover once more to the condition of an exile: yet she had the address to persuade him that she really loved him; or rather this thought was so necessary to his happipiness, that he assisted the crafty mistress in deceiving himself.

The Duke de Sully mentions, a sum of money which she lent the king in his distresses. How great those distresses were the reader may conceive by the humorous representation which Henry himself gave of them in the following billet to the duke of Sully [*].

I am very near my enemies, and scarcely a horse to carry me into the battle, nor a complete suit of armour to put on; my shirts are all ragged, my doublets out at elbow, my kettle is seldom on the fire, and these two last days I have been obliged to dine where I could, for my purveyors have informed me, that they have not wherewithal to furnish my table.

The king's passion for mademoiselle D'Etrees was at first so far discountenanced by her parents, that they kept her in a severe confinement; and although Henry in his impatience to be with her would sometimes neglect to reap the fruits of a dear bought victory, and quitting the pursuit of the enemy, turn aside to the road that led to her house, yet a distant sight of her was all he could obtain. Monsieur D'Etrees, supposing his daughter would be more secure from the king's attempts when she was married, peremptorily insisted upon her giving her hand to Nicholas D'Amerval, lord of Liancourt.

Gabriella continued obstinate in her disobedience, till the king, who had made sure of monsieur de Liancourt, sent her word to comply, as the only means of freeing herself from her present restraint.

It was certainly no proof of Henry's understanding, though a great one of that blind passion which tyrannised over his heart, that he so securely relied upon the honour of a man who, to serve his designs, could consent to be a nominal husband, and upon the fidelity of a woman who entered into the most solemn engagement with a fixed purpose to break through it: however, an accident happened which awakened his suspicions. It is thus related by the duke de Sully.

His majesty having sent Alibour, his first physician, to visit Madame de Liancourt, who was indisposed, (this was in the beginning of his addresses to that lady.) At his return he told the king, that she was indeed a little disordered; but that he need not be uneasy, for the consequence would be very good. But will you not bleed and purge her? said the king to him. I shall be very careful of doing that, replied the old man with the same simplicity, before she has gone half her time. How! interrupted the king, astonished and disordered to the last degree; what is it you say, friend? surely you rave, and are not in your right senses

Alibour supported his assertion with good proofs, which the king thought he should destroy, by telling him upon what terms he was with the lady. I know not what you have done, or what you have not done, replied the old physician with great composure; and, for a complete proof, referred him to six or seven months from that time.

The king quitted Alibour in great rage, and went immediately to reproach the sick fair one, who, no doubt, knew well enough how to new dress all the good man had ignorantly said; for it was not perceived that any misunderstanding happened between the king and his mistress.

It is certain, however, that the event was exactly conformable to Alibour's prediction: but it was thought that Henry, after a more strict examination, was brought to believe, that he had been mistaken in his reckoning, since, instead of disowning the child that madam de Liancourt lay in of at Coucy, during the siege of Laon, he acknowledged it openly, and had it baptized by the name of Caesar.

Gabriella found it no difficult matter to persuade the king, that she loved him alone. She affected the tender solicitude of a wife for his person and safety, when he left her to put himself at the head of his army; tears, swoonings, and passionate complaints, expressed her strong apprehensions of his danger. She continued to lend him money in his exigencies; and we find in Sully's Memoirs an order to him from the king to repay madame de Liancourt four thousand crowns he had borrowed from her. It may easily be imagined that Henry was reduced to great streights when he consented to receive this assistance from his mistress.

Henry, while the affairs of his kingdom were still in the utmost confusion, and while several of the chiefs of the League were in arms against him, some of whom he was endeavouring to bring over to his party by negotiations, and reducing others by force, found leisure for the soft anxities of love.

He was in Picardy, where, finding himself unable to support the absence of madame de Liancourt, he wrote to his faithful friend the duke of Sully, then marquis of Rosny, to conduct that lady to him.

In this journey the fair Gabriella was in imminent danger of her life. The duke of Sully gives a particular account of it, which I shall transcribe for the sake of the observation he makes at the end of it [*].

At Maubuisson I met madam de Liancourt, with whom I took the road to Clermont. I rode seven or eight hundred paces before the litter in which this lady was, and which was followed at some distance by a great unwieldy coach that carried her women; before and behind this coach marched several mules loaded with baggage.

About a league from Clermont, where the road was very narrow, a steep hill on one side, and a hanging valley on the other, leaving only room enough for two carriages to go a-breast; the coachman alighting on some occasion or other, one of the mules passing near the side of the coach after it stopped, by its neighing and the sound of its bells, so terrified the horses, which unfortunately were young and skittish, that, taking the bit between their teeth, they drew the coach with such rapidity, that, meeting with two other mules, they overturned them in their course.

The women within, seeing a thousand abysses opened under their feet, apprehended their danger, and sent forth most lamentable cries.

The coachman and muleteers endeavoured in vain to stop the horses: they were already within fifty paces of the litter, when madam Liancourt, alarmed by the noise, looked out, and screamed aloud. I also turned back, and, trembling at the danger in which I saw this lady and her attendants, without being able to assist them, on account of the distance I was at, Ah, friend, said I to La Font, the women will be dashed in pieces, what will become of us? and what will the king say? While I was thus speaking, I pushed my horse forwards with all my strength; but this was useless, and I should have arrived too late.

By one of those lucky chances, and which almost amount to a miracle, when the danger was greatest, the axle-tree of the litter-wheels coming out of the nave by a violent shock which broke the pegs, the two wheels fell on each side, and the coach to the ground, and there stopped: one of the hindmost horses was thrown down by the shock, and kept in the other. The fore horses broke their traces, and passed so close to the litter, which was already at the extremity of the precipice, that it is plain if they had drawn the coach along with it, it would have been thrown over it.

I stopped them and gave them to my domesticks to hold, after which I flew to relieve Madame de Liancourt, who was half dead with fear. I went next to the coach and assisted the women to get out of it: they were for having the coachman hanged; and I was complaisant enough to give him two or three strokes with my cane. At length their terrors being entirely dissipated, and the carriage refitted, we resumed our journey; and till we arrived at Clermont I continued to ride close to Madame de Liancourt's litter.

The king had set out for this place to meet his mistress, and arrived there a quarter of an hour after us. I did not fail to inform him immediately of what had happened; and while I was relating this adventure, I observed him attentively, and saw him grow pale and tremble. By these emotions, which I never saw in him in the greatest dangers, it was easy to guess the violence of his passion for this lady.

In the year 1596 the king created his mistress marchioness of Monceaux: his passion for her encreased to such a degree that he suffered no one to be ignorant of it. He passed through Paris, with this lady by his side; and by the tenderness which he took pleasure to shew to her in public, he seemed to invite the adorations of his courtiers to this idol, who made her influence be universally felt.

Gabriella, under the appearance of a disinterested love for the king's person, concealed a boundless ambition, which made her not scruple to sacrifice the honour of her royal lover to any prospect of aggrandizing herself. She contracted her son Caesar, whom she had by the king, to the opulent heiress of the house of Mercoeur.

The Duke of Mercoeur, who was then in arms against his sovereign, found himself by this alliance restored to his favour, without suffering the least diminution of his honours and estates; and Henry, anxious only to please his mistress, condescended to treat upon almost equal terms with a rebel subject, whom he had it in his power to crush at a blow.

The Duke of Sully did not fail to make very lively remonstrances to his master upon this occasion; but the whole affair was concluded before he had been made acquainted with it.

The ceremony of the contract was performed at Angers, with the same magnificence as if the little Caesar had been a son of France born in marriage. He was then but four years old, and his betrothed wife but six.

The birth of a second son drew from the king an increase of tenderness and honours. Gabriella now quitted the title of Marchioness of Monceaux for that of Dutchess of Beaufort. As she had for a long time set no bounds to her ambition, she aspired at nothing less than being declared queen of France; and Henry's passion for her, which encreased every day, gave her hopes of accomplishing her designs.

When she was informed that the king's agents at Rome were commissioned to solicit the dissolution of his marriage with Margaret of Valois, and that his majesty was upon the point of sending the Duke of Luxembourg to that court, with the title of ambassador, to hasten the conclusion of it, she looked upon this to be a favourable opportunity; but apprehensive that those agents and the new ambassador would not enter into her views, she resolved to get Sillery, then minister of state, and who was already deep in her interests, to be nominated for this embassy. As she well knew what was most likely to tempt him, she promised him the seals at his return from Rome, and the post of Chancellor when it became vacant.

At this price Sillery engaged with all the oaths she exacted of him to neglect nothing that might prevail upon the pope to legitimate the two children which she had by Henry, and to dissolve his marriage with Margaret.

This first step taken, few obstacles remained to hinder her advancement to the throne. She easily found reasons to make the king approve of the ambassador she had chosen. The Duke of Luxembourg was only suffered to set out, to be recalled as soon as Sillery should be in a condition to take his place.

The Dutchess assisted herself in preparing his equipages, and prevailed upon the king to give the necessary orders for Sillery's appearance with all the pomp and magnificence by which the success of his negociation might be secured.

To prepare the French at the same time for the change which she meditated for her children, she prevailed upon the king, who had no less tenderness for them than the mother, to let the ceremony of her second son's baptism be performed at Saint Germain, where the king then was, with the same 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 magnificence and honours which in this ceremony are only observed to the children of France.

‘Although I could pardon this lady, says the Duke of Sully, for an intoxication in which she was kept by the servile respect the courtiers expressed for the children, and the adorations they offered to herself, yet I could not have the same indulgence for Henry, who was so far from taking any measures to undeceive her with regard to the extravagant hopes she had entertained, that he gave orders for the baptism of this child with a readiness that shewed how agreeable the request was to him.’

‘I declared my sentiments, pursues the duke, of this conduct, with great freedom; I endeavoured publickly to oppose the inferences which the courtiers would make from it in favour of these children's pretentions to the crown. The king himself, when the ceremony was over, became sensible that his orders had been exceeded; and this I had no difficulty to believe.’

‘The child was named Alexander, as the eldest had been Caesar; and the court-flatterers, by a kind of second baptism, gave him the title of Monsieur, which in France no one is permitted to bear but the king's only brother, or the presumptive heir to the crown.’

‘The mistress did not stop here; she began to assume all the airs of a queen: not indeed so much of her own accord, for I think she knew herself well enough not to have ventured on any such notion, but driven on to take that step by the continual solicitations of her creatures and relations.’

‘Madame de Sourdis, Cheverny, and Fresne, seconded her so well on their parts, that it became insensibly the public talk of the court, that the king was going to marry his mistress; and that it was for this purpose he was soliciting his divorce at Rome.’

‘I was shocked at a report so injurious to the glory of this prince; I went to him and made him sensible of the consequence of it. He appeared to me affected, and even piqued at it: his first care was to justify Madame de Beaufort, who, he positively assured me, had not contributed to the report; for which, all the proof he had was, that she had told him so.’

‘He threw the whole blame upon Madame de Sourdis and Fresne, to whom he shewed that he was capable of pardoning a conduct so little respectful to him, since although he was assured they were guilty, he gave them not the slightest reprimand.’

‘One circumstance added great weight to the steps I took in this affair, both in public and private. Queen Margaret, with whom the affair of the approaching dissolution of her marriage obliged me to keep a correspondence by letters, was the last who heard of what was said and done at court with regard to Madame de Beaufort's pretensions; as soon as she was informed of them she wrote to me, and gave me to understand, that she had not changed her mind concerning a separation from the king; but that she was so much offended at their intending to give the place she resigned, to a woman so infamous as the Dutchess was, by her commerce with the king, that although she had at first given her consent, without annexing any conditions to it, she was now determined to insist upon the exclusion of this woman; and no treatment whatever should oblige her to alter her resolution. I shewed this letter to the king, who judging by it how much his marriage with his mistress would irritate the best of his subjects against him, began, in reality, to change his sentiments and conduct.’

‘I was of opinion, that if madame de Beaufort was acquainted with the contents of this letter, it might probably produce the same effects upon her. I would not take this trouble upon myself, being unwilling to meet the insolence and rage of a woman, who looked upon me as a stumbling block in the way of her advancement; but I communicated the letter to Chiverny and Fresne, who immediately informed Madame de Sourdis of it, and she almost in the same moment the Dutchess of Beaufort.’

‘But this lady's counsellors were not so easily alarmed; they were very sensible that the step they had undertaken to prevail upon the king, would not fail of meeting with many difficulties, and they had settled their behaviour upon each: the result of their deliberations had been to hasten, as much as possible, the conclusion of the affair, persuading themselves, that when it was once over, they might give it a colour that should make it excusable; or at worst, matters might be composed after a little talk, as always happens when things are without remedy.’

‘They knew well the disposition of the French nation, especially the courtiers, whose first law it is to be always of the same mind with the sovereign; and whose strongest passion the desire of pleasing him. In a word, they thought themseves secure of every thing, provided the king himself did not fail them.’

‘Fresne having drawn up the warrant for the payment of the heralds, trumpeters, and other officers of the crown who had attended at the ceremony of this baptism, it was brought to me as well as the rest of the counsellors, that I might give my order for its discharge. As soon as I cast my eyes upon this writing, a tender concern for the king's honour made me look upon it as a lasting witness of his weakness, which was going to be handed down to posterity. I hesitated not a moment to return it, and caused another to be drawn up in terms more proper.’

‘The titles of Monsieur, son of France, and all that could give any notion of that kind were suppressed, and consequently the houshold fees were reduced to the ordinary sum, with which they were highly dissatisfied. They did not fail to renew their efforts; and in their discontent quoted monsieur de Fresne, and the law by which their claims were regulated. At first I restrained myself before these people, whose bad intentions I was not ignorant of; but growing impatient at last, I could not help saying to them with some indignation, Go, go, I will do nothing in it; learn that there are no sons of France ’

This firmness in Sully was the occasion of a quarrel between the king and the fair Gabriella. The duke relates it at large in his memoirs; and the whole passage being extremely curious, I shall give my readers the pleasure of seeing it here.

The duke continues thus.
No [*] sooner had these words escaped me, than, suspecting that a troublesome affair would be made of it; to prevent it I went immediately to his majesty, who was walking with the duke D'Epernon in the palace of Saint-Germain. I shewed him the warrant Fresne had drawn up, telling him, that if it was allowed, there needed no more but to declare himself married to the dutchess of Beaufort. This is Fresne's malice, said the king, after he had read it, but I shall take care to prevent it

‘Then commanding me to tear the paper, he turned to three or four lords of the court who were nearest him. How malignant are these people, said he aloud, and what difficulties do they throw in the way of those who serve me with fidelity? they brought a warrant to monsieur de Rosney, with a design to make him offend me, if he passed it; or my mistress, if he refused it.’

‘In the state affairs then were, these words were far from being indifferent; they gave the courtiers, who had smiled at my simplicity, to understand that they might possibly be deceived themselves, and that the supposed marriage was not so near as they had imagined.’

‘The king continuing to converse with me apart, told me, that he did not doubt but that madame de Beaufort was greatly enraged against me, and advised me to go to her, and endeavour by solid reasons to give her satisfaction. If that will not do, added he, I will speak to her as her master. ’

‘I went directly to the dutchess's apartment, which was in the cloister of Saint-Germain; I knew not what notion she conceived of a visit, which she found I began with a sort of explanation. She did not allow me to go on; the rage with which she was animated not permitting her to observe any measures, she interrupted me with a reproach that I had imposed on the king, and made him believe that black was white.’

‘'Tis well, madam, said I, interrupting her in my turn, but with great calmness, since you think fit to talk in this manner, I shall take my leave, but I shall not however, neglect to do my duty Saying this, I left her, not being willing to hear more, that I might not be tempted to say any thing severer. I put the king in a very ill humour with his mistress, when I repeated to him what she said. Come along with me, said the king, with an emotion that pleased me greatly, and I will let you see that women do not wholly possess me ’

‘His coach not being ready soon enough for his impatience, his majesty got into mine, and as we drove to the dutchess's lodgings, he told me that he would never have cause to reproach himself, that, through his complaisance for a woman, he had banished, or even disgusted servants, who, like me, were only solicitous for his glory and interest.’

‘Madame de Beaufort, upon my leaving her apartment so hastily, had expected to see the king soon after; and during that time had taken sufficient pains to adorn her person; believing like me that the victory which one or other of us was to gain would be the happy or miserable presage of her fortune.’

‘As soon as she was informed of the kind's arrival, she came as far as the door of the first hall to receive him. Henry without saluting her, or shewing any part of his usual tenderness, Let us go, madam, said he, to your chamber, and suffer no one to enter but yourself, Rosney, and me, for I want to talk to you both, and make you live together upon friendly terms ’

‘Then ordering the door to be shut, and that no one should be suffered to remain in the chamber, wardrobe, or closet, he took her hand, holding one of mine at the same time, and with an air that she had good reason to be surprised at, told her, that the true motive which had determined him to attach himself to her, was the gentleness he had observed in her disposition; but that her conduct for some time past, had convinced him, that what he had believed to be real was only dissembled; and that she had deceived him: he reproached her with the bad counsels she had listened to, and the very considerable faults they had occasioned.’

‘He loaded me with praises, to shew the dutchess, by the difference of our proceedings, that I only had a true affection for his person: he commanded her to subdue her aversion for me so far as to be able to regulate her conduct by my advice, since she might depend upon it his passion for her should never induce him to banish me from his presence.’

‘Madame de Beaufort began her answer with sighs and tears. She affected a tender and submissive air: she would have kissed the hand of Henry; omitting no artifice which she thought capable of melting his heart. It was not till she had played over all these little arts, that she began to speak, which she did by complaining, that instead of those returns she might have expected from a prince to whom she had given her heart, she saw herself sacrificed to one of his grooms.’

‘She recapitulated all that I had done against her children, in order to awake his majesty's resentment against me; then feigning to sink under the violence of her grief and despair, she let herself fall upon a couch, where she protested she was determined to die, not being able to endure life after so cruel an affront.’

‘The attack was a little strong. Henry did not expect it: I observed him heedfully, and saw his countenance change; but recovering himself immediately, that his mistress might not perceive it, he continued to tell her in the same tone, that she might spare herself the trouble of having recourse to so many artifices on so slight an occasion.’

‘Sensibly affected at this reproach, she redoubled her tears, crying that she plainly perceived she was abandoned; and that doubtless it was to augment her shame and my triumph, that the king had resolved to make me a witness of the severest behaviour that ever was shewn to a woman.’

‘This thought seemed to plunge her into a real despair. By heaven, madam, said the king, losing patience, this is too much. I know to what all this artifice tends: you want to prevail upon me to banish a servant whose assistance I cannot be without; I declare to you if I was reduced to the necessity of chusing to lose one or the other, I would rather part with ten mistresses like you, than one servant such as him. He did not forget the term of groom which she had made use of; and was still more offended, that she had applied it to a man whose family had the honour of being allied to his own.’

‘After this harsh speech the king quitted the dutchess suddenly, and was going out of her apartment, without seeming to be moved at the condition he left her in; probably because he knew her well enough to be sensible that all this violence of grief was affectation and grimace.’

‘As for me, I was so far deceived by it, as to be greatly concerned for her, and was not drawn out of this error, till madam de Beaufort, perceiving the king was going to leave her so much offended, that she had reason to apprehend he would never return again, changed her behaviour in an instant, ran to stop him, and threw herself at his feet, no longer to impose upon his tenderness, but to sooth him to a forgetfulness of her fault. She began by apologising for her past conduct, assumed an air of gentleness and complacency, and vowed she never had, nor ever would have any will but his.’

‘Never was there a change of scene more sudden! I now saw a woman perfectly agreeable, easy, and compliant, who acted towards me as if all that had just passed had been a dream; and we separated very good friends.’

The dutchess of Beaufort however still entertained hopes of being queen of France. She employed every artifice which her own cunning and the more subtile policy of her relations suggested to her to secure the success of her designs. The king having recovered from a dangerous fit of illness, she engaged his first physician, who was absolutely devoted to her, to persuade him that he could have no more children.

She had practised so successfully upon some of his ministers of state, that they made no scruple to advise Henry to secure the succession by marrying the dutchess, and legitimating the eldest of the children which he had by her.

That the king was but too well disposed to admit this counsel appears by the following conversation which he had with the duke of Sully, who of all his ministers was the only one that had courage and resolution enough to oppose a design so injurious to his honour.

The king, says the duke of Sully [*], at certain intervals, appeared so pensive and reserved, that it was not difficult to guess some secret uneasiness preyed upon his mind; and I was the more convinced of it, when his majesty, who often diverted himself with hunting, ordered me twice to follow him apart, that he might have an opportunity of conversing with me alone; yet when I did he was silent.

‘I then remembered that the same thing had happened at Saint Germain and Angers; and I concluded that he had a design in view, which he had some difficulty to disclose to me, knowing with what freedom I sometimes opposed his opinions; but what this design was I could not guess. Returning from a visit to the duke of Bouillon, his majesty being at the foot of the stair case, saw me as I entered the court, and calling me, made me go with him into the garden, which was extremely large and beautiful, holding my hand with his finger between mine as usual, then ordered the door to be shut, and that no person should be allowed to enter.’

‘This prelude made me expect to hear a secret of great consequence. Henry did not enter upon it immediately; but, as if he had not sufficient resolution to explain himself, began to tell me what had just happened between him and the duke of Bouillon. This conversation was followed by news relating to the negotiations of Vervins, and led him insensibly to reflect on the advantages France would receive from a peaceable government.’

‘One circumstance the king said gave him great uneasiness, which was, that not having children by the queen his wife, it would answer no purpose to be at so much trouble to procure peace and tranquility to his kingdom, since, after his death, it must necessarily fall into its former calamities, by the disputes that would arise between the prince of Condé, and the other princes of the blood, concerning the succession to the crown.’

‘His majesty confessed to me, that this was his motive for desiring with such ardour to leave sons behind him. Unless his marriage with the princess Margaret could be dissolved, it was not possible for him to be absolutely happy; but the informations he received from the archbishop of Urbin, Mess. du Perron, D'Ossat, and de Marquemont, his deputies at Rome, of the pope's favourable dispositions in respect to that affair, gave him great hopes of its success. In effect, Clement the Eighth, who was as good a politician as any prince in Europe, revolving in his mind what means were most likely to hinder France and the other christian kingdoms from falling again into a state of anarchy and confusion, could find none so effectual as to secure the succession to the crown of France, by authorising Henry to engage in a second marriage, which might produce him male children.’

‘Our conversation being fixed upon this subject, it was easy for me to perceive that it was from hence his majesty's uneasiness proceeded; but I could not so soon know what was the particular thing that disturbed him. The king began to consider with me what princess of Europe he should chuse for his wife, in case his marriage with Margaret of Valois should be dissolved; but indeed he set out with a declaration that shewed, that any reflections on that head would be fruitless.’

‘That I may not repent, said he, of taking so dangerous a step, nor draw upon myself a misfortune, which is with justice said to exceed all others, that of having a wife disagreeable in person and mind; it is necessary that in her I marry, I should find these seven things, beauty, prudence, softness, wit, fruitfulness, riches, and a royal birth.’

But there was not one in all Europe with whom he appeared entirely satisfied. I should have no objection to the infanta of Spain, pursued Henry although she is a little advanced in years, provided that with her I could marry the Low-Countries; even if I should be obliged to restore to you the Earldom of Bethune: neither would I refuse the princess [*] Arabella of England, if, as it is publickly said, that crown really belongs to her, she were only declared presumptive heiress of it; but there is no reason to expect that either of these things will happen. I have also heard of some princesses of Germany, whose names I have forgot; but the women of this country don't suit me; I should always fancy I had a hogshead of wine in bed with me: besides, I have been told that France had once a queen of that country, who had like to have ruined it. All these considerations have given me a disgust to the German ladies. The sisters of Prince Maurice have likewise been mentioned to me; but besides that they are protestants, which would give umbrage to the court of Rome, and the more zealous catholics, they are daughters of a nun, which, together with a certain reason that I will inform you of some other time, has prevented my entertaining any thoughts of them. The Duke of Florence has a niece who is said to be handsome, but she is descended from one of the most inconsiderable families in Christendom, that bear the title of prince; it not being above three-score or four-score years since her ancestors were only the first citizens of Florence: she is likewise of the same race with the queen-mother Catherine, who did so much mischief to France, and to me in particular.

These, continued the king, observing that I listened attentively to him, are all the foreign princesses that I have any knowledge of: of those within 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 my kingdom, my niece of Guise would please me best [*], notwithstanding the malicious reports that have been spread that she loves poulets [†] in paper better than in a fricassee; for my part, I not only believe those reports to be false, but should rather chuse a wife who is a little fond of gallantry, than one who wanted understanding; but I am apprehensive that the violent affection which she discovers for her family, particularly for her brothers, would create some disorders in the kingdom.

‘After this the king named all the other princesses in France, but to as little purpose: he acknowledged that some were beautiful, and genteel, such as the eldest of the Duke of Maienne's two daughters, although of a brown complexion; the two daughters likewise of the Duke of Aumale, and three of the Duke of Longueville; but all these were either too young, or were not to his taste.’

‘He afterwards named Mademoiselle Rohan, the Princess of Conti's daughter, of the house of Lucé, Mademoiselles Luxembourg and Guémené; but the first was a protestant, and the second not old enough; and the persons of the two others did not please him; and all for some reason or other were excluded.’

‘The king closed this enumeration by saying, that although these ladies might be all agreeable enough to him in their persons, he saw no way to be assured that they would bring him heirs, or that he could suit himself to their tempers, or be convinced of their prudence, three of the seven conditions, without which he had resolved never to marry; since, if he entered into an engagement of that kind, it would be with a design to give his wife a share in the management of all his domestick affairs; and that, if according to the course of nature, he should die before her, and leave chldren very young behind him, it would be necessary that she should be able to superintend their education, and govern the kingdom during a minority.’

‘Weary at length of endeavouring to no purpose to find out what the king aimed at by this discourse; But what do you mean, Sire, said I, by so many affinitives and negatives; and what am I to conclude by them, but that you are desirous to marry, and yet cannot find a woman upon earth qualified to be your wife? By the manner in which you mentioned the Infanta Clara Eugenia, it should seem that great heiresses are most agreeeable to you; but can you expect that heaven should raise a Margaret of Flanders, or a Mary of Burgundy from the dead for you; or at least restore the Queen of England to her youth?’

‘I added smiling, that for proof of the other qualities that he demanded, I saw no better expedient than to bring all the beauties of France together, from the age of seventeen to that of twenty-five, that by talking with them in person, he might know the turn of their temper and genius; and that for the rest he should refer himself to experienced matrons, to whom recourse is had on such occasions.’

‘Then beginning to talk more seriously, I declared that, in my opinion, his majesty might contract his expectations, by striking off a great fortune and royal birth, and be satisfied with a wife who might keep his heart, and bring him fine children; but that here again he must content himself with mere probability, there being many beautiful women incapable of child-bearing; and many illustrious fathers unhappy in their offspring: but whatever his children should prove, the blood from which they sprung would secure the respect and obedience of the French nation.’

‘Well, interrupted the king, setting aside your advice concerning this assembly of beauties, with which I am mightily diverted, and your sage reflection, that great men have often children who possess none of their qualities, I hope to have sons whose actions shall exceed mine. Since you confess that the lady whom I marry ought to be of an excellent temper, beautiful in her person, and of such a make as to give hopes of bringing children; consider a little, whether you do not know a person in whom all these qualities are united.’

‘I replied, that I would not take upon me to decide hastily upon a choice wherein so much consideration was requisite, and to which I had not yet sufficiently attended.’

‘And what would you say, returned Henry, if I should name one, who, I am fully convinced possesses these three qualities?’

‘I would say, sire, replied I, with great simplicity, that you are much better acquainted with her than I am, and that she must necessarily be a widow, otherwise you can have no certainty, with regard to her fruitfulness.’

‘This is all you would desire, said the king; but if you cannot guess who she is, I will name her to you.’

‘Name her then, said I, for I own I have not wit enough to find out who she is.’

‘Ah! how dull you are, cried the king; but I am persuaded you could guess who I mean if you would, and only affect this ignorance to oblige me to name her myself; confess then that these three qualities meet in my mistress; not (pursued the king in some confusion, at this discovery of his weakness) that I have any intention to marry her, but I want to know what you would say, if, not being able to meet with any other whom I could approve of, I should one day take it into my head to make her my wife.’

‘It was not difficult for me to discover, amidst these slight artifices, that his majesty had already thought of it but too much, and was but too well disposed to this unworthy marriage, which every thing he had said tended to excuse.’

‘My astonishment was indeed very great, but I thought it necessary to conceal my thoughts with the utmost care. I affected to believe that he was jesting, that I might have an opportunity of answering in such a manner as might make the king ashamed of having entertained so extravagant a notion.’

‘My dissimulation did not succeed; the king had not made so painful an effort to stop there. I command you, said he to me, to speak freely, you have acquired the right of telling me plain truths; do not apprehend that I shall be offended with you for doing so, provided that it is in private; such a liberty in public would greatly offend me.’

‘I replied that I would never be so imprudent as to say any thing in private, any more than in public, that might displease him, except on such occasions when his life or the good of the state was in question. I afterwards represented to him the disgrace so scandalous an alliance would draw upon him, in the opinion of the whole world, and the reproaches he would suffer from his own mind upon that account, when the ardour of his passion being abated, he should be able to judge impartially of his own conduct.’

‘I shewed him that if this was the only means he could have recourse to, to free France from the calamities a doubtful succession would produce, that he would expose himself to all the inconveniences he was anxious to avoid, and others still greater. That although he should legitimate the children he had by madame de Liancourt, yet that could not hinder the eldest, who was born in a double adultery, from being in this respect, inferior to the second, whose birth was attended with but half of that disgrace, and both must yield to those whom he might have by madam de Liancourt, after she was his lawful wife; it being therefore impossible to settle their claims, they could not fail of becoming an inexhaustible source of quarrels and war. I leave you, sire, pursued I, to make reflections upon all this, before I say any more ’

‘That will not be amiss, returned the king, who was struck with my arguments, for you have said enough of this matter for the first time.’

‘But such was the tyranny of that blind passion, with which he was inflamed, that in spite of himself he renewed the subject that very moment by asking me, if, from the disposition I knew the French to be of, especially the nobility, I thought he had any reason to apprehend they would rise in rebellion while he was living, if he should marry his mistress.’

‘This question convinced me, that his heart had received an incurable wound. I treated him accordingly, and entered into arguments and expostulations, with which I shall not trouble the reader, since his own imagination may suggest to him all that it was necessary to say upon this occasion; and this subject has been already dwelt upon too long. We continued three hours alone in the garden, and I had the consolation to leave the king in a full persuasion of the truth and reasonableness of all I had said to him.’

‘The difficulty lay in breaking those two powerful ties; the king had not yet brought himself to that point; he had many dreadful conflicts of mind to suffer e'er that could be effected; and all he could do for the present, was to defer taking his last resolution till he had obtained the permission he had been so long solliciting from the pope, and till then to keep his sentiments secret.’

‘He promised me not to acquaint his mistress with what I had said, lest it should draw her resentment upon me. She loves you, said the king to me, and esteems you still more; but her mind still entertains some remains of distrust, that you will not approve of my design in favour of her and her children: she often tells me, that when one hears you perpetually carrying in your mouth my kingdom and my glory; one is apt to think that you prefer the one to my person, and the other to my quiet. ’

‘I answered, that against this charge I would make no defence; that the kingdom and the sovereign were to be looked upon with the same eyes. Remember, sire, added I, that your virtue is the soul that animates this great body, which must by its splendor and prosperity repay you that glory which it derives from you, and that you are not to seek happiness by any other means.’

‘After this we left the garden, and it being night separated, leaving the courtiers to rack their imaginations to guess the subject of so long a conference.’

[To be continued]

Notes

*
Sully's Memoirs, Vol. I. page 343, the Quarto Edition.
↵

*
Sully's Memoirs, Vol. I. page 383, Quarto.
↵

*
Sully's memoirs, vol. I. p. 40.
↵

*
Sully's Memoirs, Vol. I. Page 462, Quarto.
↵

*
She was daughter to Charles, Earl of Lennox, who was grandson to Margaret queen of Scotland, eldest sister to Henry VIII. Her cousin-german, James VI. king of Scotland, having in 1602 been declared lawful heir to Queen Elizabeth, the following year a conspiracy was formed in her favour, and she died in 1616, a prisoner in the tower of London.
↵

*
Louisa Margaret of Lorrain: she was a very beautiful princess. It was proposed, at the time of the siege of Paris, for her to marry Henry IV. in order to unite the two parties. The sarcastical lampoons of that time charge her with carrying on an intrigue with the duke of Bellegarde, master of the horse; and what Henry says here of poulets is taken from a song that was made against mademoiselle de Guise.
↵

†
The jest turns upon the word poulet, which in French signifies either a chicken or a love-letter.
↵

THE LADY's MUSEUM.
The TRIFLER. [NUMBER II.]

FROM the account I have already given of my temper and inclinations, it will be readily supposed that the love of power, which our great satirist asserts to be the ruling passion of my sex, is not the least prevailing one of mine; and therefore I will candidly acknowledge that the too perceptible decline of our influence has often been the subject of much painful reflection to me.

We live no longer in those happy times, when to recover one stolen fair one, whole nations took up arms; when the smile of beauty was more powerful than the voice of ambition; when heroes conquered to deserve our favour, and poets preferred the myrtle to the laurel crown.

In this degenerate age instances of dying for love are very rare, and instances of marrying for love are still rarer. Formerly, if a lady had commanded her lover to bring her the head of a lion, he would have gone to Africa in search of the savage conquest, though death were to have been the consequence of his obedience: but now, what lady would presume so much upon her authority, as to exact from her lover the sacrifice of a party at whist, or a match at Newmarket!

However desirous I am to find the cause of this decline of our empire in the depraved manners of the men, yet justice obliges me to own that we ourselves are not wholly free from blame. Beauty, like the majesty of kings, weakens its influence when familiarised to common view. The face that may be seen every morning at auctions, at public breakfastings, and in crouded walks; every evening at assemblies, at the play, the opera, or some other fashionable scene of pleasure, soon loses the charm of novelty, and effaces the impression it first made. We may gaze upon a fine picture till the grace of the attitude, the loveliness of the features, and the strength of the colouring cease to surprise and delight us; and unhappily many of our present race of beauties are too solicitous about their personal charms to attend to the improvement of their minds: so that a fine woman is indeed often no more than a fine picture.

It has been observed, that there is no country in the world where women enjoy so much liberty as in England, and none where their sway is so little acknowledged. In Spain, where the severe father, and jealous brother, guard the secluded maid from all converse with men, she will conquer more hearts by being seen once without a veil, than one of our beauties, who appears with her neck and shoulders uncovered at every place of publick resort during the whole season.

The Spanish lover passes whole nights at his mistress's door, and employs sighs, tears, serenades, and tender complaints to move her companion; bribes the vigilant duenna with half his estate to procure him a short interview at a grated window: and for this inestimable favour he exposes himself to the rage of her relations, who probably stand ready to punish his presumption with death; while he, regardless of the insidious stab, contemplates her by the faint light of the moon, with enthusiastic rapture.

For her sake he enters the dreadful lists, and encounters the fiercest bull of Andalusia; the spectators tremble at his danger; he looks up to the balcony where she is stated, and catches fortitude from her eyes. Should he be wounded in the unequal combat, a sign from her gives him new force and courage: again he assails his furious antagonist, and drives him bellowing about the field. The lady waves her handkerchief to him as a token of her joy for his victory; the lover, half dead with fatigue and loss of blood, but triumphing more in that instance of her regard for him than in the loud acclamations he hears on every side, turns to the place where she stands, kisses his sword, and is carried out of the lists.

Thus ardent are the flames which love inspires in a country where the promiscuous assembly, the wrangling card-table, the licentious comedy, and late protracted ball, are not permitted to rob beauty of its most engaging charms, the blush of unsullied modesty, and the soft dignity of female reserve.

With us the lover dresses at his mistress, sings, dances, and coquets with her, expects to dazzle her with superior charms, and loves her for the superficial qualities he admires in himself. He hopes not to gain her heart in reward of his services and constancy, but claims it as a price due to the resistless graces of his person.

Such is the low state of our power at present, and such it will continue till our own prudence and reserve supply the place of imposed retiredness, and throw as many difficulties in the lover's way as the tyranny of custom does in other countries. Beauty, like the Parthian archer, wounds surest when she flies, and we then most certain of victory when we have not courage enough to invite the attack.

Conclusion of the HISTORY of the DUTCHESS of BEAUFORT

THE Dutchess of Beaufort was not ignorant that the Duke of Sully opposed all her designs; she knew the power which his wisdom and integrity gave him over the mind of the king; but such was her confidence in her own charms, and in those schemes which her low cunning, and the interested policy of her relations and dependants had suggested, that she fondly flattered herself neither reasons of state, nor motives of honour would have force enough to hinder her royal lover from gratifying her wishes.

Henry, either because he had not yet taken any resolution against her, or, that his tenderness and regard for her hindered him from declaring it, suffered her to remain in this pleasing delusion.

In the mean time she appeared in the state and equipage of a queen; the servile courtiers anticipated her expected dignity by paying her those honours which were due only to the wife of their prince. No language but that of adulation ever reached her ear; power, magnificence, pleasure, offered her every day successive delights; her smile was considered as the smile of fortune; less successful guilt looked up to her with secret repinings; envy, dazzled by her blaze of grandeur, durst not even in whispers breathe its discontent; and only virtue beheld her at once with pity and contempt.

In the midst of all this splendor madame de Beaufort was completely wretched; the fear of future disappointments rendered her present enjoyments tasteless; conscious of the slender chains by which she held the king's heart, she lived in perpetual anxiety, lest her beauty should suffer any decay; the slightest alteration in her complexion filled her with dreadful alarms, and every evening brought with it the painful reflection that she was now a day older than she was yesterday.

While the dissolution of the king's marriage with Margaret of Valois was soliciting at Rome, she equally dreaded and wished for the determination of that important affair.

If the divorce was granted, the king would indeed be at liberty to marry her, but he would be free likewise to marry any one else; and all the wisest and best of his subjects earnestly desired to see him married to some princess of Europe, who might bring him heirs worthy to reign over them; and if among all those princesses who were judged to be suitable matches for Henry the IV. she heard any of them praised for their beauty, she trembled and could not conceal her uneasiness.

The king caused the pictures of the Infanta of Spain, and of Mary de Medicis to be shewn to her, being curious to know what she would say.

‘I am under no apprehension of that brown woman, said she, speaking of the Infanta, but the Florentine fills me with dread.’

This painful anxiety, which was the consequence of her precarious situation, received continual increase by the confidence she placed in the predictions of astrologers.

‘Madame de Beaufort, says the Duke of Sully, was the weakest of her sex, with regard to divination: she did not pretend to deny that she consulted astrologers concerning her affairs; and indeed she had always a great many of them about her, who never quitted her; and what is most surprising, though she doubtless paid them well, yet they never foretold her any thing but what was disagreeable.’

‘One said that she would never be married but once, another that she would die young, a third warned her to take care of being with child, and a fourth assured her that she would be betrayed by one of her friends. Hence proceeded that melancholy which oppress'd her, and which she was never able to overcome.’

‘Gracienne, one of her women, has since told me, that she would often retire from company to pass whole nights in grief and weeping, on account of these predictions.’

If we add to this continual anxiety the stings of conscience for unrepented guilt, can imagination form the idea of a more wretched being than this woman, in the midst of all her splendor, power, and magnificence?

The trouble of despair, says a sensible writer, always rises in proportion to the evil that is feared; consequently the greatest agonies of expectation are those which relate to another world.

These agonies, which she who lived in an infamous commerce with a married man often experienced, were heightened by an event which affected her more than any other person, and seemed a frightful presage of her own approaching fate.

She was far advanced in another guilty pregnancy, when the strange death of Louisa de Budos, second wife to Henry Constable de Montmorency, filled her with unusual horrors, and embittered all the short remainder of her life.

‘These two deaths (says the Duke of Sully speaking of the constable's lady, and Madame de Beaufort) made a great noise every where, and were attended with a surprising similarity of very uncommon circumstances: both were seized with a violent distemper that lasted only three or four days; and both, tho' extremely beautiful, became horribly disfigured, which together with some other circumstances, that at any other time would have been thought natural, or only the effects of poison, raised a report in the world, that the deaths of these two young ladies, as well as their elevation, was the work of the devil, who made them pay dearly for that short felicity he had procured them. And this was certainly believed not only amongst the common people, who are generally credulous to a high degree of folly, but amongst the courtiers themselves.’

"This, pursues the duke of Sully, is what is related of the constable's lady, and as it is said by the ladies who were then at her house: she was conversing with them gaily in her closet, when one of her women entered in great terror, and told her that a certain person, who called himself a gentleman, and who indeed had a good presence, saying that he was quite black, and of a gigantic stature, had just entered her antichamber, and desired to speak to her about affairs of great consequence, which he could communicate to none but her.

"At every circumstance relating to this extraordinary courier, the lady was seen to grow pale; and appeared so oppressed with grief, that she could scarcely bid her woman intreat the gentleman to defer his visit to another time; to which he replied in a tone that filled the messenger with horror, That since the lady would not come to him willingly he would take the trouble to go and seek her in her closet. She, who was more afraid of a publick than a private audience, resolved at last to go to him, but with all the marks of a deep despair.

"The terrible message performed, she returned to her company, bathed in tears, and half dead with dismay: she had only time to speak a few words to take leave of them, particularly of three ladies who were her intimate friends, and to assure them that she should never see them more.

"That instant she was seized with exquisite pains, and died at the end of three days, filling all who saw her with horror at the frightful change of every feature in her once lovely face."

The dutchess of Beaufort proved the truth of that observation, that repentance is often not so much remorse for our sins, as fear of the consequence—This fear indeed acted powerfully upon her mind; but it did not produce reformation in her conduct, which is the only infallible sign by which true penitence may be known.

The king having resolved to spend the Easter holidays at Fontainebleau, was unwilling to incur the censure of keeping this lady with him during that sacred festival. Madame de Beaufort, who had insisted upon making one of the party with the king, was sensibly mortified when, after a stay only of three or four days, he intreated her to leave him at Fontainebleau, and return herself to Paris.

This request, enforced by motives drawn from the impropriety of their continuing together at such a time, was received with tears by the dutchess. Whether it was that her pride was sensibly wounded by the king's so easily admitting the necessity of her absence, or that she had really some secret foreboding that she should never see him more, she seemed to consider this separation as the greatest misfortune that could befal her.

The duke of Sully, as well as all the other historians who have mentioned this parting of the king and his mistress, allow that there was something very extraordinary in the grief expressed by the two lovers upon this occasion.

When the moment came that madame de Beaufort was to leave Fontainbleau, she appeared overwhelmed with anguish. The king, who was more passionately fond of her than ever, struggled to repress his emotions: he conducted her half way to Paris; and although they proposed only an absence of a few days, yet they dreaded the moment of separation, as if they were never to meet more. ‘Those (says the duke of Sully) who are inclined to give faith to such kind of forebodings will lay some stress upon this relation. The two lovers renewed their endearments; and in every thing they said to each other at that moment, some persons have pretended to find proofs of these presages of an inevitable fate.’

Henry sighing led his mistress to the boat which was to carry her down to the arsenal. Just as she was preparing to enter it, she stopped, and turning to the king, who was oppressed with grief, she spoke to him, as if for the last time. She recommended to his care her children, her estate of Monceaux, and her domestics. Henry listened to her; but, instead of comforting her, gave way to sympathising sorrow. Again they took leave of each other, and a secret emotion again drew them to each other's arms.

The king, not being able to tear himself from her, the marshal D'Ornano, Roquelaure, and Frontenac, forced him away, and prevailed upon him at length to return to Fontainebleau, after he had tenderly recommended the care of his mistress to La Varenne, with orders to conduct her safely to the house of Zamet [*], to whom he chose to confide this pledge so dear to him.

The duke of Sully being at Paris when madame de Beaufort arrived there, he thought himself obliged to wait on her before he set out for his estate at Rosny; and by the account he gives of her discourse to him, it appears that her melancholy ideas were already dissipated; and that she again indulged herself in her gay dreams of royalty, and cherished all her ambitious hopes: dreams so soon to be changed to a frightful certainty, and hopes shortly to terminate in despair and death!

‘She gave me (says the duke of Sully) a most obliging reception, and seemed to have wholly forgot our dispute at Saint Germain; but not chusing to explain herself clearly upon that compliance with her projects to which she wished to bring me, she contented herself with endeavouring to engage me in her interest, by mingling with those civilities which she shewed to very few persons, words which carried a double sense, and hinted to me a boundless grandeur, if I would relax a little in the severity of my counsel to the king with regard to her.’

‘I (pursues the duke) who was as little moved with the chimeras that filled her head as with those she sought to inspire me with, pretended not to understand any part of a discourse intelligible enough; and answered her equivocal terms with general professions of respect, attachment, and devotion, which signify what one will.’

The dutchess of Sully going likewise to pay a visit to the triumphant mistress, was overwhelmed with the airs of royalty assumed by this poor creature already devoted to the shades of death, and so soon to answer at the tribunal of divine justice for that guilty grandeur which she prefered to eternal happiness.

Madame de Beaufort kindly intreated the dutchess of Sully to love her, and to converse with her as a friend. ‘Entered into confidances (says the duke of Sully) that would have appeared to be the last instances of the most intimate friendship to those, who, like madame de Sully, knew not that the dutchess, who had no great share of understanding, was not very delicate in the choice of her confidants. It was her highest pleasure to entertain any person she first saw with her schemes and expectations; and when she conversed with her inferiors, she scarce submitted to any caution; for with them she no longer guarded her expressions, but often assumed the state and language of a queen.’

‘Madame de Sully (continues the duke) could not avoid shewing some surprize at the dutchess's discourse, especially when that lady, making an absurd assemblage of the civilities practised among persons of equal rank with these airs of a queen, told her she might come to her coucher and lever when she pleased, with many other speeches of the same kind.’

It was in the midst of these intoxicating dreams of ambition, and while she resigned her whole soul to scenes of present pleasure, and to hopes of future greatness, that Providence thought fit to put a period to her life.

She was still at the house of Sebastian Zamet, who had received his fair guest with all the assiduity of a courtier solicitous to please, when on Maundy Thursday, after a luxurious repast, she had an inclination to hear the evening service at Saint Anthony's the Less: she was there seized with fainting fits, which obliged her attendants to carry her back immediately.

As soon as she arrived at Zamet's, she went into the garden, hoping to receive some benefit from the air; but in a few minutes she was attacked with an apoplectic fit, which it was expected would have instantly stifled her.

She recovered a little, through the assistance that was given her; and, strongly prepossessed with a notion that she was poisoned, she commanded her servants to carry her from that house to madame de Sourdis her aunt, who lived in the cloister Saint Germain.

They had but just time to put her in bed, when thick succeeding convulsions, so dreadful as amazed all who were present, and every symptom of approaching death, left monsieur Varenne, who had taken up the pen to inform the king of this melancholy accident nothing else to say, but that the physicians despaired of the dutchess's life, from the nature of her distemper, which required the most violent remedies, and the circumstance of her being big with child, which made all applications mortal.

Scarce had he sent away the letter, when the dutchess, drawing near her last moments, fell into new convulsions, which disfigured her so horribly, that Varenne, not doubting but that the king would upon the receipt of his letter set out instantly to see his mistress, thought it more prudent to tell him in a second letter that she was dead, than expose him to a spectacle at once so dreadful and afflicting, as that of a woman whom he tenderly loved, expiring in agitations, struggles, and agonies which scarcely left any thing of human in her figure.

