The Project Gutenberg eBook of Manners, Vol 2 of 3, by Madame Panache

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Title: Manners, Vol 2 of 3

Author: Madame Panache

Release Date: July 7, 2012 [eBook #40159]
[Most recently updated: January 27, 2021]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

Produced by: Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MANNERS, VOL 2 OF 3 ***




                      MANNERS:

                      A NOVEL.


            ----Dicas hÓc forsitan unde
    Ingenium par materiÊ.

                                     JUVENAL.

    Je sais qu'un sot trouve toujours un plus sot pour le lire.

                                     FRED. LE GRAND.


    IN THREE VOLUMES.
    VOL. II.

    LONDON:
    PRINTED FOR BALDWIN, CRADOCK, AND JOY,
    PATERNOSTER ROW.

    1817.




MANNERS.

CHAPTER I.

    Yo sË, Olalla, que me adoras,
    Puesta que no me lo has dicho,
    Ni a˙n con los ojos siguiera,
    Mudas lenguas de amorios[1].

    CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.

[Footnote 1:

    I know, Olalla, that thou lov'st me,
    Though words have ne'er thy flame confess'd;
    Nor even have those guarded eyes,
    Mute tell-tales of love's embassies,
    Betray'd the secret of thy breast,--
    Yet still, Olalla, still thou lov'st me.
]


It was long before Selina's agitated spirits could be composed; and when
at length she sunk to rest, she was haunted by confused dreams of mixed
joy and sorrow, in which Mordaunt's figure was always prominent. At
last, however, towards morning she fell into a quiet sleep, from which
she did not awake till several hours after Mrs. Galton and Augustus had
left Eltondale.

Selina had given her maid so many charges to call her in time to take
leave of them, that she had firmly relied on her doing so, little
imagining that Mrs. Galton had previously determined to spare her the
pain of parting. She had left a note for her, in which she reiterated
her farewell, and her request to hear frequently from Selina; but the
kindness of its expressions, if possible, aggravated the poor girl's
sorrow and disappointment. As usual, she gave way unrestrainedly to her
feelings, and wept aloud, really unconscious that while her tears flowed
ostensibly for Mrs. Galton alone, her regrets arose not a little from
the absence of Augustus. But, though Selina deceived herself in the
belief, that she only bewailed this her first separation from her
beloved aunt, she was most sincere in the grief she professed to feel on
her account; for hypocrisy was a stranger to her guileless heart, yet
uninitiated in the mysteries of that world, in which the timid and
unpractised first learn to conceal the sentiments they actually feel,
and conclude by displaying those that are but assumed. On the contrary,
her genuine feelings were neither blunted by familiarity with sorrow,
nor exhausted by the premature cultivation of sickly sensibility; and,
though a more sobered reason might have wished the expression of them to
be occasionally restrained, yet even a Stoic might have confessed, that
the perfection of her judgment would have been dearly purchased by any
alteration in the susceptibility of her heart.

Her melancholy toilet was scarcely finished, before she was summoned to
Lady Eltondale's dressing-room. Her Ladyship advanced to the door to
meet her with unusual cordiality of manner; but she scarcely beheld her
wan countenance, when, starting back, she exclaimed with surprise, "Good
heavens, child! what can be the matter? Oh! I had really forgotten Mrs.
Galton's departure. Why, Selina, you could not have disfigured yourself
more, if she was gone to heaven instead of to Bath. Here, La Fayette, do
bring some cold cream to Miss Seymour, and a little _eau de Cologne_.
However, my dear girl, I cannot regret that you have so totally
disguised yourself to-day, as we shall have a pleasant _tÍte ‡ tÍte_.
You shall breakfast up stairs with me this morning, for you are really
at present not presentable."

Lady Eltondale's kind consideration for Selina individually, and
apparent indifference to the cause of her sorrow, was, perhaps, more
effectual in its temporary suppression, than the most sympathetic
condolences would have been; and, before Mons. Argant made his
appearance with the apparatus for breakfast, Selina had sufficiently
recollected herself, to request Lady Eltondale not to derange her plans
on her account, but to remember her other guests.

"My dear little rustic," answered her Ladyship, laughing, "your odd
notions really remind me of the last century. Nobody plays the part of
hostess now; and as to guests--none could be admitted into a fashionable
house, that do not know how to make themselves perfectly at home in it.
I declare you are so simple, you would hardly have understood the merit
of Mr. Frederick Bijou appearing last spring at a party his wife gave to
the Prince, with a round hat under his arm, to show he was the only
stranger in the room. Why now every inn in a country village is fitted
up with all the conveniences of a private house; and the best praise you
can give to a family mansion is to compare it to an hotel." The
Viscountess was excessively entertained at the artless surprise
expressed by her auditor; and concluded some similar observations by
saying, she knew Selina would be so astray in the scene into which she
had been thus suddenly dropt, that she was very glad nobody would be
with them till after Christmas. "Then," said Selina, "I suppose Lady
Hammersley is gone." "Oh! dear no--but she is nobody. Sir Robert is a
relation of my Lord's; and I am obliged to go through the martyrdom of
hearing his barbarous phraseology for at least a month every year, and I
am afraid ten days of the penance are yet to come. Lady Hammersley never
visits London; and, indeed, I believe the good woman thinks herself
almost contaminated by even venturing as far as this within the
Charybdean pool.--But, poor soul! she need not be afraid. If fashion was
absolutely epidemical, she would never suffer from the contagion. She
and the Admiral spend nine months of every year at Bath; he, drinking
the water and reading the newspapers, and she, playing cards and writing
essays. However, you may turn even her to account; for in one half hour
you will learn more what vice is, from her long-syllabled declamations
against it, than your poor innocent head would dream of in a
twelvemonth."

"And which of the parents does the son resemble?" asked Selina,
laughing. "Why, it is difficult to divine what nature intended him to
be. One may parody Cowper, and say, 'God made them, but he has made
himself;' and what the composition will turn out, I know not. He wishes
to be a man of the world, and affects the reputation of vice, without
having the courage to be wicked. I verily believe he is often at church
of a Sunday evening, when he pretends to be at the gaming-table.
However, you need not be inquisitive about him, for he will never
condescend to notice you, till he ascertains whether you are the
fashion or not. He does not want money, and he does want _ton_; and you
know, according to the new system of craniology, men ought to choose
their wives by the inverse ratio of their own deficiences. But you don't
inquire about Mademoiselle Omphalie, whom I thought you meant last night
to swear an everlasting friendship with. I asked her here solely for
your sake."

Selina coloured, and expressed her thanks with her usual warmth and
_empressement_.

"But I do not intend Mademoiselle Omphalie to be Miss Seymour's bosom
friend. She is a public singer, my dear, and as such her reputation is
perfect;--her private character is, I believe, much less immaculate; but
with that, you know, we have nothing to do. The world now adopts the
precept, 'Judge not that ye be not judged;' and, if people are wise
enough not to hold the lantern to their own vices, they need not be
troubled with any Diogenes. As to Mademoiselle Omphalie, she is just now
on the tottering point of respectability, which, of course, makes her
doubly decorous in her general behaviour; and, as I do not think her
reputation can survive another winter, I was extremely anxious to seize
this opportunity of giving you the advantage of her talents and
instruction in music. But, Selina, don't let her instruct you in
anything else, for she would infallibly make you a prude or a coquette,
and I scarcely know which I hate most."

It is impossible to express Selina's astonishment at Lady Eltondale's
conversation. When they had last met, she had been both delighted and
surprised at the ease and elegance of her manners; but as she had only
seen her in the company of Mrs. Galton, she was totally unconscious of
the degree of levity to which that ease of manner could degenerate,
either from accident or design. Lady Eltondale now entertained her
wondering guest with a style of conversation to which she was totally
unused. It is true, her expressions, like her conduct, were so guarded
that no weak point was left open to censure; but she seemed so little to
respect the barriers between vice and virtue, that they appeared to be
considered by her as by no means insurmountable;--and Selina, finding
those principles of rigid propriety now ridiculed, which she had
hitherto been taught only to venerate, wondered for a moment whether the
error lay in her Ladyship's frivolity or her own ignorance.

Meantime the Viscountess was not unobservant of her niece. She perceived
that her changing countenance portrayed every varying emotion, almost
before she was herself conscious of its influence. Sometimes the
expression of her dark brow led her to fear, that Selina was capable of
making deep reflections, though she willingly believed her deficient in
resolution. At other times the arch smile, that played round her dimpled
mouth, showed she was by no means insensible to the charms of raillery
and satire, whilst the half-formed reply seemed to insinuate, that she
could emulate the bewitching, though dangerous, talent she admired. But
above all, Lady Eltondale failed not to remark the evanescent nature of
all Selina's feelings, which almost seemed to exhaust themselves in the
first stage of their existence. Hers was indeed "the tear forgot as soon
as shed;" and, as she accompanied Lady Eltondale through the various
apartments of her splendid house, and innocently expressed her delight
and wonder at all she saw, her experienced and artful guide smiled at
the rapid transitions of her thoughts, and anticipated a speedy conquest
over a mind, which appeared already weakened by inherent volatility.

When Selina joined the party at dinner-time, Mrs. Galton, Augustus, and
the Hall, seemed already to be forgotten by her. It was true the roses
in her cheek yet drooped from the effect of the morning shower; but her
lovely countenance had reassumed that expression of content and pleasure
which was most natural to it.--But,

    How like this spring of love resembleth
      The uncertain glories of an April day,
    Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
      And by and by a cloud takes all away.

Unfortunately at dinner Lord Eltondale addressed to her one of his
inconsiderate compliments, in which he alluded, with more kindness than
delicacy, to her recent misfortune. The unexpected mention of her father
overcame her spirits; and, as usual, without reference to the
spectators, she gave way to the feelings of the moment, and burst into
tears. Mr. Hammersley, laying down his knife and fork, turned to stare
at the mourner with an expression of countenance, that seemed to say,
it was long since he had witnessed the natural emotions of a susceptible
heart. Lady Eltondale withdrew the attention of Mademoiselle Omphalie by
making some opportune inquiry. But Sir Robert's observation of Selina
was not to be evaded. After looking at her steadfastly for some minutes,
he exclaimed, "Come, come, my girl, cheer up;--swab the spray off your
bowsprit, and never let the toppinglifts of your heart go down. If your
father has got into port before you, if you keep a steady course and a
true reckoning, you'll be sure of having a good birth alongside of him
in a tide or two. Here, toss off this bumper, and haul in your jib
sheet."

Selina could not help smiling at the manner in which the kind-hearted
old man offered his consolation. But Lady Hammersley, who had hitherto
remained in silence, now remarked in an emphatic tone, that "It was a
work of supererogation to endeavour to suppress the tear of filial
regret. A few weeks' association with the votaries of fashion would
effectually eradicate the meritorious sentiments, and teach hypocritical
sensibility to fictitious griefs to be ostentatiously substituted for
genuine susceptibility."

From that day, during the remainder of his stay at Eltondale, Sir Robert
Hammersley seemed to interest himself particularly about Selina. And
though his Lady seldom condescended to address herself to her, yet even
the cynical turn of her conversation implied approbation of Miss
Seymour's present character by the very anticipations of its speedy
alteration, which she daily repeated. Mr. Hammersley, as Lady Eltondale
had prophesied, scarcely noticed the untutored girl, and seldom joined
the morning party, except when Mademoiselle Omphalie was employed in
communicating her enchanting talents to Selina, whose rapid progress
astonished even Lady Eltondale. She already perfectly understood the
science of music; and her naturally fine voice was peculiarly adapted
to exemplify Mademoiselle Omphalie's excellent instructions. Even before
many weeks had passed, Selina could not only join her in some beautiful
Italian duets, but also accompany herself very tolerably on the harp,
which soon became her favourite instrument.




CHAPTER II.

     Le faux bien qu'elle prÍche est plus dangereux que le mal mÍme, en
     ce qu'il sÈduit par une apparence de raison, en ce qu'il fait
     prÈfÈrer l'usage et les maximes du monde, ‡ l'exacte probitÈ, en ce
     qu'il fait consister la sagesse dans un certain milieu entre le
     vice et la vertu[2].

     JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU, A M. D'ALEMBERT.

[Footnote 2: The false propriety which she preaches is more dangerous
than vice itself, inasmuch as it seduces by an appearance of
reason--inasmuch as it recommends the usages and the maxims of the world
in preference to strict integrity--inasmuch as it makes wisdom appear to
be a certain medium between vice and virtue.]

Selina was not less attentive to Lady Eltondale's various lessons on
propriety and elegance, than she had been to the instructions of
Mademoiselle Omphalie. And though Lady Hammersley's satirical
predictions were not yet fulfilled, as to any alteration that had taken
place in her mind; yet it was evident, before she had been many weeks at
Eltondale, that her general deportment was considerably changed since
she had been under the superintendence of the Viscountess. Perhaps no
woman ever more thoroughly understood the rules of politeness than did
Lady Eltondale; and though a pupil formed entirely in her school would
scarcely have failed to acquire, ultimately, that freezing apathy which
was one of her own most distinguishing characteristics, yet the
refinement of her manners was by no means an unfortunate counterpoise to
the natural vivacity of Selina's. If it could have been possible to
unite the polished exterior of the one with the unsophisticated mind of
the other, it would have formed as perfect a whole, as if the rich and
exuberant fancy of a Titian had been harmonized by the chastely correct
judgment of a Michael Angelo.

Lady Eltondale had been right in believing, that Mr. Hammersley would
not venture to admire the superior charms of Miss Seymour, till they had
become current by receiving the die of fashion; and, as he found but
little pleasure in the comparatively quiet society at Eltondale, he
pleaded an indispensable engagement, and set off for town a few days
after Selina's arrival. Nor did Sir Robert and Lady Hammersley protract
their stay much longer. Early in January they returned to Bath, and
their places at Eltondale were almost immediately filled by other
visitors; for Lady Eltondale could never bear to be alone; and though on
account of her brother's recent death she forbore giving any very public
entertainments, or receiving the most dissipated of her acquaintances,
yet a constant succession of parties filled up to her, in some degree,
the charm of a winter's seclusion; and the gay and fashionable manners
of several of her guests served to introduce Selina to those frivolous
amusements, which are generally the outposts to more reprehensible
pursuits.

Selina's deep mourning had at first served as an excuse for her
declining to partake of the gayer engagements the neighbourhood of
Eltondale occasionally afforded. For, notwithstanding the avidity with
which she entered into the pleasures by which she was surrounded, she
was still sufficiently unlearned in the ways of the world to believe,
that, at least where the memory of a parent was concerned, it was not
altogether decorous

    "To bear about the mockery of woe
    "To midnight dances and the publick show;"

and having at first received Mrs. Galton's approbation of her
forbearance, she resisted in that one instance all Lady Eltondale's
arguments and entreaties.--Happy would it have been for her, if she
could always have resorted to the counsel of such a friend as Mrs.
Galton. Lady Eltondale felt mortified by the unexpected resistance to
her wishes, in a point she deemed so trifling; but, however, she
compromised the matter with Selina, by prevailing upon her to change her
sable dress at the end of three months, and to give up her mourning
entirely at the end of six, which term would arrive before their going
to London. She at the same time secretly resolved to interrupt, as much
as possible, Selina's correspondence with Mrs. Galton, foreseeing it
might, in other instances, equally frustrate her intentions and
designs:--not that she could exactly define, even to herself, why she
was so solicitous not only to supplant Mrs. Galton in Miss Seymour's
affection, but also to change even the very character of her niece. She
looked upon the engagement between her and Mr. Elton almost as
irrevocable; and it was indeed a matter of comparative indifference to
her, what was the true character of the woman she was so anxious to make
his wife. But the real motive of the Viscountess' conduct, of which she
herself was scarcely conscious, was a jealousy of Mrs. Galton's
influence over Selina's mind, and an envious hatred produced by the
consciousness of her own inferiority to her rival in her niece's
affection; and she was perfectly aware that she could by no means so
essentially mortify the woman she hated, or lessen the influence she so
much dreaded, as by undermining the principles and changing the
character Mrs. Galton had taken so much pains and pride in forming.