On the Saturday following the convulsions had turned her quite black, and writh'd her mouth to the back of her neck. Riviere, the king's first physician, coming in great haste upon this occasion with others of the king's physicians, but just entered her chamber, and when he saw the extraordinary condition she was in went away, saying to those who were with him, This is the hand of God

A few moments afterwards the dutchess expired, in a general subversion of all the functions of nature, capable of inspiring horror and dismay.

The king who, upon the receipt of Varenne's first letter, had not failed to mount his horse immediately, received the second when he was got half way to Paris; and listening to nothing but the excess of his passion, was resolved, notwithstanding all that could be said to him to give himself the consolation of seeing his mistress once more.

Marshal Bassompierre, in his Memoirs, relates that Henry did not believe his mistress was dead, and continued his journey; but that Varenne, having come to acquaint the marshal D'Ornano and him, who had accompanied the dutchess to Paris, that she was just dead, they both took horse, to carry the melancholy news to the king, and hinder him from proceeding to Paris.

We found the king, says marshal Bassompierre, on the other side of La Saussaye near Vilejuif, coming on post horses with the utmost expedition. As soon as he perceived the marshal D'Ornano, he suspected that he was come to bring him fatal tidings, which as soon as he had heard, he uttered the most passionate complaints.

These noblemen having with great difficulty prevailed upon Henry to go into the Abbey La Sauissay, they laid him upon a bed, till the coach which they had ordered to follow came from Paris: they put him into it, to carry him back to Fontainebleau, and during this little journey he was so oppress'd with grief that he fell into a fainting fit in the arms of the master of the horse.

As soon as he arrived at Fontainebleau he dispatched a messenger to the Duke of Sully, who was at his country-seat, to desire he would come to him instantly.

It is worthy remark, that the king should upon this occasion of his mistress's death think no one so capable of giving him consolation as the man who had most opposed his extravagant fondness for her; such is the involuntary homage which even the passions themselves pay to wisdom and virtue!

When this messenger arrived at the duke's castle, he was conversing with his wife upon the extraordinary airs assumed by the Dutchess of Beaufort when she last saw her; and perceiving her to be so much affected with the discourse she had held with her as to conclude there would certainly be some very great change in the fortune of this lady, the duke acquainted her with Madame de Beaufort's design to get herself declared queen, with the practices of her relations and dependants for that purpose, the struggles the king had in his own mind, and the resolution he had taken to overcome himself.

Madame de Sully was listening attentively to this relation, when they heard the bell of the first gate of the castle, without the moat, ring, and none of the servants answering, it being yet scarcely day, a voice several times repeated, I come from the king

The Duke of Sully that instant wakening one of the grooms of his chamber, sent him to open the gate; and in his impatience to know the cause of this early summons, he slipt on a night-gown and ran to meet the courier, when observing a deep concern upon his countenance, he asked him trembling, if the king was ill?

No, replied the man, but he is in the utmost affliction, madame the dutchess is dead.

‘This news, says the Duke of Sully, appeared to me so improbable, that I made him repeat his words several times; and when convinced that it was true, I felt my mind divided between grief for the condition to which her death reduced the king, and joy for the advantages all France would derive from it, which was increased, by my being fully persuaded that the king would by this transitory affliction purchase a release from a thousand anxieties, and much more anguish of heart than what he now actually suffered. I went up again to my wife's chamber full of these reflections, ‘You will neither go to the dutchess's Coucher nor Lever, said I, for she is dead.’ ’

So sudden and so fatal a fall from all those towering hopes of grandeur filled Madame de Sully with astonishment and concern for the unhappy dutchess of Beaufort. The shocking particulars of her strange death she was made acquainted with by a letter from La Varenne to her lord.

The Duke of Sully hastened to the king, whom he found walking in a gallery, so oppress'd with grief that all company was insupportable to him. This wise counsellor and faithful friend employed every argument drawn from religion, virtue, and policy, to mitigate his sorrow: he even ventured to represent to him that the event which now caused him all this affliction was among the number of those which he would one day look upon as most fortunate: he conjured him to consider the painful situation he would have been in, if his mistress had lived; when on one side, struggling with the force of a tender and violent passion, and on the other with the silent convictions of what honour and duty required of him, he would have been under an absolute necessity of coming to some resolution with respect to an engagement which he could not break without torture, nor continue without infamy.

Heaven, he told him, came to his assistance by a stroke painful indeed; but the only one that could open the way to a marriage upon which depended the tranquillity of France, the fate of Europe, the welfare of his subjects, and his own happiness.

Henry, adds the Duke of Sully, had not the weakness of resigning himself up to grief through obstinacy; or of seeking a cure in insensibility. He listened more to the dictates of his reason than his passion, and appeared already much less afflicted to the courtiers who entered his chamber. At length, every one being careful not to renew his grief, which his daily employments gradually diminished, he found himself in that state which all wise men ought to be, who have had great subjects of affliction; that is, neither condemning nor flattering the cause, nor affecting either to recal or banish the remembrance of it [*].

Notes

*
Sebastian Zamet, a private gentlemen of immense fortune. He was an Italian, and a native of Lucca, but got himself naturalized in 1581. He desired the notary who drew up his daughter's contract of marriage, to stile him lord of seventeen hundred thousand crowns. Henry IV. loved him for his wit and facetious humour, and chose his house for collations and parties of pleasure.
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*
Le Grain tells us, that the king made all his court go into mourning for the Dutchess of Beaufort; he himself was dressed in black the first eight days, and afterwards in violet.
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THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

MR. Herbert having recovered from the astonishment into which he had been thrown by the strange behaviour of Miss Darnley, endeavoured to comfort her mother, whose weak mind was more disposed to be alarmed at the threat she had uttered upon her quitting the room, than to resent such an insult to parental tenderness.

After gently insinuating to her, that she ought to reduce her eldest daughter to reason, by a proper exertion of her authority, he earnestly recommended to her to be particularly attentive to an affair which concerned the happiness of her youngest child, from whose piety and good sense she might promise herself so much comfort.

He advised her to give Sir Charles Stanley an opportunity of explaining himself to her as soon as possible; and to make him comprehend, that he must not hope for permission to pay his addresses to Sophia, till he had satisfied her that his intentions were such, as she ought to approve.

Mrs. Darnley appeared so docile and complaisant upon this occasion, so ready to take advice, and so fully determined to be directed by it, that Mr. Herbert went away extremely well satisfied with her behaviour, and full of pleasing hopes for his beloved Sophia.

Harriot, in the mean time, was tormenting her sister above stairs: she had entered her room with a heart full of bitterness, and a countenance inflamed with rage, flinging the door after her with such violence, that Sophia letting fall her book, started up in great terror, and in a trembling accent asked her what was the matter with her?

Her own apprehensions had indeed already suggested to her the cause of the disorder she appeared to be in, which it was not easy to discover in that torrent of reproach and invective with which she strove to overwhelm her. Scornful and unjust reflections upon her person, bitter jests upon her pedantick affectation, and malignant insinuations of hypocrisy, were all thrown out with the utmost incoherence of passion; to which Sophia answered no otherwise than by a provoking serenity of countenance and calm attention.

That she was able to bear with so much moderation the cruel insults of her sister, was not more the effect of her natural sweetness of temper, than her good sense and delicate turn of mind. The upper region of the air, says a sensible French writer, admits neither clouds nor tempests; the thunder, storms, and meteors, are formed below: such is the difference between a mean, and an exalted understanding.

Harriot, who did not find her account in this behaviour, sought to rouse her to rage by reproaches still more severe, till having ineffectually railed herself out of breath, she aukwardly imitated her sister's composure, folded her hands before her, and seating herself, asked her in a low but solemn tone of voice, whether she would deign to answer her one plain question?

Sophia then resuming her seat, told her with a look of mingled dignity and sweetness, that she was ready to answer her any question, and give her any satisfaction she could desire, provided she would repress those indecent transports of anger, so unbecoming her sex and years.

Why, you little envious creature, said Harriot, you do not surely, because you are two or three years younger than I am, pretend to insinuate that I am old?

No certainly, replied Sophia, half smiling, my meaning is, that you are too young to adopt, as you do, all the peevishness of old age; but your question sister, pursued she—

Well then, said Harriot, I ask you, how you have dared to say that Sir Charles Stanley was tired of me, and preferred you to me?

Tired of you! repeated Sophia, shocked at her coarseness and falshood, I never was capable of making use of such an expression, nor do I familiarise myself with ideas that need such strange language to convey them.

Harriot provoked almost to frenzy by this hint, which her indiscreet conduct made but too just, shew down stairs to her mother, and with mingled sobs and exclamations, told her, that Sophia had treated her like an infamous creature, who had dishonoured herself and her family.

Mrs. Darnley, though more favourably disposed towards her youngest daughter, since she had been made acquainted with the baronet's affection for her, yet was on this occasion governed by her habitual preference of Harriot; and sending for Sophia, she reproved her with great asperity for her insolent behaviour to her sister.

Sophia listened with reverence to her mother's reproofs; and after justifying herself, as she easily might, from the accusation her sister had brought against her, she added, that not being willing to be exposed to any farther persecutions on account of Sir Charles Stanley, whose sincerity she thought very doubtful, she was resolved not to wait any longer for a place such as Mr. Herbert's tenderness was in search of for her, but to accept the first reputable one that offered.

‘I have not the vanity, madam, pursued she, to imagine that a man of rank and fortune can seriously resolve to marry an indigent young woman like me; and although I am humble enough to go to service, I am too proud to listen to the addresses of any man who, from his superiority of fortune, thinks he has a right to keep me in doubt of his intentions, or, in a mean dependance upon a resolution which he has not perhaps regard enough for me to make.’

This discourse was not at all relished by Mrs. Darnley, who conceived that many inconveniences were to be submitted to, for the enjoyment of affluence and pleasure; but Sophia, who had revolved in her mind all the mortifications a young woman is exposed to, whose poverty places her so greatly below her lover; that she is to consider his professions as an honour, and to be rejoiced at every indication of his sincerity; her delicacy was so much wounded by the bare apprehension of suffering what she thought an indignity to her sex, that she was determined to give Sir Charles Stanley no encouragement, but to pursue her first design of seeking a decent establishment, suitable to the depress'd state of her fortune.

Mrs. Darnley, however, combatted her resolution with arguments which she supposed absolutely conclusive, and added to them her commands not to think any more of so humiliating a design, which so offended Harriot, that she broke out again into tears, exclamations, and reproaches.

Her mother would have found it a difficult task to have pacified her, had not a message from a lady, inviting her to a concert that evening, obliged her to calm her mind, that her complexion might not suffer from those emotions of rage which she had hitherto taken so little pains to repress.

As soon as Harriot retired, to begin the labours of the toilet, Mrs. Darnley, with great mildness, represented to Sophia, that it was her duty to improve the affection Sir Charles express'd for her, since by that means it might be in her power to make her mother and her sister easy in their circumstances, and engage their love for ever.

This was attacking Sophia on her weak side; she answered with the softest tenderness of look 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 and accent, ‘That it was her highest ambition to make them happy.’

‘Then I do not doubt, my child, said Mrs. Darnley, but you will employ all your good sense to secure the conquest you have made.’

Sophia, melted almost to tears by these tender expressions, to which she had been so little used, assured her mother she would upon this occasion act so as to deserve her kindness.

Mrs. Darnley would have been better pleased if she had been less reserved, and had appeared more affected with the fine prospect that was opening for her; but it was not possible to press her farther. Nature here had transferred the parent's rights to the child, and the gay, imprudent ambitious mother, stood awed and abashed, in he presence of her worthier daughter.

Sophia, who expected Sir Charles would renew his visit in the evening, past the rest of the day in uneasy perturbations. He entered the house just at the time that Harriot, who had ordered a chair to be got for her, came fluttering down the stairs in full dress. As soon as she perceived him her cheeks glowed with resentment; but affecting a careless inattention, she shot by him with a half courtesy, and made towards the door: he followed, and accosting her with a grave but respectful air, desired she would permit him to lead her to her chair. Harriot, conveying all the scorn into her face which the expression of her pretty but unmeaning features were capable of, and rudely drawing away her hand, ‘Pray, Sir, said she, carry your devores where they will be more acceptable; I am not disposed to be jested with any longer.’

Sir Charles, half smiling and bowing low, told her, that he respected her too much, as well upon her own account as upon Miss Sophia's, for whom indeed he had the most tender regard, to be guilty of the impertinence she accused him of.

Harriot did not stay to hear more: offended in the highest degree at the manner in which he mentioned Sophia, she darted an angry look at him, and flung herself into her chair.

It must be confessed that Sir Charles discovered upon this occasion a great share of that easy confidence which people are apt to derive from splendid fortunes and undisputed rank; but as he wanted neither good sense, generosity, nor even delicacy, he would have found it difficult to own to a lady whom he had been used to address in the style of a lover, that his heart had received a new impression, if the contemptible character of Harriot had not authorised his desertion of her. Pride, ignorance, folly, and affectation, sink a woman so low in the eyes of men, that they easily dispense with themselves from a strict observance of those delicate attentions, and respectful regards, which the sex in general claim by the laws of politeness, but which sense and discernment never pay to the trifling part of it.

Sir Charles was likewise glad of an opportunity to shew Miss Darnley, that he did not think the little gallantry which had passed between them, entitled her to make him any reproaches; or to consider the passion he professed for her sister as an infidelity to her; and now finding himself more at ease from the frank acknowledgment he had made, he sent up his name, and was received by Mrs. Darnley with all the officious civility she was used to shew him.

Sophia was in the room, and rose up at his entrance in a sweet confusion, which she endeavoured to conceal, by appearing extremely busy at a piece of needle-work.

Sir Charles, after some trifling conversation with her mother, approached her, and complimented her with an easy air upon her being so usefully employed, when most other young ladies were abroad in search of amusement.

Sophia, who was now a little recovered, answered him with that wit and vivacity which was so natural to her; but looking up at the same time, she saw his eyes fixed upon her with a look so tender and passionate, as threw her back into all her former confusion, which encreased every moment by the consciousness that it was plain to his observation.

The young baronet, though he was charmed with her amiable modesty, yet endeavoured to relieve the concern he saw her under, by talking of indifferent matters, till Mrs. Darnley seeing them engaged in discourse, prudently withdrew, when he instantly addressed her in language more tender and particular.

Sophia, shocked at her mother's indiscretion, and at his taking advantage of it so abruptly, let all the weight of her resentment fall on him; and the poor lover was so awed at her frowns, and the sarcastic raillery which she mingled with expressions that shewed the most invincible indifference, that not daring to continue a discourse which offended her, and in too great concern to introduce another subject, he stood fixed in silence for several minutes, leaning on the back of her chair, while she plied her needle with the most earnest attention, and felt her confusion decrease in proportion as his became more apparent.

At length he walked slowly to the other end of the room, and taking up a new book which he had sent her a few days before, he asked her opinion of it in a faultering accent; and was extremely mortified to find she was so much at ease, as to answer him, with all the readiness of wit and clearness of judgment imaginable.

Another pause of silence ensued, during which Sophia heard him sigh softly several times, while he turned over the leaves of the book with such rapidity as shewed he scarce read a single line in any page of it.

He was thus employed when Mrs. Darnley returned, who stood staring first at one, then at the other, strangely perplexed at their looks and silence, and apprehensive that all was not right. Sophia now took an opportunity to retire, and met an angry glance from her mother as she passed by her.

Her departure roused Sir Charles out of his revery, he looked after her, and then turning to Mrs. Darnley, overcame his discontent so far as to be able to entertain her a quarter of an hour with his usual politeness; and finding Sophia did not appear again, he took his leave.

As soon as he was gone Mrs. Darnley called her daughter, and chid her severely for her rudeness in leaving the baronet.

Sophia defended herself as well as she could, without owning the true cause of her disgust, which was her mother's so officiously quitting the room; but Mrs. Darnley was so ill satisfied with her behaviour, that she complained of it to her friend Mr. Herbert, who came in soon afterwards, telling him that Sophia's pride and ill temper would be the ruin of her fortune.

The good man having heard the story but one way, thought Sophia a little to blame, till having an opportunity to discourse with her freely, he found the fault she had been charged with, was no more than an excess of delicacy, which was very pardonable in her situation: he warned her, however, not to admit too readily apprehensions injurious to herself, which was in some degree debasing the dignity of her sex and character; but to make the baronet comprehend that esteeming him as a man of honour, she considered his professions of regard to her as a claim upon her gratitude; and that, in consequence, she should without any reluctance receive the commands of her mother, and the advice of her friends in his favour.

Poor Sophia found herself but too well disposed to think favourably of Sir Charles; her tenderness had suffered greatly by the force she had put upon herself to behave to him in so disobliging a manner, and the uneasiness she saw him under, his silence, and confusion, and the sighs that escaped him, apparently without design, had affected her sensibly, and several days passing away without his appearing again, she concluded he was irrecoverably prejudiced against her; the uneasiness this thought gave her, first hinted to herself the impression he had already made on her heart.

Sir Charles indeed had been so much piqued by her behaviour as to form the resolution of seeing her no more; but when he supposed himself most capable of persisting in this resolution, he was nearest breaking through it, and suddenly yielding to the impulse of his tenderness, he flew to her again more passionate than ever; this little absence having only served to shew him how necessary she was to his happiness.

When Sophia saw him enter the room, the agitations of her mind might be easily read in her artless countenance; a sentiment of joy for his return gave new fire to her eyes, and vivacity to her whole person; while a consciousness of the effect his presence produced, and a painful doubt of his sincerity, and the rectitude of his intentions, alternately dyed her cheeks with blushes and paleness.

The young baronet approached her trembling, but the unexpected softness with which she received him, increasing at once his passion and his hopes, he poured out his whole soul in the tenderest and most ardent professions of love, esteem, and admiration of her.

Sophia listened to him with a complaisant attention; and having had sufficient time, while he was speaking, to compose and recollect herself; she told him, in a modest but firm accent, that she was obliged to him for the favourable opinion he entertained of her; but that she did not think herself at liberty to hear, much less to answer to such discourse as he had thought proper to address to her, till she had the sanction of her mother's consent, and Mr. Herbert's approbation, whose truly parental regard for her, made her look upon him as another father, who supplied the place of him she had lost.

Sir Charles, more charmed with her than ever, was ready in his present flow of tender sentiments for her, to offer her his hand with an unreservedness that would have satisfied all her delicate scruples; but carried away by the force of habit, an insurmountable aversion to marriage, and the false but strongly impressed notion of refinements in a union of hearts, where love was the only tye, he could not resolve to give her a proof of his affection, which in his opinion was the likeliest way to destroy all the ardor of it; but careful not to alarm her, and apprehending no great severity of morals from the gay interested mother, he politely thanked her for the liberty she gave him to make his passion known to Mrs. Darnley, and to solicit her consent to his happiness.

Sophia observed with some concern, that he affected to take no notice of Mr. Herbert upon this occasion; but she would not allow herself to dwell long upon a thought so capable of raising doubts injurious to his honour; and satisfied with the frankness of his proceeding thus far, she suffered no marks of discontent or apprehension to appear in her countenance and behaviour.

Sir Charles did not fail to make such a general declaration of his sentiments to Mrs. Darnley as he thought sufficient to satisfy Sophia, without obliging himself to be more explicite; and in the mean time, having acquired a thorough knowledge of Mrs. Darnley's character, he sought to engage her in his interest by a boundless liberality, and by gratifying all those passions which make corruption easy. She loved dissipation; and all the pleasures and amusements that inventive luxury had found out to vary the short scene of life were at her command; she had a high taste for the pleasures of the table, and therefore the most expensive wines, and choicest delicacies that earth, sea, and air could afford, were constantly supplied by him in the greatest profusion. No day ever passed without her receiving some considerable present, the value of which was inhanced by the delicacy with which it was made.

The innocent Sophia construed all this munificence into proofs of the sincerity of his affection for her; for the young baronet, whether awed by the dignity of her virtue, or that he judged it necessary to secure the success of his designs, mingled with the ardor of his professions, a behaviour so respectful and delicate, as removed all her apprehensions, and left her whole soul free to all the tender impressions a lively gratitude could make on it.

Mr. Herbert, however, easily penetrated into Sir Charles's views; he saw with pain the progress he made every day in the affection of Sophia; but by the speciousness of his conduct, he had established himself so firmly in her good opinion, that he judged any attempt to alarm her fears, while there seemed so little foundation for them, would miss its effect; and not doubting but ere it was long her own observation would furnish her with some cause for apprehension, he contented himself for the present with keeping a vigilant eye upon the conduct of Sir Charles and Mrs. Darnley, and with being ready to assist Sophia in her perplexities, whenever she had recourse to him.

The change there was now in the situation of this amiable girl, afforded him many opportunities of admiring the excellence of her character: she who formerly used to be treated with neglect and even harshness by her mother, was now distinguished with peculiar regard; her opinion always submitted to with deference, her inclinations consulted in all things, and a studious endeavour to please her was to be seen in every word and action of Mrs. Darnley's, who affected to be as partially fond of her as she had once been of her sister.

Even the haughty insolent Harriot, keeping her rage and envy concealed in her own breast, condescended to wear the appearance of kindness to her, while she shared with her mother in all those gratifications which the lavish generosity of Sir Charles procured them, and which Sophia, still continuing her usual simplicity of life, could never be persuaded to partake of. Yet all this produced no alteration in Sophia; the same modesty and humility, the same sweetness of temper, and attention to oblige, distinguished her now as in her days of oppression.

Mr. Herbert contemplated her with admiration and delight, and often with astonishment reflected upon the infatuation of Sir Charles, who could allow himself to be so far governed by fashionable prejudices, and a libertine turn of mind, as to balance one moment whether he should give himself a lawful claim to the affections of such a woman.

Affairs continued in this state during three months, when the good old man, who watched over his young favourite with all the pious solicitude of her guardian angel, perceived that she was grown more melancholy and reserved than usual; he often heard her sigh, and fancied she had been weeping, and her fine eyes would appear sometimes suffused with tears, even when she endeavoured to appear most chearful.

He imagined that she had something upon her mind which she wished to disclose to him; her looks seemed to intimate as much, and she frequently sought opportunities of being alone with him, and engaged him to pass those evenings with her when her mother and sister were at any of the public entertainments. Yet all those times, though her heart seemed labouring with some secret uneasiness which she would fain impart to him, she had not resolution enough to enter into any explanation.

Mr. Herbert, who could have wished she had been more communicative, resolved at length to spare her any farther struggles with herself; and one day when he was alone with her, taking occasion to observe that she was not so chearful as usual, he asked her tenderly if any thing had happened to give her uneasiness; speak freely my child, said he to her, and think you are speaking to a father.

Sophia made no other answer at first than by bursting into tears, which seeming to relieve her a little; she raised her head, and looking upon the good man, who beheld her with a fixed attention. ‘May I hope sir: said she, that you are still disposed to fulfil the kind promise you once made me—Oh take me from hence, pursued she, relapsing into a new passion of tears, place me in the situation to which my humble lot has called me; save me from the weakness of my own heart—I now see plainly the delusion into which I have fallen; but, alas! my mother does not see it—every thing here conspires against my peace.’

[To be continued.]

AN ACCOUNT OF THE VESTAL VIRGINS.

NUMA Pompilius, the second king of Rome, a man of great virtue, piety, and wisdom, is considered as author of the vestal institution; though there were vestals before his time, and even so early as the settlement of Eneas in Italy, who, we are told, placed the palladium, an image of Pallas so called, which he had brought with him from Troy, in the temple of Vesta, and committed it to the care of the virgins dedicated to the service of that goddess, who from her name were called vestals. But it was Numa who gave a form to this institution, and regulated the ministry and office of the order.

That prince confined the number of the vestals to four; two more were afterwards added by Tarquinius Priscus, one of his successors, and that number continued unaltered.

Numa committed to these virgins the keeping of the immortal fire, and the palladium, with the care of certain secret sacrifices in the worship of the goddess Vesta. They vowed chastity during the space of thirty years that they attended on the service of the goddess; the age of admission was above six, and under ten, and they were to be without any corporal blemish.

The ten first years were a kind of noviciate or probation, when they were instructed in all the sacred mysteries; the next ten were passed in the practice of them, and the last ten in teaching the novices.

This term being expired, they were free to quit the order, to lay aside the distinctions of it and to marry; but very few, it is said, made use of this liberty, terrified with frequent examples of the unhappy end attending those who changed their conditition.

Very great privileges and marks of distinction were at several times granted to the vestals. They had a right to make a will during their father's life, and to dispose of their fortunes, without a trustee; for the Roman women were always under guardianship: they were forbid to take an oath, and in courts of justice their evidence was admitted upon their bare affirmation.

When they appeared in public, a lictor attended them with the fasces; and if a vestal in her walks happened to meet a criminal leading to execution, he was pardoned upon her declaring that the meeting was accidental. They had a distinguished rank and place of honour assigned them in the circus, and at other public shews, and were educated and maintained at the expence of the commonwealth.

But if great honours were paid to the dignity and virtue of the vestals, their faults were also punished with equel severity. The faults thus punishable were either negligence of their duty, in suffering the sacred fire to go out, or incontinence in violating their vow of chastity.

In the first case, which was looked upon as the sign of some great calamity to the state, the guilty vestal was punished as a slave, that is, with scourging; covered only with a veil, she was whipped with rods by the Pontifex Maximus, or chief priest. One of the vestals spent the whole night by the sacred fire, to prevent its extinction, and watched thus each in turn. When the fire was out, it was to be rekindled by the rays of the sun, the manner of which is variously related.

The great crime of the vestals was the violation of their vow of chastity; and this was punished in a manner not to be described without horror. They were buried alive. Near the Colline gate, says Plutarch, there is a little vault, with a hole to go down to it; in the vault there is a bed, a lighted lamp, and a small quantity of provisions, consisting of a loaf, a pitcher of water, a vial of oil, and a pot of milk: these are provided for the criminal, that religion may not be wounded by starving to death a person consecrated with the most august and sacred ceremonies. Strange scruple! they feared to starve her whom they buried alive.

The offender was put into a close and covered litter, that her piercing shrieks might not be heard, and carried in that manner through crouds of people cross the forum. At the sight of the litter, all made way for it to pass, and followed it in awful silence, and all the marks of the deepest sorrow. There could not be a more horrible spectacle, nor a more dreadful or melancholy day for Rome, than that on which a vestal was carried to execution.

When the litter was come to the place of punishment, the lictors took off the covering and opened it; then the pontifex maximus, after some private prayers, with hands and eyes lifted up to heaven, took out the unhappy criminal, all closely veiled, and set her on the ladder, by which she was to descend into the vault: after which, he returned with the other priests; and the wretched vestal was no sooner down, but the ladder was removed, and the hole filled up with earth till the ground was even, and no sign of a grave remained, to intimate that the criminal was deemed unworthy to appear either among the dead or the living.

By this terrible execution is seen what notions the heathens themselves entertained concerning the breach of chastity; and their fear of its drawing down the curse and vengeance of the Gods upon the whole state, if it remained unpunished. To avoid such a fatal calamity, the vestals were exhorted not only to fly with horror from every temptation to guilt, but to avoid with the utmost care whatever could cast the least blemish on their reputation.

Posthumia, a vestal, having subjected herself to unfavourable suspicions, on account of her too great solicitude in dress, and gaiety of manners, unbecoming the sacred purity of a virgin, was called to her trial. After a long examination she was pronounced innocent; but the pontifex maximus commanded her to quit those gay airs for the future, and to shew in her dress more wisdom and modesty than elegance and taste.

The 638th year of Rome gives us an example of corruption among the vestals, never heard of before. In preceding times it rarely happened that a vestal violated her vow of chastity, and the day of her punishment was a day of universal mourning at Rome. But this year, of the six vestals, three were proved criminal, two of which losing all sense of fear as well as shame, had almost publickly abandoned themselves to dissolute practices.

The mischief was begun by a Roman knight, named Butaetius Barrus, a professed libertine, who being tired of too easy conquests, sought to vary his infamous pleasures by the charm of difficulty and danger. He therefore attacked a vestal called Emilia, and when he had succeeded in seducing her, the contagion soon spread; and two other vestals, Licinia, and Marcia, followed the example of their companion.

Marcia, however, less criminal than the other two, admitted only one lover; but Emilia and Licinia, who were become great friends, if such leagues which the wicked form with the wicked may be called by the name of friendship, not chusing to confine themselves to their first gallants, each introduced her brother to her friend, and managed each other's interviews.

Having once begun to extend their criminal amours, they soon had occasion to observe that their secret took air; therefore to engage those to silence whom they apprehended would inform against them, they made them all accomplices in the guilt.

This scene of infamy, after having been long acted in secret, was at length brought to light by a slave named Manius, whose master was one of Emilia's gallants.

This fellow had been employed by Licinia and her to carry on their intrigues with several young Romans, and had for some time acquitted himself very faithfully in their infamous service; but being disappointed in the rewards they had promised him, and in his expectations of liberty from his master, he made a full discovery; and the guilty vestals were immediately brought to trial.

The college of pontiffs, which by the constitution of Numa were the proper judges of this affair, acted with great lenity, and condemned only Emilia; a favourable sentence was passed upon Marcia and Licinia, for which the former was probably indebted to her having been less criminal; and the latter to the eloquence of the celebrated L. Crassus, her kinsman, who being then twenty seven years of age, defended her in an oration of which Cicero speaks with praise.

The unhappy Emilia was buried alive, pursuant to her sentence; Marcia and Licinia were just recovered from the horrors of that dreadful fate which had impended over them, when a new process was commenced against them.

The whole Roman people exclaimed against the lenity of the pontiffs, on an occasion when the crime was equally evident and odious; and the tribune Sextus Peduceus having put himself at the head of those who murmured at the sentence, caused an extraordinary commission to be voted by the people for re-hearing the cause of Marcia and Licinia; and at the head of that commission placed L. Cassius, who for that purpose was created praetor a second time, after having been consul and censor.

He was a person of rigid virtue and inflexible severity, and one who, as Cicero observes, had rendered himself agreeable to the people, not by politeness and a popular behaviour, but by an austerity of manners, which acquired him respect.

Cassius fully answered the expectation of those who had chosen him; for he not only condemned the two vestals, who were punished in the same manner as Emilia, but also a great number of other persons; so that his tribunal was called the rock of the accused.

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE.

Written by himself.

THE house of Comminge, from which I am descended, is one of the most ancient and illustrious in the kingdom; my great grand-father, who had two sons, was so extremely fond of the youngest, that he settled some very considerable estates upon him, in prejudice to the rights of his elder brother; and gave him the title of marquis of Lussan. The partiality of my ancestor did not weaken the friendship between his two sons, which encreased with their years. They would have their children brought up together; but by giving them their education in common, instead of uniting them by stricter ties than those of blood, which was their sole view in it, they rendered them enemies almost from their birth.

My father, who was always excelled in his exercises by the young marquis of Lussan, conceived a jealousy at it, which soon degenerated into a fixed aversion. They often quarrelled; and my father being always the aggressor, it was he who was always punished.

One day, when he complained of this treatment to the steward of our family, ‘Know, said the man to him, that you will have it in your power to repress the pride of the marquis of Lussan; all the estates he possesses are entailed upon you, and your grandfather could not dispose of them: when you are the master, continued he, it will not be difficult for you to recover your right.’

This intimation convincing my father, that he had it in his power to be revenged of his cousin, made him set no bounds to his resentment. Their quarrels became so frequent and so violent, that there was a necessity for separating them. They were many years without seeing each other, during which they were both married. The marquis of Lussan had only a daughter by his wife, and my father only a son by his, which was myself.

As soon as my father came to the possession of his hereditary estates, by the death of his grandfather, he determined to follow the advice that had been given him, while he was yet a youth, and which he had never lost sight of: he omitted nothing that could render his claim unquestionable, and rejecting several proposals for an accommodation, commenced a law-suit with the marquis of Lussan, which could not but terminate in the despoiling him of all his estates.

An unhappy rencounter, which they had one day in a hunting-match, rendered them for ever irreconcileable. My father, whose vowed revenge was never out of his thoughts, said several cruel things to the Marquis of Lussan, upon the despicable condition to which he expected soon to reduce him. The marquis, tho' naturally mild, could not help answering with some haughtiness. They had recourse to their swords: fortune declared in favour of Monsieur de Lussan: he disarmed my father, and bid him ask his life.

‘I should hate it, answered my father fiercely, if I owed it to thee.’‘Yet, spite of thyself, thou shalt owe it to me,’ said the marquis, of Lussan, throwing him his sword: after which he instantly left him.

This generous action did not move my father in his favour; on the contrary, the double victory his enemy gained over him, encreased his hatred, and he carried on the suit against the marquis of Lussan more vigorously than before. However, when his hopes were highest he received some accounts from his lawyers, which effectually destroyed them. This disappointment threw him into such transports of rage and grief, as brought on a dangerous fever, under which he languished a long time, and in this state I found him at my return from my travels, upon which I had ben sent immediately after my studies were finished.

A few days after my arrival, the Abbot de R—, a kinsman of my mother's, sent notice to my father, that the writings which alone were able to prove his just claim to the estates possessed by the marquis of Lussan, were in the archives of the abbey of R—, to which place many of the papers belonging to our family had been carried during the civil wars. My father was desired by the abbot to keep this information secret, and to come himself for those writings, or send a person for them, on whose fidelity he could have an absolute dependance.

The bad state of his health not permitting him to go himself, he charged me with this commission, after many times representing to me, the great importance of it. ‘You, said he to me, are more concerned in the recovery of those papers, than I am; the estates will probably soon be yours; but if you had no interest in them, I think well enough of you, to believe that you share my resentment, and are eager to revenge the injuries I have received.’ After giving some other necessary instructions, it was resolved that I should take the title of marquis of Longaunois, that my business in the abbey might not be suspected, madame de Lussan having several relations there.

I set out, accompanied only by an old servant of my father's, and my own valet de chambre. My journey proved successful: I found in the archives of the abbey the writings which proved incontestably the entail. I wrote to my father, and gave him an account of all that I had done; and, as I was only at a small distance from _____ , I desired he would permit me to stay there during the season for drinking the waters. My father was so pleased with the success of my journey, that he readily complied with my request.

I still appeared under the borrowed title of the marquis of Langaunois: my equipage was too inconsiderable to support the grandeur of that of Comminge. The day after my arrival, I went to the fountain: in these places ceremony is laid aside, and an easy polite freedom better supplies its place. From the first day of my appearance at the baths, I was admitted into all parties of pleasure, and introduced at the house of the marquis de la Valette, who that day gave a grand entertainment to the ladies.

I found several of them whom I had seen at the fountain already come, and said some tender things to them, as I then thought myself obliged to do to all women. I was engaged in a particular conversation with one of them, when a lady of a good presence entered the room, followed by a girl of surprising beauty; her charms fixed my attention immediately, her graceful modesty won my esteem. I loved her from that moment, and that moment decided the destiny of my whole life. Insensibly my former gaiety vanished; I could do nothing but gaze on her, and follow her every where: she perceived it, and blushed. A walk was proposed, and I had the good fortune to lead her. We were at a sufficient distance from the rest of the company to give me an opportunity of talking to her upon a subject by which my whole thoughts were engrossed; but I who a few moments before was not able to remove my eyes from her face, had now when we were alone not courage enough to look upon her. Till then I had always talked of love to women for whom I felt nothing but indifference; but as soon as my heart was really subdued, I found impossible to speak.

We rejoined the company, without having uttered a single word to each other. The ladies were conducted to their lodgings, and I returned home, where I shut myself up in my apartment. In the disposition my mind was then, solitude was most agreeable. I felt a certain kind of joy mixed with pain, which I believe always accompanies a beginning passion: mine had rendered me so timid, that I durst not endeavour to know the name of her I loved. I was apprehensive my curiosity would betray the secret of my heart; but how did it sink within me, when I learned that it was the daughter of the marquis of Lussan who had charmed me. All the obstacles that opposed my happiness rose instantly to my mind; but the fear that Adelaida, so was that lovely girl called, had been early taught to hate my name, was what most alarmed me. I thought myself fortunate in having assumed another; and fondly hoped that she would know my passion for her before she could be prejudiced against me; and that when she knew who I was she would at least be induced to pity me.

I therefore determined to conceal my true name as long as possible, and in the mean time to use every method to please her; but I was too much in love to employ any other than that of loving. I followed her wherever she went: I ardently wished for an opportunity of speaking to her in private; and when that so much desired opportunity offered itself, I had not power to take advantage of it. The fear of forfeiting a thousand little freedoms, which I now enjoyed, restrained me; but my greatest fear was that of offending her.

This was my situation, when one evening, as the company were walking in separate parties, Adalaida dropt a bracelet off her arm, to which her picture was fastened. The chevalier de Saint Oden, who led her, eagerly stooped to take it up, and, after gazing upon it a moment, put it in his pocket. Adelaida at first asked for it mildly; but he obstinately refusing to return it, she expressed great resentment at a behaviour which showed so little respect for her.

The chevalier was handsome; some little successes with the fair had made him vain and presuming. Without being disconcerted at Adelaida's anger, ‘Why, mademoiselle, said he, would you deprive me of a good which I owe only to chance? I flatter myself, continued he, lowering his voice, that when you know the sentiments you have inspired me with, you will suffer me to keep what that has presented me.’ Saying this he bowed profoundly low; and, without waiting for her answer, retired.

I happened not to be with her then. The marchioness de la Valette and I were talking at a little distance; but altho' I quitted her as seldom as possible, yet my attention was always fixed upon her. I never lost a look, a word, or action of hers, and however particularly engaged, I never failed in any of those assiduities, which others practise to please, but which the excess of my passion made we find inconceivable pleasure in performing.

[To be continued.]

PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES.

INTRODUCTION.

IN the enumeration of those studies which the fair sex may properly be permitted to employ some part of their time in an application to, given in our last Number, it may be remembered that history and natural philosophy stood foremost in the list. Curiosity is one of the most prevalent, and, when properly applied, one of the most amiable, passions of the human mind; nor can it in any way find a more rational scope for exertion, than in the recollection of historical facts, and a curious inquisition into the wonders of creation. To this application of that passion the female part of the world are unquestionably most happily adapted. Undisturbed by the more intricate affairs of business; unburthened with the load of political entanglements; with the anxiety of commercial negotiations; or the suspense and anguish which attend on the pursuit of fame or fortune, the memories of the fair are left vacant to receive and to retain the regular connection of a train of events, to register them in that order which fancy may point out as most pleasing, and to form deductions from them such as may render their lives more agreeable to themselves, and more serviceable to every one about them. Their more exalted faculties, not being tied down by wearisome attention to mathematical investigations, metaphysical chimeras, or abstrusescholastic learning, are more at liberty to observe with care, see with perspicuity, and judge without prejudice, concerning the amazing world of wonders round them than those of men, who, very frequently by attempting to arrive at every kind of knowledge, find themselves stopped short in their career by the limited period of life, before they can properly be said to have reached any

To gratify and furnish food for this laudable curiosity, therefore, in both these branches of knowledge, shall be one of our principal aims in the prosecution of this work; yet as amusement no less than instruction will ever constitute one of the main columns of our edifice, and that our wish is to render the ladies though learned not pedantic, conversable rather than scientific, we shall avoid entering into any of those minutiae, or diving into those depths of literature, which may make their study dry to themselves, or occasion its becoming tiresome to others.

If therefore we treat of philosophy, it shall be polished from the rust of theoretical erudition, and adorned with all those advantages which a connexion with the politer arts and sciences can throw upon it. If of history, a pleasing relation of the most interesting facts shall be endeavoured at, the movement of the grand machine of government shall indeed be set before our readers, and the influence of each apparent wheel be rendered visible: but we shall think it unnecessary to look into every secret spring whereby these wheels were actuated; and shall dispense with entering into the never to be discovered causes of the rise and fall of nations now no more, to make room for the more useful knowledge of those movements of the human heart on which depend the happiness or ruin of individuals. If geography should form, as we propose it shall, one portion of each number, it will not be with us the meer description of large tracts of land, where woods and plains, mountains and valleys, rivers and sandy deserts occur alike in all; but only a detail in every country of those things which are peculiar to itself: a picture not of the face of the earth, of sea and air, in different latitudes and longitudes, but a more varied prospect of human nature diversified by different laws, by different constitutions, and different ideas.

Thus much will be sufficient to premise in regard to the matter of our researches on these kind of subjects, in order to obviate the horrid idea which the word philosophy might perhaps otherwise impress on the minds of our female readers, who might from that term expect to find a work intended and calculated chiefly for their amusement and instruction, loaded with dry and abstruse investigations, which some of them might not have time, or others even want attention, to examine with the application necessary to become mistresses of them; and which if they were attained would stand a chance of more than ten to one of exciting the outcry of the world against them.

As to the method we intend to pursue, however, something, though not much, will be necessary to add. Which will be only to observe that no regular course of philosophy, no long train of historical events, nor any close confinement to one branch of geographical knowledge, shall be aimed at in our essays on these subjects. Variety is the soul of study, as well as the pleasure of life; and a thousand useful pieces of knowledge steal into the vacancies of our mind when detached, which would never find their way thither if they were entangled with each other, or mingled in the grand mass of philosophical enquiries.

Learning, in short, is the old man's bundie of rods: when bound up in the cluster, it is almost impossible to be overcome, yet every single twig may easily be mastered. In short, we see not the labour we have to go through, when it is presented to us in minute portions; yet still it answers the end proposed, ‘Small sands the mountain, moments make the year.’ We accumulate knowledge by golden grains, and find ourselves possessed of an ample treasure before we are even aware that we have attained the necessary store for our passing easily through life.

To render this accumulation therefore thus easy, we shall fix ourselves to no peculiar order, but make variety our aim; transport our reader by turns through all the regions of earth, air, and ocean, and to different climates, with expedition beyond the power of a magician's wand. No bars of time, of place, or distance, or even impossibility itself, shall stop our progress. One Number of our work perhaps shall leave us admiring the stupendous fabric of the immense extended universe; the next shall find us aiding our limited sight by help of glasses in observations on a world of unknown beings contained within a drop of fluid, or forests waving in the narrow circuit of a small piece of moss. To-day we shall converse with almost our cotemporaries, enquire their actions, and censure or applaud them as we please; to-morrow shall introduce us to an intercourse with the great founders of long abolished empires. One page shall teach the manners used by nations where splendour and magnificence surpass even the most volatile imagination; the next point out the various artifices which want, the parent of inventive labour, instructs the poor unhappy savage to make use of for the supply of those necessities which barren wilds and mountains desolate deny the fuller solace of. In short, every thing curious, every thing instructive, every thing entertaining, shall be carefully sought out, and offered to the view, without distinction or respect to order; still leaving to the mind of every reader to range and form them into systems according to his pleasure.

OF THE UNIVERSE AS CONSIDERED Under a GENERAL VIEW.

ALthough, as I have hinted above, we do not propose to enter into any regular order with regard to particular details, yet previous to our engaging in any disquisitions at all, it may not be improper to take one general review of nature, in order to open and prepare the mind for the reception of such discoveries as may at first sight confound from their novelty, and such truths as may appear incredible from their overleaping the limits of our conception.

Every study ought to have its peculiar use not only with regard to mankind in general, but to the person to whom it is recommended in particular. It is not enough to say, such or such a branch of knowledge will, if pursued, be productive of some emolument to others; the person who is particularly solicited to pursue it ought to be informed in what respect it may be rendered serviceable to him in particular. Let mankind argue on the principles of stoicism and public spirit as long as they please, it would be difficult through the history of now almost six thousand years, to find any action ever so trivial, if attended with either labour or hazard, that has been performed merely for the sake of the publick in present, or of posterity in future, wherein some advantage either real or imaginary was not to accrue to the agent.

The motives to great and illustrious actions in the loud and busy occurrences of the world have been usually incited by ambition: Ambition, united with avarice, has aimed at present aggrandizement; ambition, spurred on by fancy, has made future fame its final goal. Yet have the actions thus produced generally tended to oppression or extravagance.

In the continued practice of moral opinions, and the support of religious tenets, many have run thro' lives of pain and persecution; many have fallen voluntary martyrs in the midst of the most excruciating tortures, and gloried in the sufferings they have borne. The hope of future meed, the prospect of a certain happiness in another state, purchased by patient sufferings in this, have been at once their motive and support: yet these have frequently deserved the names of wild enthusiasm and headstrong superstition.

In the still calmer and more retired sphere of learned disquisition, the springs of action seem with greater disinterestedness to tend towards general utility. Fame is but rarely gained by studious lore; fortune still seldomer. The present therefore seems improbable, the future most uncertain. Ambition and interest here seem to have no effect. The motives then of action here are more concealed; yet motives still there are: for human nature finds its powers too limited, its inclinations too much clogg'd, to act without some point in view to rouse it to exertion.

From the concealment then, or rather from the non-appearance of these motives, arises the so common cry against the practice of natural philosophy, What is the use of this? A cry thus raised as easily is answered, The use is universal—But to explain that answer more may be necessary.

To those whose minds are too contracted to wander through the tracts of boundless space, to view at once with wonder, and follow with discernment, the motions of the heavenly bodies; and whilst contracted thus are still too dissipated to fix upon the objects placed before them, and pay the due attention to that mechanism, which, as the judicious Mr. Boyle most justly has observed, ‘is more conspicuous in nature's watches than her clocks;’ to these, I say, the use of all these studies will still remain concealed.

But to the mind of clear and cool reflection, their use is plain and evident: they lead by smooth and regular gradations to peace and happiness: they raise the thoughts to humanity and devotion; serve to calm our ruffled passions, and, by a regular transition, convey our contemplations from the creature to its Creator.

In this light then let us consider them: look on the vast universe as one immense machine, whose complicated mechanism bespeaks an artist of almighty power and wisdom—a machine formed for our use, and consequently a most amazing proof of his benevolence and goodness—a machine whose several parts have all a wonderful connection, and all their several uses; which it is therefore a duty enjoined on us to endeavour at the discovering, and the discovery itself a reward granted for the performance of that duty.

Let us then first take a view of this mighty machine in the whole, and then descend to a more immediate disquisition of its several parts.

For this purpose then, reader, imagine yourself conveyed to some place beyond even the limits of infinite space; there cast your eyes around, and view the number of the stars which glitter in their several orbs. Small as they from our earth appear, behold them each a sun, shining with brightest lustre; each an immense mass of heat and light. Around them see numbers of worlds revolving in stated orbits, and in certain times. Lost as you are in the irregularity of their number and their motions, now fix your attention on a single one— return to our system only.

There, in the centre, the only place from whence the advantages of light and heat could be dispersed with equal impartiality to all the surrounding planets, and almost equally to every one in all the several periods of its course, behold the sun: a wondrous moss of fire, of so immense a bulk, glowing with so much brightness, and heated to a fervor so intense, as to diffuse its genial warmth, and spread its rays for millions of miles around it, and, tho' burning for thousands of years, enduring no visible decrease. Next to him, although at a distance of thirty-two millions of miles from his body, rolls the small planet Mercury, revolving rapidly all the several periods of its season in eighty-eight of our days. Then in a larger circle, next comes Venus, forming its year in somewhat more than seven months. Her bulk is nearly equal to that of our globe; and in her course appears to us, sometimes a full bright star, reflecting the sun's rays from the whole circle of her body; at others horned, and in a crescent, representing as it were in miniature the changes of the moon.