One morning Lady Eltondale entered the breakfast-room before Selina had
returned from her usual early ramble; and as she carelessly tossed over
the letters, which were left on the table to be claimed by their owners,
her eye rested on one directed to Miss Seymour, in a hand-writing with
which she was unacquainted. She had understood from Selina, that she had
no correspondent but Mrs. Galton; and her curiosity was not a little
roused by perceiving the seal bore the impression of the well-known
Mordaunt arms. While she still held the letter in her hand, Selina
entered the room;--the Viscountess feeling a momentary embarrassment in
being detected so closely examining a letter directed to another,
hastily concealed it, resolving to replace it next day. But in error,
_ce n'est que le premier pas qui co˚te_. No person that voluntarily
treads on the threshold of vice, can be certain that they will always
have it in their power to retrace their steps. Lady Eltondale would
probably have shuddered at the idea of deliberately intercepting a
letter, and still more of clandestinely perusing it; yet having thus
unpremeditatedly possessed herself of the one in question, she could not
resist the further temptation of satisfying herself as to the nature of
its contents, and accordingly opened it as soon as she found herself
alone. It proved to be, as she suspected, a letter from Augustus. In
truth, the expression of Selina's countenance, the last evening they had
spent together, had never faded from his "mind's eye." With all the
tenacity of a lover's memory, he called to remembrance every look, every
word that seemed to flatter his fond wishes; and then, with all the
subtlety of a lover's rhetoric, he persuaded himself that no duty he
owed to the memory of Sir Henry forbad his endeavouring at least to
retain whatever share of Selina's good opinion he already possessed;
though he was still determined so far to respect the expressed wish of
the Baronet, as not to precipitate a declaration of his own attachment,
till Selina had an opportunity of fully understanding her own heart, and
making her selection between him and Mr. Elton. Thus compromising
between his passion and his principles, he addressed Selina in the
character of trustee to her estate, and profiting by the excuse which
that situation afforded him, conjured Selina to point out in what way he
could be of most use; expressing his anxiety to be of service to her, in
the warmest terms that passion under the mask of friendship could
suggest.

Had this letter then reached Selina, it would have spared her many hours
of future sorrow. But Lady Eltondale determined it should not do so. Her
penetration too soon discovered its real import;--she perceived

    "Love's secret flame
    Lurk'd under friendship's sacred name:"

and, with her usual sophistry, persuading herself that the end
sanctified the means, she congratulated herself on the steps she had
taken, and believed her laudable anxiety for the welfare of her step-son
justified her treacherous conduct to her orphan niece. She was not long
in deciding on the best measures to prevent a continuation of a
correspondence so dangerous to her favourite scheme; and enclosing the
letter back to Mordaunt, wrote the following note in the envelope:

     "LADY ELTONDALE presents her compliments to Mr. Mordaunt, and her
     best thanks for his polite offers of service, which, however, she
     begs to decline as Mr. Elton is expected to return to England
     immediately, who will of course superintend himself the management
     of all Miss Seymour's estates. Lady Eltondale returns Mr.
     Mordaunt's letter, as perhaps he may, at a future time, wish to
     refer to it on the subject of Wilson's farm, upon which Miss
     Seymour, in her present delicate situation, feels no wish either to
     correspond or decide."

It would be impossible to describe the mortification and disappointment
this laconic epistle occasioned Augustus. He felt justly indignant at
the manner in which his proffered kindness had been rejected; and
considered the insult in no slight degree aggravated by the circumstance
of Selina permitting a third person to convey her own unfeeling reply.
In one moment the bright vision of hope and joy, that had flitted before
him, dissolved in air; and, from the delighted contemplation of all her
charms, he sunk in an instant into the opposite extreme, and equally
exaggerated all her failings. He recalled to mind Mr. Temple's
observations, which now seemed absolutely prophetic; and, passing
rapidly from one passion to another, upbraided her not only with the
foibles she really possessed, but even with those errors that were as
yet but anticipated. By degrees, however, the storm subsided. He so
often repeated to himself that she was now perfectly indifferent to him,
that he flattered himself it was really the case; and he determined
thenceforward only to consider her as the wife of Mr. Elton, believing
that appellation would act as a talisman, to prevent a return of a
passion he had now persuaded himself was perfectly hopeless.

While Augustus, in his retirement at Oxford, was thus endeavouring to
extinguish feelings that were only a source of regret; and while Mrs.
Galton was consoling herself as much as possible for her separation from
her beloved child, by renewing old friendships, and forming new
acquaintances at Bath, Selina was, by degrees, becoming more
familiarized with the levity, duplicity, and frivolity, which were daily
exemplified in the manners of Lady Eltondale and her different visitors.
At length the time approached for their removal to London: an early day
in April was fixed for their journey, which Selina anticipated with all
the delight of a young vivacious girl, that at last found herself on the
confines of a new world of pleasure, the enjoyments of which were yet
untasted, and its sorrows unsuspected.

When the moment of their departure actually came, she gave way to
unmixed feelings of joy. She laughed, sung, and frolicked round the
room like a sportive child, and yet she could scarcely define her own
emotions. She was hardly conscious that her pleasure, in a great degree,
arose from the silently cherished hope of seeing Augustus. She had felt
surprised, and even hurt, at his not having, as she supposed, made any
inquiry after her, during her four months' stay at Eltondale. But she
had always felt an unaccountable unwillingness to mention his name to
Lady Eltondale; nor did she even to herself confess how much the
expectation of seeing him once more contributed to the pleasure she
anticipated from her visit to London.

The future was now opened to her view like an extended horizon, shining
in all the luxury of light, which, while the intervening masses of the
ground lay concealed, depicted no object in its natural colours, but
touching here and there some prominent beauty with its most resplendent
rays, confounded all the rest in one undistinguishable mass of
brilliancy. As they were stepping into the carriage, a letter from Mr.
Elton was delivered to Lord Eltondale. Little did Selina imagine she had
any reason to be interested in the packet his Lordship so anxiously
perused; and even had she been aware of the mention made in it of
herself, it would scarcely have had power to withdraw her thoughts from
the nearer, and therefore with her more powerful attraction.

     TO THE VISCOUNT ELTONDALE.

     Paris, April 3.

     I beg you will, my dear father, accept my best thanks for your last
     kind letter, though I must remark, that your affectionate
     solicitude for my happiness makes you over anxious to promote it. I
     confess I was more surprised than pleased to find, that, without in
     the least consulting my inclinations, you had entered into an
     engagement to contract Miss Seymour to me! Pardon me, my Lord; but
     had you and Sir Henry Seymour been employed in assisting each other
     to match your carriage horses instead of your children, less
     ceremony could scarcely have been used. You dilate much on Miss
     Seymour's beauty and fortune:--I am no cynic; yet, strange to say,
     the one is nearly as indifferent to me as the other. However if I
     find, on becoming acquainted with the _character_ of the young lady
     in question, I can esteem and love her, I shall not object to her
     beauty or her riches, but shall duly appreciate the honour she
     would confer on me in making me her husband. But till I can judge
     for myself, I feel I have a right to demand, that neither you nor
     _Lady Eltondale_ will do aught to compromise my honour in this
     affair. In a word, these are not times to risk the well-being of
     one so young and lovely, by a match of mere convenience: unless I
     can feel for the "_innocent charming_" Selina, Lady Eltondale so
     eloquently describes, all the attachment she merits, I will never
     have the cruelty to unite myself to her. Her orphan state
     sanctifies her in my eyes. Had she a father or brother to watch
     over her welfare, I might, perhaps, be less scrupulous; for, as it
     regards myself, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me whom I
     marry now--my hopes are frustrated, my spirits depressed, and I
     feel it a mere mockery to mention happiness and marriage together.
     Perhaps some ten years hence, when "I have forgot myself to stone,"
     I may sacrifice the remnant of my joyless existence to family
     interests.

     "As all my prospects of felicity in private life are blasted, I
     turn with more avidity to that course of public usefulness, which
     alone can now afford me satisfaction. Every thing has been
     sacrificed to it.

     "I wish to obtain your consent to my remaining some time longer in
     this capital, to continue a course of inquiry I have entered into
     on points of great political importance, and to profit by the
     acquaintance of some public characters, who may aid me in my
     pursuits. I am grieved at what you tell me about the mortgage on
     Eltondale. Would my joining you in a bond be of any use?--If so,
     command me."

As the rest of Mr. Elton's letter was on law business, it could be of no
interest except to the person to whom it was addressed.




CHAPTER III.

    Quid RomÊ faciam? Mentiri nescio[3].

    JUVENAL.

    I am as true as Truth's simplicity,
    And simpler than the infancy of Truth.

    SHAKESPEARE.

[Footnote 3: What should I do at Rome, unknowing how to feign?]


Selina's impatience to reach the end of her journey made her consider it
tedious in its progress, notwithstanding the velocity with which Lady
Eltondale always travelled; who was too much a woman of fashion not to
increase as much as possible her own consequence along the king's
highway, by the trifling exertion of keeping the poor goaded animals
which had the honor of drawing her vehicle at their utmost speed,
thereby endangering the lives of such of his majesty's peaceful subjects
as happened to approach them. As to Lord Eltondale, he seldom found
leisure to reflect on the consequence attending any direction her
Ladyship pleased to give; and even had he reflected, he would scarcely
have ventured to dissent, so confirmed was his habit of passive
acquiescence. Indeed, poor man, he was in a situation something similar
to the coronet on his own equipage,--an external appendage to Lady
Eltondale, which, while hurried along under the direction of her
caprice, gave her a dignity in the eyes of the many, who merely look on
the outside of every thing, but, in reality, totally disregarded by all
those who were admitted into the interior.

At last, from a little eminence on the road, the first view of London
broke on Selina's delighted eye. And yet such had been the exaggerated
picture of this queen of cities, which her vivid imagination had drawn,
that the _coup d'oeil_ almost disappointed her. It is true, a long
line of smoke darkened the whole horizon, yet she could scarcely
believe, the towers she saw so pre-eminent in the distance were really
the St. Paul's, and Westminster Abbey, she had so long wished to see.
Judgment must be corrected by experience, before it can form a true
scale for grandeur either moral or physical. However, as by degrees
Selina discovered the immensity of the parts, she formed some idea of
the comparative magnitude of the whole; and as she approached the
metropolis, the throng of passengers of every rank, the crowd of
carriages of all descriptions, the protracted suburbs, and the bustling
scene altogether, nearly overcame her agitated spirits; and, at last,
when the carriage was suddenly stopped, and for some minutes detained in
Bond Street by the concourse of people, her heart became oppressed with
contending feelings. She experienced that worst pang of solitude--a
consciousness of being alone in a crowd; and, leaning back in the
carriage, she burst into tears. This was, however, but a momentary
depression; her elastic spirits soon recovered their spring; and when
the barouche stopped in Portman Square, she bounded out of it, and gaily
followed Lady Eltondale into her new abode.

For a moment she paused to look round the splendid drawing rooms, as if
to ascertain that the scene was real, and no fleeting vision of her
fancy. Then darting forward, she roamed from room to room, admiring
every thing, examining nothing: the china, the mirrors, the statues, the
lamps, the chandeliers, all in turn caught her attention, and all were
in turn abandoned;

    "Gold, silver, iv'ry, vases sculptur'd high,
    Paint, marbles, gems, and robes of Persian dye."

At last she noticed the balcony, that "rifled all the breathing
spring," and flew to the open French window, expressing aloud all her
admiration.

"All that does vastly well, my dear Selina, now we are _tÍte a tÍte_,"
quietly said the Viscountess, who, in the mean time, had been looking
over the cards that nearly covered one of her tables. "But, pray child,
don't be too _naÔve_. You must learn to suppress your feelings; indeed,
my dear, you must. If you choose to adopt the _ton_ of natural manners,
do so, _cela vous sied bien_; but make the proper distinction between
simplicity and ignorance. I will never act the _chaperone_ to _La
contadina in corte_." Then perceiving her rebuke had, at the moment, all
the effect she desired, she took Selina's arm, and familiarly leaning on
it, "Come, my love," added she, "let me introduce you to your own
apartments: I feel you are so much my child, I quite forget to play the
Lady Macbeth, and kindly bid you welcome." Lady Eltondale knew so well
how to soften the asperity of reproof, without weakening its effect,
that, perhaps, there were no moments in which her fascinating powers
were more displayed, than when she finely touched a string a less
skilful hand would jar: and, having once hinted to Selina that
possibility of her unrestrained emotions being construed into the
affectation of _naÔvetÈ_; she knew the diffidence that suggestion would
occasion, would have the effect of making her still more pliable to her
well versed instructress in the arts of fashion.

Selina's toilet was soon made, and she repaired to the drawing room,
long before her aunt was dressed. Here she prepared to renew, at
leisure, her entertaining examination; and, for this purpose, leaned on
a marble table, to admire the perfection of _bijouterie_, as it was
fully exemplified in a French clock that it supported. She had not long
remained thus employed, when she was disturbed by a voice close behind
her ear, exclaiming, "Beautiful! enchanting! divine, upon my soul!" and
turning round, she perceived a gentleman, who, in the mean time, had
been as attentively, and, to all appearance, not less delightedly
examining her. She colored, but made him a slight curtsy, to which he
returned a bow, as obsequious as he could accomplish without withdrawing
his eyes from her countenance; whilst his own was intended to express
the most reverential admiration: but so little obedient were his
features to his feelings, that their expression bordered on the
ludicrous, and thereby served as an antidote to his ardent, and almost
impertinent gaze. The ceremonious salute was prolonged by both, to
enable each to assume a proper, though different, control over their
features: but Selina, finding her risible muscles moved almost beyond
the power of restraint, turned towards a chair, which her spell-struck
admirer presented to her in silence, and with protracted admiration.

The figure that thus offered incense at her shrine was one, that would
more properly have served as a prototype to a Silenus than a Cupid. He
was habited in the very extreme of fashion, apparently unconscious that
his ill-proportioned limbs, and corpulent form, "made by nature's
journeymen," were but ill adapted to the exhibition of a tailor's art.
His head, which was immense, rose out of a filleting of neckcloth, that
seemed to impede his respiration; at least such might be inferred from
the deepened color of his swoln cheeks. In one hand he held a newspaper,
and in the other a glass, which he always applied to his eye when he
meant to recognize an acquaintance, always saving and reserving to
himself the privilege of "_cutting_" an old friend on the plea of
short-sightedness.