For these two planets, placed as they are within the immediate influence of the beams which emanate from the great fount of light, those rays are full sufficient for their purpose, unaided by extraneous assistance. Not so the Earth, the next in order of the planets; stationed where the sun's rays diverge and dissipate, so as to afford only a fainter day, and endued with motions whereby sometimes that day is very short; in order to procure and to prolong to her the great blessing of light, she is attended by a satellite, a planet perpetually revolving round her body, which by receiving on its surface the rays of the great luminary, sends them back by reflection to the inhabitants of this globe; and here let us reflect on the amazing complication of various motions carried on at once in these two bodies! The daily revolution of the earth round its own axis, performed in four and twenty hours, combined with that in her own orbit, performed with a velocity of almost a thousand miles in a minute. The Moon turning round her own centre in twenty-seven days, rolling in the same space of time around her primary, and carrying on these motions calm and undisturbed, whilst she is borne along with equal swiftness by that primary in its annual progress—how wonderful a combination! how inconceivable to human fancy, the impulse by which it could be at first set to work! what less than infinite power could continue it in such unwearied regularity of rotation for so many ages! what but infinite wisdom could have contrived it in such just proportion, in such connected harmony, as to bring about every change of time and season which can be conducive either to the convenience, the use, or even to the pleasure of the inhabitants of both these globes!

In the fourth circle of the solar system rolls, in a period of almost two years, the planet Mars. Above him still, and in the realms of everlasting frost, and little more than constant twilight, the mighty Jupiter, superior to all the other planets from his stupendous bulk, revolves in a large circuit of twelve tedious years. Round him four moons continually attend, moving in different periods, to furnish his inhabitants with light, and entertain them with the almost infinite variety of their changes and aspects.

Still farther off, and at not much less than eight hundred millions of miles distance from the sun, in slow and stately progress Saturn moves, filling almost thirty years in one revolution. Five moons relieve his almost total darkness; nor would even the help of these avail to chear the gloom which his inhabitants experience, were they not aided by a still brighter band of reflected light formed by the ample ring whereby his body ever is encircled. Let fancy paint the glorious prospect of the face of heaven as it appears to them; where sometimes in one hemisphere at once are to be seen, (besides the brilliant arch now over their heads, and now forming to a certain height a luminary border to their horizon) five moons, shining with borrowed lustre, and at once glance presenting to their view all the several phenomena which with our single satellite we are obliged to wait for years to see; some in the full, some new, and some increscent; some undisturbed and clear, and others in eclipse. Eclipses too, unknown to our moon, formed by the interchangeable positions of the several satellites; and sometimes by the ring, behind which they remain a time concealed, and then emerge again.

Besides these regular, these well known periods, behold a set of bodies, whose errant progress extends sometimes far, far beyond the orbit of the farthest of these planets, and sometimes comes within a nearer distance to the sun than is the very nearest: In one part of their orbit moving slower than Saturn, and in another whirling swifter round the body of the sun than Mercury himself: sometimes in regions, to the cold of which the frosts of Greenland must be the dog star's heat; sometimes in raging fires which the most wild imagination cannot form the least idea of; experiencing thus within one revolution, sometimes indeed of several hundred years, all the vicissitudes of times, of seasons, climates, and appearances, which all the other planets in their several orbits separately undergo; yet are these wandering masses, these phenomena, which from their rare appearances have been esteemed portents and prodigies, restrained by mighty power, their progress stated by almighty wisdom, and their wild courses ruled by the great hand that made them.

Such is the system, such the vast machine, of which our globe is but a single part, one wheel, and that no more than one of the most trivial; for of the bodies we have named, there are some exceeding it in bulk by many hundred times: yet let us come to a nearer view of that alone, and we shall find its mechanism such as, in our narrow comprehensions, might of itself exhaust the utmost power even of Omnipotence; yet this, compared with the whole system, how insignificant! and that whole system itself, if lost from out the universe, how little to be missed!—not more than would the smallest pebble conveyed from the extended coast of the wide ocean—what then is man! and what is his creator!

Contract we now our views, and fix them on our earth.—Behold the mighty mass, a fertile globe, of near eight thousand miles diameter, covered in every part with animated beings, formed into an infinite variey of different shapes, of different natures, and different inclinations, and consequently with an infinity of different wants: yet see upon its surface, within its bowels, or floating in its surrounding atmosphere, the means for the supplying all those wants; nay more, of gratifying every needless wish of those insatiate animals mankind; of yielding supernumerary delights, and leaving to the mind of just reflexion not even a single wish to form.

Observe the atmosphere wherewith to the height of a few miles the globe appears enwrapped. In it you see the treasure houses of the rain, of snow, and hail, let loose at proper periods to cool and to refresh the earth; to afford nourishment to all the vegetable world, and to supply the rivers and the springs with water: of clouds to overshadow and protect alike the animals and plants from the sun's scorching heat, and to relieve that heat by seasonable showers. There you behold the prison of the winds which are sent forth at proper times to put in motion the stagnant air, and scatter all those noxious vapours which in receives by circulating through the several organs of animal life. The lightnings too, and thunder there are formed with more than chymic art; whose dreadful explosions, at the same time that they cool and purify the surrounding elements, seem more immediately to be the voice of the Almighty, warning his creatures of his wrath, at the same time that it declares his power.

Descend we to the surface. There observe the almost infinite variety of forms and of materials. See there high mountains reaching to the clouds, whose long extended ridges serve so many various purposes; as limits to great kingdoms, and bars to wild o'erbearing thirst of empire; as ribs whereby this mass of earth and water is strengthened and supported, as is the animal frame by massy bones; and lastly as immense alembics, to collect and to distil those waters which the sun's heat evaporates from the wide surface of the ocean; thence to disperse them down their sides in numberless little rills, which, meeting and uniting in their progress, compose those mighty rivers whereby the several tracts of land which form the continents, are equally supplied with that most useful element, and which upon their bosoms bear the trade of many inland nations.

View next the vallies adorned with pleasing verdure, and variegated with a dazzling glow of beauteous colouring, affording food for miriads of animals, created for the use and the conveniencies of man—Observe the woods and forests waving in the wind, and yielding shelter from the storm and tempest, laden with fruits of every kind, and furnishing materials for building more convenient habitations. In other parts large wide extended heaths, covered with underwood, serve for the dwelling-place of various animals—Elsewhere see sandy deserts, thro' which scarce any tract of feet can be discerned— rocks and vast cliffs which stop the ocean's rage; and lastly, view the wide expanse of ocean, whose surface is enriched with all the treasures of the commercial world, and serves to bring about an intercourse between those very nations which it appears to bar from all communication—Within its bulk of waters miriads of animals of various forms and sizes find habitation and existence, from the immense floating island of the whale's enormous body and the devouring shark, to the poor little lifeless limpet, which fixes to the rock, and there passes all the period of its being without either sight or motion— Around its borders see growing on every part mosses and corals, which with a kind of vegetation differing from other plants, and varying from each other, form groves for the smaller inhabitants of the waters to range among, and hide themselves from the perception of their voracious enemies; whilst its unfathomed bottom contains a world unknown to us of animals which never rise to the surface, or wander to the shores, and therefore must possess organs, respiration, and means for the preserving life, hitherto undiscoverable by anatomical researches, and unaccounted for by philosophical theory.

Let us, I say, but once reflect on this review of nature, and who can ask what use these studies have? What use, but to adapt and to prepare the mind for still more speculative and important reflections on the immensity of that great power by which these wonders have been all created: who, with his single fiat, has set this incomprehensible machine in motion, and who with a meer nod can stop that motion, and instantly reduce it to its original chaos. What use, but to point out to man, that proud presumptuous being, who dares to set himself in bold defiance to that power, how poor, how insignificant, how very a worm he is when placed in competition with many of the other productions of omnipotence!—What use, but to inspire the true philosopher with the most humble reverence, with the most ardent gratitude, and with the deepest sense of that beneficence which has placed him in a world where he remains surrounded with ten thousand miracles, supplied with every thing his real wants can stand in need of, or his unbounded wishes form in fancy: and sees himself possessed of all this by the immediate kindness of a power which claims from him no other recompense but his enjoying them with wonder and with gratitude, and paying the small tribute of praise to him who gave them.

THE LADY'S GEOGRAPHY.

AS we have before observed that it shall be our endeavour in the progress of this work to render it as interesting as possible, and to reject every thing that does not tend in some measure either to instruct or entertain, we shall consequently be very short in our descriptive part of the particular countries we may have occasion to conduct our fair readers through; since the general face of nature varies little more in different countries than the face of man. Air, earth, and water, hills and valleys, woods and open plains, are the universal features every where; and therefore would produce continual and tedious repetitions, were we to attach ourselves to such descriptions: but the peculiar variations in those features, together with the particular complexion which the mind of man appears to wear in every place, is what alone we shall think worthy of our notice. For this reason we shall constantly divide our investigations of different countries into three parts, viz. first, such general description as may be absolutely necessary for the knowledge of its situation, and to give some idea to the reader of the prospect he might expect to meet with if he was on the spot, but in this we shall be as concise as possible; secondly, the natural history, or a detail of the productions and curiosities of nature peculiar to it; and lastly, the civil history, or an account of the manners, laws, and customs of the inhabitants; in which, as well as in the preceding article, we shall aim at preserving all imaginary novelty, by taking no notice at all of those things of either kind which are universally possessed in every country; making only a bare mention of such as they have in common with some others; and extending more amply on such alone as are peculiar to the very individual spot or nation which is the subject of our immediate consideration. In pursuance therefore of this kind of plan, we shall now proceed to

A DESCRIPTION of AMBOYNA, AND OF The other ISLANDS dependent on it.

This cluster of islands, which are numbered by some authors amongst the Moluccas, were first discovered by the Portuguese, in 1511; but were taken from them by the Dutch in the beginning of 1605, in whose possession they remain to this day. They are situated in about the fourth degree of south latitude, and about the one hundred and forty-fifth of longitude from the Canary Islands.

Amboyna in itself, although the capital, is by no means the largest of the islands which are connected under the same jurisdiction: yet as it is the most populous in proportion to its size, the most regularly cultivated, the most carefully strengthened with many fortresses, and beautified with a very handsome city, it claims the preference of being first mentioned.

An Inhabitant of the Island of Amboyna equippd for War.

It is an island, or rather two joined together by a small isthmus of about a quarter of a league in breadth, and which forms on one side of it a gulph of upwards of six German leagues in length, and about a league over in the broadest part, capable of containing an infinite number of vessels, and on the other a very fine bay. This isthmus lies so low, that by only cutting a canal of about six feet depth the two gulphs would communicate with each other. The two parts of the islands separated by it are of different sizes; the northern part, which is called Hitto, is much the largest, being eight leagues and a half long, and two and a half broad; the other, named Leytimor, is but about five leagues in length, and its breadth at most not above two, gradually diminishing almost to a point at one end; at two leagues and half from which, on the northern coast, stands the town of Amboyna.

Hitto is divided into seven cantons, each of which for the most part contains about five villages, and is defended by a fortress and garrison. Leytimor would of itself be very inconsiderable, were it not for its being the seat of the capital town and fortress in the island, viz. Amboyna and Fort Victory.

The town stands in a fine plain on the coast of the larger gulph, and is about a quarter of a league in length, and fourteen hundred paces broad. The streets are wide and regular; and altho' they are not paved, yet the soil is so very spungy, that the heavy rains, which frequently sail there, do them much less damage than one would be apt to expect. It contains about a thousand houses, exclusive of the public buildings: amongst which the castle, the market-house, the church, the guard-house, the town-house, the hospital, the orphan-house, governor's palace, the old and new Dutch churches, and the company's linnen magazine, are the most considerable, and some of them very magnificent.

The number of inhabitants of the island of Amboyna are thought to amount to between seventy and eighty thousand souls, all of whom are Moors or Mahometans, excepting the people of Leytimor, who, most of them profess Christianity, and about five or six villages of the other part of the island.

Under the government of Amboyna are included ten other islands, viz. Bouro, Amblau, Manipa, Kelang, Bonoa, Ceram, Ceram-Laout, Naussa-Laout, Honimoa, and Boangbesi.

The external aspect of all these islands present at first sight the appearance of the rudest desert. On whatever side you turn your eyes, you see yourself surrounded with lofty mountains, whose tops are lost in clouds; with frightful rocks riding on one another's heads; with horrid caverns, thick woods, shading with almost a continual darkness numbers of very deep valleys; and at the same time your ears are struck with the noise of rivers rushing into the sea with horrid roar, especially towards the beginning of the eastern monsoon, the time at which the European vessels most commonly arrive there.

Yet foreigners who stay there till the western monsoon find infinite beauties in the prospect. The mountains abounding with seago and with cloves; the forests cloathed in verdure, and adorned with blossoms; the vallies laden with fertility; the rivers rolling with waters pure and chrystalline; the very rocks and caverns, which seem but as the shadows in a picture; all these objects diversified in so many ways render it one of the finest countries in the world.

The frequent attacks of the palsy in these islands, and the yellowness of complexion which many persons bring from thence with them, have made it be concluded that the air of them is unwholsome: yet these disorders are rather to be attributed to the imprudence of travellers, than to the temperament of the climate, the air of which is clear and healthful. Many have lost their limbs by sleeping in their shirts by moonlight in cool evenings; and the excessive drinking of the Saguweer, fixes that yellowness so much complained of: but these are disorders to which the natives, who take the same liquor in moderation, and do not expose themselves to the air in cold nights, are not subject to.

Earthquakes and heavy rains are the greatest inconveniences of these climates. During the time of the eastern monsoon, which begins in May, and ends in September, it will sometimes rain for several weeks together: yet notwithstanding the vast quantity of water which falls direct, and the impetuous torrents which pour down from the mountains into the lower grounds, the land being so very spungy the fields soon become dry again. But what is very remarkable is, that the season for these rains is not the same throughout all the islands: when it rains at Amboyna, it is frequently very fair at Bouro, Manipa, and other of the lands to the west. This season is often accompanied with violent hurricanes; but earthquakes are more common during the western monsoon, which also lasts for five months. In April and October they have no regular winds. The easterly ones bring rain; the westerly ones a drought: yet both these, as well as the very plentiful evening dews, are of service in tempering the excessive heats which are sometimes so great in the middle parts of the day as to dry up rivers and cause the earth to open in clefts of twenty feet deep. In these seasons of drought they are also incommoded with violent storms of thunder and lightning; and earthquakes are very frequently attendant on the rains which follow these heats.

NATURAL HISTORY of the Islands of AMBOYNA.

The principal and general product of these islands are rice, seago, and cloves: they have, however, great quantities of cocoa nuts, nutmegs, and other vegetable productions. As to animals they have very few peculiar to themselves, excepting some of the bird kind We will now take a little circuit through the several islands, and remark what is to be found worthy of notice in each.

AMBOYNA. In Hitto, or the northern part of this island, are two mountains almost inaccessible; one of which, called Tanita, is the highest in the whole island. The top of it is so extremely cold that no kind of animal is to be found on it, excepting some black lizards, which live in a very thick moss, wherewith the ground, and even the barks of the trees, are entirely cover'd; and which is so extremely moist, that the water will run out of it with the slightest pressure.

BOURO. This island is many times larger than Amboyna, being about eighteen leagues in length, and upwards of thirteen in breadth. It is remarkable for its very fine woods, amongst which three kinds of ebony, the black, the white, and a bastard kind between both, are the most distinguishable.

The internal parts of this island are fill'd with high mountains and vast forests in many places inaccessible, and which are the habitations of many large serpents and other venomous animals; and the banks of the rivers are infested with crocodiles. But what is the most wonderful is a large inland lake which is at the top of a mountain about the middle of the island. This is almost inaccessible, the way to it being over steep craigs and forests, so thick as to be scarce passable. It is about two leagues and an half over, and nearly round. Its depth in the middle is fifteen or sixteen fathoms, and it is supplied by a very rapid river. It produces no fish but eels, some of which are as thick as a man's thigh. There are great number of wild ducks and plover about its borders, and the woods near it abound with a kind of bird, about the size of a Canary bird, with a black head, red neck, with a ring of white around it, and the wings of a bright gold colour. In short, by the description, they seem much to resemble our goldfinches, and sing delightfully. There are also in this island two other hills each almost in the form of a sugar-loaf, open at the top, and fill'd with water.

On the coast of the island of Ceram, which is the largest of them all, being sixty leagues in length, and in some places fifteen in breadth, is a prodigious large rock, at the foot of which Nature has formed several caverns, which give it the outward appearance of a walled town with its gates. These caverns sometimes serve for shelter to persons who happen to be overtaken by the night, tho' the retreat into them is frightful and even dangerous, being very much infested with serpents and other venomous reptiles.

In the little islands of Noussa, Laout, and Honimoa, but especially in the latter, is found a kind of soap earth, which the women of that country, when pregnant, devour greedily, from a persuasion that it has virtue to make their children fair, altho' experience most generally has contradicted that opinion.

The island of Oma is remarkable for a spring of hot water, the sulphureous steams of which are received thro' a wooden grate, by way of bath, for the relief of gouty and paralytic persons; and the ground every where about it is also extremely hot.

But the most amazing particular in this island is a kind of fiery vapour, which is conveyed in the air with certain winds, and by which all the herbage for a large tract of ground will be almost instantaneously consum'd, and the cloaths, hair, and sometimes the faces of persons expos'd to it, extremely scorch'd. Nor have they any means of escaping suffocation from the smoke produc'd by it, but by throwing themselves flat on the ground with their faces to the earth.

The sea wherewith these islands are surrounded present at particular times, viz. during the new moons of June, and August, a very amazing sight. The surface of it appears in the night-time as it were striped with large furrows as white as milk, although in the day time no difference is to be seen. This white water, which does not mingle with the other, has more or less extent according as it is increased by the rains, which the south-east winds bring along with them: no one has been able to discover from whence it comes, or whereby it is occasioned. Some have attributed this whiteness to little animalculae; whilst others imagine it to proceed from sulphureous vapours rising from the bottom of the sea, and spreading on its surface. It is true there are many mountains of sulphur in this part of the world; but was it occasioned by them, the like phaenomenon would be met with in other places where such mountains are; which is not the case. When the white water is gone, the sea discharges a much greater quantity of froth and foam than usual. This water is extremely dangerous for small vessels, as the breakers cannot be distinguished through it; ships which are exposed to it also rot the sooner, and it is remarked that the fish constantly follow the black water.

Another object worthy of notice in those seas, is a kind of reddish worm, which appears every year at a certain time along the shore in many parts of the island of Amboyna. The use the inhabitants make of these worms we shall shew hereafter.

The MANNERS and CUSTOMS of the Inhabitants of AMBOYNA.

The inhabitants of these islands are of a middle stature, rather lean than fat, and extremely swarthy: their features are regular, and there are both men and women of them who are far trom unhandsome. There is however a sort of them, which are called Cakerlaks, who are almost as white as the Europeans; but it is a sort of paleness which has something frightful in it when one is near them: they are very red hair'd, have large freckles on their hands and faces, and their skin is scursy, rough, and wrinkled. Their eyes, which are perpetually winking, seem in the day-time half shut, and are so weak that they can scarce bear the light; but in the night they see very clear. The women of this kind are very rare. These Cakerlaks are a kind of lepers, and are held in great contempt by their country folks—They take their name from certain flying insects, which cast their covering every year, and whose skin resembles that of these people.

Their habitations are for the most part extremely poor and wretched: some indeed which belong to the principal persons are built of boards; but the generality are constructed of gabba-gabbas, or branches of the seago tree, the bark of which is extremely smooth and polished. These houses make no bad appearance when they are new; but in a short time, when the gabba-gabbas begin to rot, and the nails and fastenings which hold them give way, they form great gaps which render them extremely inconvenient.

Nor is their furniture more commodious or more plentiful—A few shelves to serve by way of canopy, some matts to sit on, a little earthen ware, a frying-pan, a copper bason to put their pisang in, a lamp of the same mettle, and two or three boxes made of the leaves of the nipa, ornamented with white shells, compose the principal part of it. The leaves of the pisang serve them by way of table cloths and napkins, and the shell of the cocoa nuts for spoons. The use of knives is unknown to them, but they do every thing with a kind of cleaver, which they manage very dexterously: besides these implements, for domestic use, they have also some arms in their houses, such as helmets, bucklers, sabres, and javelins.

Their habits are neither more diversified nor more magnificent: the men wear a kind of close-bodied coat and breeches, made of cotton, or some other stuff, of a blue colour, and for the most part unlined. The women in the house wear a sort of petticoat sewed up, but without plaits, and equally open at both ends: this they fasten at their waists to their under habit, which is a kind of shift with the sleeves very long, and a little open before, and which reaches down somewhat below the navel. When they go out they put on a second petticoat, which they throw over their left shoulder, in the manner of a cloak; so that only the right side is to be seen.

As fashion is unknown to the people of this country, all the difference of cloathing amongst them consists in the difference of the stuffs. The Moors have no other distinction in their dress from the Christians of the island but that of wearing a turban instead of the hat, or sometimes red or white handkerchiefs, which the latter fasten on their heads.

The grandees however are particularly fond of distinguishing themselves by the magnificence of their dress and the number of their slaves. They also wear robes of brocade, silk stockings, and slippers, as marks of their nobility; whereas the commonalty, both men and women, go barefooted, or in wooden sandals. The wives of the principal magistrates have the privilege of a kind of mantle, with hanging sleeves which comes down to their knees, is generally made of rich flowered silk, and gives them great consequence among the people. They also adorn themselves with ear-rings, bracelets, and necklaces of many kinds, which are mostly made of gold. They wear a hat cut in three or four points, and hold a handkerchief in their hands by way of a fan, which they put before their faces whilst at prayers in the church, where they have chairs; whereas the common women sit cross-legged on mats upon the ground.

As the Amboynians in general are not looked on as the best soldiers, they are also but indifferently provided with arms. They have however some, which if they did but dare to look their enemies in the face, might be rendered extremely useful. I have already, under the article of their furniture, mentioned the principal of them. Nothing more therefore is necessary but to say something in regard to their structure.

Their helmets are of brass adorned with the feathers of the bird of paradise. Of bucklers they have two kinds; one sort, which are three or four feet long, and about one broad, and adorned on the outside with some rows of white shells: the other kind is only a small target made of rushes, very completely interwoven, about two or three feet diameter, with a spike in the centre, which renders them at the same time equally commodious for offence. Of both these shields they avail themselves very skilfully in parrying off the strokes of their antagonists. Their right hand is armed offensively either with a fabre or a javelin: some of them substitute, in the room of these, the bow and arrow, which are in more familiar use amongst the Alfourians, or mountaineers. Their fire-arms, which they acquired the knowledge of from the Europeans, they employ only in sporting; nor have they any heavy artillery, excepting a few patteraroes on the walls of their fortresses.

The ordinary navigation of the Amboynians is in a kind of canoes cut out of the trunks of trees, which are ten, twelve, and sometimes even twenty feet long by one or two broad. To either side of these vessels they fix a large wing, which, falling on the surface of the water, keeps it always in equilibrium amidst the waves; and as long as these wings are able to resist their force, the lightness of the vessel enables it to make a considerable progress in a very small time; but if once they happen to give way, the canoe infallibly oversets. These little barks are manned with one or two rowers, besides the person who takes care of the helm. Their fishing-boats are broader, being about three or four feet wide, but without any covering, which would be very troublesome and inconvenient for that use. Of the same form as these, but larger, are the vessels they make use of in their parties of pleasure. In the middle of them, however, is fixed a square tent or pavilion, with benches and curtains all round, large enough to contain fifteen or twenty persons, in proportion to the size of the boat; by which also is determined the number of the rowers. The smaller Orembayes (for so are these vessels called) carry ten or twelve, and the larger ones from thirty to forty. These rowers are arranged towards the head and stern of the boat on planks which project from its two sides: the oars are broad and short, almost in the form of a baker's peel, and the strokes of them are regulated by the time of certain instruments of music played on by two men for that purpose.

A third kind of bark, which they make use of, is called the Champan, carries a mast, and is covered; is about ten or twelve tons burthen; and is made great use of for the conveying goods from one island to another. The last sort of shipping which these people employ are their Coracores, which are large vessels of sometimes an hundred feet in length, and twelve or fourteen in breadth. The meaning of the name is the Sea-tortoise, which is given to them from their being very heavy and slow, altho' with a fair wind they are very convenient, as they have the assistance of sails as well as oars. Some of these galleys have two, some three, and others four rows of oars, extending from fifty to near an hundred, with room for lodging about the same number of men, exclusive of two or three very elegant little apartments for persons of particular distinction. Of these vessels, form'd into fleets from fifty to sixty-five, provided with proper arms, and a few pateraroes, they defend their own coasts from incursions, and frequently make attacks on their neighbours.

From what we have said of the habits, dwellings, and furniture of these people, it appears, that their necessities can be but few; one would therefore imagine that with a little application, join'd to a very small degree of oeconomy, it would be easy for them to increase their means, and even to amass great riches. But altho' there are several of them who enjoy a very considerable income by the profits arising from the produce of their cloves, yet they, for the most part, expend it all in feasts, presents, and law-suits, in the latter of which they make nothing of throwing away an hundred ducats in the defence of a controverted clove-garden. It is, however, remarkable that in a country where poverty is in a manner the fashion, there are, nevertheless, no such thing as beggars: but the wonder will in some degree cease when it comes to be consider'd, that the trees produce in very great abundance certain fruits, the use of which is not denied to the passers-by; and that besides, no one there ever refuses to a poor man the liberty of cutting as much fire-wood as he has occasion for in one day, whilst it is very easily in his power, with no extraordinary industry, for him to make three shillings a-day by the sale of those faggots, two pence of which will amply suffice for his day's subsistence.

We have observed above that feasting is one of the articles which ruin the Amboynians, and by which they are perpetually kept in penury and distress. In short, there are many various occasions on which they are obliged to give great and sumptuous entertainments. Of these they have ordinary and extraordinary ones. At those which are given on marriages, christenings, burials, &c. all the relations are invited; but no one comes empty-handed. Every person thinks himself obliged to contribute a certain number of dishes: and these presents are carried with great ceremony and abundance of ostentation by their slaves, one following another, in large brasen basons, each cover'd with an embroidered handkerchief, thro' which, however, it is easy to distinguish what is underneath.

Besides this, three or four persons are constantly employed for what might easily be performed by one; each endeavouring to outshine the other in the quantity of his presents and the number of his domestics.

[To be continued.]

THE LADY's MUSEUM.
The TRIFLER. [NUMBER III.]

MADAM,

WHEN 'squire Bickerstaff, in the time of our mothers, such a time as, if their accounts may be trusted, is never likely to return, took upon him to entertain the town, he endeavoured to secure a kind reception by deducing his genealogy, and proving his relation to the whole family of the Staffs

If you can either by proximity of blood, or similitude of mind, shew your alliance to the numerous and powerful generation of Triflers, you may set any other race of mortals at defiance; for very little is to be feared from any power against which the Triflers shall form a combination.

I have always had the honour of being numbered among the Triflers; my mother, my grand-mother, and my grand-mother's mother, were all Triflers before me. You know, if you know any thing of Trifles, that it is the peculiar practice of our family to count their pedigree on the female side. By the advantage of a strong memory, diligently stored with repeated narratives, I have an exact knowledge of the whole succession of Trifles, which have engaged the elegant and gay for two centuries and a half.

It is said in one of Steel's comedies, that nobody despises the honours of ancestry but those that want them; and therefore I will not lose any advantage of hereditary excellency. My mother was the best knotter of queen Mary's court; my aunt Pen was the third lady that in the reign of Charles the Second tied ribands to her nipples; my grand-mother was a country gentlewoman, and has left little behind her except a scented paste, with which the beauties of her time used to clear their skins without the help of water. My grand-mother appeared at the court of James the First in Mrs. Turner's yellow starch, and her mother was always solicited to cut out ruffs by queen's Elizabeth's maids of honour.

I suppose, madam, you will now allow me to be a genuine and legitimate Trifler; and I should be glad that you could by equal authority clear your pretensions to a place among the sisterhood. Triflers are always jealous; and I will not conceal my suspicions, that you are claiming a character without right; and that your life has not been passed regularly among us; that you have either wanted the initiation of the boarding-school, or the completion of the ball-room.

I know, that it is common enough among periodical authors to forget their titles: they fill their heads with the theory of a plan which experience soon shews them to be too narrow to last long. The Tatler often talks with the most solemn austerity of wisdom, and the Guardian deviates into many topicks with which as a Guardian he has no concern; but none ever started from her own purpose so soon as the Trifler; and therefore I am afraid, that she has taken a province which she cannot fill.

To the first paper I made no objection: it is natural to a Trifler to think her own adventures important, and to tell them to those who do not wish to hear them: but the second paper has betrayed you. Can you think love and courtship subjects for a Trifler? If love be a Trifle, what can we call serious? The truth is that almost all other female employments are the sports of idleness; and that they seldom cease to trifle till they begin to love.

It is impossible in reading a book not to form some image of the writer. You have told us little of yourself; and therefore your readers are left to their own conjectures. To tell you the truth, I conceive you to be a rural virgin, that after having passed about thirty years between reading and needle-work among groves and brooks, has at the invitation of some great lady left her grotto and bower, and come to take a view of the scenes of life, with no other ideas of love or pleasure than she has gathered from the amours and amusements of her own village.

I do not wonder that to a votaress of studious tranquility, the whole bustle of the town appears a Trifle. Much of the splendor, and much of the cares of life, I shall willingly give up to your sport or censure. You may say what you will of pleasures where no heart is light, of connections without kindness, of struggles for precedency, of competitions for the newest fashion; but believe me, dear Dryad, to love and to be loved is a serious business; and whatever customs of courtship, caprice, levity, or vanity, have dictated, however the modes of approach between the sexes may be varied by the accidents of time or place, it is not for the Trifler to treat as Trifles those operations which unite us for ever to tyrants or to friends, to savages or to sages, and which terminate the flighty wit, or airy flutterer in a wife, an economist, a mother, and a grand-mother.

I am, Madam, Your very Humble Servant. PENELOPE SPINDLE.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

SOphia, as if afraid she had said too much, stopped abruptly, and, fixing her eyes on the ground, continued silent, and lost in thought.

Mr. Herbert, who had well considered the purport of her words, passed over what he thought would give her too much pain to be explicite upon, and answered in great concern, ‘Then my fears are true: Sir Charles is not disposed to act like a man of honour.’

A sudden blush glowed in the cheeks of Sophia at the mention of Sir Charles's name; but it was not a blush of softness and confusion. Anger and disdain took the place of that sweet complacency, which was the usual expression of her countenance, and with a voice somewhat raised, she replied eagerly.

‘Sir Charles I believe has deceived me; but him I can despise—Yet do not imagine, Sir, that he has dared to insult me by any unworthy proposals: if he has any unjustifiable views upon me, he has not had presumption enough to make me acquainted with them, otherwise than by neglecting to convince me that they are honourable; but he practises upon the easy credulity of my mother. He lays snares for her gratitude by an interested generosity, as I now too plainly perceive; and he has the art to make her so much his friend, that she will not listen to any thing I say, which implies the least doubt of his honour.’

Mr. Herbert sighed, and cast down his eyes. Sophia continued in great emotion: ‘It is impossible for me, Sir, to make you comprehend all the difficulties of my situation. A man who takes every form to ensnare my affections, but none to convince my judgment, importunes me continually with declarations of tenderness, and complaints of my coldness and indifference; what can I do? what ought I to answer to such discourse? In this perplexity, why will not my mother come to my assistance? Her years, her authority as a parent give her a right to require such an explanation from Sir Charles as may free me from doubts, which although reason suggests, delicacy permits me not to make appear; but such is my misfortune, that I cannot persuade my mother there is the least foundation for my fears. She is obstinate in her good opinion of Sir Charles; and I am reduced to the sad necessity of either acting in open contradiction to her sentiments and commands, or of continuing in a state of humiliating suspence, to which my character must at last fall a sacrifice.’

‘That, my dear child, interrupted Mr. Herbert, is a point that ought to be considered. I would not mention it to you first; but since your own good sense has led the way to it, I will frankly own that I am afraid, innocent and good as you are, the censures of the world will not spare you, if you continue to receive Sir Charles's visits, doubtful as his intentions now appear to every one: I know Mrs. Darnley judges of the sincerity of his professions to you by the generosity he has shewn in the presents he has heaped upon her—but, my dear child, that generosity was always suspected by me.’

‘I confess, said Sophia, blushing, I once thought favourably of him for the attention he shewed to make my mother's life easy; but if his liberality to her be indeed, as you seem to think, a snare, what opinion ought I to form of his motives for a late offer he has made her, and which at first dazzled me, so noble and so disinterested did it appear!’

‘I know no offer but one, interrupted Mr. Herbert hastily, which you ought even to have listened to.’

‘Then the secret admonitions of my heart were right,’ cried Sophia, with an accent that at once expressed exultation and grief.

‘But what was this offer, child, said Mr. Herbert? I am impatient to know it.’

‘I will tell you the whole affair as it happened, resumed Sophia; but you must not be surprised, that my mother was pleased with Sir Charles's offer. He has been her benefactor, and has a claim to her regard: it would be strange if she had not a good opinion of him. You know what that celebrated divine says whose writings you have made me acquainted with: Charity itself commands us where we know no ill, to think well of all; but friendship, that goes always a pitch higher, gives a man a peculiar right and claim to the good opinion of his friend. My mother may be mistaken in the judgment she has formed of Sir Charles; but it is her friendship, for him, a friendship founded upon gratitude for the good offices he has done her, that has given rise to this mistake.’

Sophia, in her eagerness to justify her mother, forgot that she had raised Mr. Herbert's curiosity, and left it unsatisfied; and the good old man, charmed with the filial tenderness she shewed upon this occasion, listened to her with complacency, tho' not with conviction. At length she suddenly recollected herself, and entered upon her story; but a certain hesitation in her speech, accompanied with a bashful air that made her withdraw her eyes from him, to fix them on the ground, intimated plainly enough her own sentiments of the affair she was going to acquaint him with.

‘You know, Sir, said she, Sir Charles has had a fit of illness lately, which alarmed all his friends. My mother was particularly attentive to him upon this occasion, and I believe he was sensibly affected with her kind concern for him. When he recovered, he begged my mother, my sister, and myself, would accompany him in a little excursion to Hampstead to take the air. We dined there, and returning home early in the evening, as we passed through Brookstreet, he ordered the coach to stop at the door of a very genteel house, which appeared to be newly painted and fitted up. Sir Charles desired us to go in with him and look at it, and give him our opinion of the furniture. Nothing could be more elegant and genteel, and we told him so; at which he appeared extremely pleased, for all had been done, he said, according to his directions.’

‘He came home with us, and drank tea; after which he had a private conversation with my mother, which lasted about a quarter of an hour; and when they returned to the room in which they had left my sister and I, Sir Charles appeared to me to have an unusual thoughtfulness in his countenance, and my mother looked as if she had been weeping; yet there was, at the same time, an expression of satisfaction in her face.’

‘He went away immediately; and my mother, when, eager to give vent to the emotions which filled her heart, exclaimed, Oh, Sophia, how much are you obliged to the generous affection of that man!’

‘You may imagine, Sir, pursued Sophia, in a sweet confusion, that I was greatly affected with these words. I begged my mother to explain herself. Sir Charles, said she, has made you a present of that house which we went to view this afternoon; and here, added she, giving me a paper, is a deed by which he has settled three hundred pounds a year upon you.’

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‘I was silent, so was my sister, who looked at me as if impatient to know my thoughts of this extraordinary generosity. My thoughts indeed were so perplexed, my notions of this manner of acting so confused and uncertain, that I knew not what to say. My mother told us Sir Charles had declared to her, that his late illness had given him occasion for many uneasy reflections upon my account; that he shuddered with horror when he considered the unhappy state of my fortune, and to what difficulties I should have been exposed if he had died; and that, for the satisfaction of his own mind, he had made that settlement upon me, that whatever happened I might be out of the reach of necessity.’

‘I am afraid, Sir, pursued Sophia with a little confusion in her countenance, that you will condemn me when I tell you I was so struck at first with the seeming candor and tenderness of Sir Charles's motives for this act of generosity, that none but the most grateful sentiments rose in my mind.’

‘No, my dear, replied Mr. Herbert, I do not condemn you: this snare was artfully laid; but when was it that your heart, or rather your reason, gave you those secret admonitions you spoke of.’

‘Immediately, said Sophia: a moment's reflection upon the conduct of Sir Charles served to shew me that some latent design lay concealed under this specious offer; but I am obliged to my sister for giving me a more distinct notion of it than my own confused ideas could furnish me with.’

"Then you desired to know her opinion," said Mr. Herbert.

‘Certainly, resumed Sophia, this conversation passed in her presence, and as my elder sister she had a right to be consulted.’

"Pray what did she say?" asked Mr. Herbert impatiently.

‘You know, Sir, said Sophia, with a gentle smile, my sister takes every opportunity to rally me about my pretensions to wit: she told me it was great condescension in me, who thought myself wiser than all the world besides, to ask her advice upon this occasion; and that she would not expose herself to my contempt, by declaring her opinion any farther than that she supposed Sir Charles did not consider this as a marriage-settlement.’

‘These last words, pursued Sophia, whose face was now covered with a deeper blush, let in so much light upon my mind, that I was ashamed and angry with myself for having doubted a moment of Sir Charles's insincerity. I thanked my sister, and told her she should see that I would profit by the hint she had given me.’

‘I wish, interrupted Mr. Herbert, that she may profit as much by you; but people of good understanding learn more from the ignorant than the ignorant do from them, because the wise avoid the follies of fools, but fools will not follow the example of the wise: but what did Mrs. Darnley say to this?’

‘I never saw her so angry with my sister before, replied Sophia: she said several severe things to her, which made her leave the room in great emotion; and when we were alone I endeavoured to convince my mother that it was not fit I should make myself a dependant upon Sir Charles, by accepting such considerable presents: she was however of a different opinion, because Sir Charles's behaviour had been always respectful in the highest degree to me, and because the manner in which he made this offer left no room to suspect that he had any other design in it but to secure a provision for me, in case any thing should happen to him.’

‘Your mother imposes upon herself, replied Mr. Herbert; but I hope, my dear child, you think more justly.’

‘You may judge of my sentiments, Sir, answered Sophia, by the resolution I have taken: I wished to consult you; but as I had no opportunity for it, I satisfied myself with doing what I thought you would approve. My mother, prest by my arguments, told me in a peevish way that I might act as I thought proper: upon which I retired, and, satisfied with this permission, I enclosed the settlement in a cover directed for Sir Charles. I had just sealed it, and was going to send it away, when my mother came into my room: I perceived she was desirous to renew the conversation about Sir Charles; but I carefully avoided it, for fear me should retract the permission she had given me to act as I pleased upon this occasion. My reserve piqued her so much, that she forbore to enter upon the subject again; but as I had no opportunity of sending my letter that night without her knowledge, I was obliged to go to bed much richer than I desired to be; and the next morning, when we were at breakfast, a letter was brought me from Sir Charles, dated four o'clock, in which he informed me that he was just setting out in a post-chaise for Bath. His uncle, who lies there at the point of death, has it seems earnestly desired to see him, and the messenger told him he had not a minute to lose.’

‘I am sorry, interrupted Mr. Herbert, that he did not get your letter before he went.’

Sophia then taking it out of her pocket, gave it to him, and begged he would contrive some way to have it safely delivered to Sir Charles; ‘and now, added she, my heart is easy on that side, and I have nothing to do but to arm myself with fortitude to bear the tender reproaches of a mother whose anxiety for my interest makes her see this affair in a very different light from that in which you and I behold it.’

Mr. Herbert put the letter carefully into his pocket-book, and promised her it should be conveyed to Sir Charles; then taking her hand, which he press'd affectionately, ‘You have another sacrifice yet to make, my dear good child, said he, and I hope it will not cost you much to make it. You must resolve to see Sir Charles no more: it is not fit you should receive his visits, since you suspect his designs are not honourable, and you have but too much cause for suspicion. It is not enough to be virtuous: we must appear so likewise; we owe the world a good example, the world, which oftener rewards the appearances of merit than merit itself. It will be impossible for you to avoid seeing Sir Charles sometimes, if you continue with your mother: you have no authority to forbid his visits here; and whether you share them or not, they will be all placed to your account. Are you willing, Miss Sophia, to go into the country, and I will board you in the family of a worthy clergyman, who is my friend? His wife and daughters will be agreeable companions for you; you will find books enough in his study to employ those hours which you devote to reading, and his conversation will be always a source of instruction and delight.’

Sophia, with tears in her eyes, and a look so expressive that it conveyed a stronger idea of the grateful sentiments which filled her heart, than any words could do, thanked the good old man for his generous offer, and told him she was ready to leave London whenever he pleased: but unwilling to be an incumbrance upon his little fortune, she intreated him to be diligent in his enquiries for a place for her, that she might early inure herself to the humble condition which providence thought fit to allot for her.

Mr. Herbert entering into her delicate scruples, promised to procure her a proper establishment; and it was agreed between them that he should acquaint her mother the next day with the resolution she had taken, and endeavour to procure her consent to it.

Mr. Herbert well knew all the difficulties of this task, and prepared himself to sustain the storm which he expected would fall upon him. He visited Mrs. Darnley in the morning, and finding her alone, entered at once into the affair, by telling her that he had performed the commission Miss Sophia had given him; that a friend of his who was going to Bath would take care to deliver her letter to her unworthy lover, who, added he, will be convinced, by her returning his settlement, that she has a just notion of his base designs, and despises him as well for his falshood and presumption, as for the mean opinion he has entertained of her.

Mr. Herbert, who was perfectly well acquainted with Mrs. Darnley's character, and had studied his part, would not give her time to recover from the astonishment his first words had thrown her into, which was strongly impressed upon her countenance, and which seemed to deprive her of the power of speech; but added, with an air natural enough, ‘Your conduct, Mrs. Darnley, deserves the highest praises; indeed I know not which to admire most; your disinterestedness, prudence, and judgment; or Miss Sophia's ready obedience, and the noble sacrifice she makes to her honour and reputation. You knew her virtue might be securely depended upon, and you permitted her to act as she thought proper with regard to the insidious offer Sir Charles made her: thus, by transferring all the merit of a refusal to her, you reflect a double lustre upon your own, and she has fully answered your intentions by rejecting that offer with the contempt it deserved.’

While Mr. Herbert went on in this strain, Mrs. Darnley insensibly forgot her resentment; her features assumed all that complacency which gratified vanity and self-applause could impress upon them: and although she was conscious her sentiments were very different from those which Mr. Herbert attributed to her, yet, as she had really spoke those words to Sophia which had given her a pretence to act as she had done, she concluded his praises were sincere, and enjoyed them as much as if she had deserved them.

It was her business now, however vexed at her daughter's folly, as she conceived it, to seem highly satisfied with her conduct, since what she had done could not be recalled; yet inwardly fretting at the loss of so noble a present, all her dissimulation could not hinder her from saying, that although she approved of Sophia's refusal, yet she could not help thinking she had been very precipitate, and that she ought to have waited till Sir Charles returned; and not have sent, but have given him back his settlement.

Mr. Herbert, without answering to that point, told her, that what now remained for her prudence to do was, to take away all foundation for slander, by peremptorily forbidding Sir Charles's future visits. Here Mrs. Darnley began to frown; ‘for, since it is plain to us all, madam, pursued he, without seeming to perceive her emotion, that marriage is not his intention, by being allowed to continue his addresses, miss Sophia's character will suffer greatly in the opinion of the world; and the wisdom and discretion by which you have hitherto been governed in this affair, will not secure you from very unfavourable censures. To shew therefore how much you are in earnest to prevent them, I think it is absolutely necessary that you should send your daughter out of this man's way.’

Mrs. Darnley, who thought she had an unanswerable objection to make to this scheme, interrupted him eagerly, ‘You know my circumstances, Mr. Herbert, you know I cannot afford to send my daughter from me; how am I to dispose of her, pray?’

‘Let not that care trouble you, madam, replied Mr. Herbert, I will take all this expence upon myself: I love Miss Sophia as well as if she was my own child; and slender as my income is, I will be at the charge of her maintainance till fortune and her own merit place her in a better situation.’

Mr. Herbert then acquainted her with the name and character of the clergyman in whose family he intended to board Sophia: he added, that the place to which she was going being at no great distance, she might hear from her frequently, and sometimes visit her, without much expence or inconvenience.

Mrs. Darnley having nothing that was reasonable to oppose to these kind and generous offers, had recourse to rage and exclamation. She told Mr. Herbert that he had no right to interpose in the affairs of her family; that he should not dispose of her child as he pleased; that she would exert the authority of a parent, and no officious medler should rob her of her child.

Mr. Herbert now found it necessary to change his method with this interested mother, ‘Take care, madam, said he, with a severe look, how far you carry your opposition in this case: the world has its eyes upon your conduct; do not give it reason to say that your daughter is more prudent and cautious than you are; nor force her to do that without your consent which you ought to be the first to advise her to.’

‘Without my consent! replied Mrs. Darnley, almost breathless with rage; will she go without my consent, say you; have you alienated her affections from me so far? I will soon know that.’

Then rising with a furious air, she called Sophia, who came into the room, trembling, and in the utmost agitation. The melancholy that appeared in her countenance, her paleness and disorder, the consequences of a sleepless night, which she had passed in various and afflicting thoughts, made Mr. Herbert apprehensive that her mother's obstinacy would prove too hard for her gentle disposition; and that her heart, thus assaulted with the most powerful of all passions, love and filial tenderness, would insensibly betray her into a consent to stay.

Mrs. Darnley giving her a look of indignation, exclaimed with the sarcastic severity with which she used formerly to treat her; ‘So my wise, my dutiful daughter, you cannot bear, it seems, to live with your mother; you are resolved to run away from me, are you?’

‘Madam, replied Sophia, with a firmness that disconcerted Mrs. Darnley, as much as it pleasingly surprised Mr. Herbert, it is not you I am running away from, as you unkindly say, I am going into the country to force myself from the pursuits of a man who has imposed upon your goodness, and my credulity; one who I am convinced, seeks my dishonour, and whose ensnaring addresses have already, I am afraid, given a wound to my reputation, which nothing but the resolution I have taken to avoid him can heal.’

Poor Sophia, who had with difficulty prevailed over her own softness to speak in this determined manner, could not bear to see the confusion into which her answer had thrown her mother; but sighing deeply, she retired towards the window, and wiped away the tears that fell from her charming eyes.

Mrs. Darnley, who observed her emotion, and well knew how to take advantage of that amiable weakness in her temper, which made any opposition, however just and necessary, painful to her desired Mr. Herbert to leave her alone with her daughter, adding, that his presence was a constraint upon them both.

Sophia hearing this, and dreading lest he should leave her to sustain the storm alone, went towards her mother, and with the most persuasive look and accent, begged her not to part in anger from Mr. Herbert.

‘I cannot forgive Mr. Herbert, said Mrs. Darnley, for supposing I am less concerned for your honour than he is. I see no necessity for your going into the country; your reputation is safe while you are under my care; it is time enough to send you out of Sir Charles's way when we are convinced his designs are not honourable. Mr. Herbert, by filling your head with groundless apprehensions, will be the ruin of your fortune.’

‘Sir Charles's dissembled affection for me, interupted Sophia, will be the ruin of my character. There is no way to convince the world that I am not the willing dupe of his artifices, but by flying from him as far as I can: do not, my dear mamma, pursued she, bursting into tears, oppose my going; my peace of mind, my reputation depend upon it.’

‘You shall go when I think proper, replied Mrs. Darnley; and as for you, Sir, turning to Mr. Herbert, I desire you will not interpose any farther in this matter.’