He had neither the graces of youth, nor the respectability of age; and
yet, merely because he had become, nobody knew how or why, the _ton_, he
was a welcome inmate of every fashionable mansion. His recommendations,
such as they were, consisted in a capability of relating a good story in
the best possible manner, and of submitting patiently to a hoax from his
superiors, always knowing how and when to return the compliment with
interest: besides,

    "Our courtier walks from dish to dish,
    Tastes, for his friend, of fowl and fish,
    Tells all their names, lays down the law,
    _Que Á‡ est bon! Ah! go˚tez Áa._"

He was, in truth, a living _Almanac des Gourmands_, and could withal
play well, and bet high at every game. Being a professed old bachelor,
he took the liberty of paying to ladies such undressed compliments, as,
however acceptable they may be from some, it is not the etiquette to
listen to from all. And perhaps from this assumed license, which he owed
chiefly to his own ugliness, did he derive that privilege of which he
was most vain, an undisputed right to decide on all claims to female
beauty.

Such was the character and appearance of Sir James Fenton, whom Lady
Eltondale, on entering, formally introduced to Selina: adding, in a
manner half ironical and half serious, "This is my niece, Miss Seymour,
for whom I bespeak your patronage, Sir James; I expect you will make her
your first toast all this next month." Sir James acceded to her
Ladyship's request with all possible seriousness; and leaning over the
chair of the Viscountess, while he continued his scrutiny of Selina,
lavished on her beauty the most rapturous praise in an audible voice,
and, in a tone of criticism, concluding, as he conducted Lady Eltondale
to the dinner room,--

    Let her be seen; could she that wish obtain,
    All other wishes her own power would gain.

Selina scarcely knew whether to be most offended at Sir James's
effrontery, or entertained by his originality. She had not an
opportunity to decide on this important question afterwards, as he did
not make his re-appearance in the drawing room.

Lord Eltondale had accidentally met him in Bond Street, as he strolled
down towards the Royal Institution; and Sir James had accepted his
casual invitation to dinner, for the sole purpose of seeing "the
beautiful heiress;" and being able to anticipate the judgment the
connoisseurs were to pass on her title to admiration. For Lady Eltondale
had not been idle during her stay in the country: she was well aware,
that there was no way by which a woman could better secure the
admiration of any one man, than by convincing him she had obtained that
of the rest of the world; and having gained "the beautiful heiress" for
Frederick Elton, she wished to enhance the gift in his eyes, by
increasing her value in those of others.

She knew that Selina's beauty was above praise, and that, even had she
been less lovely, an _heiress_ was always transformed into a goddess, in
the pages of a newspaper. She therefore had written, previous to their
arrival in town, to about twenty of her confidential friends, making
very slight mention of Selina's person, but giving a most minute detail
of her property; and thus prepared the paragraph in the Morning Post,
which next day met Selina's eyes, describing herself as

                      "A creature,
    Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal
    Of all professors else, make proselytes
    of whom she bid but follow."

Lady Eltondale was excessively entertained at the surprise and confusion
of Selina, at reading this unexpected compliment to her own charms, the
real existence of which she was totally unconscious of. As the time had
arrived when Selina had promised to lay aside her mourning, they
determined to commence the pleasing toil of shopping that very day, and
accordingly visited in turn all the jewellers, milliners, mantua-makers,
corset-makers, and shoemakers, and all the _et cetera_, that disputed
the palm of fashionable praise. While Lady Eltondale gratified at once
her love of extravagance and exquisite taste, as she directed that of
her lovely charge, at the same time she indulged Selina's very natural
curiosity, by taking her through the different parts of the metropolis;
for the wary Viscountess was anxious that Selina should not be produced
to the world's eye, while she was herself too new to its wonders; well
knowing that all her care and all her instructions, would scarcely
suffice to check the first warm effusions of an unpractised heart.

Some days passed in this manner; and at last the decorations of Selina's
lovely person being decided on, the embellishment of her mind was next
to be attended to, at least so Lady Eltondale termed the cultivation of
her _talents_; for with her _mind_ she, in truth, little interfered,
however much she wished to direct the expression of her feelings. To
perfect her in all the accomplishments of the day, the first masters
were engaged to attend her. Selina, in her usual lively manner, wrote to
Mrs. Galton an entertaining description of her various avocations,
alleging that she was already introduced "to the whole _dramatis
personÊ_ of the _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_," consisting of "_un maitre de
musique_, _un maitre ‡ danser_, _un maitre tailleur_, _plusieurs
laquais_" and that she hoped "_les hommes du bel air_ would soon make
the _entrÈe du ballet_."

A beautiful boudoir was resigned to Selina by the Viscountess for her
morning room, as it by no means was a part of her Ladyship's plan, that
Selina should be _‡ portÈ_ to the train of idle visitors that formed her
usual levee. She knew the world well enough to be aware, that even
beauty might grow familiar, and "pall on the eye;" and the more Miss
Seymour was found difficult of access, the more would her society be
sought. Therefore in acceding to Selina's entreaty to be allowed to pass
her morning, as usual, in employment, while apparently only yielding to
her wishes, she in truth pursued her own. Selina, with gratitude and
delight, took possession of her little Paradise, for so she deemed it;
into it she speedily removed her books, her drawing materials, and her
magnificent new harp, which had been one of her first purchases, and
there did she devote many hours to practising the lessons she daily
received; particularly attending to the improvement of her naturally
fine voice, which she could already accompany tolerably well on her new
instrument; and often did she find her toil amply recompensed by a
silent reflection of "how delighted Augustus and aunt Mary would be to
hear me now!"

Nearly a fortnight had elapsed since their arrival in town, and Lady
Eltondale became tired of remaining so long in private; for though she
had, in truth, been out every evening, she had not yet gone to any large
assembly, not wishing to appear in public without Selina, and choosing
that her _dÈbut_ should take place at her own house. She therefore sent
out her cards for "a small party, with music;" and in the selection she
made of her intended guests, took care that nearly all the leaders of
_ton_, of both sexes, should be invited, whose fiat could at once
impress the stamp of fashion on her _protÈgÈe_, for of their award she
felt well assured, as her own silence on her beauty indicated. In the
mean time she was most assiduous in preparing Selina for the exhibition.
An easy but beautiful duet was practised and repractised with
Mademoiselle Omphalie, who declared her full approbation of her quick
adaptation of her style. Another was "_got up_," in which Selina was to
accompany Madame ---- on the piano forte, with just as many full chords
on the harp as would show her beautiful figure to advantage, and impress
the company with an idea of her manifold accomplishments; and a popular
air, with brilliant variations, was selected for her performance on the
piano forte, which was, in truth, the only part of the _scene_ in which
poor Selina felt the least assurance of success. At last the evening
arrived, and Selina attended her aunt to the drawing room in a tumult of
contending feelings: she stood on the threshold of pleasure--hope
danced in her eyes, whilst the blush of timidity flushed her cheek. The
magnificence of the apartments, the splendor of the lights, the perfume
of the flowers, at once dazzled and delighted her. All the rooms were
opened, and all shone in one blaze of borrowed day except the favourite
boudoir: it too was open, and in it still sweeter flowers charmed the
sense. But its simple, though beautiful, decorations, were more obscured
than shown by the pale light of lamps, which shed almost a moonlight
around, as they darted their tempered rays through vases of transparent
alabaster. It seemed like the retreat of luxurious elegance receding
from the world's glare; and Selina herself appeared like the goddess of
this blest abode. Her dress had been entirely superintended by the
Viscountess, as Selina neither understood nor valued the arts of the
toilet; but her well versed aunt, knowing that the reputation of
Selina's immense fortune was already sufficiently extended, had
determined to consider nothing in this her first appearance, but how
best to heighten her natural loveliness. The style of her dress was of
the chastest simplicity. Her luxuriant hair, "when unadorned adorned the
most," shone in no borrowed ornament, but every tress was arranged by
the nicest hand of art, "then best exercised when least displayed." No
jewels shed round her their meretricious glare; her gown of pure white
seemed as spotless as the robe of innocence--but its beauty was not the
effect of chance: no fold was unimpressed with the finest touch
experienced taste could bestow; and, as Lady Eltondale turned her eyes
on the beautiful girl, thus moulded, to all the external perfection she
could have desired, she smiled at the anticipation of the triumphs that
awaited her.

The frequent knocks, and rapidly repeated succession of names,
announced to Selina that the Ides of March were come. Lady Eltondale
took her station in the most conspicuous part of the rooms, for the
purpose of receiving her guests; and never was the fascinating elegance
of her manners more conspicuously displayed than on such occasions. At
first she kept Selina leaning on her arm, for the purpose of showing her
blushing charms to all, and of actually introducing her to a favored
few. But the rooms rapidly filling, and the music being commenced, Lady
Eltondale left Miss Seymour under the peculiar protection of the old
Dutchess of Saltoun, whose countenance showed how truly she was
delighted with her young acquaintance. But Lady Eltondale, in
withdrawing from Selina, did not cease to observe all her motions. Nor
was she a little gratified at the universal murmur of applause her
appearance excited, thus bursting into view in all the heightened effect
of unexpected beauty. All the fashionable beaux in the room crowded
round the new star, expressing, in all the variety of tones and
gestures, their admiration of her loveliness: at last, their profuse
compliments confusing, rather than gratifying Selina, she looked
anxiously round for her aunt, and perceived her standing in earnest
conversation with two gentlemen, in one of whom, with equal surprise and
pleasure, she recognised Augustus, and the other she rightly conjectured
to be Lord Osselstone.




CHAPTER IV.

    Quando muovo le luci a mirar voi,
    La forma che nel cor m'impressa Amore,
    Io mi sento agghiacciar dentro e di fuore,
    Al primo lampeggiar de' raggi moi.
    A le nobil maniere affiso poi,
    A le rare virtuti, al gran valore,
    Ragionarmi pian piano, odo nel core[4].

    ARIOSTO.

[Footnote 4:

    When tremblingly I raise my eyes
    To view that form, which in my breast
    The hand of Love has deep impressed,
    My shiv'ring frame, in sudden trance,
    Congeals beneath thy lightning glance;
    But soon my heart, in broken sighs,
    Renews the tale it told before,
    And, counting all thy beauties o'er,
    Dwells on thy talents, virtues rare,
    Thy mind so pure, thy form so fair,
    Till even hope amid the whispers dies.

N. B. Freezing beneath a _lightning_ glance, in the original--a fair
example of Italian concetti.]


To account for the unexpected appearance of Lord Osselstone and
Mordaunt together at Lady Eltondale's party, it will be necessary
briefly to mention, that, soon after Augustus had left Mrs. Galton at
Bath, the Earl had arrived there, and accidentally renewed their
acquaintance. The frequent opportunity of intercourse, which all such
places afford, having produced a degree of unexpected association
between her and the Earl, it was not unnatural, that the nephew of the
one and the favourite of the other should frequently become the subject
of their discourse; and Mrs. Galton delighted in expatiating on the fine
character of her dear Augustus, with whom she kept up a constant and
confidential correspondence.

There were few characters so much respected by Lord Osselstone as that
of Mrs. Galton. Candour and simplicity were the qualities of all others,
which, by not calling forth from him the defensive armour of distrust
and penetration, left his heart more open to the impressions of real
worth. The Earl knew that on common subjects Mrs. Galton could have no
interest in appearing to him other than she really was; and on the
subject of Augustus in particular, though he sometimes mentally accused
her of exaggeration, he was perfectly convinced she was uniformly
sincere. She once, in her zealous friendship, communicated to his
Lordship a part of Augustus' correspondence with herself; and to this
transcript of his mind, which was incontestably written without design
of being read by a third person, did Lord Osselstone give more credit
than to her partial representation of the original.

The consequence of these communications became afterwards apparent.
Lord Osselstone soon removed to London; and one day meeting Augustus in
the street, he accosted him with so much of the _suaviter in modo_, that
his at first unbending pride was finally subdued. For never yet had Lord
Osselstone encountered a rock which he could not dissolve, though by
more dulcet means than those attributed to the Carthaginian hero; and
the Alpine snow, which had hitherto enveloped both uncle and nephew,
being once thawed, a frequency of intercourse, as unsought as unexpected
on the part of Mordaunt, had taken place between them: not that they
were yet intimate, or appeared likely to become so. A certain magic
circle seemed to surround Lord Osselstone; and though the politeness and
condescension of his manners attracted others to its very verge, there
was still a secondary, though invisible repulsive power, that forbade
approach beyond its well defined limits.

Augustus now received frequent invitations to Osselstone House, both
for large dinner parties, and for the still more flattering distinction
of a _tÍte ‡ tÍte_; but though he daily met with considerate and even
kind attentions from the Earl, he could not help still feeling he was
more his _patron_ than his _friend_. Lord Osselstone frequently
concluded a _tÍte ‡ tÍte_ dinner, in which he had exerted every charm of
conversation for the entertainment of his guest, at the same time
eliciting all the varied powers of understanding that guest possessed,
by proposing that he should accompany him to those higher circles of
fashion, which the Earl still occasionally frequented; and in those
crowded assemblies where there is so often "company without society, and
dissipation without pleasure," the heir to Lord Osselstone's earldom was
always welcome, even where the untitled Augustus Mordaunt would scarcely
have been noticed.

It may be supposed that Augustus received, with no little trepidation,
the card his uncle presented him with for Lady Eltondale's assembly. For
a moment he hesitated whether or not to accept it; but the thought of
being once more in the same room with Selina soon over-balanced his
wounded feelings. As he followed his uncle up the sumptuous stair-case
in Portman-square, while his heart fluttered between pleasure and
despondency, his mind had wandered back to the scenes of Deane Hall, and
"days long since gone by." By a natural illusion Selina's figure had
always floated before his fancy, as he had last seen it clothed in the
sable garb of woe, with the tear of regret resting on her pallid cheek.
How different was the blooming form that now presented itself, as at the
moment of his entering the room his eye intuitively singled her out from
the crowd that surrounded her. She stood like the queen of beauty
receiving the homage of all around, her eyes sparkling with animation,
her whole figure beaming in joy. "Good God, how lovely!" he
involuntarily exclaimed. But as his protracted gaze discovered the
alterations her manners and appearance had undergone in the few months
she had been under the tuition of Lady Eltondale, a cold chill ran
through his veins, as he recollected the possibility that her mind might
be equally changed; and renewing his scrutinizing glance, he shuddered
at the external improvement that had first extorted his admiration, and
sighed to think of the lovely artless girl, who would once have flown to
meet him with all the innocence of undisguised delight.

But though Augustus had thus instantly recognized Selina, though his
eyes had followed her every step, and watched her every motion, she had
not then discovered him. The moment she did perceive him, her first
impulse was to move towards the spot on which he stood. But she had
scarcely taken a few steps, when she as involuntarily stopped. She
became embarrassed, and had she been more experienced in the waywardness
of the human heart, she would better have known why, with conscious
timidity, she hesitated to approach him she was most delighted to
behold. Augustus watched her approach, and had advanced a few steps to
meet it, but misconstruing her delay, he turned away with a movement of
pique and ill defined jealousy, entering into apparently interesting
conversation with a very pretty girl who stood near him. At the moment
when Selina came near enough to overhear what he was saying, he was
busily employed in making gallant apologies to his new friend for not
having called upon her, though he acknowledged he had been six weeks in
town.