‘Indeed I must, madam, said the good old man, encouraged by a look Sophia gave him. I consider myself as guardian to your daughter, and in that quality I pretend to some right to regulate her conduct on an occasion which requires a guardian's care and authority.’

‘Ridiculous! exclaimed Mrs. Darnley, with a malignant sneer, what a jest! to call yourself guardian to a girl who has not a shilling to depend upon.’

‘I am the guardian of her honour and reputation, said Mr. Herbert: these make up her fortune; and with these she is richer than if she possessed thousands without them.’

‘And do you, miss, said Mrs. Darnley to her daughter, with a scornful air, do you allow this foolish claim? Are you this gentleman's ward, pray?’

‘Come, madam, said Mr. Herbert, willing to spare Sophia the pain of answering her question, be persuaded that I have the tenderness of a parent, as well as guardian, for your daughter: it is absolutely necessary she should see Sir Charles no more; and the most effectual method she can take to shun him, and to preserve her character, is to leave a place where she will be continually exposed to his importunity. I hope she will be able to procure your consent to her going tomorrow. I shall be here in the morning with a post-chaise, and will conduct her myself to the house of my friend, whom I have already prepared by a letter to receive her.’

Mr. Herbert, without waiting for any answer, bowed and left the room. Sophia followed him to the door, and by a speaking glance assured him he might depend upon her perseverance.

[To be continued.]

TO THE Author of the LADY's MUSEUM.

MADAM,

AS I apprehend the object of this publication is no less the moral than the literary improvement of your sex, permit me, through the channel of this useful work, to point out to your fair readers the fatal consequences of an opinion too generally received among them.

The opinion I could wish to see corrected is, that grandeur and happiness signify one and the same thing. How far the same wrong notion prevails among men, is not my present purpose to examine; but I will venture, to affirm, that in the system of female logic, grandeur and happiness are convertible terms. It is not surprising that this notion should be extremely prevalent, when we consider, that the whole system of female education tends to promote and extend it. Whence is it, that many misses are instructed in accomplishments evidently above their rank, but in order to obtain a station in life to which they could not reasonably aspire.

In truth, it is more the vanity of being thought to possess such accomplishments than any pleasure arising from those attainments, that is the inducement to pursue them. I have been assured by the parents of many young ladies, that their daughters were perfect mistresses of French, musick, &c. when upon a better acquaintance, I plainly perceived, they had been at much expence only to say they had been learners.

I would not be thought to mean, that the polite accomplishments are not very useful and becoming to persons of a certain rank and character; but I would observe, that the promiscuous aim of all ranks of females, to acquire those elegant distinctions, evidently proves my first principle, namely, that an appetite for vanity and splendor pervades the whole system of modern education.

The polite attainments too frequently give young ladies of middling station an unhappy propensity to dissipation and pleasure, and indispose them to the ordinary and necessary occupations of life. It may be useful to consider what probability there is, that an appetite for distinction may be gratified, and then examine what superior happiness such envied distinctions necessarily confer.

I shall take it for granted, that a good establishment in marriage is the object of most women's wishes. It has been computed that nineteen marriages in twenty, among persons of liberal condition, are concluded upon no great inequality of circumstances. It is plain then, that a lady who flatters herself, that she shall marry above her rank, runs no less a risk that twenty to one of a disappointment. In fact this is unavoidable; for persons of rank and opulence are not very numerous, and frequently intermarry with each other: yet upon so slender a prospect has many a poor lady tired both herself and the public with a repetition of her countenance for many years past at every place of amusement.

To these dazzling and delusive hopes are ease and contentment often sacrificed, from a mistaken opinion that grandeur and happiness are inseparable; or rather, that the latter was not possible without the former: hence anxious days and sleepless nights, not to mention that virtue is much endangered by pursuits giddy and fantastical. After years of vain expectation the point in view is at a greater distance than ever, to obtain which dancing-masters and milliners have assisted in vain. If it be said, that we hear sometimes of ladies, who from private stations have rose to great rank and riches, I answer, that particular exceptions conclude nothing against the general observation, that unreasonable expectation must almost always be disappointed.

Instances of surprising good fortune happen in all pursuits, and seeming accident will have its share in the happy events of matrimony, as well as in most others. But if young people inflame their imaginations with extraordinary occurrences, and soar upon the waxen wings of expectation to regions of imaginary bliss, they will quickly find, like Icarus, misfortune interrupting the dream of vanity, and may possibly pay almost as dear for the experiment.

With respect to the blessings of Providence, we rather lament the absence of things perhaps not necessary, than make a proper use of those we have. It sufficiently appears, that a passion for grandeur is not likely to be gratified; and that such wishes must, in the nature of things, much oftener miscarry than succeed.

But for once let us suppese the point obtained, and examine what happiness is annexed to that envied condition. Providence, for the wisest reasons, has made a great difference in the external circumstances of his creatures, but not in their happiness. In fact, the greatest blessings of life are proposed in common to us all. Health and an approving conscience are the grand satisfactions of our being, as sin and pain are almost the only evils: nor can we cease to adore that goodness who has made the best things in life attainable by all conditions, without a possibility of interfering with each other. In these two grand articles, it appears, that persons of wealth and station have no advantage over more moderate conditions. The former are more exposed to temptations, and a full tide of prosperity has been always reckoned dangerous to virtue.

Besides, those who have large possessions and connexions are much broader marks for misfortune than others. Socrates accounted those happiest who had fewest wants, as the happiest of all beings is he who wants nothing. The more our wants are enlarged, and our appetites indulged, they become more ungovernable, and exceed our powers of satisfying them. Such persons are exposed to perpetual disappointment, as it is much easier to imagine than obtain.

How many persons may we not presume, who are shining themselves, and shone on by fortune, that are inwardly miserable, and sick of life? Wealth and station may indeed procure a great variety of sensual gratifications, out of the reach of humbler fortunes: but of what nature are such pleasures? fleeting and dissatisfactory in the confession of all.

Let us reflect a little on the most exalted pleasures our nature is capable of. We shall find them attainable by private stations, and from some of the best of them the very lowest conditions not excluded. Even those who are condemned to the drudgery of manual labour may, and do often enjoy a healthful body and a tranquil mind. Though they are in a great measure excluded from intellectual enjoyments, yet even this view of their condition is not without its compensations. It will not be denied, that our best enjoyments here below arise from temperance, moderate desires, easy reflexions, and a consciousness of knowledge and virtue. I would ask my fair countrywomen, whether high rank and great riches are necessary to these attainments? The purest and most substantial pleasures are certainly those arising from religion and virtue; the pleasures of knowledge, and of friendship: which are attainable by the middling, if not all classes of life, depend much upon ourselves, and are little subject to accident or diminution. So far from being the constant companions of rank and riches, that perhaps they are seldomer found among persons of elevated stations than most others. It were easy to assign the reasons; as the necessaries of life are not difficult to obtain, so neither are its best comforts. A person must have reflected indeed to very little purpose who is not sensible, that the prospect of the divine favour in another life, is the grand foundation of contentment in this imperfect and probationary state.

It will be said, that a competency of the good things of life, is necessary to our happiness, and truly desirable. Most undoubtedly it is: but the misfortune is, our ideas of a competency are not taken from nature, or even from our proper station and character, but from our imaginations and wrong habits; and what is yet more preposterous, from our comparisons with others.

A competency is not to be defined, because it varies according to the station and necessities of individuals. To use a familiar comparison—Suppose a person undertakes a journey into a remote country, and has sufficient to defray his necessary expences, may he not enjoy the true pleasures of the scene equally with him who travels the same journey, attended with all the parade of equipage, and encumbered with a superfluity of wealth? May not as successful a voyage be made in a small, convenient bark, as in a galley no less splendid than Cleopatra's?

Let nothing here advanced be supposed to mean, that wealth and station incapacitate their possessors from enjoying the truest happiness of their nature. Among other advantages in common with their fellow-creatures, they eminently enjoy the godlike power of doing good to others. It is the exercise of that power that gives rank and riches their true dignity, and is the constant employment of him who is the source of all excellence. But let not people mistake that which may be made the means of happiness for the necessary and never failing cause of it; nor repine at the want of those distinctions in the possession of which there occur so many examples extremely miserable.

I cannot conclude this letter without observing, that an appetite for grandeur very fatally predominates at a crisis in life, wherein, of all others, it behoves us to act with the truest wisdom: I mean at the time of marriage. Matches are now deemed good or bad, not from the qualities, but the external circumstances of the parties. The opinion of Themistocles, like many other old opinions, is quite exploded, who declared, ‘That he would rather marry his daughter to a man without an estate, than to an estate without a man.’

The candidates for the ladies affections, or more properly their fortunes, undergo the most exact scrutiny into their estates, expectations, and alliances; nor is any enquiry omitted, but into their sense and morals. If your fair readers please to extend this charge to their admirers, they have my consent, only remembering, that folly on one side, never excuses it on another; and that they are most likely to be greater sufferers by an ill choice, as their condition is more dependent.

It is agreed on all sides, that the sure supports of conjugal felicity are the unreserved friendship and mutual esteem of the parties: now it is an axiom, that friendship cannot exist but between virtuous minds; and surely no dreams of a lunatic were ever more visionary, than to suppose there can be any abiding pleasure without virtue, since in our system of being there is nothing durable but the consequences of it.

Many a thoughtless female, who despised all considerations but rank and riches, serves only to exhibit a wretched spectacle of their insufficiency. I doubt not but this essay may fall into the hands of some of your fair readers, who have dragged out an insipid length of days, doating about vain and perishable distinctions, and have sunk into utter contempt and oblivion, who, by a better conduct, might have enjoyed happy and comfortable establishments.

Let those whose cases are retrievable, consider that elevation must ever be the lot of very few; nor when it is attained does it invariably produce happiness. The truest satisfactions in life are not necessarily connected with great estates or coronets, but are to be found among persons of all conditions, whose lives are governed by sense and virtue. Of one thing they may be infallibly certain, that a life conducted by vanity cannot fail to end in misery.

I am, Madam, Your very Humble Servant, W.M.

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

HEaring her speak with unusual emotion, I approach'd her: she was giving her mother an account of what had happened. Madame de Lussan was as much offended at the chevalier's behaviour as her daughter. I was silent: I even continued my walk with the ladies. When they retired, I sent a message to the chevalier: he was at home, and in consequence of my desiring him to meet me, he came instantly to the place appointed.

‘I cannot persuade myself, said I, approaching him, that what has happened during our walk to-day, is more than a mere pleasantry: you are too gallant and well bred, to keep a lady's picture, contrary to her inclination.’

‘I know not, answered he warmly, what interest you take in my keeping or restoring it; but I know that I neither need, nor will accept of your advice.’ ‘Then, replied I, clapping my hand to my sword, I will force you to receive it in this manner.’

The chevalier was brave. He eagerly answered my defiance: we fought for some time with equal success; but he was not animated like me with the desire of serving what I loved. He wounded me slightly in two places; but I gave him two large wounds, and obliged him both to ask his life, and to resign the picture. After I had assisted him to rise, and had conducted him to the nearest house, I retired to my own lodgings, where as soon as the wounds I had received were drest, I set myself to contemplate the lovely picture, and kissed it a thousand and a thousand times.

I had a genius for painting, which I had taken some pains to cultivate; yet I was far from being a master in the art: but what will not love accomplish? I undertook to copy this portrait. I spent two days in this employment. Delightful task! I succeeded so well, that even a very discerning eye might have mistaken mine for the original. This inspired me with the thought of substituting one for the other, by which contrivance I should have the advantage of keeping that which belonged to Adelaida; and she, without knowing it, would always bear my work about her.

These trifles to one who truly loves are matters of great importance, and my heart knew how to set a full value on them.

After I had fastened the picture I had painted to the riband in such a manner that my cheat could not be discovered, I presented it to Adelaida. Madame de Lussan express'd herself highly obliged to me. Adelaida said little: she seemed embarrassed; but in the midst of that embarassment, I thought I discovered that she was pleased at having received this little obligation from me, and that thought gave me real transport.

I have in my life experienced some of those happy moments; and had my misfortunes been only common ones, I shoud not have believed them too dearly purchased.

After this little adventure, I stood extremely well in the esteem of Madame de Lussan. I was always at her lodgings: I saw Adelaida every hour in the day; and although I did not speak to her of my passion, yet I was sure she knew it, and I had reason to believe she did not hate me. Hearts as sensible as ours were, quickly understand each other: to them every thing is expression.

I had lived two months in this manner, when I received a letter from my father, in which he commanded me to return immediately. This command was to me like the stroke of a thunder-bolt: my whole soul had been engrossed with the pleasure of seeing and loving Adelaida. The idea of leaving her was wholly new to me; the horror of parting from her, the consequence of the law-suit between our families, rose to my thoughts with every aggravation to distract me.

[To be continued.]

The following Essay, on the original inhabitants of Great Britain, is the composition of a nobleman, distinguished for his genius, taste, and learning.

AN ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN.

THE history of every nation in the world begins in a dark and fabulous manner: nor can any history be more obscure than that of Great Britain. It is impossible to guess when, or by whom our island was originally peopled. The conjectures on this head have been various; but as they amount only to conjectures, and as the point itself is of no real importance, I shall pass directly forward to the first accounts upon which we may place any reliance. The original inhabitants are represented as consisting of two classes, Priests and Soldiers. The whole island, at least that part of it called South Britain, was divided into small provinces, each of which was allotted to the sovereignty of a prince. These princes lived in constant warfare and contention. The priests were distinguished by the name of Druids; but their power was not only confined to the ceremonies of sacrifice, and other religious parts of worship, it extended to the government of all civil judicature. To the ordinary druids, (who were very numerous, but seldom or ever of mean birth) was committed the administration of justice in the several provinces, the determination of all causes, and the judicial decision of right and wrong; but still subject to the supreme jurisdiction of one chief druid, who, in dignity, excelled all the rest; and who, in civil affairs, had the power of a king, while in religious matters, he might be called the reigning Pope of those days.

The military men were brave, even to a degree of fierceness. They had never felt the effects of fear, fatigue, or luxury. They had been bred in woods, and inured to hardships. Agriculture and merchandize had made little or no progress in the kingdom. The constant diet of the people was milk and flesh-meat, of both which they had great plenty, the whole island being filled with various kinds of cattle.

Such were the Britons, when Julius Caesar invaded their country. He appeared, with his fleet, hovering upon the coast of England, August the twenty-sixth, in the year of Rome, 699, [*] fifty-four or fifty-five years before the birth of Christ. His pretence for this invasion was the constant refuge which the Belgae, a people of Gaul, had received from the inhabitants of Britain, and the perpetual succours and assistance which were granted by the Britains to the enemies of Rome. The pretence was specious. The true motive was a thirst of glory. Caesar's ambition like the ocean he crost, had no bounds.

I am inclined to think, that this enterprize was not very acceptable to the Roman people: they looked upon it as an hazardous undertaking. Cicero, in one of his epistles to Atticus, expresses himself thus: Britannici belli exitus expectatur: constat enim aditus insulae esse munitos mirificis molibus: etium illud jam cognitum est, neque argenti scripulum esse illum in illa insulâ, neque ullam spem praedae, nisi ex mancipiis: ex quibus nullos puto te literis aut musicis eruditos exspectare. ‘The event of the British war is waited for with impatience. It is certain, that all the approaches to that island are fortified by amazing out-works: and it is universally known, that not a scruple of silver is to be found throughout the whole island; nor are there hopes of any acquisitions except the slaves, amongst whom I cannot suppose you will expect musicians, or men of learning.’ Tully, we perceive, seems to treat the Britains rather in a sneering manner, than to speak of them with his usual, lively, but weighty manner of expression. He has no great opinion of their genius, or of their learning. But however illiterate, or however unskilled in music our ancestors might appear, it cannot be denied, that they were not only couragious, but of a liberal nature, totally devoid of all low art, but not totally unversed in the policy of war. Caesar gives an account of them, which as it comes from an enemy is very much to their honour. He says, he had great difficulty in landing, being annoyed by their darts, and opposed by their cavalry; and when he had brought his troops to an engagement, he confesses, that the battle was maintained with sharpness on both sides. Pugnatum est ab utrisque acriter. At length the Roman arms prevailed. The islanders gave way, retired to their woods, and immediately sent ambassadors to sue for terms of peace. Caesar, upon the arrival of the ambassadors reproached the Britons, as having acted ungenerously, by imprisoning his friend Comius, whom he had sent into England, some time before, with his own particular commands. Their excuse is remarkable. Ejus rei culpam in multitudinem contulerunt, et propter imprudentiam ut ignosceretur petiverunt. ‘They acknowledged their imprudence, begged that it might be forgiven, and fixed the rashness of the action entirely upon the common people.’ So powerful and ungovernable, even at that time, was an English rabble. Caesar, gentle and compassionate, both by nature and policy, received the excuse, demanded hostages, and granted terms of peace.

The peace on the side of the Britons was an act of necessity, not of choice. Perhaps is was no less so on the side of the Romans. They would have penetrated farther into the island; they would have visited the coasts and would have considered the various parts that might have afforded them a refuge in any future invasion, if they had not met with a people very different from what they expected. They expected wild savages, they met with real soldiers. They had been used to strike terror upon the continent, they only excited spirit and unanimity in a little island, where they found courage instead of fear; and order instead of confusion.

Caesar, at his first expedition from Belgic Gaul into Britain, had left his cavalry behind him. They were detained by contrary winds in a port at some distance from that where he had embarked: He had given orders that they should follow, on the earliest opportunity, loaded with arms, ammunition, and soldiers: and four days after his arrival in England, they had obeyed those orders, and were more than half way over the British channel, when a sudden storm turned the ships entirely out of their course, and not only forced back many of them to the continent, but drove others to the most western part of the island. At the same time, the vessels which had transported Caesar, and which had remained at anchor upon the British coast, were much shattered by the tempest. Twelve of them were absolutely lost; and the Romans saw themselves at once deprived of all hopes of provision, except such as could be procured from the islanders, by sending out parties to forage at a small distance from the Roman camp.

From these unexpected circumstances, the Britons resolved to reap advantage: they assembled their disbanded troops with great privacy and expedition, and while one of the Roman legions was sent out to forage, they suddenly surrounded the foragers, and must immediately have destroyed the rest, if Caesar with amazing alacrity had not hastened to their assistance. The sudden appearance of Caesar, although attended only by two cohorts, put the Britons to a stand; and the Romans did not think themselves, at that time, sufficiently prepared for an engagement. Each party retired; the Britons to the woods, the Romans to their camp.

Here the Britons seem to have been defective in military conduct. They ought to have pursued their blow: they ought to have attacked Caesar; and in the true spirit of liberty, they ought either to have conquered, or to have died. It is probable that they perceived their error, and it is possible, they might have retrieved it, if a succession of rain and storms for many days together, had not rendered all efforts against the enemy impracticable.

As soon as the weather changed, the Britons came out of their retirement, and marched to attack the Romans in their trenches. Caesar drew out his legions before the camp; both armies engaged, and both fought with equal spirit and resolution; but the Romans were better disciplined, and more perfect masters of the art of war: so that the unhappy Britons were routed, and again compelled to sue for peace, from the hands of an invader, who, although the greatest man that ever lived, must ever appear as lawless a tyrant to Britain as to Rome. Caesar was not sorry to be sollicited for terms of peace: he received the ambassadors in his usual attractive manner, and lost no time in setling the terms of accommodation. He insisted upon a greater number of hostages than he had before required; and, under pretence of avoiding the storms that generally rage in the British seas at the autumnal equinox, he embarked his troops, and hastened back to Gaul.

Caesar, during his short residence in Britain, had observed enough of this new world, to make him tacitly resolve upon a second invasion. The woods were large, the cattle numerous, and the inhabitants a brave people, worthy of being conquered.

A finer object could not have presented itself to the eye of ambition. However, Caesar passed his winter as usual in Italy, without any open declaration of returning into England. In the mean time, the Britons, filled with anger, indignation, and disappointment, and perhaps guided by the dictates of pride, revenge, and obstinacy, were determined not to send the hostages, which had been peremptorily required on one side, and had been faithfully promised on the other. Caesar let some months pass before he took notice of so notorious a breach of faith; and in this particular he acted with all the subtilty of a miser, who, when he has obtained a morgage upon an estate, purposely suffers the interest of it to run on, till he can claim a right of seizing the premises, and defying all equity of redemption.

In the year of Rome 700, Caesar, who, during the winter, had been making various preparations for a second attempt upon England, put his design into execution. He set sail late in the eveing from the Portus Itius [*], and arrived the next day [*] about noon upon the British coast. His army consisted of two thousand horse, and five legions [†] of foot; and his ships, including transports and every other sort, amounted to above eight hundred. Such a number of vessels appearing at once upon the ocean, was a terrifying circumstance to the Britons: they imagined Caesar's military forces much more numerous than they really were; and they immediately withdrew their troops from the shore, and retired into a more covered part of the country; so that Caesar landed his men, and fixed his camp without the least opposition. His first enquiry was, into what part of the island the Britons had withdrawn; and having learnt their particular situation, he left a sufficient number of forces to guard his fleet, and proceeded with the rest in pursuit of the enemy. The islanders had expected his approach, and were prepared to receive him, by having fixed themselves upon a rising-ground near a river, at the distance of about twelve miles from the shore. Here they endeavoured to oppose him by their chariots [‡] and their cavalry; but in vain. The Roman horse prevailed, and the Britons again withdrew to their woods. They were there fortified, as Caesar tells us, both by art and nature. The woods were very thick, and the passage into them was rendered extremely difficult, by large trees, which had been cut down, and heaped upon each other to a great height. The Britons had made use of this method of fortification, in their civil wars: but the Romans soon made their way over these entrenchments, and expelled the Britons even from the woods, where they had taken shelter. A small number of regular troops will infallibly conquer a much larger number of undisciplined forces. The Roman army consisted of veterans, who had been trained up from their youth in the art of war; and had carried their arms over the greatest part of the world. The Britons had only practised the military science within their own island, and in contests against each other. They were equal in courage, but inferior in skill to their enemies. In some measure to remedy this defect, they enlisted themselves under the greatest commander of those days, Cassivelaunus, prince or sovereign of the Cassi, and the Trinobantes. The Trinobantian territories [*], were Hertfordshire, Essex, and a great part of Middlesex. The municipal city of this colony, was Verulanum, Verulam, the walls of which, built probably in the time of Agricola, are still to be seen in the approaches to St. Alban's.

Several skirmishes passed between the Britons and the Romans; in one of which the former gained some small advantage. But what force could repel Caesar? He still marched forward towards the river Thames, resolving to cross it at the only place where it was fordable. Cassivelaunus had foreseen his design, and had drawn up a large body of British troops on the opposite shore. He had fortified the banks with palisades, and had driven into the bottom of the river a great number of sharp stakes [*] whose tops were covered by the water. He had used every precaution that courage, sagacity, and presence of mind could suggest; but the Romans were determined not to be repulsed. Their cavalry first entered the river, the legions immediately followed, and notwithstanding all impediments, passed across the Thames, with such expedition, and approached the enemy with so much vigour, that the Britons, unable to sustain the assault, quitted the banks of the river, and fled farther into the country.

Cassivelaunus still continued to make some attempts against the Romans; but his designs constantly proved abortive. The repeated victories of Caesar, the intestine broils of the kingdom, the immediate presence of a powerful invader, were all circumstances that tended to damp the spirits of an unexperienced, and a disunited people. Many of the principalities (for so I think we may call the several Districts of the island) began to entertain thoughts of suing for an accommodation with Caesar. The Trinobantes set the example: they offered to submit to the conqueror, and to give themselves up to his disposal: at the same time requesting, that he would deliver them from the tyranny of Cassivelaunus, and assign the government, of their colony to Mandubratius, the son of Imanuentius their late king.

Caesar, ever fond of shewing acts of mercy and benevolence, accepted their offers and granted their request [*]. The example of the Trinobantes was soon followed by several of the other colonies, and the unfortunate Cassivelaunus found himself deserted on every side. His capital, a capital indeed of huts and hovels, was taken, plundered, and destroyed. What step was left then for this unhappy prince? only an absolute submission to the conqueror. A true Briton is always unwilling to submit, and Cassivelaunus deferred his submission to the latest hour: however, as he was a man of sense, as well as a man of spirit, and as all the inferior generals [†] were undermining him by making terms for themselves, he resolved to put an end to a disadvantageous war, and to send ambassadors to the enemy, with offers [*] of a surrender. Julius Caesar received them like Julius Caesar. He exerted no acts of tyranny by the victorious progress of his arms; he imposed no hard terms of accommodation: but he required, in the style of a conqueror, the strongest assurances from Cassivelaunus, of never attempting any injuries towards Mandubratius, or the Trinobantes. He received hostages for the performance of this contract; and he extracted a small annual tribute, to be paid by the states of Britain to the Roman people. After these transactions, he took the advantage of a calm season, and sailed back with his army into Gaul.

The character of Cassivelaunus, as a general, must always shine with great lustre in the English annals. Si pergama dextra defendi possent etiam hac defensa fuissent. ‘If Britons could have been defended, such a right hand had defended them.’ But his behaviour to the Trinobantes appears by their complaints to Caesar, to have been tyrannical: and his murder of Imanuentius carries with it all the marks of a savage barbarity. Yet perhaps in the seizure of the Trinobantian colony he was assisted by the inhabitants themselves; for I am apt to imagine, that even in those early days, the Britons were fond of making and unmaking kings.

Till Caesar's death, which was in the year of Rome 711, the Britons remained unmolested by invasions, but still tributary to the Roman people. The murderer of the mighty Julius was attended by all the violence and distraction of civil war; and the Romans were for some years too intensely employed upon the continent to turn their thoughts towards a distant western island, that at that time appeared of little consequence to the southern part of the world.

During this interval, it is not improbable that the Britons made some improvements in their manners, and some advantages in their trade. Julius Caesar describes the inhabitants of the sea-coasts, those coasts that were nearest to Gaul, as a mixture of the Belgae and the Britons. The people who were situated beyond the Thames, and in the most inland parts of the island, consisted, he says, entirely of natives. These, indeed, he represents in general as men, who had scarce any pretensions to the dignity of human nature, except the figure.

Let us therefore remember that the Romans owed their origin to thieves and vagabonds; and that Great Britain owes her glory to savages and wild men. The heralds must decide which of the two sets of Aborigines are entitled to the more-dignified coat of arms.

During the reign of Augustus the Britons remained entirely unmolested by the Romans. The island was looked upon as a kingdom that had rather added personal fame to Julius Caesar than remarkable advantage to the empire of Rome. Augustus was in no degree equal to his uncle in like enterprising genius: however, he had formed a design of visiting Britain
[*]
, when a sudden revolt of the Salassi, a people of the Piedmontese, put a stop to his intentions, which were never afterwards revived.

Tiberius followed the example of his predecessor, and made no attempt upon the island. Cornelius Tacitus, speaking of this behaviour towards the Britons, says, Consilium id divus Augustus vocabat, Tiberius praeceptum ‘This conduct Augustus called policy: the example of Augustus, was a precept to Tiberius.’

The temper of Caligula, the next Roman emperor, differed in a great measure from the peaceful stupidity of Tiberius. Caligula was vain, impetuous, and extravagant; but cowardly, passive, and irresolute. He assembled an army of two hundred thousand men, passed the Rhine, repassed it, without seeing an enemy; plundered Gaul, came to the gallic shore, proclaimed war against Britain, and gathered cockle shells.

To Claudius the fifth emperor of Rome fate had reserved a more complete conquest of our island than had been made by any of his predecessors. The Britons had justly ridiculed the military fopperies of Caligula; but they carried their exultations too far. They imagined themselves invincible, because a Roman emperor and his numerous army had pompously marched to the sea-shore, and were afraid to cross the ocean. Our ancestors remained wrapt up in this kind of security, at the accession of Claudius, whose personal character could not possibly give the least room for apprehension. He was as indolent as Tiberius, and as cowardly as Caligula; but his lucky stars ordained him to be governed by counsellors of far superior judgment to his own. Among these were Aulus Plautius, and Ostorius Scapula, both men of great eminence in rank and reputation. To the first, was assigned the command of the army destined against the Britons.

It is an observation made by Julius Caesar, that the Belgic Britons, and the native or antient Britons, were very different in their customs and manners. A constant intercourse with the continent, some progress in agriculture, and a considerable increase of commerce, had, in a great measure, polished, and improved the former, whilst the latter remained in their original fierceness.

We cannot wonder that men of such a dissimilar turn of mind and actions, should be continually jarring with each other. The former, like courtiers, were too servilely submissive to tempting circumstances, and alluring views of ambition; the latter, like country gentlemen, were too obstinately resolute, and too impoliticly reserved. These dissentions proved of great use to an invader, and Plautius landed, without the least opposition. He found the island like a desert; scarce an inhabitant appeared. The Belgic Britons had retired into woods and fortresses: they hastened to retreat from an enemy with whom they were unprepared to engage. Plautius moved onward, with his army coasting along the Thames, till he came to Wallingford, where he crossed the river, and entered into the territories of the Donubi, a colony to whom Oxfordshire, and a great part of Gloucestershire, belonged. These were the first people from whom he met with resistance. They fought against the Romans with great bravery; but being unfortunate in four successive battles, and in the loss of one of their chieftains, Togodumus, they retreated across the Thames, and were followed by Plautius. Both armies encamped on the side of the river, next to Gaul; but our historians, I think, have not exactly fixed their situation.

The Roman General remained in his camp, and evidently declined an engagement. The Donubi, although four times vanquished, and still in a state of exile from their own colony, attributed his conduct to fear: but they were mistaken in their judgment. The inactivity of Plautius was neither the effect of fear nor caution: he waited for the arrival of the emperor; and, from a nobleness of soul, uncommon in a general, intended to crown his imperial master with all the laurels and honours that might arise from any future conquest over the Britons.

Claudius landed at the Portes Rutupinus (Sandwich in Kent) and marched with his troops to the mouth of the river Thames, where Plautius was encamped. As soon as the Roman forces were all joined, they repassed the Thames, and, with much slaughter, made their way through a great number of the Britons, who had endeavoured to stop their passage. They took Camlodunum [*] the capital of one of the British Princes; and they passed on with such a victorious quickness, that many of the Belgic colonies thought it a proper time to submit. Claudius placed them under the government of Plautius; and, after a stay only of sixteen days in the island, returned to Gaul, in his way to Italy.

The personal presence of a powerful prince, is of great efficacy wherever he goes. The veni, vidi, vici of Julius, was a motto accidently applicable to Claudius Caesar, who, in a little more than a fortnight subdued, partly by arms, and partly by the terror of his name, four colonies of Britons [†]. Plautius judged rightly in sending for such a figure to be carried about, at the head of the army: his judgment was not less exquisite, in sending it as quickly back. A longer stay might have discovered the idol to have been pasteboard; and the Britons might have despised the pageant, when they found it only a moving machine in the human form.

As soon as Claudius had set sail, the Romans resolved upon a farther progress into different parts of our island. They divided their troops under the command of two generals. Aulus Plautius, the propraetor, and Flavius Vespasianus, afterwards Emperor. The actions of Vespasian are mentioned by Dio and Suetonius, and are particularly extolled by Tacitus. Our English Historians are no less profuse in his praises. Most of them assign to him the conquest of the isle of Wight; and of the several other Belgic colonies, from Hampshire, Wiltshire, and Somersetshire, to the extremity of the western part of Cornwall.

Plautius had undertaken the conquest of the more inland countries: but probably finding his task too difficult, he contented himself with the laurels which he had gained, and returned to Rome. Astorius Scapula succeeded him in the title of propraetor, and in the command of the army. Scapula, in attempting to pursue the plan of his predecessor, met with many difficulties. His adversaries were endued with a certain stubborn bravery, that scorned the superior power of the Romans. They fought with the resolution of men, who esteemed the enjoyment of their laws and liberty as the greatest blessings under heaven. The love of liberty, and a true devotion to its cause, seems to have been implanted by nature itself in the breasts of our forefathers. How strangely, and from what incidents this elementary British fire was frequently evaporated, and again was amazingly rekindled, must be the subject-matter of future enquiry. Certainly it never shone forth with greater brightness than in the person and character of Caractacus: he was a prince of a noble birth, and a proud undaunted spirit: he was an able and a judicious commander. During nine years successively, he had defended himself with inferior forces, against Ostorius and the Roman army. He had often shifted his ground, and had withdrawn his troops into mountains and rocky places. Every passage that might prove accessible to the enemy, was stopt up, and fortified by heaps of stones. At length the Romans, growing ashamed of their frequent disappointments, and enraged to be outdone by a Briton, demolished his fortresses, and forced him to an engagement. The event of the battle was fatal to Britain in general, and particularly unfortunate to Caractacus, whose wife and daughter were taken prisoners. The unhappy prince escaped, only to become more miserable: he fled, in confidence of receiving friendship and protection from Cartismandua, queen of the Brigantes, who immediately betrayed him to the conquerors; and Caractacus, with his captive family, were sent bound in chains to Rome.

[To be continued.]

Notes

*
Some authors place the invasion in the year 698, particularly Lydiat in his series summorum magistratum Romanorum Let the learned chronologists settle the point.
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*
The Portus Itius was near Bologne. The particular spot is pointed out, but with no absolute certainty.
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*
Caesar, in his Commentaries, has not told us the exact month of his embarkation; but we may be certain, that it was earlier in the summer than his first invasion.
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†
A legion consisted of ten companies, or cohorts. The number of men were uncertain: sometimes more, sometimes less.
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‡
Caesar very particularly describes their manner of fighting, (ex essedis) from their chariots: and says, that by continual use they were arrived at such perfection in the management of those vehicles, that they could stop their horses even upon a steep descent: they could run upon the pole, and throw themselves out, or into their chariots, with the utmost nimbleness. Caesar confesses, that at the first sight of this new method of fighting, the Romans were surprised, or rather astonished.
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*
The territories of Cassivellaunus were extensive: they extended, says Caesar, "Fourscore miles into the island." Cassivellaunus was originally the king of the Cassi, and became sovereign of the Trinobantes, by treacherously slaying their king Imanuentius.
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*
A little above Walton in Surry. The translator of Rapin says, that these stakes are now to be seen in the river at low water; and one of them was pulled up, with great difficulty, some years ago. They are of oak, and by having lain so long in the water (above eighteen centuries) are become very hard and very black.
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*
Mandubratius, upon the death of his father, had fled into Gaul to Caesar, who received him with great kindness.
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†
Principes.
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*
Cassivelaunus having been appointed in a solemn assembly of the British princes, the captain general in chief, or the Agamemnon of the English forces, he was empowered to make such offers as he thought proper, in the name of himself, and of the whole people of Britain.
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*

Serves iterum Caesarum in ultimos,

Orbis Britannos.

Horat. Lib. i. Ode 35.

‘Preserve Caesar, who is going against the Britons, those inhabitants of the farthest part of the world.’

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*
Malden in Essex.
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†

- The Trinobantes, inhabitants of Hertfordshire, Essex, and Middlesex.

- The Cantii, inhabitants of Kent.

- The Regni, inhabitants of Sussex and Surry.

- The Atrebates, inhabitants of Berkshire.

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THE TRYAL OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS.
Extracted from the Archives of Normandy, by John Nagerel, canon and archdeacon of the church of Nostre Dame at Rouen. Communicated to the author by a friend.

IN the year one thousand four hundred and twenty nine, a young girl named Jane Taré, of the dutchy of Lorrain, declared she had frequent revelations from heaven: she was the daughter of a common labourer, and her whole life had been employed in tending cattle. God commanded her, she said, to go to Charles the seventh, king of France, in order to advise and assist him in the recovery of his dominions, then possessed by the English.

She was brought before the governor of Vaucouleurs, who looked upon her as disordered in her mind, and dismissed her. She insisted however so strongly, and persevered so much in her resolutions to go and offer her services to Charles, that the governor at last contented to have her conducted to Chinon where the king resided.

Her behaviour there did not shew the embarrassment of a country girl, but the unaffected politeness and ceremony of a courtier. She immediately distinguished her royal master from among the crowd of his attendants, and said to him that she came in compliance to the almighty's orders to raise the siege of Orleans, and to recover the kingdom from English usurpation, desired him not to be apprehensive of his enemies: that she would attack them wherever she met them: that she made no doubt of succeeding in her attempts: and that his majesty should be soon peaceably established upon the throne of his ancestors.

Charles ordered this extraordinary young woman to be examined in matters of religion; and asked her several questions relative to the art of war, and other curious subjects.

Her answers were so pertinent and so just, that the king, the prelates, and the other clergy who were present, were very much amazed. It was revealed to her, she said, that in a neighbouring church was hid a sword on which five Flower-deluces, the arms of France, were engraved.

The sword was searched for, and found among some old iron in the church she had mentioned. The king presented it to her, and she was soon accoutred in warlike dress. Every thing seemed familiar to her mind; her activity and address were equal to those of the most accomplished warriors.

When she was admitted to his majesty's council to advise on the exigency of affairs, she spoke with so much knowledge, with so much prudence and wisdom, that her opinion was often followed, and that of the most experienced generals laid aside.

But what was more astonishing, when a council was held in her absence, she knew every thing that was proposed and concluded there. However, his majesty thought proper to desire the maid to give him some unquestionable proofs of her being the messenger of God, as he might then entirely confide in her advice, and follow her instructions.

To which Jane answered, ‘Sire, if I can discover to you your thoughts, which you confided to God alone, will you firmly believe that I am his messenger?’

Charles said he would; on which she asked him if he remembered that some months before, in the chapel of his castle of Loches, he privately and alone humbly begged three things from heaven?

The king remembred very well his having made requests to God, which he had not since revealed even to his confessor; and said that he would no longer doubt of Jane's divine legation, if she could tell him what these entreaties were?

Your first suit was then, continued Jane, that if you were not the true heir to the crown of France, God would please to deprive you of the courage and desire of continuing a war, in order to possess it, which had already caused so much bloodshed and misery throughout the kingdom. Your second prayer was, that if the great troubles and misfortunes which the poor inhabitants of France have lately underwent, were the punishment of any sins by you committed, that he would please to relieve the people of France, that you alone might be punished, and make expiation, either by death or any torment he would please to inflict. Your third desire was, that if the sins of the people were the cause of their sufferings, he would be pleased in his divine mercy to grant them pardon, and deliver them from the pains and miseries which they have been labouring under already above twelve years.

Charles knowing the truth of all she said, was now firmly persuaded that she was a divine messenger, and placed much hopes in her assistance towards the recovery of his kingdom: soon after, assisted by Jane, he raised the siege of Orleans, and re-took possession of Gien, Gergueau, Meun, Baugenci, and many other places; and afterwards, by her persuasion, he ventured through the country of Champaign, though in the hands of the English, and went to Rheims, where he was anointed and crowned.

Jane carried the royal standard at this ceremony, and, in a little time, contributed very much to the recovery of several towns and castles. Her reputation was at a great height; Charles always succeeded in every thing which she proposed and undertook; and in gratitude Jane had the credit of every thing that did succeed.

This brought upon her the hatred and envy of several of the commanders and chieftains of the French army, and at last proved fatal to her: for, in the year one thousand four hundred and thirty one, the maid of Orleans being informed that the duke of Burgundy, with some English, had laid siege to the town of Compiegn, immediately departed at the head of a few troops, to strengthen and support the feeble garrison that defended it.

A day or two after her arrival, some of the French lords proposed to sally out against the enemy; and though Jane did not think it adviseable, yet, lest she should be suspected of cowardice or backwardness, she consented, unfortunately for her, to be one of the number.

As she was supporting her country's cause with valour and intrepidity, some Frenchmen gave the signal for retreat, on which every body hastened to get back to the gates, where there was so great a throng, that before she could enter she was taken by some of the troops of John of Luxemburgh, who was at the siege with the duke of Burgundy.

Luxemburgh ordered her to be conducted to the castle of Beaurevoir, where she was strictly guarded, as he was apprehensive she would endeavour to escape by magic art, or some other subtle means. The king of England, fearing that Luxemburgh would give her back to the French for a considerable ransom, was very anxious to have her in his own custody: but Luxemburgh absolutely refused to deliver his prisoner; so that Henry was obliged to have recourse to the bishop of Beauvais, in whose diocess she had been taken, entreating him to demand her as a person strongly suspected of heresy and witchcraft, and therefore liable to be examined and tried by him, according to the laws of proceeding against heretics.

The bishop, after much deliberation, consented to demand the suspected Jane from Luxemburgh, on paying him a reasonable ransom, if the assembly of divines of the university of Paris would advise him so to do.

The assembly not only was of opinion that he could and ought to do it, but also in complaisance, to the king of England, wrote to John of Luxemburgh, in the name of the university, praying him to send his prisoner to the bishop of Beauvais, in whose diocese she was still in custody, and who alone had the right of trying her for the crimes of which she stood accused.

This letter had the desired effect, and Jane was given up to the bishop, who immediately put her into the hands of the English, by whom she was carried to Rouen, and there kept in strong and close confinement. Soon after, the king of England sent the following order to the magistrates of Rouen, to deliver Jane to be examined and tried by the bishop of Beauvais.

"Henry, by the grace of God, king of France and England, to our magistrates of Rouen greeting. It is publicly known, that for some time past a woman who calls herself Jane the Maiden, laying aside the dress and habit of her sex, which is against the law of God, and prohibited as an abominable practice by every law, and taking the dress and manner of man, has been guilty of many cruel homicides; and, in order to abuse the weak minds of the people, has made them understand that she was a messenger from God, and was privy to his divine secrets, and has entertained several other opinions contrary to our catholic faith, and scandalous and dangerous to our mother church. That while she was in hostile act against us and our people, she was taken before the walls of Compiegne by some of our loyal subjects, and brought prisoner to our town of Rouen. And whereas she has been strongly and universally suspected of superstition, false doctrine, and other crimes against our holy church, we have been earnestly sollicited by the reverend father in God and faithful counsellor the bishop of Beauvais, right ecclesiastical judge of the said Jane, as taken in his diocess, and also entreated by our dearest and most beloved daughter the university of Paris, to give up and deliver our said prisoner to be examined and tried by the said bishop, for the crimes of which she stands suspected and accused; and to proceed against her according to the ordinances and dispositions of the divine and canon laws, in that case made and provided. And as we are willing, in reverence and honour to God, the defence and dignity of our holy church and catholic faith, devoutly to obey, as a true and humble son of the holy church, the desires and demands of our daughter the university of Paris, we order and desire by these presents, our officers and magistrates of Rouen, to deliver up and bring before the reverend father in God the bishop of Beauvais, the said Jane Taré, to be tried and proceeded against according to God, to reason, and to the divine and holy canons. Given at Rouen this third day of January, year of grace one thousand four hundred and thirty one, and of our reign the third."

The Bishop, impowered by this warrant, and having communicated the accusation to the inquisitor general of the faith, he assembled in the royal chapel of the castle of Rouen, Giles Abbot of Fescamp, John Beaupere, John de Chatisson, James le Tissier, Nicholas Midy, Guerard Fueillet, William Hecton, Thomas de Courselles, and Richard Proty, to assist him at the tryal of the said Jane.

John Estivet, named proctor for this tryal by the bishop, moved his lordship that the prisoner should be brought into court and examined according to law, which was granted; and the prisoner having desired leave to hear mass, his lordship said that he had taken advice on that head from several persons of learning and wisdom, whose opinion it was, that, considering the great crimes of which she stood suspected, and having infamously put on men's apparel, her request ought not to be granted; and that therefore he overruled it.

His lordship then acquainted Jane, that she being taken prisoner in his diocese, and being publickly accused of several crimes which were against the faith, not only in France but in every other kingdom, she was delivered up to him to be tried in matters of faith. After which the proctor moved that the prisoner should be sworn to answer the truth to all such questions as he should ask her; which was agreed to by the bishop and his assistants.

His lordship then addressing himself to Jane, in a mild and charitable manner, begged she would make true and faithful answers to every particular, as well to shorten the trial as for the discharge of her own conscience, without any mental reservation or evasion whatsoever.

To which Jane answered, ‘I do not know what questions you intend to ask me; perhaps you may ask some that I will not chuse to answer.’

The bishop said she must answer every question relative to the catholic faith, and every thing else she knew.

Jane replied, that she was willing to communicate to the court every circumstance she knew about her birth, her parentage, and her arrival in France, as also every thing she did since; but as to the revelations which she had from God, that she never told them but to Charles, whom she called her king; and that she would never disclose them to any other, though her silence should cost her her head.

She added, that she was ordered from heaven to keep these revelations secret; but that in eight days she would be able to determine whether she could declare the purport of them.

The bishop then exhorted her to tell truth in matters of faith; Jane then kneeling, placed both her hands on the mass-book, and swore that she would declare the truth in every thing relative to her faith; but would not disclose what God had revealed to her, to any person whatsoever.

The same day the court asked her several questions relative to her parents, the place of her birth, and her age.

On her next appearance in court she complained that irons had been put on her legs: on which the bishop reminded her that she often attempted to escape from prison; so that the jailor was obliged to keep her in irons and close confinement.

Jane owned that some time before she did strive to get away, as it was natural and lawful for every prisoner to do; and added, that even if she had made her escape, she could, not be accused of a breach of promise therein, as she had made none to any body.

Upon this answer the bishop immediately ordered John Ris, John Bernet, and William Talbot, in whose hands she was then entrusted, to watch her narrowly; and not allow any body to speak to her, without a special order signed by him.

She was then asked, if she had ever learned any art or trade?

She answered, that her mother had taught her to sew; and she added, that she did not believe there was a woman in the city of Rouen who could teach her any thing. She said that she had left her parent's house partly through fear of the duke of Burgundy's army; that she went to Neufchattel with a woman named La Rouse, where she remained a fortnight; that she was there in quality of maid-servant, and did not go to the fields to take care of sheep or other cattle during that time.

Being asked if she confessed every year?

She answered, she did, to her parish priest, except when he happened to be busy, and then she confessed to another priest with his leave; that she had confessed two or three times to a mendicant friar; and that she received the body of our Saviour every year at Easter.

Being asked whether she received the body of our Saviour at other festivals besides Easter?

She made no answer; but said, that from the age of thirteen she heard the voice of our saviour, which directed her how to behave; that the first time she heard the voice she was in very great fear; that she heard it about mid-day, in summer time, in her father's garden, it being that day a fast; that the voice seemed to come from the right, where the neighbouring church was situated; that she perceived a certain brightness which accompanied the voice; that when she had heard it the third time, she knew it to be a heavenly voice; that it has taken care of her since that time.

Being asked what information she received from the voice, for the safety of her soul?

She answered, that it shewed how to conduct herself in life; that it recommended to her to frequent church and other devout exercises; afterwards it told her it was necessary she should go to France, which it repeated twice or thrice a week till she departed: it desired her to make haste, and go away unknown to her parents; that she was to raise the siege of Orleans; that she should go to Robert de Baudricourt, who would give her guides to conduct her; that she then said to the voice, that she was but a poor country girl, and entirely ignorant of the art of war; that she went soon after to her uncle's house, where she staid a week; that her uncle carried her to Robert de Baudricourt; that the voice had taught her to distinguish this gentleman, though she had never seen him before; that he twice refused to grant her desire; but at last he was prevailed on to have her conducted to France; that she then assumed man's apparel, and wore a sword which Robert de Baudricourt gave her a little before she departed; that she was accompanied by a knight and four other men; that she often heard the voice on her road to France.

Being asked, who advised her to put on man's apparel?

She answered, that the voice instructed her so to do; and that she accused no other person of it: that on her departure from Robert de Baudricourt, he said to her, ‘You may depart, let what will happen.’ She also added that it was absolutely necessary she should change her dress. Some time after she said that she was sure the duke of Orleans was much beloved by God; that there was not a man in France, except the king, of whom she had so many revelations as of the duke of Orleans.

Being asked, what letters she sent to the English, and what was the purport of them?

She answered, that she addressed some letters to the English who were before Orleans, desiring them to part from thence; and that they would absolutely be obliged to raise the siege: that she has been told that some words had been altered in her letters, where she desired the French territories should be given up to Charles, the lawful king. In the place of which have been inserted, as she was informed, that they should be given up to Jane the Maiden: that she did not call herself a warrior in these letters, as it was said, had been since added to them.

She then related, that she arrived without any difficulty at Chinon, where the king resided; that she arrived about noon, lodged at an inn, and after dinner waited on his majesty, whom she immediately distinguished from his attendants, by the instructions of the voice; that she told him she was resolved to go fight against the English. Being asked whether, when the voice pointed out the king to her, there was any shining light over the king? she would make no answer.

Being asked, whether she saw any angel over the king's head?

She made no answer; but said, that before his majesty employed her, she had many fine visions and revelations.

Being asked what revelations?

She answered, ‘I will not tell you as yet; but you may go to the king and he will inform you.’ She added, that the voice told her that soon after her arrival his majesty would accept the offer of her services; that those of her own party were confident the voice came from God; that they saw and heard the voice; that she knew it very well; that the king and several of his council had heard and seen the voice coming towards her; and among the rest Charles duke of Bourbon; that the only thing she ever asked of the voice was, the salvation of her soul; that it desired her to stay at St. Dennis in France, where she would have remained, but that the lords would not let her, as she was wounded; and that otherwise she would not have left it; that she had been wounded in the trenches of Paris, and cured in five days; that she commanded at a considerable attack near Paris.

Being asked, if it was a holiday when that skirmish happened?

She answered she believed it was.

Being asked, if it was proper to make an assault on a festival?

She made no answer.

The court adjourned to consider matters, and being met again, the bishop of Beauvais exhorted and desired the prisoner to swear absolutely, and without reserve to tell the truth of every thing the court would ask her.

On which she desired his lordship's leave to speak, and it being granted, said, ‘It is possible you may ask me questions which I certainly will not answer, especially relative to revelations; perhaps you would insist on my informing you of what I already swore I would not mention; that would be perjury, and you ought not to desire me to perjure myself. Take care, my lord bishop, what you are about; you pretend you have jurisdiction over me; you will have a great deal to answer for if you do not prove an upright judge to me.’ She added, that she thought it enough to have swore twice.

Being asked a second time, if she would not swear simply and absolutely?

She answered, that they might do without it, as she had already swore twice; that all the clergy of Rouen should not oblige her to tell every thing; that she could not tell all in eight days; that she would communicate every circumstance of her arrival in France, but not every thing else.

Being desired a third time to swear without reserve, and informed that her refusal would render her suspected to the court, she made the same answer as before, and added, that she was come from God; that she had nothing to do in that court, and desired they might send her back to God, whose messenger she was.

Being again exhorted and advised to swear as before required, under pain of being found guilty of the crimes of which she was accused,

She answered, "I have swore enough, proceed."

Being once more fully and strongly admonished to tell the whole truth relative to her case, letting her know the danger she put herself in by a refusal, she said she was ready to tell every thing concerning her case, but not every thing she knew; and then she swore.

Being asked by John Beaupere, when before had she eat or drank?

She answered, that afternoon.

Being then asked, when had she heard the voice?

She answered, "Yesterday and to-day."

Being asked what she was doing the day before when she heard the voice?

She answered, that she was asleep, and that it awaked her.

Being asked, whether it yet remained in her chamber?

She answered, not that she knew.

Being asked, if she thanked the voice, and whether she went on her knees?

She answered, that she thanked it as she sat up in her bed; her hands joined, and begged it might direct her what she had to do; and that the voice desired her, to answer stoutly

Being asked what the voice said to her when she was awake?

She answered, that it desired her to ask advice from our Saviour.

The prisoner then said again to the bishop, ‘You say you are my judge; take great care of what you do, for I certainly am come from God, and you put yourself in great danger.’

Being asked if the voice had ever varied in its instructions or commands?

She answered, that she never found it so.

Being asked if it was an angel directly from God without the intervention of any saint?

She answered, ‘It comes from God, I will not tell you all I know on that subject; I am more uneasy, lest I should say any thing at which it might be displeased, than I am about answering you; and therefore relative to this question, I desire delay.’

Being asked whether she thought that God would be offended at truth's being told?

She answered, she thought he would not; but that what the voice revealed to her, she was to tell Charles the Seventh, king of France, and not to the bishop of Beauvais. She then added, that the night before the voice said several things to her for the service of his majesty, which she wished he was informed of.

Upon which the court desired to know whether she could not prevail on the voice to go deliver a message from her to Charles with these tidings?

She answered, she did not know whether it would obey her, unless such was the desire of God, and that our Saviour consented to it; and if it was the will of God, he might very well reveal it himself to the king.

After many interrogatories, and the examination of several witnesses, she was condemned to be burned, and consumed as a heretic; and was accordingly brought to the old market-place of Rouen, and there, after a long exhortation, the sentence pronounced against her was put in execution; which was a great loss to the king of France, who was then unable to assist her: but when he recovered Rouen, he caused her trial to be brought before the judges, who declared her innocent of the crimes for which she so unjustly suffered.

PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONTINUED.

Of the Metamorphoses of ANIMALS, and the several Changes observable in ANIMAL LIFE.

THERE scarcely ever perhaps was any system, doctrine, or opinion broach'd with more assurance, or that, for the time of its vogue, met with a greater and more universal approbation, than that which urg'd the idea of a metempsychosis, or transmigration of the soul, the spring or source of action, into various organized bodies, in which it had opportunities of exerting itself in different manners, and of producing different effects. Pythagoras, who was perhaps the wisest as well as the most humane of all the heathen philosophers, was, if not the first, at least the most considerable amongst all those who gave any sanction to a principle, which, however productive of the most desirable effects, has nevertheless appeared extremely absurd; and, consequently, in ages more enlightend in philosophical, tho' perhaps less so in the more advantageous branches of real knowledge, has been rejected as entirely dissonant to experimental conviction; and therefore, without trial, judge, or jury, deserving to be cast aside by those who think they can know nothing unless they are masters of every thing; and would almost renounce an intercourse with the Lord of nature, unless they thought themselves able to dive into every motive of his actions.

Notwithstanding, however, this universal rejection of a system once was universally received, some of the more calm and rational devotees of philosophy have with great justice imagined, that an opinion advanced with so much positiveness, and accepted with so much zeal; inculcated by a man who could not impose on himself, and followed by a set of people who scarcely could be imposed upon, must have more in it than at first sight it appears to convey. Some of these, therefore, have endeavoured to solve it, by supposing a hidden meaning, and others by imagining a conceal'd intention to be veiled under a principle which, in its literal sense, was so repugnant both to the innate conviction of the learned, and the hourly observation of the vulgar. The first class of these rationalists imagined the impulse of a benevolent mind to have been the only motive that urg'd that great philosopher to advance a doctrine, which would terrify mankind from the destruction of animals, either in general or in particular, by the supposition of a possibility that, in taking away the life of any animal, however indifferent or even hurtful it might be to them for other reasons, the animated part, perhaps, of some dear relation, or renowned ancestor, might not only be disturbed, but even be exil'd from the spot of its immediate residence, and not improbably transplanted into some state more painful and opposite to its natural biass and inclination, and still more contrary to our own ideas of happiness and satisfaction.

Another set again, calling to their assistance the mysterious investigations of the cabala, have endeavoured to prove that Pythagoras having study'd very closely the Egyptian mythology, which perpetually dealt in mystery and hieroglyphics, some conceal'd meaning was still conveyed in every part of his philosophy: and that, like the parables and fables of the eastern teachers, every thing he preach'd was merely allegorical, only to be understood by those whom he chose peculiarly to enlighten, that is to say, by the disciples of his own school; whilst to the vulgar an external shew of somewhat was set forth, which, from his ipse dixit alone, they were bound implicitly to obey.

Now it is by no means impossible that both of these suppositions may in some measure be right: that is to say, that the amiable sage we have mentioned might, from a perfect knowledge of the power of superstition on the mind of uninstructed men, make use of a maxim so well adapted for the purpose, to put a check to that unlimited destruction of animal life, which luxury and sportive cruelty had introduced into the world; and also that he might at the same time, under the veil of a like fable, convey to those, who were his more immediate pupils, the idea of that incorruptibility of the human soul, which, from a want of those advantages that revelation has bestowed on us, he might imagine necessary to find some employment and distinction for; and by ordaining such distinction in one period of its existence, to be pointed out and determined by the inclination shewn by it in the preceding one, he might suppose, and no doubt his supposition met with confirmation from experience, that his disciples would be likely to model their actions according as they were influenced by the hope of rereward or dread of punishment,

Thus far, therefore, may the suggestions which have been advanced in the Pythagorean philosophy be well grounded. Yet there seems to be one most palpable observation, which has slipp'd all the commentators on, and solvers of this doctrine I have hitherto met with; and that is, from whence the first idea of such an opinion derived its original idea? No remembrance, no conception of a pre-existent state, continued in the mind of man to give it credit, and the assurance of the perfect corruptibility of all animals after death, concurred in some measure to contradict it: whereon, then, should these great men found the basis of a doctrine which, however aided forwards, and adorned by fable to confirm its power, must have needed at least the appearance of probability, something more than mere ipse dixit, to establish its first belief in the minds of the vulgar, which, little capable of philosophical reasonings, or theoretical investigations, must have their ideas fixt by some connection and analogy between what their senses are capable of discerning, and what their minds are to be taught to believe?

This being premised, from whence could be derived the doctrine of the Metempsychosis, or transmigration of the soul; but from a similar transmigration of the more visible soul; that is to say, of animal life, distinguishable from the slightest observation of Nature's works, and hourly performed under our very eyes? Of these changes there are many varieties; of which it is impossible that the ancient philosophers, who were perhaps closer and more accurate observers than the moderns, could have been ignorant of in their fullest extent: and as even the very husbandman and labourer must also be well informed of several of them, it is not in the least improbable that an advantageous use might be made of these so well-known circumstances, for the illustrating and enforcing opinions, which it was necessary to inculcate the most forcibly in those minds which were the least capable of speculative or hypothetical theology.

Here, however, let us drop this conjecture, which I have rather introduced with a view of corroborating the principle which I first set out with in defence of the study of philosophy, viz. that the observations we cannot avoid making in the course of it, may be employed with great propriety towards humanizing the heart, and producing the most amiable effects in the general oeconomy of life and government. Was I to expatiate farther on the very subject before us, it might not perhaps be difficult to evince that these changes, even of the very lowest class of animals, that is to say, of the insect tribe, might be rendered not unserviceable even in the present more enlightened period, when christianity and revelation have drawn us out of the labyrinths of doubt and suggestion into the plainer and unwinding paths of more assured truth; yet still, I say, these changes might form to us, by analogy, the idea of a future and more exalted state; and convince us, that whilst we see the very minutest animals undergoing amazing alterations and metamorphoses, rising from the grovelling state of a grub or water-worm, to range the wide expanse of air, before they submit to the universal law of annihilation, it must be impossible that the Lord of them all, for whose use, amusement, or instruction, they have all been created, should only pass through a series of years, for the most part miserable ones, even with those who possess the happiest lot on earth, in little more than meer animal existence, and then sink down into the grave in common with them all, without enjoying some more exalted privilege; and, in proportion to the rank he here possess'd, becoming less encumber'd and fit to travel through and fully relish those other works of the Creator, of which even now, before ‘We have shaken off this mortal coil,’ The very idea dazzles our imagination, and confounds our faculties; and of which we see just enough of to admire his power, but know not sufficiently to comprehend his wisdom.

From these reflections, however, let us proceed to relate to our fair readers what these changes are, of which we have here been speaking, and of which these reflectional uses may be made.

They are of many different kinds, and proceed, as all nature's works do, in a regular gradation; forming an ascent, the steps of which are scarcely visible; and yet the height, when we have reached it, most obvious and amazing.

Those kinds of animals which are viviparous, or produce their young alive, and apparently in a complete state, undergo the slightest alterations of any; yet some even they have. Growth itself, the distension of parts, and increase of bulk, may be looked on as the lowest steps of this ladder, and these all animals have in common, man not excepted; who, lordly as he is, when in his more perfect growth, is not only the most helpless and imperfect at his birth, but longer continues in that situation, than any other member of the animal world.—Excepting this incrementive change, however, he undergoes no other alteration in this life, but the addition of some excremental parts, such as teeth, hair, &c.

Next to him, in stability of condition, we must place the quadrupeds, who, beside these additions, seem to be annually changed by the loss and renovation of their external covering, which almost all of them suffer, by what we call casting their coats. This change however is very gradual, and almost invisible, the same substances, and bearing the very same marks and colours, succeeding to their predecessors, so as to leave the animal in appearance the very same he was at first. One exception however there is to this, in those which undergo this alteration twice within the course of the year, as do the bears, foxes, hares, &c. in Greenland and other cold countries, whose furs in the winter season intirely drop those colours which would render them more conspicuous to their respective enemies, by standing contrasted to the whiteness of the snow with which the whole ground is covered, and assume a pure white; which again quits them as the warmth of summer, by restoring the rest of nature to its original appearance, renders such a refuge unnecessary to them.

One class however of the viviparous animals undergo a more immediate and visible alteration, and that is the serpent kind, who, having no hair or furr to lose more gradually, cast their whole covering at once in certain periods; and are so dexterous in the doing this, although devoid of the assistance of feet or claws, that the whole skins of them will frequently be found entire, without even so much as the cornea, or outward case of the eyes, which is affixed to the rest of the exuvium, being at all broken. From this renovation, which was well known to the ancients, and which is even attended by an additional brilliancy of colouring, a fresh glow of beauty, and a renewal of that strength and vigour which is constantly abated some little time before the change is brought about, it was that the antient writers considered the snake as an emblem of health; as may be seen in its being made the symbol of Esculapius, the God of physic, and a representation of time and eternity, ever destroyed and ever renewing, as we find from many of their coins; in which this animal, holding his tail in his mouth, is constantly attended with some legend or device expressive of duration.

Next to these are the oviparous animals, or those who make their first appearance in a state of intire inaction, and devoid of any sign of life, but that of some kind of vital warmth; but yet afterwards, either by the natural heat of the tender parent, by the warmth of the surrounding atmosphere, or by the more intense rays of the sun, are, as it were, ripened by degrees; and being secured, through the period of infantile inactivity, in a cell wherein food, raiment, and lodging are dispensed within themselves, they at length burst forth, some in their fully complete state, as the lizards, spiders, crabs, lobsters, &c. and in general all the species of fish; and others, amongst which are all the bird-class, requiring the same degree of perfecting that the viviparous ones do, by the addiction of their excrementitious parts, such as feathers, &c.—And of these creatures almost every species that we are acquainted with stands in need besides of those additional alterations we have mentioned in the viviparous classes. The birds of all sorts moult their feathers at certain periods, and even change the colour of them in the winter seasons of the cold countries, as we have described the quadrupeds to do by their furs. The lizard kind drop their skins like the snakes, (which they the nearest resemble in substance, and even in figure, excepting the addition of four very short feet) and some of them, particularly the water-newt, so frequently as once in every fortnight or three weeks; and all the spider, crab, and lobster kind, whose outward coverings are crustaceous, and therefore incapable of distention, and so connected as not to be gradually dropt like hair or feathers, cast their shells entire at certain times of the year, when nature kindly provides them with such supplimentary juices as, by a sort of exudation from their pores, form a new shell beneath.

Now, however, let us proceed to those whose metamorphoses are more complete and distinct; and which, being first allodged by the parent in one element, or appearing fully possessed of animal life under one figure, do afterwards assume another and very different form, and find their food, their business, and their pleasure in another and very different element.

Of these some live their first period in the earth, others in the water. The inhabitants of this last named element content themselves with making earth their residence in their completer state; whilst those who first creep on the earth, when become more perfect, usually find the air the region where their more improved form is enabled to exert its abilites.

As we do not propose to enter here into a particular natural history, but only to treat of a general property, we need only mention a single example of each kind. The frog is the most universally known instance of the first sort; the egg of which, being laid and nourished in the water, produces a small, but lively animal, which we call a tadpole. Its body is almost globular, and seems furnished with no other limbs but a thin filmy tail, which serves to steer and move its body very briskly in the water, to which its residence is entirely confined, during its continuance in this form; yet, after a certain space of time, small legs and feet begin to be discernible under the loosened skin of this little creature, which gradually bursting their way thro' it, first one, then a second, and so to the number of four, and lastly, dropping the finney tail which had hitherto been so very useful and necessary to it, it now, as if it disdained the element it had first been bred in, leaps on shore, and springing over large tracts of land, becomes changed from a fish to a perfect terrestrial quadruped, and ranges at large over that very ground on which during its former state it would have been death for it to have been cast.

Of the other part of metamorphosis of these states, viz. from the earth to the air, we shall mention at present only the beetle class, and more particularly the cock-chaffer, or jeffry-cock, as an insect universally known. The female of this animal lays her eggs in the earth, where, by means of an instrument, which nature has purposely provided her with, she is able to deposit them at some depth below the surface. Each of these, after a due time, is hatched into a soft white jointed grub, with six short clawed feet, and armed about the head, which is of a dark-brown colour, with a shelly coat, and two or three pair of very strong fangs or forcipes, by which means it is most amply furnished with the means of forcing its way in the mold where it was lodged, and of cutting and tearing to pieces for its nourishment the roots not only of the tenderer herbage, but even those fibres which the stronger roots of trees push forth to form a surer hold in the ground, to both which these voracious animals frequently do very great mischief. After continuing however in this situation, with no difference but increase of bulk, for two whole years, a shelly covering forms over its soft body; a pair of fine and filmy wings grow from the top of his back, to preserve which from danger, when unnecessary for use, a pair of crustaceous coverings are provided, and now forcing his way thro' the surface of the ground, he comes forth a lively inhabitant of the air; and soaring at will wherever he pleases, seems, by a buzzing song, to proclaim his satisfaction at being able now with equal greediness to devour the leaves and fruits, as he had before done the roots and fibres of whatever plant or tree he chuses to fix upon.

[To be continued.]

THE LADY's MUSEUM.
The TRIFLER. [NUMBER IV.]

MADAM,

I AM one of your readers, and bear you that sort of good will which we naturally feel for persons who contribute to our amusement. I have done what very few friends do; I have spoke well of you behind your back, and have not scrupled to declare in all companies, that Mrs. Penelope Spindle's attack upon your reputation is extremely unjust.

She denies that you are lineally descended from the ancient family of the Triflers; and confidently asserts that you have taken a province which you cannot fill; but unfortunately for her, the arguments she brings in support of this opinion, are those which may be most successfully urged against it. Are love and courtship, she says, proper subjects for a trifler? Most certainly; for in this polite age, love and courtship are meer trifles; marriage is a trifle; virtue is an egregious trifle; wisdom, morality, religion, all are trifles; and there is nothing serious but cards. I maintain that hitherto the subjects of your paper have been consistent with your title. You have knowledge enough of life to perceive that cards is the sole business of it: and tho' there are many other serious affairs, such as balls, operas, concerts, masquerades, and the like, which claim the attention of persons of rank and fortune, yet all these must yield to cards.

As a trifler therefore, you have wisely avoided entering upon so great and important a matter: you have confined yourself to such topics, as most of your readers will readily allow to be trifles; and when you talk of wit, learning, economy; when you recommend reservedness, and a contempt for fashionable amusements, there is not a fine lady in town who does not acknowledge the propriety of your title, and declare that you are an intolerable trifler.

Mrs. Spindle says, it is common for periodical authors to forget their titles; that the Tatler often talks with the most solemn austerity of wisdom; and that the Guardian deviates into many topicks, with which, as a guardian, he has no concern. I wish, for the sake of your reputation as a writer, that you would follow their example, and sometimes forget your title. If you hope to have your paper read with general approbation, do not dwell so much upon exploded trifles, unworthy the attention of persons of polite education. Raise your thoughts to things solid and rational; shew us the strength of your reasoning, in a dissertation on whist; and the subtilty of your wit, by leading us through all the mazes of quadril: if you have any genius for poetry, write a panegyric on loo; and if you dare venture on so sublime a subject, let your muse record the daring flights of brag.

I shall judge by the use you make of these hints whether you merit the farther correspondence of, Madam,

Your Humble Servant, MARIA.

TO THE Author of the LADY'S MUSEUM.

MADAM,

THE gaiety with which you set out in your first paper, and the agreeable manner in which you acknowledge your fondness for admiration, persuaded several of your readers, that the character under which you appeared was not assumed, but a real one: however, I am much mistaken if the Trifler is not written by the same moral pen that has given us so beautiful a picture of female virtue, in the history of Henrietta.

In full confidence therefore of your being no coquet, I dare solicit you to let loose all your satire against coquetry. Consider it not as folly, but as vice, and do not treat it with railery, but with sharp rebuke.

Oh that I had a pen like yours! and that I could think with equal force, and express those thoughts with equal elegance. That inordinate desire of being admired, which prevails only among the least deserving of our sex, should be displayed in its true colours, and lose the soft name of coquetry under which it is disguised for that of libertinism which is its real characteristic.

Wonder not at my vehemence, madam: my peace and happiness have been sacrificed to that detestable vanity, which seeks its gratification in the misery of others. I have been deprived of the affection of a husband whom I love with the most passionate tenderness; the soft union we formerly lived in is dissolved; discord now rages in a family which was once all harmony and love, and this ruin is the work of a coquet, who, to indulge her passion for admiration, and to add a new adorer to her train, has made me miserable for ever: me who never injured her; me who was once her friend.

But I will take another opportunity to give you my unhappy story. In the mean time I intreat you to print this letter, and you will really oblige,

Madam,
Your constant Reader, PERDITA.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

AS soon as Mr Herbert went away, Harriot, who had been listening, and had heard all that past, entered the room. The virtue and strength of mind her sister shewed in the design she had formed of flying from Sir Charles Stanley excited her envy; and she would have joined with her mother in endeavouring to prevail upon her to stay, to prevent the superiority such conduct gave her, had not that envy found a more sensible gratification in the thought that Sophia would no longer receive the adorations of the young baronet; and that all her towering hopes would be changed to disappointment and grief.

The discontinuance of those presents which Sir Charles so liberally bestowed on them, evidently on Sophia's account, and which had hitherto enabled them to live in affluence, affected her but little; for vanity is a more powerful passion than interest in the heart of a coquet; and the pleasure of seeing her sister mortified and deserted by her lover out-weighed all other confiderations: besides, she was not without hopes that when Sophia was out of the way, her charms would regain all their former influence over the heart of Sir Charles.

She came prepared therefore to support her in her resolution of going into the country; but Mrs. Darnley, who did not enter into her views, and who had no other attention but to secure to herself that ease and affluence she at present enjoyed, expected Harriot would use her utmost efforts to prevent her sister from disobliging a man whose liberality was the source of their happiness.

She complained to her in a tender manner of Sophia's unkindness; she exaggerated the ill consequences that might be apprehended from the affront she put on Sir Charles, by thus avowing the most injurious suspicions of him; and declared she expected nothing less than to be reduced by the loss of her pension to that state of misery from which he had formerly relieved her.

Sophia melted into tears at these words; but a moment's reflection convinced her, that her mother's apprehensions were altogether groundless: Sir Charles was not capable of so mean a revenge; and Sophia, on this occasion, defended him with so much ardor, that Miss Darnley could not help indulging her malice, by throwing out some severe sarcasms upon the violence of her affection for a man whom she affected to despise.

Sophia blushed; but answered calmly, "Well, sister, if I love Sir Charles Stanley, I have the more "merit in leaving him."

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‘Oh, not a bit the more for that, replied Harriot; for, as I read in one of your books just now, Virtue would not go so far, if pride did not bear her company ’

‘Sister, said Sophia, no woman is envious of another's virtue who is conscious of her own.’

This retort threw Harriot into so violent a rage, that Sophia who knew what excesses she was capable of, left the room, and retired to pack up her cloaths, that she might be ready when Mr. Herbert called for her.

In this employment Mrs. Darnley gave her no interruption; for Harriot having quitted her mother in a huff, because she did not join with her against Sophia, she was left at liberty to pursue her own reflections. After long doubt and perplexity in what manner to act, she resolved to consent that Sophia should depart; for she saw plainly that it would not be in her power to prevent it, and she was willing to derive some merit from the necessity she was under of complying. She considered that if Sir Charles really loved her daughter, her flight on such motives would rather increase than lessen his passion; and that all his resentment for being deprived of her sight would fall upon Mr. Herbert, who was alone in fault.

Mrs. Darnley, as has been before observed, was not of a temper to anticipate misfortunes, or to give herself much uneasiness about evils in futurity: she always hoped the best, not because she had any well-grounded reasons for it, but because it was much more pleasing to hope than to fear.

Sophia, when she saw her next, found her surprisingly altered: she not only no longer opposed her going, but even seemed desirous of it; and this she thought a master-piece of cunning which could not fail of gaining Mr. Herbert's good opinion; never once reflecting that her former opposition deprived her of all the merit of a voluntary compliance.

This change in Mrs. Darnley left Sophia no more difficulties to encounter but what she found in her own heart. Industrious to deceive herself, she had imputed all the uneasy emotions there to the grief of leaving her mother contrary to her inclination: she had now her free consent to go, yet still those perturbations remained. She thanked her mother for her indulgence: she took her hand, and tenderly pressed it to her lips, tears at the same time flowing fast from her eyes.

Mrs. Darnley was cruel enough to shew that she understood the cause of this hidden passion. ‘What, said she, to the poor blushing Sophia, after all the clutter you have made about leaving Sir Charles, does your heart fail you, now you come to the trial?’

Sophia, abashed and silent, hid her glowing face with her handkerchief; and having with some difficulty represt another gush of tears, assumed composure enough to tell her mother that she hoped she should never want fortitude to do her duty.

‘To be sure, replied Mrs. Darnely, with a sneer, one so wise as you can never mistake your duty.’

‘Sophia however understood hers so well that she did not offer to recriminate upon this occasion; for Mrs. Darnley was but a shallow politician, and was thrown so much off her guard by the vexation she felt, that an affair on which she built such great hopes had taken so different a turn, that she gave plain indications of her displeasure, and that her consent to her daughter's going was indeed extorted from her.’

Sophia had many of these assaults to sustain, as well from Harriot as Mrs. Darnley, during the remainder of that day; but they were of service to her. Her pride was concerned to prevent giving a real cause for such sarcasms as her sister in particular threw out: opposition kept up her spirits, and preserved her mind from yielding to that tender grief which the idea of parting for ever from Sir Charles excited.

When Mr. Herbert came the next morning, Mrs. Darnley, who had no better part to play, had recourse again to dissimulation, and expressed great willingness to send her daughter away; but the good man, who saw the feint in her overacted satisfaction, suffered her to imagine that she had effectually imposed upon him.

Sophia wept when she took leave of her mother, and returned the cold salute her sister gave her with an affectionate embrace. She sighed deeply as Mr. Herbert helped her into the post-chaise; and continued pensive and silent for several minutes, not daring to raise her eyes up to her kind conductor, lest he should read in them what passed in her heart.

Mr. Herbert, who guessed what she felt upon this occasion, was sensibly affected with that soft melancholy, so easy to be discovered in her countenance, notwithstanding all her endeavours to conceal it. He wished to comfort her, but the subject was too delicate to be mentioned: kind and indulgent as he was, he began to think his admired Sophia carried her concern on this occasion too far; so true it is, that the case of tried virtue is harder than that of untried: we require from it as debts continual exertions of its power, and if we are at any time disappointed in our expectations, we blame with resentment as if we had been deceived.

Sophia's sensibility, however, was very excusable; in flying from Sir Charles she had done all that the most rigid virtue could demand; for as yet she had only suspicions against him; and this man, whose generous gift she had returned with silent scorn, whom she had avoided as an enemy, had hitherto behaved to her with all the tenderness of a lover, and all the benevolence of a friend. It was under that amiable idea that he now presented himself to her imagination; her pride and her resentment were appeased by the sacrifice she had made in her abrupt departure, and every unkind thought of him was changed to tender regret for his loss.

Mr. Herbert, by not attempting to divert the course of her reflections, soon drew her out of her revery: his silence and reserve first intimated to her the impropriety of her behaviour. She immediately assumed her usual composure, and during the remainder of their little journey, she appeared as chearful and serene as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

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The good curate with whom she was to lodge having rode out to meet his friend and his fair guest, joined them when they had come within three miles of his house. Mr. Herbert, who had descried him at a little distance, shewed him to Sophia: ‘There, my dear, said he, is a man who with more piety and learning than would serve to make ten bishops is obliged to hire himself out at the rate of sixty pounds a year, to do the duty of the parish-church, the rector of which enjoys three lucrative benefices, without praying or preaching above five times in a twelvemonth.’

Mr. Lawson, for that was the curate's name, had now gallop'd up to the chaise, which Mr. Herbert had ordered the post-boy to stop, and many kind salutations passed between the two friends.

Sophia was particularly pleased with the candor and benevolence which appeared in the looks and behaviour of the good clergyman; who gazed on her attentively, and found the good opinion he had entertained of her from Mr. Herbert's representations fully confirmed. The bewitching sweetness in her voice and eyes, the spirit that animated her looks, and the peculiar elegance of her address, produced their usual effects, and filled Mr. Lawson's heart with sentiments of tenderness, esteem, and respect for her.

Mrs. Lawson and her two daughters received her with that true politeness which is founded on good sense and good nature. Both the young women were extremely agreeable in their persons, and Sophia contemplated with admiration the neat simplicity of their dress, their artless beauty, and native sweetness of manners. Health died their cheeks with blushes more beautiful than those the fine lady borrows from paint; innocence and chearfulness lighted up smiles in their faces, as powerful as those of the most finished coquet; and good humour and a sincere desire of obliging, gave graces to their behaviour which ceremony but poorly imitates.

These were Sophia's observations to Mr. Herbert, who seized the first opportunity of speaking to her apart, to ask her opinion of her new companions. He was rejoiced to hear her express great satisfaction in her new situation, and not doubting but time and absence, assisted by her own good sense and virtue, would banish Sir Charles Stanley entirely from her remembrance; he scrupled not to leave her at the end of three days, after having tenderly recommended her to the care of this little worthy family, every individual of which already loved her with extreme affection.

Sophia was indeed so much delighted with the new scene of life she had entered upon, and her fancy was at first so struck with the novelty of all the objects she beheld, that the continual dissipation of her thoughts left no room for the idea of the baronet: but this deceitful calm lasted not long. She soon found by experience, that the silence and solitude of the country were more proper to nourish love than to destroy it; and that groves and meads, the nightingale's song, and the rivulet's murmur, were food for tender melancholy.

Mt. Lawson's house was most romanticly situated on the borders of a spacious park; from whose opulent owner he rented a small farm, which supplied his family with almost all the necessaries of life. Mrs. Lawson his wife, brought him a very small fortune, but a great stock of virtue, good sense, and prudence. She had seen enough of the world to polish her manners without corrupting her heart; and having lived most part of her time in the country, she understood rural affairs perfectly well, and superintended all the business of their little farm. Their two daughters were at once the best house-wifes, and the most accomplished young women in that part of the country. Mr. Lawson took upon himself the delightful task of improving their minds, and giving them a taste for useful knowledge: and their mother, besides instructing them in all the economical duties suitable to their humble fortunes, formed them to those decencies of manners and propriety of behaviour, which she had acquired by a genteel education, and the conversation of persons of rank. In the affairs of the family, each of the young women had their particular province assigned them. Dolly, the eldest, presided in the dairy; and Fanny, so was the youngest called, assisted in the management of the house. Sophia soon entertained a friendship for them both; but a powerful inclination attached her particularly to Dolly. There was in the countenance of this young woman a certain sweetness and sensibility that pleased Sophia extremely; and though she had all that chearfulness which youth, health, and innocence inspire, yet the pensiveness that would sometimes steal over her sweet features, the gentle sighs that would now and then escape her, excited a partial tenderness for her in the heart of Sophia.

She took pleasure in assisting her in her little employments. Dolly insensibly lost that care which the presence of the fair Londoner first inspired, and repaid her tenderness with all that warmth of affection which only young and innocent minds are capable of feeling.

Sophia, instructed by her own experience, soon discovered that her young friend was in love; but neither of them disclosed the secret of their hearts to each other. Dolly was with-held by bashful timidity, Sophia by delicate reserve. Fond as they were of each other's company, yet the want of this mutual confidence made them sometimes chuse to be alone. Sophia having one evening strayed in the wood, wholly absorbed in melancholy thoughts, lost her way, and was in some perplexity how to recover the path that led to Mr. Lawson's house; when looking anxiously around her, she saw Dolly at a distance, sitting under a tree. Overjoyed to meet her so luckily, she was running up to her, but stopped upon the appearance of a young man, who, seeing Dolly, flew towards her with the utmost eagerness, and with such an expression of joyful surprize in his countenance as persuaded her this meeting was accidental.

Sophia, not willing to interrupt their conversation, passed on softly behind the trees, unobserved by Dolly, who continued in the same pensive attitude; but being now nearer to her, she perceived she was weeping excessively.

Sophia, who was greatly affected at this sight, could not help accompanying her tears with some of her own; and not daring to stir a step farther for fear of being seen by the youth, she resolved to take advantage of her situation, to know the occasion of Dolly's extraordinary affliction.

The poor girl was so wrapt in thought, that she neither saw nor heard the approach of her lover, who called to her in the tenderest accent imaginable, "My dear Dolly, is it you? Won't you look at me? Won't you speak to me? What have I done to make you angry, my love? Dont go (for upon hearing his voice she started from her seat, and seemed desirous to avoid him) don't go, my dear Dolly, said he, following her (and she went slowly enough) don't drive me to despair."

"What would you have me do, Mr. William, said she, stopping and turning gently towards him, you know my father has forbid me to speak to you, and I would die rather than disoblige him: you may thank your proud rich aunt for all this. Pray let me go, pursued she, making some faint efforts to withdraw her hand, which he had seized and held fast in his, you must forget me, William, as I have resolved to forget you," added she sighing, and turning away her head lest he should see the tears that fell from her eyes.

Cruel as these words founded in the ears of the passionate William, yet he found something in her voice and actions that comforted him; "No, my dear Dolly, said he, endeavouring to look in her averted face, I will not believe that you have resolved to forget me; you can no more forget me than I can you, and I shall love you as long as I live—I know you say this only to grieve me; you do not mean it."

"Yes I do mean it, replied Dolly, in a peevish accent, vexed that he had seen her tears. I know my duty, and you shall find that I can obey my father." While she spoke this, she struggled so much in earnest to free her hand from his, that fearing to offend her, he dropped it with a submissive air.

Dolly having now no pretence for staying any longer, bid him farewell in a faltering voice, and went on, tho' with a slow pace, towards her father's house. The youth continued for a moment motionless as a statue, with a countenance as pale as death, and his eyes, which were suffused with tears, fixed on the parting virgin.

‘What, cried he at last, in the most plaintive tone imaginable, can you really leave me thus? go then, my dear unkind Dolly, I will trouble you no more with my hateful presence; I wish you happy, but if you hear that any strange mischief has befallen me, be assured you are the cause of it.’

He followed her as he spoke, and Dolly no longer able to continue her assumed rigour, stopped when he approached her, and burst into tears. The lover felt all his hopes revive at this sight, and taking her hand, which he killed a thousand times, he uttered the tenderest vows of love and constancy; to which she listened in silence, only now and then softly sighing; at length she disengaged her hand, and gently begged him to leave her, lest he should be seen by any of the family. The happy youth, once more convinced of her affection for him, obeyed without a murmur.

Dolly, as soon as he had quitted her, ran hastily towards home; but he, as if every step was leading him to his grave, moved slowly on, often looking back, and often stopping: so that Sophia who was afraid she would not be able to overtake her friend, was obliged to hazard being seen by him, and followed Dolly with all the speed she could.

As soon as she was near enough to be heard she called out to her to stay. Dolly stopt, but was in so much confusion at the thought of having been seen by Miss Darnley, with her lover, that she had not courage to go and meet her. ‘Ah Miss Dolly, said Sophia smiling, I have made a discovery; but I do assure you it was as accidental as your meeting with that handsome youth, who I find is your lover.’

‘Yes, indeed, replied Dolly, whose face was covered with blushes, my meeting with that young man was not designed, at least on my part: but surely you jest, Miss Darnley, when you call him handsome: do you really think him handsome?’

‘Upon my word I do, said Sophia; he is one of the prettiest youths I ever saw; and if the professions of men may be relied on, added she, with a sigh, he certainly loves you; but, my dear Dolly, by what I could learn from your conversation, he has not your father's consent to make his addresses to you; I was sorry to hear that, Dolly, because I perceive, my dear, that you like him.’

Dolly now held down her head, and blushed more than before, but continued silent. ‘Perhaps you will think me impertinent, resumed Sophia, for speaking so freely about your affairs; but I love you dearly, Miss Dolly.’— ‘And I, interupted Dolly, throwing one of her arms about Sophia's neck, and kissing her cheek, love you, Miss Darnley, better a thousand times than ever I loved any body, except my father and mother and sister.’

‘Well, well, said Sophia, I won't dispute that point with you now; but if you love me so much as you say, my dear Dolly, why have you made a secret of this affair? friends do not use to be so reserved with each other.’

‘Perhaps, said Dolly, smiling a little archly, you have taught me to be reserved by your example; but indeed, added she, with a graver look and accent, I am not worthy to be your confidant; you are my superior in every thing: It would be presumption in me to desire to know your secrets.’

‘You shall know every thing that concerns me, interupted Sophia, which can be of use to you, and add weight to that advice I shall take the liberty to give you upon this occasion: I am far from being happy, my dear Dolly, and I blush to say it; it has been in the power of a deceitful man greatly to disturb my peace.’

Sophia here wiped her charming eyes, and Dolly who wept sympathetically for her, and for herself, exclaimed, ‘Is there a man in the world who could be false to you? alas! what have I to expect?’

‘Come, my dear, said Sophia, leading her to the root of a large tree, let us sit down here, we shall not be called to supper yet, you have time enough to give me some account of this young man, whom I should be glad to find worthy of you: tell me how your acquaintance began, and what are your father's reasons for forbidding your correspondence.’

[To be continued.]
Dolly relating her Story to Sophia. —

TO THE Author of the LADY'S MUSEUM.

MADAM,

I HAVE lately been at one of the most awful solemnities in this kingdom, or perhaps in any kingdom in the world; the trial of a peer of England for felony and murder. The more attrocious the crime, or the more dignified the criminal, the higher must curiosity be raised in every breast. Having a desire not to lose any circumstance of the behaviour of the several noble actors in this deep tragedy, I placed myself early on Wednesday morning in Westminster-hall, in a situation that at once might allow me a sight of the prisoner, his counsel, and particularly of his great and right honourable judges. I know full well the duty which I owe to the supreme court of judicature, at whose bar the prisoner stood arraigned; nor shall I even by any iota, or much less by any inuendo, break in upon the privileges, which they so justly assume of making their own proceedings sacred and invulnerable to improper publications, and the licentiousness of too bold, I will not venture to say too free a press; yet surely I may, nay, I must declare, that this high court of judicature did upon this, as in every other point, and upon every other occasion, act like itself. All the spectators, who were splendidly numerous of both sexes, saw, heard, and confessed that justice was concomitant with mercy, enquiry was diverted of rigour, indulgence appeared without condescension, humanity displayed itself without weakness, judgment without partiality, and uprightness without severity.

About eleven o'clock in the morning, as soon as the peers, with the lord high steward [*] at their head, were situated in their order, and rank of place, lord Ferrers was brought to the bar. But what shall I say of this unfortunate nobleman? He had neither dignity in his countenance, nor sufficient gracefulness in his manner to draw companion on his misery, or reverence to his person: down-cast eyes, an unmeaning face, a low stature, rather despicable than a gentleman-like appearance, must in all other circumstances and situations have drawn a biass against him, and must have compelled his beholders, on the first impression, to have pronounced him an ill-favoured disagreeable-looking man.

Placed at the bar of Westminster-hall, a miserable helpless prisoner, with all his crimes upon his head, we naturally rejected the prejudices that were arising against his outward demeanour, and joined with the clerk of the crown, in wishing that God might send him a good deliverance

The several particulars of the attrocious crime for which his lordship is to suffer, will appear in the printed trial; they will appear, I am afraid, shocking and barbarous. The trials of the Old Baily have scarce produced a parallel. It was a murder planned, concerted, and executed with deliberation, cruelty, and determined malice. Neither drunkenness nor madness excited the immediate execution of it. Several persons were sent out of the way, on purpose to leave the wretched victim beyond a possibility of assistance or rescue. The poor man was defenceless, without arms, and even without the least suspicion of his fate. He was locked into the parlour by the inhuman earl, was compelled to kneel down on one knee, and in that posture was shot, the ball remaining in his body. A glimpse of repenting humanity then took place. The earl first caused him to be carried and put into a bed, and then sent for a surgeon to assist him in his agony. But soon after the arrival of the surgeon, all humanity vanished, a fresh blast of fury arose, and it was with difficulty that his lordship could be hindered from tearing the agonizing Mr. Johnson [*] out of bed, dragging him on the floor, and putting the finishing stroke to a life already gasping out its last painful moments. Here indeed was the excuse of ebriety. The earl by this time had dozed himself, by brandy, into all the heat of rage and violence: from brandy he descended to Port wine, and continued drinking till nature was sufficiently drowned by liquor to sink into a sound sleep, and a temporary oblivion of the horrid action which he had committed. Poor Johnson, terrified to be under the roof of his murderer, was by his earnest desire carried to his own house, where, in a few hours, he expired, amidst the tears and lamentations of his miserable family.

It was a most affecting part of the trial to see Miss Johnson, daughter of the deceased, dressed in mourning, and giving testimony of her father's catastrophe.

All compassion towards the earl is much curbed, if not totally suppressed, when we consider the miserable situatibn into which this unhappy family is thrown. Yet I must confess that I found myself deeply moved when the earl gave in that paper of his defence, which with great uneasiness he urged as the strongest, perhaps the only plea in his favour. ‘I am, said he, importuned, and indeed constrained, my lords, by my family, to plead to your lordships, by way of mitigation and excuse of my crime, the unhappy state of mind under which I frequently labour, and with which I must have been particularly visited when I committed the crime that has been laid open to your lordships.’ Words to this purpose were pronounced by him in the greatest perturbation of spirit, in a confusion and uneasiness not to be described, and with a difficulty of respiration that evidently discovered the inward workings of his soul. Unhappy man! could he have proved that he had committed the murder whilst he was visited by the sorest disease to which human nature is liable, death would not have been his portion. But even his own witnesses testified his intervals of sanity to have been too many, and too constant to admit of any such plea. The earl was indulged in producing any witnesses to the purpose he desired: two were heard, but the evening coming on, the trial was adjourned till next day.

On Thursday afternoon, the noble judges came into Westminster-hall. The earl pursued his plea of lunacy, and to that purport examined a fresh string of witnesses, nine, I think, in number, of which two were his own brothers. This seemed to me, and probably to most of the audience, a very shocking scene; a noble family exposed, persons long since in their graves conjured up, like ghosts, only to be proved lunatics; younger brothers, as an instance of the strongest fraternal affection, endeavouring to denounce their elder brother mad. Relations, acquaintance, and even servants, giving various instances of the earl's frenzy; wildness and distraction. Yet all to no purpose. None of these instances came up to the point.

The unfortunate prisoner might have been sometimes wild, sometimes frantic, but never totally deprived of sense. Johnson was killed in an hour of sanity. Johnson fell by malice prepense. A short speech concluded all the earl had to say: it was read by the clerk of the house of lords, and was evidently a composition as well put together as if the author of it had never, in the whole of his life-time, been visited by the least degree of madness. The counsel for the crown [*] then summed up, and observed upon the whole evidence, and ended as they began, in the most tender, clear, impartial, generous, but just manner, that nature could demonstrate, or human abilities display.

The lords returned to the parliament-chamber, and after some time came back to Westminster-Hall, where each of their lordships severally, and for himself, pronounced earl Ferrers, guilty of the felony and murder of which he stood indicted

The number of peers who gave their votes were one hundred and sixteen, twenty one bishops, and four temporal lords being absent at the time when lord Ferrers received his doom. The number of spiritual and temporal lords who attended the first day, were one hundred and forty one. The number happened to be exactly the same as had attended lord Lovat's trial. The prisoner was then summoned to the bar, the judgment of the lords was declared to him, and as he was to receive sentence of death the next day, he was immediately remanded to the Tower.

The lords came into Westminster-Hall about noon on Friday, and Laurence earl Ferrers was asked, according to the usual form, Why judgment of death should not pass upon him, according to law? His lordship produced a written speech, which was read by the clerk, and was drawn up in a most proper decent manner, still regretting the plea he had been forced to offer of lunacy, and submitting entirely to the judgment of the house of peers.

The lord high steward then pronounced his sentence, having introduced it by a most proper exordium. The sentence was, that earl Ferrers should be hanged till he was dead, and his body should be delivered to the surgeons to be anatomized When he heard the sentence of hanging pronounced, he said, in a low voice, God's will be done; but when he heard he was to be anatomized, he said, with great emotion, God forbid; however, both parts of the sentence must be absolutely fulfilled. The law that enacts it passed no longer ago than the year 1752, and has no respect of persons; not even the king can commute the sentence. His majesty may reprieve from time to time, or he may pardon, but his majesty cannot alter the letter of the law. All the indulgence within the power of the lords in their legislative capacity was shewn to the prisoner; without that indulgence he must have been hanged on Monday the twenty-first instant, and till his execution, must have been sustained solely by bread and water, nor could any person be permitted to converse with him: instead of these severities (by a power vested in the judges of the court where the felon is tried) his death is postponed to the fifth of May, and his diet and manner of custody are entirely left to the discretion of the noble lord who presides [*] over the prisoners in the Tower, to their great happiness, and to his own great honour.

Thus concluded the trial of Lawrence earl Ferrers, who drew upon himself his own dismal catastrophe. Here let us close the scene, but not without remembring, that the last trial of any peer for murder was in the year 1699, above threescore years ago, when Edward, earl of Warwick and Holland, and Charles lord Mohun, were each severally tried for the murder of Richard Coote, Esq Lord Warwick was found guilty of manslaughter; lord Mohun was entirely acquitted. Lord Warwick claimed and received the benefit of his peerage, upon the statute of Edward VI. Lord Mohun (who in the year 1692 had been tried and acquitted, for the murder of Mr. Mountford the player) towards the latter part of queen Anne's reign, ended his life in a duel with the duke of Hamilton in Hyde-park.

I am, madam, Your most obedient, humble servant, A. B.
April 21, 1760.

Notes

*
Lord Keeper Henley.
↵

*
His name was William Johnson; he had been many years in the family.
↵

*
The attorney and sollicitor general; the former had opened the nature of the evidence, the latter concluded it.
↵

*
Charles, earl Cornwallis.
↵

TO THE Author of the LADY'S MUSEUM.

MADAM,

WHEN I sent you an account of the trial and condemnation of Lawrence, late earl Ferrers, I did not imagine that I should have been enabled to add to it an account of his execution; but my curiosity having conquered all other sensations, I was present at the catastrophe of that nobleman.