However he could not long keep his resolution, and he again turned to
speak to his "heart's best love;" but a pang had shot through Selina's
soul, as she had learned from his own lips that he had been so long in
town, and recollected that he had never called in Portman-square. She
therefore returned his address with a cold politeness, far, far
different from what her manner to him once had been; and advanced to
meet Lady Eltondale, who at that moment was bringing up Lord Osselstone
to introduce to her. His Lordship, at the request of the Viscountess,
led Selina towards the music-room, where the rest of the musical
performers were waiting to accompany her in her formidable undertaking.
The harp was to be her first exhibition, and the poor girl, intimidated
by the presence of so numerous an audience, and agitated by her
rencontre with Mordaunt, could scarcely bring her trembling fingers to
touch the strings with any degree of tolerable accuracy. But Lord
Osselstone stood beside her, and the calm and dignified support with
which he endeavoured to encourage her, assisted her in regaining some
degree of composure. As she advanced in her performance, her eye caught
the impassioned glance of Mordaunt, and her anxiety to exhibit to him
her newly acquired accomplishment lent her an unexpected force, which
enabled her to go through the fiery trial beyond her most sanguine
expectation. Her playing was of course applauded many degrees beyond its
real merit; but she quickly retreated from the flattery that at that
moment was indifferent to her. Her eyes instinctively sought Mordaunt's
with an anxious, timid, almost beseeching look. His rested on her
beautiful countenance with an expression no less unequivocal, and for
once they read aright each other's soul; and many months, nay years
passed away, before that mutual glance was obliterated from the mind of
either. Several minutes elapsed before Augustus could make his way up to
Selina, so closely was she surrounded by the unregarded throng; but when
he did reach her, one short sentence expressed his delighted surprise
at her new acquirement. "Do you think dear aunt Mary will be pleased
too?" whispered Selina. Before he could give any answer to this simple
query, gratifying as it doubly was by the sympathy it accidentally
expressed to his feelings at the moment, Lady Eltondale approached, and
applauded, in the strongest terms, her niece's performance. "Have you
also learned to sing, Selina?" said Augustus, as he turned over the
loose music that lay on the piano forte. Lady Eltondale hastily replied,
with a slight emphasis, "Miss Seymour practises Italian music
constantly:--Frederick will find, on his return, good singing is not
confined to Italy." A cold weight fell on Augustus's heart;--the visions
of happiness, that an instant before had fleeted over his mind, vanished
like a charm. He gave a deep sigh, and, seemingly without design, turned
towards Selina a duet that caught his eye. It was Mozart's arrangement
of Metastasio's beautiful words:--

    "Ah! perdona al primo affetto,
    Questo accento sconsigliato
    Colpa fu d'un labbro usato
    A cosi chiamarti ognor."

Selina read the couplet, and casting her eyes over the following verse,
coloured deeply at the application she involuntarily made of it. Lady
Eltondale, who in the mean time had narrowly watched her changing
countenance, roused her from her reverie by introducing to her at that
moment Lord George Meredith, who was one of the young men who had been
loudest in Miss Seymour's praise. His compliments were now however
disregarded, as Selina looked anxiously round for Mordaunt--but he had
disappeared. She fancied he had retired to one of the adjoining rooms,
and made many excuses not only to her companions, but even to herself,
for restlessly sauntering through them all. Sometimes she recollected
she had left her fan behind; another time she persuaded herself Lady
Eltondale wanted her;--but still the object she really sought was not to
be found. By degrees she became painfully convinced he was actually
gone. "It is very odd he should go away so abruptly," thought she; "I
had a thousand things to say to him about aunt Mary." And then a
confused idea occurring, that the pretty flirting girl, she had seen him
talking to, had said something about going to a ball after Lady
Eltondale's party, she mechanically retraced her steps, and finding she
too had departed, a sickening depression came over her, and she retired
to the boudoir to recover herself. But she was not long permitted to
rest in peace:--Sir James Fenton, who, led by Lady Eltondale, entered
the room laughing with all the exaggerated action that became his
character, though not his figure, exclaimed, "Where is the Syren? Where
is the goddess of the night?" Then on perceiving Selina, he resigned the
arm of the Viscountess with a low bow, and singing with ludicrous tone
and gesture, "_Dove sei amato bene_," advanced to Miss Seymour, who,
half dragged, half led, was re-conducted to the music-room.

But the feeling which had supported her in her last effort was now no
more. The duet, of which Mademoiselle Omphalie had loudly boasted, was
to commence, and Selina exerted herself to the utmost in its execution;
but her voice faltered, and before she got half way through it, she
burst into tears. Her distress, which was thus evidently unfeigned, now
made her nearly as many friends as her charms had before procured her
admirers; while Lady Eltondale easily persuaded every body except
herself, that it could only arise from timidity, and therefore forbore
to join the general request that the effort might be renewed; while Sir
James exclaimed, in all the hyperbole of compliment,

    "Sweet harmonist, and beautiful as sweet,
    And young as beautiful, and soft as young!"

Meantime Lord. Osselstone had advanced towards Selina, and there was
always something so dignified in his appearance, that those who did not
know him involuntarily made way for him; and all those who were
acquainted with him did so mechanically. He at first addressed the
trembling girl in the language of compliment, but finding her real
agitation was not to be soothed by the sovereign balm of flattery, he
gradually turned the conversation on Mrs. Galton. Her eyes then beamed
with gratitude for his praise, which she believed could not then be
insincere; and in her tell-tale countenance and artless expressions, he
read a heart not yet practised in the world's wiles. The company began
to separate before their conversation ended; and as Selina, on her
wakeful pillow, recalled to her mind this evening of promised pleasure,
she sighed to think, that those few calm moments she had passed with
Lord Osselstone were the only ones, on which she could reflect with any
tranquillity.




CHAPTER V.

    What whispers must the beauty hear!
    What hourly nonsense haunts her ear!
    Where'er her eyes dispense their charms,
    Impertinence around her swarms.

    GAY.


The next morning Selina arose unrefreshed. She could not in any way
reconcile to her satisfaction the expression of Mordaunt's countenance,
when her eyes met his, and his apparently evident design of shunning her
society. "It is so odd," thought she, "he should never have called to
see me. He must have known by the newspapers that we were come to town;
and then he hardly spoke three words to me all last night, yet his looks
were kinder than ever. Well, I think he'll certainly call to-day." As
she thus concluded her soliloquy, she turned once more to her
looking-glass, and, as she revised her dress, an involuntary smile
played on her lip, as she felt convinced that the negligence of her
morning costume was not less becoming than her evening attire had been.
Often, as the hours rolled heavily on, did she saunter to the window,
and gaze up and down the square, in hopes of descrying Augustus; and
often, notwithstanding her mortification, did she smile at her own
ridiculous mistakes, as she still fancied every distant passenger must
be he, whether tall or short, thick or thin, old or young, ugly or
handsome. At last, in despair, she retired to her boudoir, and resumed
her drawing; while Lady Eltondale, who was by no means unmindful of her
evident restlessness, made no remark upon the subject. At last a loud
knock proclaimed the arrival of visitors. Selina started from her seat,
and as instantaneously resumed it. In a moment a footman appeared, with
"My Lady's compliments, and begs to see you in the drawing-room,
ma'am." Selina's heart beat at the unusual summons, while her trembling
limbs scarcely supported her as she prepared to obey it. Great then was
her disappointment on entering the room, to be overwhelmed at once with
the united compliments of the whole Webberly family. She had scarcely
presence of mind sufficient to reply to their various civilities; but
fortunately their own anxiety to assume the feelings they deemed
appropriate to the occasion, left them no time to investigate those that
actually agitated her.