The particulars of his lordship's behaviour from the Tower to the place of execution, are published by order or permission of the sheriffs. To repeat those particulars would be needless; but give me leave, madam, by way of postscript to my last letter, to animadvert upon some passages of the earl's appearance and demeanour, which, except in one instance, drew pity and compassion from all the spectators. The instance I hint at, was his lordship's dress, of which he himself took notice to Mr. sheriff Vaillant. You may perhaps, Sir, said the earl, think it strange to see me in this dress, but I have my particular reasons for it Mr. Vaillant prest not to know those particular reasons, and they seemingly died with the noble criminal.

But the people, ever busy and inquisitive to fathom the deepest secrets, and to expose to light the most inward recesses of the soul, have loudly and unanimously declared, that the clothes which the earl wore, light cloth embroidered with silver, was the suit in which he was married, and that his lordship dated the source of his misfortunes from the day of his marriage. Unhappy wretched man! filled with whim, error, suspicions, malevolence, and a kind of insult, by no means to be excused, except as proceeding from a depraved imagination. At his trial, he had brought in his plea of lunacy. By his dress, he appeared to continue on that plea at the gallows. He forgave the executioner, he forgave all the world, but as he seems to have been a kind of fatalist, he forgave not his fate, which, according to his own wild imagination, led him by a suit of clothes to his ruin.

How erroneously do the thoughts stray, and how irregular and tempestuous are the passions, when the seat of sense and judgment is ever so little dislocated? or when the cool calm dictates of the christian religion are thrown aside or trampled upon?

The printed account continues to say, that his lordship asked the sheriff, if he had ever seen so great a concourse of people before? and upon his answering that he had not; I suppose, said his lordship, it is because they never saw a lord hanged before It is certain that no lord within the memory of the present age, had undergone the same catastrophe as was allotted to earl Ferrers. The executions of noblemen, during a great length of time, had been always performed by beheading, sometimes within the Tower gates, sometimes upon Tower-hill. In the reign of queen Mary the first, a lord was hanged at Salisbury. One peer only had ever preceded lord Ferrers at Tyburn, and as he was executed above four hundred years ago, his lordship was almost forgotten, although very particularly mentioned by most, if not all of our English historians. They inform us, that Roger Mortimer, earl of March, was treated with the utmost rigour; his impeachment, says Rapin, was brought before the parliament. By the expression, brought before the parliament, I presume the author means, that the commons had brought up an impeachment against him to the bar of the house of lords. The earl of March's crimes had long been so notorious and arbitrary, that he was condemned to die without any evidence being called to witness against him. It must have appeared therefore that the articles of his impeachment were universally known and acknowledged to be true, and the weight of them supplied every other evidence that could be wanted. How different were those times from these? Now, the meanest subject in the kingdom knows that when he is tried for his life, he cannot be tried but by the strictest, the fairest, and the minutest rules of equity, law, and justice. Then, the highest peer in the realm might be hurried and persecuted to his death, without any other legal authority than the outcry of the people, and the violence of an enraged parliament. Roger Mortimer, earl of March, was hanged on the common gallows at Tyburn, November 29, 1330, in the reign of Edward the third. The place of execution was then called Elms, his body continued hanging two days and two nights; a spectacle probably intended for the populace, who had justly held him in the utmost degree of abhorrence.

As the unfortunate earl Ferrers has not only paid the debt of nature, but of the law, humanity ought to dispose us to believe his lordship's asseveration, that he had not entertained the least malice against Mr. Johnson, whom he murdered. The reasons which he gave, support his lordship's assertion. I was, said the earl, under particular circumstances, I had met with so many crosses and vexations that I scarce knew what I did Where vexations and disappointments, joined to a lunatic disposition, affect the mind they often pervert the temper from chearfulness to melancholy, from freedom to suspicions, from calmness to rage, acrimony, and revenge. The blood becomes black and bilious, strange thoughts arise, continual uneasiness succeeds, rash actions follow, cruelties, murders, and suicide. Ah! wretched human kind! more wretched than the beasts of the field, more despicable than the reptiles of the earth; if deprived of reason, subject to lunacy, and visited by returning fits of madness.

Here let me close the scene, and only add that earl Ferrers died a christian without knowing that he was such. He devoutly repeated the Lord's Prayer, and his last words to the executioner were, I freely forgive you as I do all mankind, and hope myself to be forgiven He would have died an hero, had he expired in a virtuous cause; for, according to the sheriff's paper, From the time of his lordship's ascending the scaffold until his execution, his countenance did not change nor his tongue faulter. The prospect of death did not at all shake the composure of his mind.

I am, Madam, Your most humble servant, A. B.

ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN CONTINUED.

FROM this time may be dated the subjection of our island to the Roman emperors, or, more properly perhaps, to their legates, and propraetors. It is true, that the greater part of the island yet remained unconquered; but the defeat of Caractacus, and the constant torrent of success with which the Romans bore down all who resisted them, had at least struck an universal consternation, if not a terror, throughout the whole nation. The aversion which every British prince bore to his neighbours was often greater than the love which he bore to his country: the passion of hatred being in general more violent, and of longer duration, than the passion of love. Thus Carismantua betrayed Caractacus, not so much from the motives of fear or treachery, as from a desire of gaining the protection and assistance of the Romans against her husband Venutius and his whole family, whom she held in the utmost detestation.

The behaviour of Caractacus at Rome, when led in triumph, and as a public spectacle, was truly great. He appeared before the emperor with a decent, manly, composed countenance; and if we are to believe Cornelius Tacitus, he made a speech to this purpose:

If in my prosperity, the moderation of my conduct had been equivalent to my birth and fortune, I should have come into this city, not as a captive, but as a friend: nor would you, Caesar, have disdained to have entered into an alliance with a man born of illustrious ancestors, and powerful in the command of many colonies. My present fate is to me dishonourable: to you magnificently glorious. I once had horses; I once had men; I once had arms; I once had riches. Can you wonder, if I have lost all these unwillingly? although, as Romans, you may aim at the conquest of all mankind, it does not follow, that all mankind must submit to be your slaves. If I had immediately yielded without resistance, neither the perverseness of my fortune, nor the glory of your triumph had been so remarkable. Punish me with death, and I shall be forgotten. Suffer me to live, and I shall remain an eternal example of your clemency.

Much struck and awakened by the appearance of such a prisoner, the emperor ordered the chains of Caractacus and his family to be taken off; and Agrippina, who was more than an equal associate in the empire, not only received the captive Britons with great marks of kindness and compassion, but confirmed to them the enjoyment of their present liberty.

During the remainder of Claudius Caesar's reign, the Romans and the Britons went on in the same offensive and defensive manner, which they had practised for some years past. Skirmish succeeded skirmish. The victories were alternate; but the advantages were generally more on the Roman, than on the British side.

Nero, the son of Agrippina, by her second husband Caius Domitius Aenobarbus, succeeded Claudius, and ascended the imperial throne. In the beginning of Nero's reign, the government of our island was conducted in the same tract that had been pursued for some years past. Legate was sent after legate: procurator followed procurator; and as the wealth of the island increased, each governor became more tyrannical and rapacious.

At the landing of the first Caesar, the Britons were a people without riches, without commerce, without agriculture. At the accession of Nero, they were sufficiently rich to pay the tributes imposed upon them by the Romans: their present opulency arose from the number of their herds, from their experience in agriculture, and from the produce of their wool. Their herds of cattle were always numerous, and are mentioned as such by Caesar. Their improvements in agriculture were acquired by their intercourse with the continent; and their wool was reckoned of so fine a texture, that it was much esteemed, and sought after by foreigners. Our wool remains in the same degree of repute at this day.

From the defeat of Caractacus, the Britons were no longer looked upon as allies, but as tributary provincials to the empire of Rome: they were permitted indeed, in all controversies and rights, as were purely relative to themselves, to be determined by their own laws, and to be governed by their own princes; but in all public assessments, in levies for the army, and in many other instances, both the princes and the people, as far as the Roman arms had yet prevailed in the island, were equally subject to their conquerors. Their situation was particularly unhappy under Nero's government. The vices of that emperor soon grew to such a height, that the riches of the whole earth were insufficient to answer his demands. Every kingdom, every province in the world was taxed with great rigour; but the taxations imposed upon the Britons were more sensibly grievous and oppressive. Their state of bondage grew so very intolerable, that in the fifth year of Nero's reign, the Iceni, whose queen Boadicea and her two daughters had been treated in a most vicious, cruel, and ignominious manner, resolved to rise up in arms against the Romans. The Iceni were joined by the Trinobantes; and both these colonies put themselves under the command of the injured and outrageous Boadicea. Dio and Tacitus make the British army amount to an incredible number. There is no doubt that their forces were more numerous than had ever yet been assembled in Britain: and they judiciously chose to make this bold effort for their laws and liberty, at a time when Paulinus Suetonius, the Roman governor of Britain, was engaged in an attempt upon Mona [*], and had withdrawn all his forces into that island.

Boadicea, and her army were, at first successful; but alas! how very intoxicating qualities has success! The British heroine and her followers threw aside every sentiment of compassion, and became more inhumanly savage than their ancestors in the time of Julius Caesar. Their actions, as related by Dion Cassius, are too shocking to be related. Let us pass over them in silence, and if possible bury them in eternal oblivion.

Paulinus Suetonius, upon the alarm of such a sudden and extraordinary insurrection, reimbarked his troops; and, without the least loss of time, marched to London, which was then only inhabited by merchants; but, as Tacitus informs us, was a city remarkably well supplied with all kinds of provisions. Suetonius pressed forward with unwearied expedition, fully resolved to take the earliest opportunity of forcing the enemy to a general battle. The exact spot where the battle was fought is not known; but we are told, that Suetonius, by choosing a very advantageous piece of ground, and by drawing up his men with all the military conduct of an experienced commander, gained so compleat a victory, that Tacitus equals it to any of the glorious conquests obtained by the antient Romans.

Boadicea, as Dio represents her, was of a majestic presence, of a masculine countenance, tall in stature, with yellow hair.

This unfortunate Thalestris seems to have been a woman of a most intrepid spirit, and of a peculiar pride and fierceness, amounting even to barbarity. It is certain that she had received great injuries, such as might have provoked a milder disposition: but she had shewn herself so utterly void of pity, and had put in practice such cruelties against the Romans, that she drew upon her own subjects in some degree an equal portion of revenge. Not a Briton received quarter: not even the women [*], who had attended their husbands to the battle. Boadicea could not bear the thoughts of submission: as soon as the victory was determined, she put an end to her life by poison; and this, I believe, was the first instance, in which the Romans saw themselves imitated in suicide by a Briton; would to God it had been the last!

The Britons were now again subjected to the government, the disposal, and the tyranny of Rome. They remained so during the reign of Nero, without any material alteration, except the unhappy consequence taken notice of by Tacitus, who in his life of Agricola, says, ‘Even these barbarians began to relish now the softness of vice.’

What a bewitching power must luxury possess when it becomes too mighty, not only for the greatest fortitude, but the greatest fierceness of mind?

The Roman emperors who alternatively succeeded Nero, were Galba, Otho, and Vitellius. Their reigns were short, and during that space of time scarce any alteration happened in the government of Britain.

To Vespesian and his son Titus was reserved the glory of making a greater progress towards the entire conquest of the whole island than had been hitherto made by any of his predecessors. Wise princes chuse wise ministers. Vespasian appointed Petilius Cerealis, Julius Frontinus, and Cnaeus Julius Agricola, successively, to the government of Britain. They were three Romans of remarkable eminence, in dignity and reputation. The character of Agricola is drawn by his son in law Cornelius Tacitus. It is the most masterly performance of that historian's pencil. The picture is painted in the liveliest and the strongest colours, the attitudes are beautiful, and the outlines are just.

Agricola resided near eight years in Britain. He was established in that government by three successive emperors, Vespasian, and his two sons Titus and Domitian [*].

The political conduct of Agricola was not in the least inferior to his military prowess. He found the Britons already yielding to the temptations of luxury. He artfully encreased those temptations. He introduced the sciences of eloquence and architecture; and the islanders were so enchanted by the manners and customs of their enemies, that they not only applied themselves to learn the Roman language, but many of them even wore the Roman dress. It was a fortunate circumstance to Agricola, that in the very earliest part of his life, he had served in Britain under the command of some of the most eminent Roman governors, parcularly Paulinus Suetonius, and Petilius Cerealis, by both of whom he was personally esteemed and distinguished: nor was it less fortunate, that he had dedicated that part of his youth to speculative knowledge, and had diligently studied the genius and disposition of our forefathers. He had already observed, from experience, that the Britons were much more difficult to be forced than to be induced to yield. Generosity drew them into friendship and compliance; severity drove them into obstinacy and rebellion. They were extremely apt to imbibe and to imitate the manners of foreign nations. Those who were nearest to Gaul assumed the Gallic fashions and behaviour: and as the Romans were still a politer people, their national customs and elegancies were again more acceptable to the Britons; so that in some few years after Agricola's arrival as governor, he had the pride and satisfaction of seeing the Roman porticos, their baths and other buildings of magnificence imitated, and in a manner transferred into various parts of Britain. Tacitus makes a very true observation upon these improvements. He says, ‘The ignorant looked upon this as the beginning of humanity; the wise knew it to be one of the chief roots of slavery.’

But Agricola was, by no means, absolutely devoted to the arts of peace. He made use of policy only at those seasons, and in those places, where he could not exert his military conduct. He knew that the natural fierceness of the nation was too great, and too universal to be entirely reduced by any arts but arms. He began, although he had landed very late in the summer [*], by conquering the Ordovices; and as he had remembered them a perverse, mutinous, ungovernable people, he almost destroyed the whole colony: and then proceeded to Mona, with a resolution fully to complete the conquest of that island. This was a work which had been intended by Paulinus Suetonius, but it was left unfinished, upon account of Boadicea's insurrection.

Mona was originally inhabited by the Druids, and consequently was held in a most idolatrous veneration by the rest of the Britons It is separated from the greater island by a very narrow channel. Suetonius had invaded it with some degree of success. He had landed his soldiers in flat-bottom boats, and had utterly destroyed the temples, groves, and other places of worship, which the Druids had dedicated to religious murders, and to sacrifices of human victims. These holy seers, who, unfortunately for mankind, professed the art of divination, consulted the mysterious decrees of heaven, from the entrails of such ill-fated strangers, who by shipwreck, or any other accident, had been thrown upon their island; and from these impious rites, the British nation in general, was characterized as cruelly inhospitable to strangers.

The reduction of Mona was no very difficult task. The Roman soldiers swam over the river Maene, a sight that struck such terror into the inhabitants [*], that they surrendered the island without the least attempt towards an opposition.

The winter was employed by Agricola in an administration of justice, throughout the several provinces which he had conquered. He began by a strict reformation in his own houshold and dependents. He proceeded to as strict a disquisition into the conduct and discipline of the army. He excused faults, but he never failed to punish crimes. He was severe, but he was not cruel. He rather required than exacted taxes. He regulated the inequality of assessments, and by preventing all kinds of corruption, he suffered no iniquitous impositions to take place. He chose the obedience flowing from devotion, not the submission arising from fear. In veneration of such virtues, a real attachment to his person, and an humble imitation of his conduct, universally prevailed. His common soldiers became modest and regular: his chief officers generous and humane. The Britons found themselves happy under his government. He was their master, not their tyrant; and they so far complied wich his private advice and encouragement, especially as he pretended no command over their particular oeconomy, that they began, as has been already hinted, to build houses, erect temples, and exhibit various edifices of public resort.

The winter and the spring passed in works of this kind. Early in the summer, Agricola took the field. He made a farther progress into the island than had been attempted by any of his predecessors. He marched northward, and conquered the Brigantes and the Ottodini.

When he returned to his winter-quarters, he resumed his former plan of politics, and endeavoured to reconcile the ancient Britons, not only to the laws, the interest, and the power of the Roman Empire, but to the several refinements which the Romans had made in the more polite, or in truth, the more luxurious branches of their state.

The ensuing summer produced fresh laurels to Agricola. He penetrated into Scotland, and he advanced as far as the Frith [*] of Jay [‡]. In his march he did not meet with any opposition; but was so entirely unmolested, that he had sufficient leisure to build forts in the most advantageous situations. Tacitus says, that not one of the forts which had been erected by Agricola was ever taken, surrendered, or abandoned to the enemy. Such was the strength and perfection of these buildings.

The fourth year of Agricola's goverment, and the last of the reign of Titus, was passed in securing from invasions the most southern parts of Scotland, or what we may call the most northern parts of England.

The fifth summer was employed differently from any of the former. Agricola set sail with his army, not so much with an intention of conquering new nations, as of viewing the coasts and ports of Scotland, and of visiting the several little islands that lie dispersed in the Atlantic and Caledonian seas. In this expedition he had a view of Ireland; an island, says Tacitus, which in the soil and temperature of the air, and in the dispositions and fashions of the people, bears a near resemblance to Britain.

Agricola looked upon the conquest of Ireland as a step of importance to the Roman Empire. He represented it as such in his letters to Rome: and he positively intended a future descent upon that kingdom; but all his great designs were frustrated: Domitian reigned.

The remaining years of Agricola's government were passed very much in the same manner with the former. Skirmishes by land, and expeditions by sea, in summer; buildings and administration of justice during the other seasons. In most places, as soon as Agricola appeared he conquered. His reputation, and his high name, seem to have been as effectual as his arms; and indeed the records of history have scarce produced a greater man.

Domitian was of a most envious suspicious temper. He grew jealous of his propraetor's character: but the timidity and hypocrisy of his nature hindered him from an open, or an immediate declaration of his spleen. He suffered Agricola to hold the government till the year of Rome 837, and then he appointed Salustius Lucullus governor in his stead.

In this place our history becomes very obscure. The anecdotes of the state are almost as fabulous as the anecdotes of the church: but as we may be tolerably certain of the exact bounds of the Roman conquests in England and Scotland, they are a point worthy of remembrance.

A line or wall of fortifications was constructed by Agricola from the mouth of the river Forth to the mouth of the river Clyde. The several colonies on the south of that line had been entirely subdued, and were within the Roman pale: all the land beyond that line remained in a state of freedom, and was called Caledonia.

Domitian died in the year of Rome, 848. He was the last of the family of Vespasian, and of that set of emperors who were looked upon as most nearly allied in affinity to Julius Caesar. It is scarce worth while to take a retrospect of our ancestors at this particular period. The space of time indeed since the first invasion by the Romans amounts to near a century and a half; but the improvements of the Britons in literature are, by no means, equal to that interval. Their chief, and perhaps their only characteristic, was courage. Tacitus indeed lets drop one sentence that seems to reflect some little degree of honour upon the genius of the natives: he says, ‘Agricola took care, that the young British princes should be instructed in the liberal sciences; and in his own opinion, he preferred the natural faculties of the Britons to the acquired studies of the Gauls, as the former were now earnestly desirous to learn the art of eloquence, although they had lately shewn a dislike to the Roman language.’ Or in other words, ‘The Britons had long since wished to be taught, but till now they had detested their teachers.’

A thirst of knowledge is always reputed commendable; at least we are sure it is natural: but if we reject prejudice and speak truth, must not we own, that the arts and sciences are so many leading avenues to luxury? They instruct and they delight, but they soften and they enervate. They cannot conquer the causes of vice: they can only disguise the effects. Nay, even if we suppose, that they triumph over some passions; are they not apt to raise others of a worse tendency? Enquire into the original inhabitants of any nation; the inhabitants will be constantly and truly represented as courageous and indefatigable, because they were bred in woods, and accustomed to hardships. As soon as they were brought into cities; as soon as they had tasted pleasures, their alertness languished, and their courage melted away. This was the fate of the antient Britons. Agricola had sagaciously observed the errors of his predecessors, and he was determined to win his enemies by methods which no other governor had pursued. He recollected the fable of the traveller, who, while the wind blustered, and blew violently, kept on his cloak in defiance of Boreas, but when the sun appeared, when he felt the rays of Phoebus, he not only threw aside his cloak, but as the heat encreased, divested himself of every other garment. The successors of Agricola acted the part of Boreas. They were stormy and boisterous, but not successful. They afforded no sunshine.

The Caledonians, a brave and an unconquered people, lost no opportunities of driving back the Romans into the more southern parts of Britain. They were led on by Galgacus, who was a north Britain of great valour, and of high birth: he had made a considerable resistance, even against Agricola. It is a record for ever to the honour of the Caledonians, that they were not in the least infected by the contagious habits which had been introduced into South Britain. Their bravery was undaunted, and their manners were uncorrupted. The force of numbers had lately compelled them to take refuge amidst the Grampian mountains [*]; but as soon as Agricola was departed, they came forward in all their native valour; and, by their example and encouragement, animated the Britons to resume the spirit of their ancestors, and to join in the common cause of extirpating the Romans out of the kingdom. To execute so great a work could only be the effect of time. Roman colonies had been planted; intermarriages had been made; fortresses had been built; and what was the greatest impediment, luxury had been established, as so many preventive bulwarks against all essays of liberty and national prerogative: yet if we can gather any degree of truth from the slight and incongruous accounts of these times, the Britons and the Caledonians, during the reigns of Nerva and Trajan, had made some important efforts towards the principal design for which they had associated. Their progress, if we may believe the Scotch historians, was considerable; and they must soon have freed themselves from the Roman yoke, if the Emperor Adrian [*] had not come over in person.

The Roman general, Lucius Antonius, had been dangerously wounded, and his troops had been repulsed in a battle against the Caledonians. This was a circumstance of sufficient consequence to hasten Adrian to England: but neither the exact time of his arrival, nor his military actions in the island, can by any means be ascertained.

Two medals of this Emperor appear to be strong evidences, that he reduced the Britons to obedience.

On the reverse of one of the medals, is inscribed Britannicus On the reverse of the other, Restitutor Britanniae

During the reigns of the successive emperors, Antonius Pius, M. Aurelius, Commodus, Pertinax, and Didius Julianus. The few circumstances which are relative to Britain, differ only in names, as they are sometimes called battles, sometimes skirmishes, sometimes inroads, sometimes invasions. They may be said to continue the chain of the history; but it is an iron chain continued by wisps of straw.

[To be continued.]

Notes

*
The isle of Anglesey, in North Wales.
↵

*
The Britons were so confident of victory, that they carried with them their wives, in waggons, which were plated on the outward borders of the field.
↵

*
Vespasian died in about a twelvemonth after he had appointed Agricola governor of Britain. Titus did only out-live his father three years, and was succeeded by his brother Domitian.
↵

*
A. U. C. 830.
↵

*
The inhabitants now consisted not only of Druids, but of the Ordovices, and other neighbouring colonies, who, from time to time, had escaped from the pursuit of the Romans, and had taken refuge within the island.
↵

*
A Frith signifies the mouth of a river.
↵

‡
The Jay is one of the chief rivers in Scotland: it issues out of Loch Jay in Broadalbin, and running south-west, sails into the sea at Dundee.
↵

*
Mountains, which run from east to west, from near Aberdeen to Cowal in Argyleshire.
↵

*
The adopted son and successior of Trajan. He was by birth a Spaniard, and began his reign in the 118th year of the christian Aera.
↵

TO THE Author of the LADY's MUSEUM.

MADAM,

YOUR receiving and publishing the letters of other people, when without foreign assistance your Museum would be much more to the pleasure of your readers, shews that you resemble your predecessor, Mr. Bickerstaff, no less in candour than in wit; and now occasions this address to you, from an old maid, owes who no other favour to fortune than a noble birth, which, as it happened many years ago, intitled me to a good education; and produced me an agreeable reception for certain periods of time, among many families of my great relations; here as it was safest, I always preserved the character of a spectator only, in all domestic occurences: this has enabled me to judge a little to what effect the first principles, either inculcated in young minds, or taken up by them have upon their manners and conduct in maturer years.

The letter in the month of May signed W. M. after affirming that all women, and (for ought he knows all men) think grandeur and happiness synonomous terms, remarks with more justice, that the polite accomplishments are too promiscuously aimed at by all degrees of people for their daughters; but does not assign (in my humble opinion) the real, and more material reasons against it, but turns back to his first proposition, and displays the wide difference there is between riches, power, and titles, and heart-felt satisfaction: where I shall leave him at free liberty, to gather as many flowers as he pleases, out of so well stocked a garden as he has chosen to walk in; and only make some additional observations on the education of young ladies.

It has been my misfortune to see quite the reverse of what that gentleman complains of; not insignificant girls taught too much, but great ladies taught too little.

When I was about five and thirty, my cousin german, the countess of —, desired me to come and pass a year with her, in which she proposed going to Spa; and as her daughters were too young, she said, to be any amusement to her, she would leave them behind her. My situation in life, and inclinations for travelling, made me very readily accept her offer: and I took leave of my good aunt, Mrs. Ashgrove, who was almost as much delighted as myself with what she saw pleased, and hoped might be of service to me.

When I came to town, I was very much surprised to see two fine girls, the one about twelve, and the other ten, that did not open their mouths before their mother, and as I soon found very seldom saw her. My cousin was a very fine lady, dressed perfectly well, and gave the most elegant entertainments; she frequented the drawing-room every court-day, and generally preceded two assemblies, by a play, or opera, in the evening. My day was far advanced before hers began, who gave me an opportunity to see more of my young relations than she did. I observed they had about them a very ordinary Swiss woman, who was called their French governess: she treated them with insolence, and taught them a jargon no body else could understand. Their only reading was the news-papers, when the upper servants had done with them; as for writing or dancing, it was thought they were too young, and that their acquaintance with any of their own rank would only make them impatient, and wish for more liberty than their mother cared to give them. On talking to them, I found they did not want understanding; but was so perverted with the knowledge of their birth, and feeling of their slavery, that they were continually insulting, or insulted by the domestics they were obliged to converse with. The eldest had a great spirit, and was always saying, that when she married she would keep her servants in subjection, and no person should dare, tho' ever so great, to be impertinent to her. She always listened with great relish to any reflections made on her mother's conduct, in regard to the neglect of her children; which, to flatter the young ladies, the lower people would sometimes throw out, and treasured up a sufficient quantity of disobedience and contempt for her parents, whenever she should have an opportunity of shewing it. The youngest was of a gentler nature: she submitted to her fate, and made court to her mother's woman, whenever she wanted, or wished for a new cap, or a new coat, and to the groom of the chambers for lemonade and cakes, on those assembly nights which she spent above stairs.

I could not but grieve to see two creatures, that might have been the blessing of the countess's declining years, merely by her own fault, give such dreadful indications of proving the contrary. I endeavoured all I could to persuade her to carry them with us to Spa, which I knew would break thro' their present course of life, and force her to grow a little more acquainted with them, and they to be more informed what behaviour suited them: but it was all in vain. They were aukward hoydening things, she said, and so young, there was no making any thing of them.

Some years after, I heard that the eldest, being left at her father's country-seat, while he and her mother made a visit into a distant country, had run away with, and married an officer that came to raise recruits in the neighbourhood; and the younger had the next year a child by the butler.

Now, madam, is it not obvious to you, I am sure it was to me, that had both been better taught, better they would have acted? I must add, this gay, this accomplished woman, had both a sense of honour and chastity; and in a few weeks after the last misfortune I mentioned happened in the family, died of a broken heart. Oh, had she had religion enough to have taught it to her daughters! both by example and precept, might they not have repaid her ten fold, in gratitude and filial love? Had they learned their own and other languages in proper books, how delightfully might their time have been employed, in reading the stories of all ages and countries, where truth and propriety of conduct is proved to be our only happiness; and vice and folly, however long they totter on, are sure to fall, from whence they never can emerge again. Had she introduced them properly into the world, and given them the accomplishments suitable to the figure they ought to have made in it, might she not, like my lady Harvest (to whom I have the honour to stand in the same relation) have lived in continual thankfulness to the Almighty for preserving her, to find a new spring of joy revive in the autumn of her days, by seeing her children practise the prudent and tender virtues of a wife, and mother, fill the station of great ladies with dignity in themselves, obliging and entertaining conversation with their equals, kind and generous offices (without affected condescension) to their less prosperous acquaintance, humanity to their servants, and universal benevolence to all their fellow creatures.

Believe me, 'tis not ignorance, but knowledge, that produces these characters in life.

I am, madam, Your sincere admirer And humble servant, AGNES WOODBINE.

[The following Treatise on the Education of Daughters is written by the celebrated Archbishop of Cambray, and translated by a Friend of the Author of the Museum.]

CHAP. I. Of the Importance of the Education of Daughters.

NOTHING is more neglected than the education of daughters; custom, and the caprice of mothers, are for the most part absolutely decisive on that point. It is taken for granted, that a very little instruction is sufficient for the sex; whereas, the education of sons is looked upon as of principal concern to the public; and although there is scarce less mismanagement in this than in the bringing up of daughters, nevertheless people are fully persuaded that no small degree of discernment is requisite to insure success. How many masters do we see? how many colleges? what expence for impressions of books, for researches into the sciences, methods of learning languages, and choice of professors?

All these grand preparations have frequently more shew than solidity; however, they indicate the high notion people have of the education of boys. As for girls, say they, what necessity is their for them to be scholars; curiosity makes them vain and conceited; it is sufficient they learn in time how to govern their families, and to submit to their husbands without debate: and here they are ready to produce a number of known instances of women grown ridiculous by pretence to scholarship; after this they think themselves justified in blindly abandoning girls to the management of ignorant and indiscreet mothers: it is true we ought to be very cautious of making pedantick ladies. Women, for the most part, have less strength of understanding than men, but more curiosity; wherefore it is not proper to engage them in studies likely to disturb their heads. It is not for them to govern the state, direct the operations of war, or to interfere in the administration of religious affairs. Thus they may stand excused from those extensive articles of knowledge relative to politics, the art military, jurisprudence, theology: even the far greater part of the mechanic arts are not suitable to them. They are formed for gentler occupations: their bodies, as their understanding, are less vigorous, less robust than those of men; but nature, in compensation, has appropriated to them industry, neatness, and economy, and hence arises their taste for the calm duties of domestic life—But what are we to conclude from the natural weakness of women? the weaker they are, of the greater moment it is to give them strength. Have they not duties to fulfil, nay, duties on which the life of society depends? Is it not by them that families are ruined or upheld? they, who have the regulation of the whole train of domestic affairs, who have a general influence upon manners, and by consequence the sway in what most nearly affects all mankind.

A woman of judgment, application, and real piety, is the soul of a whole great family: she inspires that order, that prudence, and purity of manners which secure happiness here and hereafter. It is not in the power of men, tho' vested with all public authority, by their deliberations, to make any establishments effectually good, unless women are aiding in the execution.

The world is not a phantome: it is an assemblage of families; and who can adjust the government of them with more exactness than the women? They, besides their natural authority, and assiduity in their houses, have the further advantage of being born careful, minutely attentive, industrious, insinuating, and persuasive.

As for mankind, where else must they look for the comforts of life, if marriage, that closest of all alliances, shall be converted into bitterness? and children, who in their turn will be called mankind, what will become of them, if spoiled by their mothers from their infancy.

Observe the parts women have to act, they are not of less moment than those of the men; inasmuch as they have a house to regulate, a husband to make happy, children to bring up well; add that public virtue is no less necessary for the women than for the men. Without insisting on the good or evil import they may be of to the world, they are half of the human species redeemed by the blood of Jesus Christ, and destined to life eternal. Finally, to omit the good influence of women well brought up, let us consider the evils they are productive of, in defect of an education inspiring them with virtue. It is certain this defect in them is more mischievous than in men, because the irregularities of men frequently proceed from the bad education they have imbibed from their mothers, and from those passions other women have inspired them with in their riper years. What intrigues does history present to our view? What subversion of laws and morals? What bloody wars, innovations of religion, revolutions of state? all caused by the vices of women. These are proofs of the importance of a good education for girls. Let us next consider the means.

[To be continued.]

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

I passed the night in the utmost agitation, and after having formed a thousand different projects, all equally fruitless and impracticable, it came suddenly into my mind to burn the writings which were still in my possession, those now hated writings that proved our claim to the estates of the family of Lussan. I was astonished that I had not hit upon this expedient sooner, since it was the most effectual method I could take to put an end to a suit, the consequence of which I had so much dreaded.

It was not impossible but my father who had proceeded very far might be induced to terminate the affair amicably by my marriage with Adelaida; but although there should be no foundation for so pleasing a hope, yet I could not consent to furnish arms against what I loved. I reproached myself for having so long kept papers in my possession which ought to have been sooner sacrificed to my tenderness.

The reflection of the injury I did my father could not stop me a moment from the execution of this design. This estate was entailed upon me, and I inherited one left me by my mother's brother, which I could resign to him to procure his pardon, and which was much more considerable than that I was the cause of his losing.

There needed no more arguments to convince a man in love, and already determined. I went instantly to my closet for the little box which contained these papers. Never had I in my whole life experienced so happy a moment, as that in which I committed them to the flames. I was transported into rapture at the thoughts of so effectually serving the object of my passion.

If she loves me, said I, she shall one day know the sacrifice I have made for her; but if I am not so happy as to touch her heart, she shall always remain in ignorance of it. Why should I make her sensible of an obligation she would be sorry to owe to me? I would have Adelaida love me, but I would not have her think herself indebted to me. I confess, however, that after this action, I found myself imboldened to declare my sentiments to her, and the freedom with which I visited at her mother's, gave me an opportunity that very day.

‘I am going to leave you, charming Adelaida, said I, will you have the goodness to think sometimes of a man whose happiness, or whose misery you only can make?’ I had not power to go on: she seemed alarmed and confused, I thought also that I saw grief in her eyes.

‘You have heard me, resumed I trembling; give me some answer, I implore it of your compassion, speak one word to me.’

‘What would you have me say to you? replied she, with visible emotion; I ought not to have heard you, and still less ought I to answer you.’

Scarce did she give herself time to pronounce these words, she left me so suddenly. I stayed the rest of the day there, but I found it impossible again to speak to her alone. She avoided me carefully; she had an air of perplexity and confusion; how lovely did she appear to me with that perplexed air, and that sweet innocent confusion. My respect for her was equal to my love; I could not look on her without trembling, I dreaded lest my presumption had made her repent of her goodness towards me.

I should longer have observed a conduct so conformable to my respect for her, and to the delicacy of my own sentiments, if the necessity I was under of leaving her had not forced me to speak. I was willing to tell Adelaida my true name before I went away; but I dreaded this declaration even more than my former.

‘I perceive you avoid me, madam, said I to her. Alas! what will you do when you know all my crimes, or rather my misfortunes? I have imposed upon you by a false name, I am not the person you think me; I am, pursued I, trembling, with the violence of my apprehensions, the son of the count de Comminge.’

‘The son of the count de Comminge! cried Adelaida, with astonishment and grief in her face, our enemy, our persecutor! do not you and your father urge the ruin of mine?’

‘Oh do not wound me with so cruel a thought! interrupted I, tears in spite of myself, streaming from my eyes; in me, charming Adelaida, you behold a lover ready to sacrifice all for you; my father will never injure yours; my love secures him in your interest.’

‘But why, replied Adelaida, recovering from her surprize, why have you deceived me? why did you conceal your true name? Had I known it, pursued she, softly sighing, it would have warned me to fly from you.’

‘Oh, do not, madam, said I, taking her hand which I forcibly kissed, do not repent of your goodness towards me.’

‘Leave me, said she withdrawing her hand, the more I see you the more inevitable I render those misfortunes I too justly apprehend.’

The latent meaning of these words filled me with a transport that suffered nothing but hope to appear. I flattered myself that I should be able to render my father favourable to my passion. This belief so wholly possessed me, that I thought every one should think as I did. I spoke to Adelaida of my projects like one who is secure of success.

‘I know not, said she with a melancholy air, why my heart refuses to yield to the hopes you endeavour to inspire. I foresee nothing but misery in the course of this affair; yet I find a pleasure in feeling what I do for you: I have not hid my sentiments from you; I am willing you should know them, but remember that if there is a necessity for it, I am capable of sacrificing them to my duty.’

I had several conversations with Adelaida before my departure, and always found new cause to congratulate myself on my good fortune; the pleasure of loving and knowing that I was beloved, filled my whole heart; no suspicion, no fear for the future could disturb the tender softness of our interviews. We were secure of each other's affection, because esteem was the basis of it; and this certainty far from diminishing the ardour of our passion, added to it all the sweets of hope, and all the charms of confidence.

‘I should die with grief, said she to me, if I bring upon you the displeasure of your father; I would have you love me, but oh, I would rather have you happy!’

I parted from her at length, full of the most tender and most ardent passion that ever man felt, and my whole soul intent upon the design of rendering my father favourable to it.

In the mean time he was informed of every thing that had passed at the baths. The servant whom he had put about me had secret orders to observe my conduct; this man had left him ignorant of nothing, neither of my love, nor my quarrel with the chevalier de Saint Oden. Unfortunately the chevalier was the only son of one of my father's most intimate friends; this circumstance, and the danger to which he was reduced by his wound, turned every thing against me. The servant who had given him such exact informations, represented me to be much happier than I was. He described madam and mademoiselle de Lussan as full of artifice and design, as having always known me for the count de Comminge, and had spared no pains to seduce me.

Thus prejudiced, my father, naturally severe and passionate, treated me at my return with great harshness: he reproached me with my passion as with a crime of the blackest dye.

‘You have been base enough, said he to me, to love my enemies, and without reflecting what you owed either to me or to yourself, you have entered into engagements with those I hate, and I know not, added he, whether you have not done something still more worthy of my resentment!’

‘Yes, Sir, answered I, throwing myself at his feet, I am guilty, I confess, but I am so in spite of myself. At this very moment when I implore your pardon, I feel that no power on earth can tear from my heart that passion which offends you. Have pity on me, and oh! suffer me to say it, have pity on yourself, put an end to that hatred which disturbs the tranquillity of your life. The tenderness which the daughter of monsieur de Lussan and I felt for each other at first sight, seems a warning from heaven to you. Alas! my dear father, you have no other child but me! would you make me miserable and load me with misfortunes so much the more unsupportable as they will come from a hand I must ever love and revere? Suffer yourself, my dear father to be softened into forgiveness of a son, who has offended you only by a fatality for which he could not be answerable.’

My father, who had suffered me to continue kneeling during the whole time I was speaking to him, looked on me for a moment with mingled scorn and indignation.

‘I have, said he, heard you with a patience I am myself astonished at: I will still preserve composure enough to tell you what is the only favour you are to expect from me; you must renounce your ill-placed passion, or the quality of my son. Take your choice, and this instant deliver me the writings you have in your custody; you are no longer worthy of my confidence.’

If my father had suffered himself to be moved by my supplications, the demand he made of the papers would have greatly distressed me: but his harshness gave me courage.

‘Those writings, said I, rising, are no longer in my possession, I have burned them: but the estate I inherit of my uncle's shall be yours, instead of those they would have given you.’

I had scarce time to pronounce these few words. My father, mad with rage, drew his sword, and would doubtless have run me through, for I made not the least effort to avoid him, if my mother had not entered the room that instant, and threw herself, half dead with terror, between us.

‘Ah! what would you do, said she, gasping with the violence of her fears, is he not your son? Then forcing me out of the room, she ordered me to expect her in her own apartment.’

I waited there a long time before she appeared: she came at length. I had no longer rage, exclamation, and menaces to combat; but a tender mother, who entered into all my griefs, and intreated me with tears, to have companion on the condition to which I had reduced her.

‘What, my son, said she to me, shall a mistress, and a mistress whom you have known so short a time, be preferred to your mother? Alas! if your happiness depended upon me, I would sacrifice every thing to secure it; but you have a father who will be obeyed. He is upon the point of taking the most violent resolutions against you. Oh, my son! if you would not make me miserable, suppress a passion that will render us all unhappy.’

I remained some moments silent: how difficult was it to resist such a plea, so tenderly urged by a mother for whom I had the highest filial affection? but love was still more powerful.

[To be continued.]

PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONTINUED.

Of the Metamorphoses of ANIMALS, and the several Changes observable in ANIMAL LIFE.

BUT the most complete, and at the same time the most universal of all these metamorphoses is that wherein the animal appears in four several shapes: which is the case with much the greatest part of the winged inhabitants of the air of the infect tribe; some of which in their different states have been by turns tenants of earth, air, and water. Endless would it be to enumerate all the various genera of infects who undergo these changes. We shall therefore content ourselves, as in the last case, with only mentioning one of each sort, viz. Of those whose origin is water, and of those whose rise is from the earth.

Of the first, let the common gnat be taken for our example. This little delicate tender insect, which the gentlest touch will destroy, the least breath of wind waft upon its bosom, and the least drop of rain buries in its waves, yet first sees existence in that rough and turbulent element the water. There it is the parent lays her egg, which is hatched by some means we can little comprehend, (for heat can have no influence at the bottom of the water) comes out a little groveling worm, minute and unobservable; changing from this, however, it soon arises towards the surface of the water, where, hanging suspended on an air-bubble, no bad emblem of the general dependence of human affairs, it passes thro' a thousand fluctuations; now hurried onwards by the rapid power of tides, or the uncertain gust of winds varying at every moment, and now gliding smoothly on the calm even surface of a glassy dream, till at length seizing on the happy moment for deliverance from this suspence, it drops the slough which now envelops it, and mounting into air, quits and disdains alike its helpless state of infancy, and its precarious anxious situation when brought to somewhat more apparent ripeness. Reflect on this, oh man, and think what art thou but a poor insect, crushed before the moth!

As to the land metamorphosis of this compleatest kind, we need go no further to illustrate it, than to that useful animal the silk-worm, as he is perhaps the most perfect of this class of insects. His first state is, as that of all others of his kind, the egg. From this he issues a small black maggot, which, after having shifted many various coats, and increased his bulk to upwards of a thousand times its original size, weaves out of his own bowels a silken monument in which he lies interred for a short space, and then sallies forth an elegant fly, compleat in every part, and as different from the worm it sprung from as fire from earth, or any the most pure can be from the grossest being. In this most perfect state, he ranges through creation, seems to be diverted even of the necessities of nature (for in the fly-state none of those creatures take any food) and in short appears to be transformed into a perfect sylph, destined to nothing but the perpetuating of its species, which being once insured, it resigns its life as no longer worth the preservation.

To the first class of these changes may be referred every one of the gnat, midge, dragon-fly, and ichneumon class; and to the latter all the fly, moth, and butterfly species. Were we to enter into particulars, the detail would be endless. This sketch, however, may suffice to turn the soul of man to a reflection on the vicissitude and fluctuation of his own state, and to remind him that after the alterations he meets with in this life, which only lead him to that state of insensibility, that even the minutest insect seems obliged to pass thro' ere it can reach its limited degree of perfection; there must be some final state superior to them all, and which, with him, has the advantage denied to these symbols of his happiness, that it shall last to all eternity.

The LION PISMIRE, or Formica-Leo in it's Several States.

The Natural HISTORY of the FORMICA-LEO, or LION-PISMIRE.

Nature who has with the utmost care allotted to every species of animals its peculiar place of residence and its peculiar kind of food, has also with equal wisdom furnished every individual with the means of rendering such habitation the most commodious, and of procuring such food with the greatest ease. Numberless expedients, numberless stratagems has she instructed even the minutest insects in, for the ensnaring and over-powering those animals which she has destined to be his prey. Of these we shall in the course of this work relate many, of which, however, there are few more curious, and at the same time more simple than that of the little animal which now falls under our consideration.

The formica-leo, or lion-pismire, is a very small insect, not much bigger than a large emmet, which, however, notwithstanding its name, bears no resemblance to the pismire class, either in its figure or disposition. On the contrary, as the laborious ant ranges about every where with the greatest industry to find its food in the summer-time, and lay it up in storehouses for the winter; the animal we are speaking of keeps itself ever confined to a single spot, waiting with a most amazing degree of patience and perseverance for the supply of the present moment, as chance shall throw it in its way; nay, even when that chance has so far favoured him as to bring some devoted victim towards his cell, he instead of advancing forwards to lay hold on it, constantly retires from it, as if he seemed to make it a point that the destruction of it should be entirely its own act, or unavoidable misfortune.

The form of the lion-pismire is that represented at Fig. I. and II. in the plate annexed to this work, of which the first represents the back, and the other the belly, although both about four times as big as life. The body of it is of an annular texture, by which means the tail is rendered extremely pliable and apt for the use which we shall hereafter describe. It has six legs, placed as those of most insects are in the thorax. Its head is small and flat, and from the forepart of it two pretty long horns shoot out, and between them a pair of serrated or saw-like forcipes, wherewith it destroys and tears to pieces those creatures which are unfortunate enough to fall within its reach. The horns are about the sixth part of an inch in length, and bend like hooks in the extremity. Towards their insertion appear two small eyes very black and lively, and which are extremely serviceable to the creature, for he starts from the smallest objects he discovers. Other animals are furnished with wings, or feet at least, to render them expeditious in the pursuit of their prey. But this creature seems to make use of his legs for little more purpose than to bear him backwards from his prey, which as we have before observed must come to him. He is, however, provided with means of causing it to fall into the ambuscade he prepares for it. This is the only resource he has for subsistence, the only piece of skill that he is master of. That power, however, which has provided for every one whatever may be needful, has rendered this one knowledge sufficient for all his purposes whilst in his terrestrial state; for this creature, as we shall farther relate, undergoes some of those metamorphoses which we have before given an account of. His method of obtaining food is then as follows:

The place which he always chuses as fittest for the scene of action is a bed of dry sand, at the foot of a wall, or under some shelter where no rain can come at it, either to disconcert his work, or prevent the effect of his operations; which could by no means answer their intended purpose, were they to be attempted either in a solid soil, or in a moist sand, neither of which would be tractable to his tools, or become serviceable to the completion of his design.

He begins to work then, by bending the hinder part of his body which tapers into a point, and then plunging it like a plough-share into the sand, which he throws up in his rear with a backward motion of his body; and thus by repeating his efforts, and taking several rounds, he at last traces out a circular furrow, whose diameter always equals the depth which he intends to sink it. Near the edge of the first furrow he opens a second, and then a third, and so on to a great number, every one of which is smaller then the preceding one; sinking himself from time to time deeper and deeper in the sand, which he throws wide with his horns, still casting it up behind him with his rail as with a spade, and by the repeated strokes of his head whirling it out of the circle till he has compleatly formed his cell, which is a cavity in the form of an inverted cone, or the inside of a funnel.

This cell is larger or smaller in proportion to the growth, and consequently to the size of the animal; but in a full grown one, is sometimes upwards of two inches in diameter and as much in depth.

When this loose and unstable fabrick is thus finished, he forms his ambuscade in the center of it, concealing himself in such a manner under the sand, that his horns form an exact circle round the central termination, or apex of the cone. In this situation he remains entirely motionless watching for his prey, which is composed of small insects of many kinds, more especially the female ant, who being unprovided with wings, like the generality of insects, is less able to escape when once me falls into the snare. Other animals, however, are far from being safe from the dexterity of this skillful hunter. Fatal is the moment in which any one is so indiscreet as to venture near the edge of this precipice, which descending in a steep slope, and that formed of a light loose sand, immediately gives way, and hurries it down instantly to the center. But lest its own weight should not be sufficient to prevent its recovering a first false step, no sooner does our ambuscader perceive by the fall of some few grains of sand that a prize is near, than by shrinking back he removes the lower sand, and undermining the more extreme parts obliges the bank to break and roll down, bringing down with it, and at the same time overwhelming whatsoever happens to be near its verge.

It sometimes, however happens, that the insect thus entrapped being endowed with peculiar agility, or provided with wings, is able to rise above this first envelopement. In this case the lion-pismire defeats its efforts by whirling a large quantity of sand into the air by means of his tail above the height of the rising animal. This falling again in what to so tender a creature as a gnat, fly, or emmet, is equal to a dreadful shower of stones, the unfortunate insect beat down, overwhelmed by the tempest that pours down from every quarter, and hurried away by the instability of the sand which rolls from under his feet, falls between the serrated forcipes of his enemy, who plunging them into his body, drags it under the land, and there triumphantly feasts on his thus devoted victim.

This great end being brought about, and our voracious animal thus sated with an ample meal sucked from the juices of his prey, his next care is to remove the carcase, lest the appearance of a dead body should alarm others, and give notice of the fatal and treacherous nature of this seemingly inoffensive cavern. He therefore extends his horns, and with a sudden spring tosses the light exuvium of the slain to at least half a foot beyond the borders of his trench. And in case his habitation should in the course of one of these exploits be any way disconcerted or filled up, if the aperture becomes too large for the depth, or the declivity loses its proper slope, he instantly sets himself to work and repairs the whole, rounding, deepening, and clearing the cavity with a most amazing expertness; which done, he again conceals himself in the sand, and waits in an apparent state of inactivity for whatever shall fall next into his snare.

In the doing this his patience and perseverance are so great, and nature has provided him with such abilities for abstinence, that he sometimes passes whole weeks, nay months without motion, and what is still more surprizing without food itself.

The lion-pismire, hid at the bottom of his trench, and whirling the sand on an ant to prevent its regaining the bank, is represented at Fig. III.

The lion-pismire, however, as I have observed before, does not pass his whole life under the form we have here described. He is to become a fly; but before he can undergo so great and extraordinary a metamorphosis, it is necessary that he should pass through a period of temporary death, for which state he prepares in the following manner, building to himself a secure and convenient tomb, wherein he lies decently inurned till the appointed moment when he is to arise from his inactive state, and become the inhabitant of another element.

When the time comes for this resignation of his first life, he troubles himself no further about the order and form of his trench, but falls to work in the sand, striking out a great number of irregular tracks in it, with an eagerness that appears as if it was designed to throw him into a sweat. Be this as it will, it is certain that his body becomes at this time covered over with a viscous moisture, which as he rolls himself about in the sand, wherein he plunges himself in every direction, fixes and unites all the grains he touches. With these sandy particles and the dried glew that consolidates them, he forms a crust which encompasses his whole body like a little ball of five or six twelfths of an inch diameter (Vid. fig. IV.) Within this ball, however, he reserves to himself a sufficient space to move about; and as a bare wall of sand would be too harsh and cold for him to remain happily in, he lines it throughout with a kind of silk tapestry of his own weaving, composed of threads formed from his bowels, of a beautiful pearl colour, and infinitely surpassing in fineness that of the silk-worm. Yet whilst it is thus commodiously and elegantly furnished within-side, the exterior still retains the same rugged and undesirable appearance, by which it escapes the notice of birds and other animals of prey, who might perhaps be tempted by a more alluring outside.

In this situation he lives secluded from the world, for six weeks or two months, and sometimes more: at the end of which period nature having performed her secret work, he divests himself of his horns, paws, and skin, his spoils sink to the bottom of the ball, like a suit of cast-off cloathing, and his figure is then that of the nympha, represented greatly magnified, and in two different directions at Fig. V. and VI. when tearing away his tapestry and bursting his rocky enclosure, he comes out a perfect animal of the dragon-fly kind, furnished with four large filmy wings, with which he quits the obscurity of his former state; becomes divested of his barbarity and subtile inclinations, as well as of his cumbersome weight, and in short appears entirely a new animal, as is shewn in Fig. VII.

The animal before us, however, is not the only example of this kind of subtilty in the insect world. There has heen discovered another creature, which from the resemblance it has to the lion-pismire in the method of digging a trench for intrapping its prey, has been distinguished by the authors who have described it by the name of the vermis-leo, or lion-worm. But as what we have said of the formica-leo, will equally describe the method of this creatures procuring its food, we shall not trouble our readers with any farther detail concerning it; but content ourselves with only presenting them a drawing of it at Fig. VIII. in the annexed copperplate, in which a and b represent the worm in its first state, c shews the nympha, or second period of its life, and d the form of the fly, or last transformation.

THE LADY's GEOGRAPHY CONTINUED.

Of the MANNERS and CUSTOMS of the Inhabitants of AMBOYNA.

THE men and women do not go together to these feasts, as there are apartments in their houses appropriated to each sex, these islanders having certain laws which do not suffer all the relations of the husband to see his wife. The father, mother, and children of the same family, may indeed feed together, but not the father with the daughter-in-law, or with his grand daughters when grown up: the mother with her son-in-law or grandsons, or the brother and sister-in-law together. Nay more, they are not even permitted to see each other when eating, and if a man surprises a woman in that situation, by accident, for by design it never happens, he acquires a scandal which is not to be wiped away but by the means of making her some considerable present. The reason of this custom with respect to relations it is not easy to guess at; but as to the separation of the sexes in general, it may be supposed that jealousy, of which these people have a considerable share, must be the sole cause of it.

One of the principal dishes which the Amboynians make use of in their feasts, is a hog's head, with a lemon fixed between the jaws, and adorned with a number of flowers of a very beautiful red, called Bongayraya. This dish is always placed before those persons who stand in the highest estimamation; the other parts of their pork is dressed in many different ways, but in every one of them with exceeding high and savory seasonings. If they have fish, the head is always presented to the king of the feast, who is himself for that reason called Kapalakan, or Fish-Head; of which, when he has taken as much as he thinks proper, he distributes the remainder among those who sit near him. The turtle is one of their great delicacies, which they stew at a distance from the fire, without any other liquor than the juices of the animal: but they afterwards add to it a great quantity of seasoning. The cocoa, seago, and rice also, prepared in various methods, form several dishes in their entertainments; and of the two latter their bread is composed.

They have great quantities of venison and wild-fowl, of which they are very fond, as also of the bat, dressed after a particular manner. There is a kind of white worm, which is found in the rotten wood of the seago tree, of about the length and thickness of the first joint of a man's thumb, which they roast on little skewers, and eat very greedily; as they do also the wawos, or reddish worms we mentioned to be sound on the sea coast. These are to be met with in great abundance along the shore, especially in stony places, about the season of the April full moon. In the night time they give a light like the glow-worm, which seems to invite people to go in search of them; which they do, every one laying in his stock at once, because they make their appearance only for about three or four days in the whole year.

In these feasts, the victuals are ever dressed by the women, but they are always served in by men. The principal care of the master of the feast, is that there may be no want of victuals; every guest has one large vessel set before him, containing several little dishes which are filled with all kinds of food, and after he has eaten his fill of this allowance, the rest is carried home to his house by the servants.

Their chief drink is spring water, or the milk of the cocoa-nut. By way of wine they make use of the towak or sin, which is extracted from a tree of that name, and the saguweer which distils from another, and has nearly the taste of wormwood-wine. Their stronger liquors are the rack and brom made from rice, and two other kinds of spirit, which they get from Japan and China. They are very fond of the French and Spanish wines, but do not greatly relish the German. The women keep mostly to water, although they are by no means averse to the drinking of Spanish wine, were the means of procuring it more accessible to them. The use of tea and coffee is not very familiar to the Amboynians; yet they sometimes take the former, especially when they are visited by the Dutch, to whose customs, whenever they come to any of their repasts, they accommodate themselves as much as possible.

Their manner of kindling fires is much readier than ours; they rub two pieces of wood against each other, the one hard, the other soft and hollow, near which they hold a bit of lint, which kindles in an instant. For the making of salt, they take the pieces of old worm-eaten wood which the sea throws up on the shore: these they dry and reduce to ashes, sprinkling them continually with sea-water, till they form a mass of salt underneath them, or else boil up the same water in a pot with the ashes of certain leaves for two or three days successively, at the end of which they find a quantity of very good salt at the bottom of the vessel.

THE LADY's MUSEUM.
The TRIFLER. [NUMBER V.]

THE Arabian proverb, Shut the windows that the house may be light, is supposed to contain some great mystery; and indeed it must be confessed that it has very much the air of a paradox: but whatever explication the wise and the learned may give to this sentence, it seems not unaptly applied to that gay part of my own sex so improperly called fine ladies, the business of whose lives it is to dress, to play at cards, to simper in the drawing-room, to languish at an opera, and coquet at a play, whose eyes being perpetually dazzled by the glare of folly and impertinence, are too weak to bear the steady ray of reason: their minds therefore are always dark; and ignorance, like a thick cloud, wraps them up in impenetrable gloom. To such as these then I will suppose the Arabian sage cries, Shut the windows that the house may be light

The fine lady has no other use for her eyes but to sparkle and languish; reading would spoil their lustre, and incroach upon that precious time which is all devoted to pleasure. What advantage can she derive from books? will they teach her how to improve her complexion, and repair the ravages made by time in her face? Can morality, learning, and wit, instruct one who exercises her memory only upon cards, and has sufficient employment for her judgment, in chusing a suit of ribbons, or a brocade? Who never knew, what it was to think seriously for a single moment; and whose mind can entertain no other ideas but what dress and quadrille inspire.

Yet of such poor materials as these a coquet is made, one who lays claim to boundless dominion, who expects to subject all hearts to her sway, and dispense happiness and misery, life and death, with a smile or frown.

That a creature so despicable as this is capable of doing a great deal of mischief, the following letter will shew; and I do not doubt but by publishing it I shall oblige my readers as much as the unhappy writer who makes it her request.

TO THE AUTHOR of the TRIFLER.

MADAM,

I Thank you for publishing the letter signed Perdita: it was a prelude to my unhappy story, which I am desirous the world should know; yet for the sake of him, who in spite of all the wrongs he has done me will be ever dear to me, I shall disguise the names of persons and places.

The facts I relate will point out the guilty only to themselves; but they will display a character, which of all others is the most dangerous to the peace of families, and to which all my misfortunes are owing.

At sixteen I was taken from the boarding-school by my mother, to have my education finished by a commerce with the fashionable world; but I received much less improvement from those lessons of politeness than from the solid instructions of my father, who was a man of sense and learning, and who took pleasure in cultivating my mind.

As my fortune was very considerable, I soon had a sufficient number of admirers; and I thought myself extremely happy in being able to touch the heart of a young gentleman, who, even before he declared his passion, had engaged my tenderest affection.

He soon obtained my consent to demand me of my parents; his birth was at least equal to mine, his fortune superior, and his character unexceptionable: my parents therefore thought they disposed of me very happily by giving me to him.

A few weeks after our marriage my husband carried me to his country-seat; the beauty of the place, my taste for retirement, and the tender behaviour of the man I passionately loved, left me nothing to wish for, and I could have been content to spend my whole life in this delightful abode.

We had lived here near a year without my husband expressing the least inclination to return to town, when I took it into my head to surprise him agreeably with the company of a young lady who had been my school-fellow, and for whom I had a very great friendship.

I wrote to her, and invited her to spend a few months with me; the spring was now far advanced, and I gave her a most romantic description of my charming retreat, in order to induce her to comply, with my request.

She answered my letter with a great deal of common place rallery upon the country, and my rusticated taste, and positively refused to come.

I shewed her letter to Alcander, so let me call my husband: he smiled when he read it. ‘This is a fine modish lady, said he, bewitched with the pleasures of the town; pray insist upon her coming hither, that we may make a convert of her.’

Charmed to have it in my power to oblige him, I wrote to her immediately in such pressing terms to favour me with a visit, that I drew a promise from her to comply, and a few days afterwards her maid arrived early in the morning, and told me her lady was following in a post-chaise, and had sent her before to spread her toilet and prepare every thing for her dressing as soon as she arrived.

I observed Alcander smile archly at these words, and at the sight of a great number of trunks and band-boxes, which the servant had brought with her. From several things that were said by this girl, I observed that her lady was grown extremely fantastical; and I was a little out of countenance when I reflected, that I had done no honour to my judgment, by introducing her as my friend to Alcander. Alas! madam, how little did I then imagine that this flighty creature was to rob me of my husband's affections!

When she arrived, her appearance did not contradict the opinion we had formed of her; every look and motion, the sound of her voice, and the turn of her expressions, were calculated to suit, by a pretty effronterie, the masculine graces she derived from her hat and feather.

I perceived that she was struck with my husband's figure, and my vanity was soothed by it. Doubtless she did not expect to see the fine gentleman and the tender husband united in the person of my then faithful Alcander. Ah, how dearly have I since paid for the short triumph I then enjoyed!

I attended Belinda, so let me call her, to her apartment; and here, being witness to a great deal of lively impertinence which escaped her, I could not help telling her, with an ironical smile, ‘That she was prodigiously improved since she left the boarding-school.’

I was afraid she would have been offended by the manner in which I spoke these words; but, to my great surprize, she answered, with a low courtesy and a smile of self-approbation, ‘My dear, I am vastly obliged to you.’ I left her in her dressing-room, to join Alcander in the garden, who diverted himself extremely with her ridiculous affectation.

We did not see her till dinner was served; and then she appeared in full dress, curled, powdered, and patched, as if she had been going to an assembly. The moment she saw Alcander her eyes fell to work, and there was nothing but ogling all dinner-time; whenever she spoke to him, her voice was softened, and her mouth screwed into a thousand different forms.

I might perhaps have been early alarmed at this solicitude to attract the notice of my husband, had I not observed her practice the same airs upon the fellow that waited behind her chair, who, whenever he helped her to any thing, was sure to be met with a sparkling glance, that seemed to solicit his admiration also; for vanity will, as the poet says, Prey upon garbage

I have now brought my story to that point from whence I may date all my sufferings: my heart is too full at present to permit me to proceed; I will take another opportunity to give you the sequel, and am, Madam,

Your obliged Humble Servant, PERDITA.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT and SOPHIA CONTINUED.

DOLLY, though encouraged by the sweet condescension of Sophia, who, to inspire her with confidence, freely acknowledged the situation of her own heart, blushed so much, and was in such apparent confusion, that Sophia was concerned at having made her a request which gave her so much pain to comply with.

At length the innocent girl, looking up to her with a bashful air, said, ‘I should be ashamed, dear Miss, to own my weakness to you, if I did not know that you are too generous to think the worse of me for it: to be sure I have a great value for Mr. William; but I was not so foolish as to be taken with his handsomeness only, tho' indeed he is very handsome, and I am delighted to find that you think him so; but Mr. William, as my father can tell you, madam, is a very fine scholar: he was educated in a great school at London, and there is not a young squire in all this country who has half his learning, or knows how to behave himself so genteely as he does, though his father is but a farmer: however, he is rich, and he has but one child besides Mr. William, and that is a sickly boy, and not likely to live; so that Mr. William, it is thought, will have all.’

‘I should imagine then, said Sophia, that this young man would not be a bad match for you?’

‘A bad match, replied Dolly, sighing: no certainly; but his aunt looks higher for him: yet there was a time when she was well enough pleased with his liking me.’

‘What is his aunt, said Sophia, and how does it happen that she has any authority over him?’

‘Why you must know, madam, answered Dolly, that his aunt is very rich; when she was a young woman, a great lady took a fancy to her, and kept her as her companion a great many years, and when she died, she left her all her cloaths and jewels, and a prodigious deal of money: she never would marry; for she was crossed in love, they say, in her youth, and that makes her so ill natured and spiteful, I believe, to young people; but notwithstanding that, I cannot help loving her, because she was always so fond of Mr. William: she is his god-mother, and when he was about ten years old she sent for him to London, and declared she would provide for him as her own; and indeed she acted like a mother towards him: she put him to school, and maintained him like a gentleman; and when he grew up, she would have made a gentleman of him; for she had a great desire that he should be an officer.’

‘Mr. William at that time was very fond of being an officer too; but as he was very dutiful and obedient to his father, indeed Miss Sophia he is one of the best young men in the world, he desired leave to consult him first; so about a year ago he came to visit his father, and has never been at London since; and he had not been long in the country before he changed his mind as to being an officer, and declared he would be a farmer like his father, and live a country life.’

‘Ah Dolly, said Sophia smiling, I suspect you were the cause of this change, my friend.’

‘Why indeed, replied Dolly, he has since told me so: but perhaps he flattered me when he said it; for, ah my dear Miss, I remember what you said just now about the deceitfulness of men, and I tremble lest Mr. William should be like the rest.’

‘Well, my dear, interupted Sophia, go on with your story; I am impatient to know when you saw each other first, and how your acquaintance began.’

‘You know, madam, said Dolly, my father keeps us very retired: I had no opportunity of seeing Mr. William but at church; we had heard that farmer Gibbons had a fine son come from London, and the Sunday afterwards when we were at church, my sister, who is a giddy wild girl, as you know, kept staring about, in hopes of seeing him. At last she pulled me hastily, and whispered, look, look, Dolly, there is farmer Gibbons just come in, and I am sure he has got his London son with him, see what a handsome young man he is, and how genteely he is drest!’

‘Well, madam, I looked up, and to be sure I met Mr. William's eyes full upon me; I felt my face glow like fire; for as soon as I looked upon him, he made me a low bow. My sister courtesied; but for my part, I don't know whether I courtesied or not: I was never so confused in my life, and during the whole time we were at church, I scarce ever durst raise my eyes; for I was sure to find Mr. William looking into our pew.’

‘I suppose you was not displeased with him, said Sophia, for taking so much notice of you?’

‘I do not know whether I was or not, replied Dolly; but I know that I was in a strange confusion during all church-time; yet I observed that Mr. William did not go out when the rest of the congregation did, but staid behind, which made my sister laugh; for he looked foolish enough standing alone. But he staid to have an opportunity of making us another bow; for it is my father's custom, as soon as he has dismissed the people, to come into our pew and take us home with him. I never shall forget how respectfully Mr. William saluted my father as he passed him. I now made amends for my former neglect of him, and returned the bow he made me with a very low courtesy.’

‘Fanny and I talked of him all the way home: I took delight in hearing her praise him; and although I was never used to disguise my thoughts before, yet I knew not how it was, but I was ashamed to speak so freely of him as she did, and yet I am sure I thought as well of him.’

‘I dare say you did, said Sophia, smiling; but my dear, pursued she in a graver accent, this was a very sudden impression. Suppose this young man whose person captivated you so much, had been wild and dissolute, as many young men are; how would you have excused yourself for that early prejudice in his favour, which you took in so readily at your eyes, without consulting your judgment in the least?’

Dolly, fixing her bashful looks on the ground, remained silent for a moment; then sighing, answered, ‘I am sure if I had not believed Mr. William good and virtuous, I should never have liked him, tho' he had been a hundred times handsomer than he is; but it was impossible to look on him and think him otherwise; and if you had observed him well, Miss Darnley, his countenance has so much sweetness and candor in it, as my father once said, that you could not have thought ill of him.’

‘It is not always safe, said Sophia, sighing likewise, to trust to appearances: men's actions as well as their looks often deceive us; and you must allow, my dear Dolly, that there is danger in these sudden attachments; but when did you see this pretty youth again?’

‘Not till the next Sunday, replied Dolly; and tho' you should chide me never so much, yet I must tell you that this seemed the longest week I ever knew in my life. I did not doubt but he would be at church again, and I longed impatiently for Sunday. At last Sunday came; we went with my father as usual to church, and would you believe it, Miss Darnley, tho' I wish'd so much to see Mr. William, yet now I dreaded meeting him, and trembled so when I came into church, that I was obliged to take hold of Fanny to keep me from falling. She soon discovered him, and pulled me in order to make me look up: he had placed himself in our way, so that we passed close by him. He made us a very low bow, and my mother, who had not seen him before, smiled, and looked extremely pleased with him; for to be sure, Madam, she could not help admiring him.’

‘Well, I was very uneasy all the time we were in church; for Fanny whispered me that my sweet-heart, for so she called Mr. William, minded nothing but me. This made me blush excessively, and I was afraid my mother would take notice of his staring and my confusion; so that (heaven forgive me) I was glad when the sermon was ended. He made us his usual compliment at our going out, but I did not look up: however, I was impatient to be alone with Fanny, that I might talk of him, and in the evening we walked towards the Park. Just as we had placed ourselves under a tree, we saw a fine drest gentleman, a visitor of the Squire's as we supposed, coming up to us: upon which we rose and walked homewards; but the gentleman followed us, and coming close to me, stared impudently under my hat, and swearing a great oath, said I was a pretty girl, and he would have a kiss. Fanny seeing him take me by the arm, screamed aloud; but I, pretending not to be frightened, tho' I trembled sadly, civilly begg'd him to let me go. He did not regard what I said, but was extremely rude; so that I now began to scream as loud as Fanny, struggling all the time to get from him, but in vain, and now who should come to my assistance but Mr. William: I saw him flying across a field, and my heart told me it was he, before he came near enough for me to know him.’

‘As soon as Fanny perceived him, she ran to him and beg'd him to help me; but he did not need intreaty: he flew like a bird to the place where I was, and left Fanny far behind. The rude gentleman bad him be gone, and threatened him severely; for he had taken the hand I had at liberty, which I gladly gave him, and insisted upon his letting me go: and now, my dear Miss Darnley, all my fears were for him, for the gentleman declared if he did not go about his business he would run him through the body, and actually drew his sword; I thought I should have died at that terrible sight; my sister run towards home crying like one distracted; as for me, tho' the man had let go my hand, and I might have run away, yet I could not bear to leave Mr. William to the mercy of that cruel wretch; and I did what at another time I should have blushed to have done. I took his hand, and pulled him with all my force away; but he, enraged at being called puppy by the gentleman, who continued swearing, that he would do him a mischief, if he did not leave the place, begged me to make the best of my way home; and turning furiously to him who was brandishing his sword about, he knocked him down with one stroke of a cudgel which he fortunately had in his hand, and snatching his sword from him, he threw it among the bushes.’

‘Upon my word (said Sophia) your William's character rises upon me every moment; this was a very gallant action, and I do not wonder at your liking him now.’

‘Ah, Miss (cried Dolly) if you had seen how he looked when he came back to me, if you had heard the tender things he said—Well, you may imagine I thanked him for the kindness he had done me, and he protested he would with pleasure lose his life for my sake. I think I could have listened to him for ever; but now my father appeared in sight. My sister had alarmed him greatly with her account of what had happened, and he was coming hastily to my assistance, followed by my mother and all the family. As soon as we perceived them coming we mended our pace; for we had walked very slowly hitherto: then it was that Mr. William, who had not spoke so plainly before, told me how much he loved me, and begg'd I would give him leave to see me sometimes. I replied, that depended upon my father, and this was prudent, was it not, my dear Miss Darnley?’

‘Indeed it was, answered Sophia, but what said your lover?’

‘He sighed, Madam, resumed Dolly, and said he was afraid my father would not think him worthy of me: he owned he was no otherwise worthy of me than from the great affection he bore me, and then—But here I fear you will think him too bold and perhaps blame me.’

"I hope not, said Sophia."

‘Why, Madam, continued Dolly, he took my hand and kissed it a thousand times; and tho' I did all I could to be sure to pull it away, yet he would not part with it, till my father was so near that he was afraid he would observe him; and then he let it go, and begg'd me in a whisper not to hate him. Bless me, what a strange request that was, Miss Darnely! how could I hate one to whom I had been so greatly obliged! I was ready to burst into tears at the very thought, and told him I was so far from hating him, that —’

‘Pray go on, my dear (said Sophia) observing she hesitated and was silent.’

‘I told him, Madam, resumed she, that I would always regard him as long as I lived.—I did not say too much, did I?’

‘I suppose, said Sophia, you gave him to understand that it was in gratitude for the service he had done you.’

‘To be sure, said Dolly, I put it in that light. Well I am glad you approve of my behaviour, Miss Darnley; so, as I was telling you, my father came up to us, and thanked Mr. William for having rescued his daughter; he then asked him what he had done with the rude fellow? Mr. William told him he had given him a lucky stroke with his cudgel, which had made him measure his length on the ground; but, said he (and sure that showed excessive good nature) I hope I have not hurt him much:’

‘My father said he would go and see; and then shaking Mr. William kindly by the hand, he called him a brave youth, and said he hoped they should be better acquainted—Oh! how glad was I to hear him say so: My mother too was vastly civil to him; and as for Fanny, I thought she would have hugg'd him, she was so pleased with him for his kindness to me. My mother insisted upon his staying to drink tea with us, and as soon as my father came back, we all went in together.’

‘Pray what became of the poor vanquished knight? said Sophia, smiling.’

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, resumed Dolly, that my father said he saw him creeping along as if he was sorely bruised with his fall, supporting himself with his sword, which it seems he had found. We were all glad it was no worse, and Mr. William having accepted my mother's invitation, he staid with us till the evening was pretty far advanced; and then my father accompanied him part of his way home, and at parting, as he told us, desired to see him often.’

‘He was not backward, you may be sure, in complying with his request: he came so often, that my father was surprised; and besides, my sister and I scarce ever went out to walk but we met him; so that one would have imagined he lived in the fields about our house. My mother at last suspected the truth, and questioned me about him, and I told her all that he had ever said to me; and not long afterwards he took an opportunity to open his heart to my father, and asked his permission to make his addresses to me. With such modesty and good sense he spoke, that my father was extremely pleased with him; but told him that he must consult his friends, and know whether they approved of it, and then he would consider of his proposal. Mr. William, as he afterwards told me, wrote to his aunt first; for he was well assured that his father would agree to any thing that she thought for his advantage.’

‘He had a very favourable answer from Mrs. Gibbons, for she had changed her mind also, with regard to his being an officer, as war was then talked of; and she was afraid of his being sent abroad. He shewed me her letter, and she told him in it, that since he was resolved to settle in the country, she approved of his marrying; and was glad he had not fixed his affections upon some homespun farmer's daughter; but had chosen a gentlewoman, and one who was well brought up. She added, that she intended to come into the country, in a few weeks; and if she found the young lady (so she called me) answered his description, she would hasten the marriage, and settle us handsomely.—Oh! how pleased was I with this letter, and how did it rejoice Mr. William!’

‘I should never have done, were I to tell you all the tender things he said to me. Mr. Gibbons, at his son's desire, came to my father, and begged him to give his consent, which he obtained; for my father had well considered the affair before: and nothing was wanting but Mrs. Gibbons's arrival to make us all happy. Mr. William thought every hour an age till she came, and prest her continually in his letters to hasten her journey.’

‘Alas! if he had known what was to happen, he would not have been so impatient; for soon after she came, all our fine hopes were blasted; and I have now nothing to expect but misery.’

Poor Dolly was so oppressed with grief, when she came to this part of her story, that she was unable to proceed, and burst into tears. The tender Sophia, who was greatly affected with the anguish she saw her in, employed every soothing art to comfort her. And Dolly being a little composed, was going to continue her story, when she saw her sister looking about for them; Sophia and she immediately rose up and joined Fanny, who rallied them both upon their fondness for lonely places; but perceiving that Dolly had been weeping, she immediately became grave, and accommodated her looks and behaviour to the gentle melancholy of her sister.

Sophia, from the state of her own mind, was but too much disposed to sympathize with the love-sick Dolly: these softning conversations were ill calculated to banish from her remembrance, the first object of her innocent affections; and who, with all his faults, she still loved. Dolly's story awakened a thousand tender ideas, and recalled to her memory every part of Sir Charles's conduct, which had any resemblance to that of the faithful and passionate William.

She dwelt with tender regret upon these pleasing images, and for a while forgot how necessary it was for her peace, to suppress every thought of Sir Charles, that tended to lessen her just resentment against him.

But, good and pious as she was, the passion she could not wholly subdue she regulated by reason and by virtue; for, as an eminent Divine says, ‘Although it is not in our power to make affliction no affliction; yet we may take off the edge of it, by a steady view of those divine joys prepared for us in another state’

It was quite otherwise with Sir Charles: for the guilty, if unhappy, are doubly so; because they are deprived of those resources of comfort, which the virtuous are sure to find, in the consciousness of having acted well.

Sir Charles, upon finding his settlement sent back to him, in such a manner, as shewed not only the most obstinate resolution to reject his offers, but also a settled contempt for the offerer, became a prey to the most violent passions: rage, grief, affronted pride, love ill requited, and disappointed hope, tormented him by turns; nor was jealousy without a place in his heart; the chaste, the innocent, the reserved Sophia, became suspected by the man, who in vain attempted to corrupt her; so true it is, that libertinism gives such a colour to the actions of others, as takes away all distinction between virtue and vice.

Love, he argued, is either rewarded with a reciprocal affection, or with an inward and secret contempt; therefore he imputed Sophia's rejection of his offers, not to her disapprobation of the intention of them, but to want of affection for his person; and from her youth, and the tender sensibility of her heart, he concluded, that since he had failed in making an impression on it, it was already bestowed on another; one while he resolved to think no more of her, and repay her indifference and disdain, with silence and neglect; the next moment, dreading lest he had lost her for ever, he regretted his having alarmed her with too early a discovery of his intentions, and sometimes his passion transported him so far, as to make him think seriously of offering her his hand: then starting at his own weakness, and apprehensive of the consequences, he sought to arm himself against that tenderness which suggested so mad a design, by reflecting on her indifference towards him, and accounting for it in such a manner, as fixed the sharpest stings of jealousy in his mind.

Thus various and perplexed were his thoughts and designs; and he was incapable of resolving upon any thing, except to see her; and so great was his impatience, that he would have set out for London, the moment he received the fatal paper, but decency would not permit him to leave his uncle, who was in a dying condition, and wished only to expire in his arms.

The poor man, however, lingered a week longer, during which Sir Charles passed some of the most melancholly hours he had ever known; at length, his uncle's death left him at liberty to return to London, which he did immediately, and alighted at Mrs. Darnley's house. Upon hearing she was at home, he did not send in his name, but walked up stairs with a beating heart; he found Mrs. Darnley, and Harriot together, but not seeing the person, whom he only wished to see, he cast a melancholy look round the room, and answering, in a confused, and dejected manner, the mother's excessive politeness, and the cold civility of the daughter, he threw himself into a chair, with a deep sigh, and was silent.

So evident a discomposure pleased Mrs. Darnley as much as it mortified Harriot. As for Sir Charles, pride and resentment hindered him at first from enquiring for Sophia; but his anxiety and impatience to hear of her, soon prevailed over all other considerations; and tho' he asked for her with an affected carelessness, yet his eyes, and the tone of his voice betrayed him.

Mrs. Darnley told him, that she was gone into the country: ‘Very much against my inclination, said she: but Mr. Herbert, who you know, Sir, has great power over her, more I think, than I have, would have it so.’

Sir Charles turning as pale as death, replied, in great emotion, ‘What! gone into the country; where is she gone, to whom, why did she go? Against your inclination, did you say, Madam, what could possibly induce her to this? You surprise me excessively.’

Harriot, who did not chuse to be present at the explanation of this affair, now rose up, and went out of the room, smiling sarcastically, as she passed by Sir Charles, and bridling with all the triumph of conscious beauty. He, who was in a bad humour, beheld her airs not only with indifference but contempt, which he suffered to appear pretty plain in his countenance; for he thought it but just to mortify her for her ill-usage of her sister, without considering that he himself was far more guilty, in that respect, towards the amiable Sophia, and equally deserved to be hated by her.

When Harriot was gone, Mrs. Darnley instantly renewed the conversation concerning Sophia; and finding that the young baronet listened to her, with eager attention, she gave him a full account of all that had happened, during his absence: she represented Sophia, as having followed implicitly the directions of Mr. Herbert, whom she called a busy, meddling, officious, old man; and as the behaviour of her daughter, at her going away, gave sufficient room to believe, that her heart suffered greatly by the effort she made, she dwelt upon every circumstance that tended to shew the concern she was under; and did not scruple to exaggerate, where she thought it would be pleasing.

Sir Charles, tho' he inwardly rejoiced at what he heard, yet dissembled so well, that no signs of it appeared in his countenance. He now seemed to listen with much indifference, and coldly said, he was sorry Miss Sophia would not permit him to make her easy.

The tranquillity he affected alarmed Mrs. Darnley: she who was ever ready to judge by appearances, concluded that all was over, and that the baronet was irrecoverably lost; but had her judgment been more acute, she would have perceived, that he was still deeply interested in every thing that related to Sophia. The questions he asked were not such as curiosity suggests, but the tender anxiety of doubting love: Mrs. Darnley informed him of all he wish'd to hear; Sophia had indeed fled from him, but not without reluctance and grief: she was at present removed from his sight, but she was removed to silence and solitude; and she carried with her a fond impression, which solitude would not fail to encrease.

Thus satisfied, he put an end to his visit, with all imaginable composure, leaving Mrs. Darnley in doubt, whether she should see him again, and more enraged than ever with Mr. Herbert, whose fatal counsels had overthrown all her hopes.

[To be continued.]

TO THE Author of the LADY's MUSEUM.

MADAM,

BEING born a Florentine, though by my marriage and long residence here, I am now become English; I cannot without some jealousy observe, that in your useful and entertaining Museum, you have yet admitted no foreigners but those of France, to make their appearance; therefore I take the liberty to recommend to your notice, the inclosed translation from the Italian, of a piece of history, perhaps as extraordinary and exemplary as can be found in those of any nation whatever; and whilst it presents to your readers the power and fate of beauty, at the same time gives them some insight into the characters and manners of the Italians, in that century in which it happened. I am, Madam,

Your constant Reader, And Humble Servant, OFFARIA CELLINI.

THE HISTORY OF BIANCA CAPELLO.

ABOUT the middle of the sixteenth century, amongst many Florentine merchants, who resided in the celebrated city of Venice, was, a company of bankers, called the Salviati; whose business being great, they were obliged to keep many young men in their service, for writing, negotiating, and other offices. The principal of these was one Pietro Buonaventuri, a citizen of Florence, young, handsome, and genteel, whom they employed as cashier.

Over against this bank lived a noble Venetian, the name of whose family was Capello; he had amongst other children a daughter called Bianca, extremely beautiful, and of so winning and graceful behaviour as enhanced the lustre of her charms. This lady, the before-mentioned Buonaventuri, became desperately enamoured with; the violence of his passion, by the frequent opportunities their near neighbourhood gave them of seeing each other, in time found means to discover itself to his mistress; who believing him the master, or at least the partner of that great bank, began to regard with some attention the attractive graces of his person and manner, till this new reciprocal love augmenting every day, became sanctified at length by a private marriage, followed by many secret meetings, with the knowledge only of an old matron, governess to the lady, who had been both confidant and mediatrix throughout the whole affair.

Thus for some time did the lovers continue their intercourse; the bride going every night to her husband's apartment, which being on the ground floor, she could easily pass from her father's house and return to it unobserved, being but four paces distant from that of the Salviati. Her method was, when she came out, to leave the dor unlocked; so that returning early, she was received by her governess, before the rest of the family was stirring; but one unlucky morning, the baker coming sooner than usual, to tell the servants it was time to make the bread, and being answered, they were about it, he perceived the lock of the door was open, and thinking it was proper to fallen it, he did so, before he went away, as the young lady found to her great surprize and grief, when having taken leave of her husband, (who accompanied her to the door of his master's house) she returned home; whereupon not knowing from whence this accident could happen, trembling like a leaf, and half dead with fear, she went back to her lover, who endeavoured to comfort her as well as he could, and went himself into the street, making signs, whistling, and calling to the old confidant; yet all his endeavours were to no purpose, and unable to make himself heard, without a thorough discovery, he came back to his wife; when now the day was so far advanced, that it left no hopes of concealment for these unfortunate lovers, who were sure to die by the rage of her relations, if once their affair was known. As the last remedy they resolved on flight; he taking what little money and cloaths the shortness of time would permit him to get together, and she having only a thin taffata robe over her shift, (it being the height of summer) they hastily embarked on board a vessel, and in the most secret manner that was possible, pursued their journey till they arrived at Florence, where they came to the house of Pietro's father, which stood in the place of St. Mark, not far from the church of the Annunciation. The elder Buonaventuri, though a citizen, was in so low a degree of fortune, that these two being added to his family, he could no otherwise maintain them, than by turning off his only servant, in whose place the poor young lady was obliged to do all those offices, that in her former state, many had been kept to do for her: and the old man being informed by his son, that she was his wife, and his own being grown in years, and very peevish, he entrusted her with the management of the household likewise: all which she performed for many months, with great patience and alacrity.

The flight of the two lovers was no sooner discovered at Venice, than the father and relations of Bianca, furious with indignation, and great in power, caused an edict to be published, by which, whoever should kill them in any country, was entitled to a large sum of money. This cruel order coming to the ears of the fugitive pair, gave them great apprehensions; and the young lady never suffered herself to be seen, but stayed always at home, employing herself in the affairs of her family.

Whilst they remained in this miserable situation, it happened one day, that the grand Duke Francisco, son of Cosmo the first, was passing in his coach under the window. Bianca having a curiosity to see him, lifted up the lattice, in order to have a better view; and he chancing at the same time to turn his face that way, their eyes met; which was no sooner perceived by her, than she immediately let down the lattice and retired; but the grand duke, unsatisfied with so momentary a view, kept his head still out of the coach, turn'd, though in vain, towards the window.

This hasty, and unthought of encounter, created in the mind of Francisco a restless desire to know who she was, and every particular concerning her; which once known, produced so tender a pity in his heart, that it made him more than an equal sharer in all her misfortunes; and increased so much his curiosity again to see her, that he either went every day to a house of his, in that quarter of the town, called the Casino, or to hear mass, either at the Annunciation, or St. Mark's, in hopes to procure another sight of her; but all this only served to make him more eager, for a nearer and longer view; and, in order to attain his wish, he made it known to a Spanish gentleman, named Mandragone, who in his infancy had been placed about him by his father, and who, ever attentive to the desires of his master, readily undertook the enterprize; and that it might succeed the better, engaged his wife to form an intimacy with the old woman, mother of Bianca's husband, instructing her in what manner she should bring it about.

In observance to his orders, she placed herself next to her at church, where, according to the custom too much in use, they soon began to enter into discourse, in which the Spanish lady having artfully brought it about, to ask if her son Pietro was married?

She answered, Yes, madam, but very unfortunately; and then proceeded to give her the whole history of what had happened in Venice. When she had finished, Signora Mandragona very compassionately, and with great eagerness, desired she would come one day to her house, and bring her daughter-in law with her, whom, she said, she was extremely desirous to be acquainted with; and should esteem it a happiness to do every thing in her power to serve her.

To this the old woman replied, that it would be very difficult to persuade her daughter, who never went abroad, to come with her; because, added she, our circumstances do not permit us to buy her new cloaths; and at present she has only those which she brought with her; so that she, who still retains a noble soul in all her poverty, will never bear to be exposed. This, replied the Spaniard, I can easily find a remedy for: I will send her a suit of mine, and in those she need not fear being known.

I do not know, says the good old mother, whether she will consent without the leave of her husband: however, I will do all I can to obey you; but I fear I shall not be able to bring it about; for she chuses retirement, and is desirous to avoid the sight of every one; so that though my son has often spoke to her to go with me to hear mass at St. Mark's, she never could be prevailed on to do it; insomuch, that from the blessed hour in which she entered our house, to this time, she has never stirred out of it.

Try all your power, I desire, said the Spanish lady, to bring her with you; and I will send my coach to fetch you both. Tell her too, that my friendship will be not disagreeable to her; but, on the contrary, perhaps may do her some service. The good old woman concluded the conversation with reiterated promises, to use her utmost endeavours to make her daughter comply with the obliging request, and so they parted.

As soon as she was got home, she began to discourse with her daughter-in-law, telling her exactly what had passed between the Spaniard and herself; to which she added, this lady, my child, is wife to the chief favourite of the great duke; therefore her friendship is no indifferent thing: the intercession of her husband being the most likely means to gain you the protection or safe-conduct that you here so earnestly desired, and by which you may live in Florence free from the persecution of your relations, who, as you say, endeavour by all the methods they can use, to get you into their hands.

When the poor young creature heard her talk of the safe-conduct, though she had no inclination to go abroad any more to know, than to be known by others; yet, moved with the hopes of security, she yielded, provided her husband gave his consent, who that very night she consulted upon it; and he, that no less than herself stood in need of protection, judging that by this lady it would be easily obtained, (being sensible how great her husband's interest was with the prince,) told her, she should go; which leave having informed her mother-in-law of, she immediately sent word to Signora Mandragona, that when it was convenient for her to send her coach for them, they would be ready to attend her. Accordingly it soon came, into which the two ladies entering, shut themselves up close, and in that manner arrived at the palace of the Spanish lady, where they were received with many caresses and great joy; and being conducted into a most magnificent and beautiful apartment, they discoursed together on several subjects; and upon that of the safe-conduct, the Spaniard did not fail to offer all the power and interest she was mistress of with her husband to obtain it.

In the midst of their conversation, entered (as by chance,) the master of the house, who, after having bowed to the ladies, seemed not to know who they were; and turning to his wife, asked her? These, said me, are persons who are in want of your interest with your master; and then pretending to inform him, in few words, of the Venetian lady's story, which he knew better than herself, she concluded with an earnest desire, that he would intercede in her behalf to the grand duke, who from another room heard and saw every thing that passed.

All the time the Spanish lady was speaking to her husband, Bianca remained silent, with her eyes cast down, and full of tears, that pleaded more in her favour than all the eloquence of Cicero could have done: so that Mandragone, having heard his wife out, turning to the Venetian lady, said, ‘What you desire, Madam, is a very trifling service in respect of many greater I shall be proud to do you, and can without the least difficulty. The grand duke, my master, being a prince so generous and benign, that he knows not how to deny any one, provided the request be just, much more such a lady as you, being obliged, not only by his natural inclination to goodness, but also by the laws of knighthood, to succour the distressed: be assured then, that your desires will be accomplished.’ And so saying, he took his leave, and went away.

[To be continued.]

ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN, CONTINUED.

IN the reign of Commodus, or as Beda places it, in the reign of Aurelius, we are told of Lucius, the first British monarch who became a christian. The legendary stories of him are not in the least worthy of insertion.

In the reign of Septimus Severus, the twenty-first emperor of Rome, we learn some particulars of the old Britons that are too remarkable to be passed over. Their persons and their manners are thus described by Dion Cassius.

"The two most considerable colonies of Britons are the Caledonians, and the Maeatae. Under these denominations may be included the rest of the inhabitants. The Maeatae live near the wall that divides the island into two parts; the Caledonians live beyond the wall. Both these people inhabit the wildest mountains, where no water is to be found: they also inhabit desert plains, and grounds that are full of marshes: they have neither walls, towns, nor cultivated lands: wild fruits, and the game that they take in hunting are their choicest food: they never taste fish, although they have great quantities[*]. They pass their lives in tents, naked, and even without shoes: they live in a promiscuous manner with their wives: the children are brought up in common: their government is democratical and popular: they take great delight in plunder: they fight in chariots: their horses are small, but very swift: they are a people remarkable for velocity in running, and they stand firmly on their legs: their defensive arms are a buckler and a short spear; at the lower extremity of the spear is hung an apple made of brass, with the noise of which they terrify their enemies in battle: they also make use of daggers: they can endure hunger, cold, and every kind of hardship: they can remain for several days together in marshes without eating, and only with their heads above the water. In their woods they feed upon roots, and the bark of trees: they have a certain kind of food [†] which they prepare upon all occasions, and of which, if they take a quantity no bigger than the size of a bean, they no longer feel the effects of hunger, nor of thirst. Such is the island of Britain."

This must not be looked upon either as a perfect or a general representation. It is a mixture of truth, fable, and improbabilities; and it is confined entirely to the Caledonians, and to the northern part of Britain. The southern colonies were nearer the sun, and by that situation, were possibly of a softer nature and of a less robust constitution. That savages were inclined to rapine and every sort of robbery, is by no means a matter of astonishment, and scarce a subject of censure; but that the Maeatae and the Caledonii, so late as in the reign of Severus, were totally ignorant of agriculture, and every rudiment of tillage, must appear a shameful instance of laziness, if their unsettled situation, and the want of property and security in their possessions, did not plead their excuse. Cain, the first savage upon record, was a tiller of the ground. Noah, as soon as he found himself in possession of the earth, began to be a husbandman: but Cain had put to death his only adversary, and Noah was perfectly secure from foreign invasions. The distressed Britons could not promise themselves an hour's peace, from enemies and invaders.

Severus had two sons, Bassianus, sirnamed Caracalla, and Geta. The luxurious pleasures of Rome had enervated these young men, and had rendered them, especially the eldest, unworthy of such a father. To exercise his army, and to withdraw his sons from a scene of vice and inactivity, the emperor in the fifteenth year of his reign undertook a journey into Btitain. He was at that time old, infirm, and much afflicted with the gout; but the strength of his spirit was far superior to the strength of his body: wherever his army marched, he appeared at the head of it, on horseback, or in his chariot, or sometimes, when his distemper was particularly violent, in a litter. His progress into Caledonia was at the utmost hazard, and even with a considerable destruction of his troops. The country was mountainous, woody, and sull of marshes; so that his soldiers underwent excessive fatigue, without taking a fortress, and excessive danger, without seeing an enemy. They had forests to cut down, mountains to level, morasses to dry up, and bridges to build. Dio says, that in this progress, the Romans lost fifty thousand men. No distresses could alarm, no difficulties could deter Severus: he continued his enterprize, and at last became successful. The terms of an alliance were agreed upon and ratified; but were soon afterwards broken by the Scots: a breach of faith which Severus determined to resent, not only with rigour, but with inhumanity. He delivered his orders to his army, in these lines from Homer:

Not one of all the race, nor sex, nor age,

Shall save a Trojan from our boundless rage;

Ilion shall perish whole, and bury all

Her babes, her insants at the breast shall fall[*].

But he lived not to see his orders executed: his distemper was his most powerful enemy: it conquered him when he was almost sixty-seven years of age, and when he had reigned about eighteen years, of which the three last he passed in Britain. He died at York, and his funeral obsequies were solemnized with a pomp and magnificence suitable to the character of Severus, and the greatness of the people of Rome.

The virtues of this emperor were great; however they were not without their alloy. As a private man, he was covetous; as a commander, he was too susceptible of revenge. Wherever he conquered he ruined: a cruel disposition, which the people of Bizantium most unhappily experienced, and from which the Scots had a very narrow escape. On the other hand, his spirit was dauntless, and superior not only to danger but fatigue: he defied lassitude, and was never wearied by the most minute enquiry into every article of his government: to his personal friends he was extremely grateful: to his personal enemies he was contemptuously disdainful: he was moderate in his expences as an emperor, but magnificent in the public buildings of every kind [*]: he heard causes not only with exactness, but with patience: he entered the courts of justice by break of day, and he staid there till noon: his abilities were excellent, and they were improved by learning: he had more than the tenderness of a father: he forgave Caracalla's repeated attempts upon his life: he was careful in the education of both his sons; and at his death, he jointly bequeathed to them his empire.

Caracalla and his brother Geta, each inferior in every respect to their father, hastened from a country of barbarians to that theatre of delicacy, the court of Rome. They concluded a peace with the Caledonians, and left our island early in the year of Christ 211.

From henceforward it will be extremely proper to draw a veil over the particular characters of the Roman emperors: not even to name their names, unless where the affairs of Britain require it. The perpetual chasmi in our history happen to be so great, and the anecdotes are so few and trifling, so uncertain or indecent, that till the reign of the joint emperors Diocletianus, and Maximianus, (sirnamed Herculeus) in the year of Christ [†] 286, a space of seventy five years, the deepest ignorance is scarce to be lamented.

The Romans had been many years immersed in the greatest confusion: their kingdom was divided against itself: Britain was still under their subjection, and was harrassed and torn to pieces by factions and divisions, which took rise within the island itself. I mean particularly the invincible hatred that the Picts and Caledonians, who were now in a manner become one people, bore to the more southern parts of Britain.

Dioclesian, a man of low birth, had passed through many considerable offices before he was raised to the empire: he had acquired a high reputation as a soldier, and had acquitted himself with great political sagacity in the civil parts of government: his personal accomplishments seemed so suitable to the imperial dignity, that in a time of less universal warfare and confusion, he might singly have sustained the weight of government, with honour to himself, and with advantage to the commonwealth. In the present juncture, the hands of Briareus were scarce too many to hold the reins of the Roman empire: consequently Dioclesian shewed much prudence in gaining the assistance of a partner in the throne. Maximian did not possess all the accomplishments of Dioclesian; but he had courage and activity, which were of greater present use to the public, than virtues more delicately illustrious, or more morally refined.

Anarchy and confusion prevailed throughout the world. The times were such as are described before the flood, when God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth; and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart, was only evil continually The continent was filled with rebels: the sea was covered by pyrates. In the last class were the Franks and the Saxons, two nations of Germany, who gave continual annoyance to the coasts of Normandy, Picardy, and Bretagne. To prevent the depredations of these corsairs, and to awe and subdue the maritime robbers of every kind, Carausius was appointed commander of the Roman fleet, and was generally stationed at Boulogne: a station near enough the coast of England, to render him well acquainted with the ports, the shores, and the inhabitants of the island: he was a man of mean birth [*], but of high ambition: he found himself at the head of a great fleet; and he was sufficiently wise to know the weight, power, and dignity of his office: he resolved therefore to extend the limits of his authority in such a manner, as to be the indisputable sovereign of the seas; and from thence, to stretch his influence over the land so effectually, as to be a nominal and acknowledged emperor of Rome: his methods in pursuance of his design were bold and profligate: he began by a breach of trust: he seized great numbers of prizes, and he took great numbers of prisoners; but he accounted to himself alone, not to his imperial masters, for the profits of his captors: he permitted Franks, Saxons, or any other pyrates to practice inciscriminately all kinds of violence upon the Gallic coasts; but in their return homewards, he intercepted their vessels, and applied to his own use the riches and plunder which those vessels contained. Such proceedings justly alarmed the reigning emperors; and orders were given that Carausius should be immediately seized and executed: but he had foreseen his danger, and had already secured to himself such an interest among the officers of the fleet, that the whole navy was unanimously determined to obey him.

A mariner only can command mariners: the element is formed for the people, or rather, the people, like the fish, are formed for the element. Had Carausius been a land-officer, all his schemes must have proved abortive: but from those particulars of his life which have reached our times, he appears to have been as successful as he was wicked, as bold at he was powerful, and as sit to command as he was ready to execute.

It is to him we owe the first dawnings of our naval power: a power which has since appeared in all its meridian glory. From his conduct we were apprized of our natural strength as an island: a strength that cannot fail us, if properly exerted, to the end of the world.

Carausius had most judiciously fixed his eye upon Britain, as a sure place of refuge and security, whenever the Romans were in pursuit of him; so that as soon as he heard that he had been publicly proclaimed as a traitor, he made himself master of Boulogne, and immediately sailed from thence with his whole fleet to the British coast.

The previous steps which had been taken by Carausius, and the private correspondence which he had of late carried on with the Britons, rendered his arrival in the island not only easy but joyful. The people came out beyond their shores to meet him, and as soon as he was landed, the Roman legion [†], and the auxiliary troops that had been quartered within the kingdom, acknowledged and saluted him emperor. Thus from a pyrate, he became at once a Caesar, and fulfilled the aphorism, wittily made by one of the Grecian corsairs to Alexander the Great, That a man with a single ship was a pyrate, but with a fleet was a great prince

A triumverate of emperors was an unusual phenomenon: but the state of the continent was so very tottering and precarious, that neither Dioclesian nor Maximian were in any degree strong enough to dismantle the atchievements of Carausius. Some faint preparations of resistance were attempted by Maximian; but necessity compelled the Romans soon to withdraw all hostilities, and to enter into articles of peace: by which inglorious treaty, this proclaimed pyrate was declared Pius; this maritime robber was acknowledged Felix; and this avowed usurper, was sirnamed Augustus: as appears from the medal in Camden's Britannia, thus inscribed: IMP. C. CARAUSIUS. PF. AUG. on the reverse, PAX AUG. with the letters S C. Senatus consulto, By order of the senate.

Carausius was not only a nominal emperor of Rome, but he personally established himself a real monarch of Briton: he reigned and resided in the island between six and seven years; and during that time, our ancestors were entirely freed from their obedience to the Roman empire, and were only subject to the laws and government of their own sovereign. Curiosity would lead us to enquire what were the political institutes of a pyrate. Some civil policy must have been regularly maintained; but no certain records of it are to be discovered. In general, we know, that his fleet was mighty, and that his marines and sailors were drawn from all nations, and out of all professions. In this light as in every other, his abilities must appear extraordinary, since he could keep in subjection and obedience a set of people extracted from different kingdoms, and mingled together from various and distant parts of the world. But before he had compleated the seventh year of his sovereign jurisdiction, he was murdered by Alectus, one of the chief officers in his army.

Alectus seized the government; but his desire of grasping the sovereignty was far greater than his power of holding it. He maintained his usurpation only three years: nor would he have maintained it so long, if the Romans had not taken that time to consider in what manner they might recover Britain. Flavius Constantius Chlorus, who was already emperor elect, and entitled Caesar, undertook the expedition. As soon as he landed, he burnt his ships; a sure presage that he was resolutely determined upon conquest, or upon death. The Britons were pleased with the nobleness of this action; and as they were much oppressed by the dominion of their present tyrant, they resorted in great numbers to the standard of Constantine, and voluntarily enlisted themselves into his service. A battle ensued, in which Alectus was slain. His army was mostly composed of Franks, and such of them who escaped from the furious slaughter of the Romans, retired to London, desperately determined to pillage that city, and immediately to sail away with their plunder. But the design was frustrated by a reinforcement of Romans, who landed at London at this important crisis, and who immediately put almost every one of the Franks to the sword. Thus was the chief city of our island delivered from rapine and destruction, and the island itself again subjected to the empire of Rome. Constantine made an expedition into the northern parts of Britain, to establish under the Roman government, those colonies which were most mutinous, and untractable. He staid about four years in the kingdom, and then returned to Italy, leaving behind him the strongest impressions, and the truest veneration of his many remarkable virtues, particularly of his clemency and his justice.

As soon as Constantine arrived at Rome, Dioclesian and Maximian wearied with the weight of government, and desirous to retire from the pomp and fatigue of business, resigned the empire to him and to Galerius Armentarius. The kingdoms which fell to the share of Constantine, were Italy, Spain, Africa, and Gaul; to which latter was always annexed the island of Britain. Constantine preferred it to any part of the continent; and the Britons, who had already experienced many instances of his goodness and protection, were much rejoiced at his return. He made York his seat of residence, and died there in the year 306, in the 56th year of his age.

He was succeeded by his eldest son, Constantinus, sirnamed the Great: a passage in Eumenius, allows room to imagine, that this second Constantine was born in Britain. The words of the panegyrist are these; O fortunata et nunc omnibus beatior terris Britannia, quae Constantinum Caesarem prima vidisti! ‘O fortunate Britain! now happier than all other parts of the earth, since in your island Constantine Caesar was first beheld.’ His birth was undoubtedly an honour to the country in which he was born: but the actions of his life are the points most important to history. Bishop Stillingfleet tells us from Lactantius, that one of Constantine's first acts of government, was to secure full liberty to the Christians From this reign we may date the open and triumphant appearance of Christianity in Britain. All accounts till this time seem dark and intricate; the stories of king Lucius and his twenty-eight churches are fabulous and improbable. The Britons had their Druids, the Romans had their Flamines, and each had their Pontifex Maximus. Thus idolatry in two different forms of worship was prevalent throughout the whole island, till Constantine the Great declared himself a Christian. He had been educated in that faith by his mother Helena, who is recorded as a saint of the first magnitude, in the ecclesiastic chronicles of the pontifical church of Rome.

The example of a sovereign will always have a powerful influence upon his people. Constantine, by his public declaration of the christian faith, gave a mortal blow to idolatry; and the Flamines and the Druids melted away before the cross of Christ, like waxen images before the sun.

Alterations of another kind were instituted in the state. They are at present of little consequence: changes of names, as from Propraetor to Vicarius, or different divisions of the kingdom; such as making the two provinces three, or as some say, four, and all particulars so differently told, that they must rather weary than entertain a reader. It is in a great measure to save the many fatiguing accounts, where neither exactness nor instruction can be found, that these papers have been put together; which, if not sufficiently minute, and satisfactory to the persons into whose hands they may fall, will be always amply dilated and supplied by a search into the many folio volumes that load all the historical shelves in England.

Many scenes of Constantine's greatest actions were performed in France and Germany. He entirely subdued the Franks, who were become powerful and numerous: they inhabited that part of Gaul, which from them was called Franconia, or Francia Orientalis. He crossed the Rhine, and laid waste the country of the Bructeri; and he removed the seat of empire from Rome to Constantinople. He died May the 22d, in the year of Christ 337.

From the accession of Dioclesian in the year 284, or rather from the seizure of the island by Carausius in the year 287, to the death of Constantine in 337, the Britons had made very great improvements in their mercantile trade, and in various arts and sciences [*]. This last half century was of more benefit to the island, than all the years that had passed before. As the strength and power of antient Rome diminished, the strength and power of Britain encreased; and the inhabitants were no longer looked upon or treated as slaves or savages, but as allies and confederates of the Roman state.

By the light that may be collected, or the reasonable inferences that may be deduced from this particular part of our history, our ancestors seem to have acquiesed, if not chearfully, at least prudently, in their present situation. No disturbances, no insurrections arose throughout the whole reign of Constantine the Great. It may be asked from what motives this obedience, and submission to the Roman power, or rather let us say, to the will of Providence, could arise? Certainly from the flourishing condition of the Christian religion, the doctrines of which it is to be hoped were then preached and practised in some degree of purity.

The greatest dangers, or the most sudden molestations, to which the Britons were at this time liable, proceeded solely from their neighbours the Caledonians, who in the beginning of Constantine's government, or just before the death of his father Constantine the first, had made several rapacious incursions beyond their borders. They were soon conquered by Constantine the second, and driven back to their inmost bounds; and they remained tolerably quiet during that Emperor's reign.

[To be continued.]

Notes

*
In their fens.
↵

†
A food unknown to their posterity.
↵

*
Pope's Iliad, b. 6. v. 71.
↵

*
While he was in England he is said to have built a wall across the kingdom; but the antiquaries differ so widely in their accounts of the situation, materials, and length of it, and some of them are so doubtful of its existence, that it seems rather to have been the wall of Adrian repaired, than any new wall raised by Severus.
↵

†
Dioclesian was declared emperor, September 17th. A. D. 284; but the historians generally agree that he did not appoint Maximian as his partner in the empire till the year 286.
↵

*
He was a Menapian. The Menapii were a people of the Lower Germany.
↵

†
One Roman legion only, at this time, was quartered in Britain. No more probably could be spared from the continent, which had been of late years in so rebellious, distressful, and unsettled a state.
↵

*
Vide Paneg. Maximian.
↵

TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS.

CHAP. II. The Inconveniences of the common Methods of Education.

IT is owing to ignorance that a girl is weary of herself, and knows not how to relieve that languor by innocent employments: when she is arrived to a certain age without ever having applied to things solid, she is void of taste or esteem for them; every thing serious is sad; every thing that requires a continued attention is fatigue; the biass of pleasure, so strong in the days of youth; the example of other persons of the same age, plunged in amusement, tends to create an abhorrence of a life of regularity and diligence. In these early days, she wants the experience and authority necessary for superintending any thing in her father's house; she is not so much as sensible of what importance it is to apply herself that way, unless her mother has happened to take care to point out to her the several particulars. Is she of rank? she is exempt from working with her hands: she will not work therefore, except for some little time in the day, because she was heard say, she knows not why, that it is reputable for ladies to do something: but this is often mere pretence; she cannot accustom herself to application.

In this situation what will she do? The company of a mother who watches all her motions, and is chiding her incessantly, who thinks she brings her up well in excusing nothing, who looks grave upon her, who forces her to endure her humours, who seems ever burdened with domestic cares, is what both constrains and dispirits her; she has about her a set of flattering females, who, with a view to insinuate themselves, by a base and pernicious complacency, fall in with all her fancies, and entertain her with every thing that is likely to give distaste to what is right. Piety appears a tiresome business, a rule incompatible with every idea of pleasure. What then will she be doing? Nothing serviceable; and this very inapplication grows at length into an incurable habit. In the mean time, behold a void which there is no hopes of filling up with things solid; therefore the frivolous must take place. In this idle state, a young lady abandons herself to laziness, the languor of the soul, and inexhaustible source of irksomeness.

She uses herself to more sleep than is confident with true health: this serves but to weaken her, to make her tender and more liable to bodily indisposition; whereas moderate sleep, with the use of regular exercise, produces liveliness, vigour, and strength, in which undoubtedly a perfect state of body consists, not to mention the advantages resulting to the mind.

From this union of softness and idleness, with ignorance, proceeds a pernicious sensibility for diversions and public shews; nay, it excites an indiscreet and insatiable curiosity. People versed and occupied in things of a serious nature, have in general but a moderate degree of curiosity; the knowledge they possess gives them a contempt for many things they do not know; they perceive the inutility, the ridiculousness of the most part of those things which little minds that know nothing, and have nothing to do, are eager to be acquainted with: on the contrary, the imagination of girls, ill instructed and unattentive, is perpetually wandering for want of solid nourishment; their curiosity turns with eagerness upon objects of an empty and dangerous nature. Those of genius set themselves up for extraordinary women, and read all the books that can feed their vanity; they are passionately fond of romances, of plays, of stories, of chimerical adventures, wherewith much profane love is intermixed; they give a visionary turn to their understanding, by using it to the magnificent language of the heroes of romance; they even spoil themselves for the world, because all these fine airy sentiments, these generous passions, these adventures which the author of the romance has invented merely to please, have not the least relation to the real motives of action in the world, or to those that decide its affairs, nor yet to the false views discoverable in every undertaking.

A poor girl, full of the tender and the marvellous which have so charmed her in her studies, is astonished not to find the world afford any real personages resembling her heroes. She fain would live like the imaginary princesses, ever charming, ever adored, ever above all wants: alas! what mortification for her to descend from a state of heroism to the little cares of domestic life.

Some give their curiosity greater scope, and take upon them to decide on religious subjects, though beyond their reach: some with an understanding not large enough to entertain these ideas, have others proportionate to their capacity; they are violently inquisitive concerning what is said, what is done, about a song, a piece of news, an intrigue; eager to receive letters, to read those received by others; they will be told all, they will tell all; they are vain, and vanity makes them talkative; they are light, and lightness obstructs reflection, which would often teach them to be silent.

CHAP. III. What are the first Grounds of Education.

TOwards remedying all these evils, it is of great advantage to be able to begin the education of girls from their earliest infancy. That age which is often given up to the direction of women indiscrete, and sometimes depraved, is nevertheless the age which receives the deepest impressions, and which consequently affects their whole life.

Infants, before they can speak plain, may be prepared for instruction: some may think this is saying too much; let us only consider what a child does before it can speak: it learns a language, which it will shortly speak with more accuracy than scholars can the dead languages they have so painfully studied in riper years. Now what is learning a language? is it not to register in the memory a great number of words? It is moreover, saith Augustin, to observe the sense of each of those words: an infant, saith he, amidst its noises and play, takes notice of what object each word is the sign, and this he does sometimes by observing the natural motion of bodies that come into contact, or that shew the objects spoken of; sometimes by being struck with the frequent repetition of the same words, denoting the same objects: true it is, the temperament of the brain of infants affords a wonderful facility for receiving all these images; but how great attention of mind must there be to distinguish and connect them each with its object?

Consider next how much infants, even at that age, take to those who humour them, and dislike those who oppose them: how well they know when to cry and when to be still, in order to gain their ends: how cunning, how jealous they can be even at this time. I have seen, saith Austin, a child full of jealousy; though not yet able to speak, he eyed with furious looks, and a pale countenance, the child that sucked along with him. Hence then one may conclude that they have more sense at that time than is generally supposed; so that it is possible by means of words, assisted by proper tones and gestures, to give them an inclination rather to be with the decent and virtuous part of those they see, than with other indiscrete persons whom they may be in danger of loving. Thus by the different air of your face and tone of voice, may you represent to them with horror the behaviour of persons, they have beheld in a transport of anger, or any other disorder; and, on the other hand, assuming the softest tones and accents, and mildest looks, act over with admiration whatever passages they have seen, wherein wisdom and modesty were observable.

I do not mean to set forth these little matters for important, but yet such distant preparations are beginnings not to be neglected; and this early prevention sensibly forms them to receive their education. If there remains any doubt of the influence of first prejudices upon men, let us but observe how lively, how affecting, the remembrance of things we loved in our childhood, remains in our advanced age: if, instead of inspiring children with vain terrors of apparitions and spirits, which by too violently shocking the brain, yet tender, serves only to weaken it; if instead of suffering them to be directed by every fancy of their nurses, to objects of their love or aversion, we were to make it our care to give them a pleasant idea of what is good, and a frightful one of whatever is evil, this prevention would in its consequence greatly facilitate their progress in all the virtues. Quite contrary to this, they are taught to be frightned at a priest dressed in black; the word Death is never mentioned unless to scare them; they are told how dead people walk at night in horrible shapes; the consequence of all which is to make the mind weak and fearful, and prejudice it against better things.

In the first years of infancy, no greater service can be done the child than to manage its health; to endeavour to furnish it with a mild blood, by a well chosen diet, and simple regimen; so to regulate its meals that it may eat nearly at the same hours, and as often as is requisite; but not between meals, for that is loading the stomach again before digestion is perfected; not to eat seasoned things, that will provoke him to eat more than he has occasion for, and give a disrelish for the sort of victuals most wholsome for him; in fine, not to supply him with variety, for a variety of food in succession keeps up the appetite after genuine hunger is satisfied.

Another thing of great moment is to wait till the organs are grown strong, without pressing instruction upon him; to avoid all occasions of rowzing the passions; to use him, with gentleness, to being deprived of such things as he has shewn himself too eager for, this will prevent the confidence of obtaining his desires.—If their dispositions be in any degree good, it is possible by these means to render them docile, patient, steady, gay, and tranquil: on the contrary, where this early age is neglected, they become violent and restless all their lives, their blood heats, habits are formed in the young and tender body; the soul as yet unbiassed takes a bent to evil, a sort of second original-sin springs up, which is to prove the source of a thousand disorders, as they grow bigger. From the moment they arrive at the age wherein reason has unfolded itself, nothing should be said but what has a tendency to give them a love for virtue, and a contempt of all dissimulation: therefore ought we to use no feints, in order to appease and bring them to do as we would have them; for that would be to teach them a cunning they will never forget: let us as much as possible lead them on by reason.

We will take a nearer view of the state of infants, in order to see more particularly what is proper for them: the substance of their brain is very soft, it hardens day by day; as for their mind it knows nothing: this softness of brain is the reason why every thing makes strong impressions, as is the surprise of noveity why they are so apt to admire and be inquisitive. It is also true, that the brain by its humidity and softness, together with much heat, is given to be in continual motion; whence proceeds that restlessness in children, whereby they can no more confine their minds to one object than their bodies to one place: on the other hand, infants, while yet incapable of thought or action of themselves, remark all that passes, and they speak but little, unless we use them to talk much, which we ought carefully to avoid doing; for the pleasure taken in pretty children helps frequently to spoil them. We accustom them to venture to speak whatever comes into their thoughts, and of things of which hitherto they have no distinct comprehension: from this they acquire a lasting habit of judging with precipitation, and of talking on subjects of which they have no clear ideas; this forms a mind of a very bad stamp—this pleasure has yet another effect, a pernicious one, children perceiving that people look on them with complacency, take notice of all they do, and are pleased to hear all they say, get a custom of believing they shall ever be the concern of the world. During this age of applause, and unacquainted with contradiction, chimerical hopes are conceived, which open a way for infinite mistakes through life. I have known children, who, whenever persons were talking in private, always concluded they were the subject, because they had observed it to be often so; they imagined every thing in themselves to be extraordinary and admirable: therefore they ought to be taken care of, without being suffered to know that we think much about them; shew them that it is out of kindness, and through their great need of assistance, not from any admiration of their qualities, that we are so attentive to their conduct.

Be content to form them step by step, as occasions naturally offer. Even when it is possible to bring the understanding of a child very forward without surcharging it, we should be cautious of doing this; for the danger of vanity and presumption is always greater than the fruits of theie forc'd educations, that make so much noise.

We should be content I say, to follow and assist nature; we should not urge them to talk. As they are very ignorant, they have a multitude of questions to ask, and do ask a great many; suffice it to answer them with precision, adding sometimes certain little comparisons, to make our explanations the easier comprehended. If they pass judgment upon any thing without thoroughly understanding it, embarrass them by some new question, which may shew them their fault, without roughly confounding them; and at the same time, one should let them see, not by vague commendations, but by some effectual mark of esteem, that we much more approve of their doubting and enquiring into what they are ignorant of, than of their very best decisions.

This is the true way of forming their minds, after a polite manner, with a genuine modesty, and a thorough contempt of those disputations so common among young people a little enlightened.

As soon as their reason has apparently made some progress, it will be proper to make use of that very experience to arm them against presumption. You see, may one say, you are more a master of reason at this time than a year ago, in another year you will perceive things which at present you cannot; if a year ago, you had undertaken to judge of things, which now you are well acquainted with, but then was not, you must have judged weakly. You would have been much to blame in pretending to know what was then out of your reach; and thus it is with regard to things you are still to learn: hereafter you will discover how imperfect your present judgment is; in the mean time rely upon the judgment of those who judge now as yourself will do, when arrived at their age and experience.

The natural curiosity of children is the forerunner of instruction; fail not to profit by it, for example, in the country they see a windmill, and want to know what it is, we ought to describe to them by what method the food of man is prepared. They observe mowers at work; we should explain what they are doing, how corn is sown, and how it encreases upon the ground. In the city they behold shops, where many arts are carried on, and various sorts of merchandise sold: we ought never to think their questions troublesome; they are overtures which nature makes for the readier admission of instruction: shew you take a pleasure in them, and by this means you will insensibly teach them, how every thing is prepared that is useful for man, and upon which commerce is founded.

By degrees, and without making a study of it, they will come to understand the best manner of executing things of use, and the true value of each, which is the sure ground of oeconomy. This knowledge, which no one ought to despise, because it is very fit people should not be deceived in their expences, is more especially necessary for young women.

[To be continued.]

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

‘I Would die, said I, rather than displease you; and I will die if you have no pity on me. What can I do? It is easier for me to take away my own life, than to forget Adelaida. Shall I be perjured, and violate the vows I have made to her? vows which have engaged her early affections. Shall I abandon her when I know I have gained her heart? Oh! my dear mother, do not wish your son to become the basest of men.’

I then related to her all that had passed between us. ‘She loves you, said I, and you, I am sure, will not be able to help loving her. She has your sweetness, your candour, your generosity. How is it possible for me to cease loving her?’

‘But what do you propose by indulging this passion, said my mother? Your father is resolved to have you marry another, and commands you to retire into the country till everything is settled. It is absolutely necessary that you should appear willing to obey him, unless you mean to be my death. He expects you will depart to-morrow under the conduct of a person in whom he has great confidence. Absence will do more for you than you can yet imagine; but be that as it will, do not irritate Monsieur de Comminge still more by your refusal: ask for time, and I will do every thing in my power to accomplish your wishes. Your father's anger cannot last always: he will relent, and you may be yet happy; but you have been greatly to blame in burning the writings. He is persuaded that you sacrificed them to madame de Lussan, who ordered her daughter to require that proof of your love.’

‘Oh heavens! cried I, is it possible that my father can be so unjust? Both madame de Lussan and Adelaida are ignorant of what I have done; and I am very sure, had they suspected my intention, they would have used all their power over me to have prevented it.’

My mother and I afterwards took measures to convey letters to each other, and, encouraged by her indulgence, I durst presume to intreat she would transmit to me those of Adelaida, who was soon to be at Bourdeaux. My mother had the goodness to promise she would gratify me; but at the same time; insisted, that if I found Adelaida had altered her sentiments, I should submit to what my father required of me. We spent great part of the night in this conversation; and as soon as day appeared my conductor came to inform me that it was time to set on horseback.

The estate where I was to pass the time of my banishment lay in the mountains, some leagues from Bagniers; so that we took the same road I had so lately passed through. The second day of our journey we came early in the evening to the village where we were to lie. While supper was preparing I went to take a walk along the great road, and at a distance saw a coach which drove very fast, and when it came within a few paces of me overturned. My heart, by its throbbing, acquainted me with the part I had in this accident. I eagerly flew towards the coach; two men on horseback, who attended it, alighted and joined me, to assist the persons who were within. It will be easily guessed that those persons were Adelaida and her mother; in effect it was they. Adelaida was very much hurt in one of her feet; but the joy at seeing me seemed to leave her no sense of her pain.

What pleasure did I taste that happy moment! After so many afflictions, and at the distance of so many years, it is still present to my remembrance. Adelaida not being able to walk, I took her in my arms to carry her to the inn; her charming arms were thrown round my neck, and one of her hands touched my mouth. I was in a transport that scarce suffered me to breathe.

Adelaida observed it, her delicacy was alarmed, she made a motion to disingage herself from my arms. Alas! how little did she know the excess of my love: I was too much transported with my present happiness to think there was any beyond it.

‘Set me down, said she to me, in a low and trembling voice; I believe I am able to walk.’

‘What, replied I, are you so cruel as to envy me the only good fortune I shall perhaps ever enjoy.’ I prest her hand tenderly to my bosom as I pronounced these words. Adelaida was silent, and a false step which I made on purpose, obliged her to resume her first attitude.

The inn was at so little distance, that I was soon forced to part with my beauteous burden. I carried her into a room, and laid her on a bed; while their attendants did the same with her mother, who was much more hurt than Adelaida. Every one being busy about madame de Lussan, I had time to acquaint Adelaida with part of what had passed between my father and me. I supprest the article of the burnt writings. I knew not whether I most wished that me should be ignorant of it, or know it from another person; it was in some degree imposing upon her the necessity of loving me, and I was desirous of owing all to her own heart. I durst not describe my father to her such as he really was. Adelaida was strictly virtuous; and I was sensible, that to resign herself to the inclinations she felt for me, it was necessary that she should hope we might be one day united. I seemed to have great dependance upon my mother's tenderness for me, and the favourable disposition she was in towards us. I intreated Adelaida to see her.

‘Speak to my mother, said she; she knows your sentiments, I have acknowledged mine to her. I found that her authority was necessary to give me strength to combat them if I should be obliged to it, or to justify me for resigning myself up to them without scruple. She will use her utmost endeavours to prevail upon my father to propose an accommodation, and to engage the interposition of our common relations for that purpose.’

The tranquillity with which Adelaida rested upon these hopes made me feel my misfortune more sensibly. ‘What if our fathers should be inexorable, said I to her, pressing her hand, will not you have compassion on a miserable wretch who adores you?’

‘I will do all that I can, answered she, to regulate my inclinations by my duty; but I feel that I shall be wretched, if that duty is against you.’

The persons who had been employed about Madame de Lussan then approaching her daughter, our discourse was interrupted. I went to the bed-side of the mother; she received me kindly, and assured me she would use every method in her power to reconcile our families. I then went out of their chamber to leave them at liberty to take some repose. My conductor, who waited for me in my own apartment, had made no enquiry about these new guests; so that I had an opportunity of being a few moments with Adelaida before I proceeded on my journey.

I entered her chamber in a condition easier to be imagined than described. I dreaded that this was the last time I should see her. I approached the mother first, my grief pleaded for me, and she was so moved with it, that she expressed herself in still kinder terms than she had done the evening before. Adelaida was at another end of the room; I went to her trembling: "I leave you my dear Adelaida," said I. Two or three times I repeated the same words: my tears, which I could not restrain, spoke the rest. She wept likewise.

‘I shew you my whole heart, said she—I do not wish to disguise it from you; you deserve my tenderness. I know not what will be our fate; but I am resolved that my parents shall dispose of mine.’

‘And why, replied I, should we subject ourselves to the tyranny of our parents? let us leave them to hate each other, if they will do it; and let us fly to some distant corner of the world, and be happy in our mutual tenderness, which we may make a superior duty to what we owe them.’

‘Never let me hear such a proposal from you again, said she: give me not cause to repent of the sentiments I have entertained for you; my love may make me unhappy, but it shall never make me criminal. Adieu, added she, giving me her hand, it is by our constancy and virtue that we ought to endeavour to triumph over our misfortunes, but whatever happens, let us resolve to do nothing which may lessen our esteem for each other.’

While she spoke, I killed the dear hand she had given me: I bathed it with my tears. ‘I must always love you, replied I; death, if I cannot be yours, will free me from my misery.’

My heart was so oppress'd with anguish, that I could with difficulty utter these few words. I hastily quitted the room, and mounting my horse, arrived at the place where we were to dine, without having one moment ceased to weep. I gave free course to my tears. I found a kind of sweetness in thus indulging my grief. When the heart is truly affected, it takes pleasure in every thing that discovers to itself its own sensibility.

The remainder of our journey passed as the beginning: I had scarce uttered a word during the whole time. On the third day we arrived at a castle built near the Pyrenees; nothing was to be seen about it but pines and Cyprus trees, steep rocks, and horrid precipices; and nothing heard but the noise of torrents rushing with violence down those frightful declivities.

This savage dwelling pleased me, because it soothed my melancholy. I passed whole days in the woods; and when I returned, unloaded my sad heart in letters to my beloved Adelaida. This was my only employment, and my only pleasure. I will give them to her one day, thought I: she shall see by them how I have passed the time in her absence. I sometimes received letters from my mother, in one of which she gave me hopes. Alas! that was the only happy moment I ever enjoyed: she informed me that all our relations were labouring to reconcile our families, and that there was room to believe they would succeed.

After this I received no more letters for six weeks; how tedious were those days of doubt and anxiety! every morning I went into the road through which the messengers passed, and never returned till it was late in the evening: lingering till hope and expectation had nothing left to feed upon, and always returned more wretched than when I first set out. At length I saw a man at a distance, riding towards the castle. I did not doubt but he was a messenger to me, and, instead of that eager impatience I had felt a moment before, I was now seized with apprehension and dread. I durst not advance to meet him; something which I could not account for, restrained me. Uncertainty, which had hitherto appeared so tormenting, seemed now a good which I feared to lose.

My heart did not deceive me. This man brought me letters from my mother, in which she informed me, that my father would listen to no proposals for an accommodation; and, to compleat my miseries, had resolved upon a marriage between me and a daughter of the house of Foix: that the nuptials were to be celebrated in the castle where I then was; and that my father would in a few days come himself to prepare me for what he desired of me.

You will easily judge I did not balance a moment about the resolution I was to take. I waited for my father's arrival with tranquility enough. My grief was soothed with the reflection, that I was able to make another sacrifice to Adelaida: I was convinced she loved me: I loved her too much to doubt it. True love is always full of confidence.

My mother, who had so many reasons for wishing to see me disengaged from Adelaida, had never in any of her letters given me the least cause to suspect she was changed; this compleated my security. How greatly did the constancy of my Adelaida heighten the ardor of my passion! During the three days which elapsed before the arrival of my father, my imagination was wholly employed on the new proof I was shortly to give Adelaida of my passion. This idea, notwithstanding my miserable situation, gave me sensations little different from joy.

[To be continued.]

PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONTINUED.

Of the methods NATURE has furnished various ANIMALS withal, to elude the attacks of, and prevent pursuits from, their enemies.

IN our last Number we gave some account of a remarkable artifice, made use of by a very small animal, to entrap and get into his power such creatures as are his proper prey; and which, by being provided either with wings, or with a superior share of agility, would be otherwise out of the reach of his attacks. Were we to proceed in relating the various contrivances peculiar to each several species of animals for the discovering, ensnaring, and overcoming their respective enemies, or catching their destined prey, we should greatly encroach on the limits of the plan we have determined to proceed on, of not dwelling too long on any one subject. Various, therefore as they are, and entertaining and curious as the knowledge of them may be, we shall refer an account of them to some future periods, in which they may, perhaps, find place with a greater degree of variety; and proceed in this to relate the opposite gift of nature, who, provident and careful of all her works, has, together with every convenience for the procuring of sustenance, and for the attacking of those enemies which stand in some rank of equality, also furnished almost every creature with the means of either eluding the search, or escaping from the seizure of such as are more powerful.

Some of these methods are general, others particular. The more general means by which different animals elude the search of their powerful and destructive enemies, are the several cells, caverns, nests, and covertures, which nature has taught the different genera of them to find out, and to repair to for shelter, as well against their destroyers, as against the several inclemencies and dangers of the weather. The general assistances which they meet with for escaping from imminent danger, when attacked, is some peculiar degree of agility, either in running, leaping, flying, or swimming; for which several purposes certain classes of animals are found to be furnished with a particular apparatus and mechanism, such as most justly demand our admiration, and bear the strongest testimony to Almighty wisdom. Yet these are still properties in common to numbers, even of different species, bearing only some trivial differences peculiar to individuals; but there are other methods, in which the Creator has thought proper to distinguish his care for the preservation of his creatures, and which are some of them limited to particular genera of animals, and others absolutely confined to separate individuals.

Of this sort, there is none that we find more frequent than the being endowed with a property of assuming, either in colour or form, the general appearance of surrounding objects, in such manner, that being blended and confused with them, a distant eye is rendered incapable of discerning them: and this property we ever find more or less bestowed on those creatures whose natural manner of living obliges them to range abroad for their food in places devoid of shelter; and therefore become the more continually exposed to the attacks of their adversaries.

Thus do we find in Greenland, Nova Zembla, and the colder countries within the polar circles, that in the winter season, when the whole region is covered with indissoluble snow, the hares, rabbits, foxes, &c. who, by that means are deprived of their accustomed shelter, and would therefore become an easy prey to the larger animals, change the dark colours, which their summer coats are stained with, into a snowy whiteness; whereby they not only are undiscoverable at any considerable distance, even though lying on the open ground, but also, if by chance they should be seen, their natural swiftness cannot but perfectly avail them in their flight, over large plains, in which, from the resemblance of their own colour with that of the surrounding country, their figure is very quickly as much lost therein, as a drop of water falling into the vast expanse of ocean.

Animals of the serpent, frog, and lizard kind, whose residence is ever amongst grass, corn, and herbage, have for the most part the basis of their cloathing of a green colour. When they are spotted or striped, the generality of those marks are either formed with yellow, which is the next most universal colour in nature, especially amongst the field flowers, or else with various shades of brown, approaching to the representation of earth, and of the roots and barks of trees. By this means they easily elude the sight and search of the birds and other animals, which would otherwise destroy them in great quantities, unarmed as they are, and incapable of defending themselves when attacked.

The so much admired cameleon, whose food being small insects, which are borne about in the summer air, not the air itself, as it was formerly imagined, renders it necessary that he should ever remain in places unsheltered and open to every view, is endued with a power of assuming the colour of whatever he happens to lie upon. But here let us not lead our fair readers into the vulgar error of imagining he is able to change the colour from one to another, any more than in appearance. In short, what little tinct he really has, which is, indeed very little, is like others of the lizard class, greenish, and consequently not much different from that of the objects amongst which he has the most frequent necessity to take up his station; but besides this, the great transparency of his body, through which the colour of whatever he happens to lie upon, is easily discernible, is the greatest security he has; and by making it almost impossible for him to be distinguished, has given rise to the opinion, that he assumes a colour, which, in reality, he only suffers to be seen.

Caterpillars, also, which are the natural food of many kinds of birds, are for the most part found to partake of the colours of those plants which they feed on and inhabit. Nay, there is one particular class of them, well known to the fly-fancier by the name of Loopers, which fixing themselves to the barks of certain branches of trees, and stretching out their bodies therefrom perfectly strait, and in a certain oblique direction, assume so exactly in their colour, form, and rugged contexture, the appearance of the natural sprigs of those branches, that a very discerning eye may look attentively on a branch where hundreds of them are affixed, and if uninformed of their property, may chance not to discover one.

There is an insect, however, very frequent in the West Indies, which is still more extraordinarily sheltered under a feigned appearance. He is of the locust, or rather of the mantis kind. His body is long, slender, and knobbed; of a brown colour, and therefore bears a very near resemblance to a broken sprig of wood: but besides this, he has two very large and long wings, which are so formed both as to shape, colour, and markings, that they exactly represent two dried leaves in the fall of autumn, embrowned by the heat of the sun, withered up, and curled about the edges; and, from an intire deficiency of all juices and moisture, every minutest ramification of the fibrous texture, rendered distinctly visible. It is called the Walking Leaf, a name that indeed most truly expresses its figure, which is so amazingly like an outcast of the season, that excepting when he moves, he can never attract the notice of any eye whatsoever.

This kind of protection from a resemblance to external objects, extends even so far as into the earth and water. Worms, grubs, and other insects, whose habitation is under ground, yet are liable to be frequently disturbed by the plough or spade, and brought to the view of their destroyers, are for the most part found to be of a colour nearly resembling the clods of earth amongst which they lie less discernible than they would be, were they of a red, blue, green, or any other bright colour, which would form a more apparent contrast to the surrounding glebe. Many of the animals whose first state of life is in the waters, and who would therefore be a ready prey to the fishes who inhabit them, are taught by the universal mistress nature a means of forming to themselves a crustaceous covering, which so nearly resembles the small sprigs, pieces of dead bark, straws, &c. that are every where to be found at the bottom of brooks and rivers, that they lie secure and unnoticed by those animals, who would be tempted by a figure more resembling life, to seize on and devour them. Nay, even the fish themselves frequently partake so much of the colours of the mosses, herbage, &c. amongst which they harbour, that they are not easily to be distinguished, excepting when in motion.

Such are the means wherewith kind Providence has furnished different creatures to elude almost the strictest search, and thereby to avoid the being attacked. Yet, as for the wisest purposes, the whole animal kingdom seems in one perpetual state of warfare within itself, it was also necessary, that certain means of escape should be provided to have recourse to, in case the methods of prevention should prove ineffectual. Of these, every animal is more or less instructed, and endued with powers for relieving itself, even in the height of the most imminent danger, and when almost in the jaws of its most rapacious enemy.

Of these, some are by very swift and sudden flight; some by the help of a peculiar springiness of limbs, which in high, and unexpected leaps, conveys them instantly out of the reach, or at least out of the ken of their adversary. Others, as the mole, the ferret, the grillotalpa, &c. by an expert rapidity in digging into the bowels of the earth, and at the same time closing up the passage, thro' which they have forced their way: whilst others, lastly, find means to escape, by taking refuge in an element, whereinto their adversaries dare not, or cannot follow them, which is the case with the whole race of amphibious animals.

Some kinds of creatures there are, especially amongst the insect tribe, who, having neither strength to resist, nor agility to fly, deceive their enemies by assuming the appearance of death. To this stratagem, many of the smaller species of the beetle, or scarabeus class, have immediate resource on the least approach of danger, as any one may easily be convinced, by touching them with a stick, or taking them into the hand; when they instantly turn on their backs, contract all their limbs together,
The CALAMARY or InkFish.

and lie for a time under the appearance of a little inanimate grain, which they do not shake off, till by the stillness of every thing round them, they are persuaded they can run no risk by reassuming the signs of life; which they do with as much caution and gradual deliberation, as they put on the image of death with presence of mind and ready precipitation.

Many other devices of somewhat a similar nature, are made use of by various creatures, for the purposes above-mentioned; the minutiae of which it would be too tedious here to enter into. But I think we cannot with any propriety close this article, without taking notice of two animals, which possess qualities so eminently singular for repelling and stopping the career of their pursuers, that it is rather more wonderful that they should ever be taken at all, than that the knowledge of them and their properties should be so little known, as in general they are.

The first of these that I shall mention, is the calamary, or ink fish. This animal, whose singularity of figure has induced me to make it the subject of the copper-plate annexed to this number, is found in great abundance on the coast of the warmer parts of Europe. He is of the polypus class, and frequently lies on the surface of the water, with the arms which are represented in the figure spread out for the catching of such fish as may happen to come in his way, and which by the means of numberless suckers of a most curious mechanism that are arranged along the arms, are not only secured from escaping him, if once they come within his touch, but are also impoisoned by it in such a manner, that if they by dint of struggling, should force themselves from his hold, they would die almost immediately. Thus arm'd, therefore, and provided for attack, he frequently seizes a fish much larger than himself, whose juices he sates himself with, abandoning the remainder to the waves.

There are, however, some kinds of fish to whom he in his turn is a proper prey; whose bulk is too much for him to attack, and their activity too great to fly from. For his security then, from these powerful enemies, he is furnished with two advantageous properties; the first is a very clear and extensive sight, from a pair of large globular and projecting eyes, which are so placed as to command all objects that can advance from any part round him; the second, and that which is more immediately peculiar to himself, is a certain black fluid, which on the approach of an enemy he ejects from his body in large quantities, and which muddying the water for a very considerable space round him, not only conceals the spot of his immediate residence, but also deters his antagonist from pursuing him. So careful has nature been for the preservation of every one of her creatures however inconsiderable or apparently useless!

The other instance of providential care, wherewith I shall at present close this department of philosophy, is that of the torpedo, or cramp-fish, a creature which tho' a very slow swimmer, and in its construction divested of all means of preventing or avoiding any attack made on it; yet is furnished with a method of rendering such attacks fruitless, and, as it were by a stroke of magic, reducing its enemy to a state of inactivity and impotence. In short, the skin of this animal is formed of a texture so elastic and powerful, that on the very slightest touch of it, even with the end of a stick, it numbs and destroys the sense of feeling in the same manner as a fit of the cramp would do, enervating the whole frame, and producing such an effect as would, was the fact not so well known, appear incredible. What then must be the consequence to any animal who should eagerly seize on it, with a design of making it his prey? What, but a total deprivation of all sense, for at least time sufficient to enable the destined victim to make his escape, and save himself from the threatening jaws of destruction!

These are some few, among numberless instances, of the infinite wisdom of the great first cause in his works of creation, who has thus contrived it so, that although it is necessary the different species of animals should mutually prey on one another, and that each should find himself surrounded with a host of professed as well as insidious enemies, yet that every kind should be supplied, and that with a variety of invention which nothing less than infinite wisdom could form, with the methods for preventing its race from utter extirpation, and preserving the just and proper balance which the use and the conveniency of man, and often some hidden cause beyond the comprehension of his understanding, require to be maintained amongst the greater and the smaller wheels of this great machine the universe.

THE LADY's GEOGRAPHY CONTINUED.

Of the MANNERS and CUSTOMS of the Inhabitants of AMBOYNA.

AFTER having given some account of the habits, arms, and festivals of these people, it will be proper to give a slight description of those diversions wherewith the feasts we have mentioned constantly conclude, which are those of music, singing, and dancing.

Of their instruments of music, the principal one is the Gongue: this is of very great use throughout the Indies, but is most highly esteemed by the Amboynians, who ever preserve it amongst their most valuable effects. Of these there are two sorts, the one large, the other small. Of the latter sort, they arrange six or seven in a row on a bench, which are struck alternately with two sticks covered over with linen cloth. This instrument, which they call Tataboang, serves by way of accompanyment to the former, but is played much quicker, though ever in cadence therewith.

The Fifa keeps the same time as the larger Gongue, and is properly a drum. It is distinguished from the Rabana by being of a cylindrical figure,
Divers Instruments of Music made use of by •

Inhabitants of AMBOYNA with their Method of Playing the •ee•—
whereas the other is flat. Besides which, the manner of touching them is different. There is also a third sort, which resembles a little barrel, slung by a string round the neck, and is covered with parchment at both ends, whereas the others are only covered at top. The figure of these instruments together, with the manner of using them may be seen in a plate, annexed to Numb. III. of this work.

Their dances keep time to the sound of these instruments, with an exactness, and a degree of agility, that is really surprising. Their prodigious leaps, their supple turns, and the extraordinary windings and changes of posture, which they bring their joints to execute, surpass all description or idea. As soon as the feast is over, a man appears drest in the manner of the Alfourians or mountaineers, covered with the branches and leaves of trees, and armed with a large buckler, a sabre or javelin, and a helmet, surmounted with a large plume of feathers of the bird of paradise. In this singular equipage, he cries out, for some moments in the air, sometimes alone, and sometimes accompanied by a second of the same class, casting around him looks of the utmost fury and perturbation, and making the most terrible efforts, as if he would beat down the whole world under his blows.

This exercise, which they express by the word Tsjakali, is constantly succeeded by their common dances, which each sex severally executes by two or four together, with great gracefulness and address: some holding a naked poignard in each hand, and sometimes one or two silk handkerchiefs, which they wave around them; others have a fine scarf or sash of the same, or of chintz, which is fastened to the left shoulder, and one end of which trails on the ground. The men wear besides a turban on the head; and the women decorate their hair with flowers. Their dancers are always young unmarried people: when they begin, and when they retire, they salute the company by joining their hands over their heads: but on these occasions it is the custom always to make them a present of certain habits of silk, or some rich stuff, in which some one of the spectators runs to enwrap their bodies, whilst they are yet dancing, by the way of intreating them as it were not to fatigue themselves any longer; and this is one of the expences by which the Amboynians ruin themselves.

The men as well as the women usually accompany these dances with their voices. These songs, which serve as a kind of annals, for want of better historians, contain, among other things, the ancient events of their country; the praises of their heroes; and the glorious deeds of their ancestors. And this vocal and instrumental music is not only made use of in their great feasts, and on other particular occasions, but also on board their boats and barges, in which the rowers keep the most perfect time to the instruments and voices.

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The Lady's museum: By the author of The Female Quixote. [pt.1]

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1106005449

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9781106005441

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K019745.001

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CW3307928969

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1222500101

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— The Lady's museum: By the author of The Female Quixote., Lennox, Charlotte, 1729-1804. Trifler., Lennox, Charlotte, 1729-1804., Kelley, Hugh, 1739-1777.. v., plates : map ; 21 cm (8⁰). Vol. I. [no. 1-5]-vol. II. [no. 6-11] London [England] :: printed for J. Newbery in St. Paul's Church-Yard, and J. Coote in Pater Noster Row,. [1760-1761]. [Editor: Charlotte Lennox; collaborator: Hugh Kelly.] [Title page is engraved.] [Title repeated as caption and running title in individual issues.] [Imprints lack date; years of publication from reference sources.] [Vol. 1 title page is engraved, with Royal arms above imprint.] [Each issue begins with numbered editorial essay: The Trifler, reprinted from Goldsmith's, The Lady's magazine (1759-1760).] [Table of contents (2 leaves) bound at end of vol. 2.] [With continuous pagination and register.] [Includes essays on female education, history, and natural science; with romantic novellas and poetry. Introductory essays are generally satirical.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Small, M.R. Charlotte Ramsay Lennox: 18th c. lady of letters (New Haven, 1935)] [NCBEL, II:1303] [Roscoe, A292] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCP3417.] [Volumes lack chronological designations and dates.] [Individual issues lack designations; issues numbered from the introductory essays, The Trifler.] [Reference sources suggest monthly publication of individual issues.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).] [Collects issues of: The lady's museum.]

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