Lady Eltondale soon relieved her from her embarrassment. "Selina, Mrs.
Sullivan has been good enough to call for the purpose of taking you to
see the exhibition at Somerset House: I know you will be delighted to
attend her." Selina turned full round to her aunt with a look of
astonishment. She could not believe, that Lady Eltondale had consented
to let her go into public with the very people, whom, of all others,
she had most frequently ridiculed, against whose society she had most
frequently inveighed. Lady Eltondale met her wondering gaze with an
unmoved countenance; and ringing the bell, "Go, my love," said she, "and
equip yourself as quickly as possible: I will desire John to send Watson
to you, that no time may be lost; and I will either send my carriage, or
call for you myself, to save Mrs. Sullivan the trouble of bringing you
home." Selina perceived, that excuse or reply would be of no avail; and,
before her surprise was abated, she found herself unwillingly seated as
a fifth in Mrs. Sullivan's ostentatious equipage.

Little could the artless girl divine the real motive for the
Viscountess' singular deviation from her professed rule of allowing
Selina no other Chaperone than herself. In truth Mordaunt had called in
Portman-square more than once, and had never been admitted; a
circumstance which he had hitherto wished to attribute either to the
mistake of the porter, or to the design of the aunt.

But Selina's manner and looks had been so contradictory, and her whole
conduct had, in his opinion, so nearly approached to caprice, that he
determined to ascertain whether it were possible she could indeed be
accessary to his exclusion. He therefore took the opportunity, while
Selina was moving towards the music-room, to ask Lady Eltondale's
decided leave to wait on her the next day. The Viscountess, nicely
discriminating between Lord Osselstone's nephew and Sir Henry Seymour's
_ÈlËve_, most graciously granted the permission he solicited;
determining at the same to pretend, when he called, that Selina had gone
out, even had a less favourable opportunity occurred of ensuring her
actually having done so. While, then, poor Selina was taken away so much
against her own inclination, Mordaunt approached Portman-square. At one
moment he recalled to his mind, with gratitude and delight, Selina's
mute but eloquent application for his approval of her talents: at the
next, his heart sunk as he recollected the possibility, that those
talents were thus sedulously cultivated for another. "But," thought he,
"I am determined to ascertain her real sentiments; perhaps Lady
Eltondale obliged her to send me that cruel message; perhaps her heart
is yet unchanged; or," continued he, his passion rising at the
recollection of the fatal letter, "perhaps she is only influenced by
that despicable vanity of her sex, which makes them seek the applause of
all, while they return the love of none. But why torture myself thus?
her own conduct will best explain itself." Then, commanding all his
fortitude to bear the trial, with as much composure as he could assume,
he entered Lady Eltondale's drawing-room. She received him with that
grace by which she was so peculiarly distinguished, and with an air of
unembarrassed kindness, that might have deluded one more experienced. To
his inquiries for Selina she replied, with an air of perfect candour,
"She is gone to take a drive with Mrs. Sullivan; I postponed mine," she
continued, with a gracious smile, "as you had promised to call on _us_;
but, you know, Selina is very young, and London sights are quite new to
her. We must all make allowances for the heedlessness of youth," added
she, in a tone of compassion. "When I answered Frederick's question,
whether her character was as perfect as he remembered her person
promised to be, I reminded him that 'most women have no characters at
all;' and prepared, him for her volatility, which is indeed her
principal, if not her only fault. She too is prepared for----" Mordaunt
could not bear to hear the sentence finished. "Is not that my uncle's
curricle?" said he, starting up, and going to the window. His fair
hostess used no further effort to prolong his visit; and as soon as
politeness permitted, he took his leave, with feelings which, if Lady
Eltondale could have understood, even she perhaps would have pitied.

Meantime Selina proceeded towards Somerset House. It was a delightful
day; and the rapid motion of the carriage, the gaiety of the streets,
and even a faint hope that she might, perhaps, meet Mordaunt in her
drive, all contributed to raise her spirits. At last, as the carriage
experienced a momentary stop in Bond-street, Selina heard her own name
pronounced by a voice not unfamiliar to her ear, and hastily turning to
the speaker, she recognized Mr. Sedley. To inquire where she resided,
where she was going, and whether he might join the party, was the
occupation of a moment. It was settled, that he and Webberly should walk
to Somerset House, as, exclaimed the latter half aloud, "Egad, it is
too bad to be boxed up here with my mother and sisters, even for the
sake of the heiress." "Vell," said his mother, as she expanded her ample
petticoats over the small space she had hitherto permitted him to
occupy, "I'm sure that's a good riddance of bad rubbish at all events;
not but Jack's a good-natured feller as ever lived, though he has sadly
muffled me, to be sure." They reached Somerset House before Mrs.
Sullivan had fully arranged her draperies, and before Selina had time to
express half her regrets at hearing Miss Wildenheim had been left in the
country, but not before the gentlemen arrived to hand them out of their
carriage. Here Selina's attention was delightedly engaged in examining
the various specimens of her favourite art, with which she was
surrounded. Nor could the outrageous compliments of Webberly, the
vociferous vulgarity of his mother and sisters, or the easy vivacious
gallantry of Sedley, divert her from her admiration of them, till Lady
Eltondale called to take her home. As the aunt and niece returned,
neither of them articulated the name of him, who principally occupied
the thoughts of both. But no sooner did they reach Portman-square, than
Selina, running hastily up stairs, tossed over the numberless cards that
had been left in her absence by the different beaux who had been there
the night before, and a sigh escaped her as she became unwillingly
convinced, that Mordaunt's only was not to be found.

Lord Eltondale seldom joined the circle in which alone his Viscountess
condescended to move; and, except in very large assemblies, either at
home or abroad, they were seldom seen together.

The same undistinguishing kindness still marked his manner to Selina,
which she had experienced on her first reception at Eltondale; and he
continued to think of her as a pretty, lively, good-humoured girl, but
he had neither time nor talent to ascertain whether she was a _happy_
one; indeed he never thought about her, except when she was present; and
thus the occasional depression of her spirits, which was so new in the
history of Selina's life, passed unnoticed both by the Viscount and his
Lady, from the total want of reflection in the character of the one, and
the refinement of duplicity in the other.

On the evening of the day in which Selina visited Somerset House, she
accompanied Lady Eltondale to the Opera. She had never yet been in any
theatre. What then were her sensations, when, on the door of her aunt's
box being opened, she beheld, at one _coup d'oeil_, the assembled
magnificence of the stage, presented in the last act of a beautiful
ballet, and that of the audience, which seemed ranged round more to
increase than to enjoy the splendor of the spectacle? To those who have
beheld such a scene, with as little experience, and as much capability
of enjoyment as Selina possessed, no description of its effects would be
necessary; and to those who have not, no words could give an adequate
idea of her delight. Lady Eltondale's box was soon filled with
gentlemen, but nothing had, at first, the power of diverting Selina's
attention from the stage, whilst the _naÔvetÈ_ of her remarks, and the
varying expression of her countenance, gave her every moment new charms.
Amongst the rest Sir James Fenton and Lord George Meredith were most
obsequious in their attentions, and loudest in their encomiums. She had
just turned her head, to listen to a curious account the latter was
giving of his having been once introduced to Mrs. Sullivan and her
daughters, and was laughing heartily at his ridiculous imitation of
their manners, when her eye caught that of Mordaunt, who was standing in
the pit at no great distance. But his fine countenance no longer bore
that expression, which she had so fondly treasured in her memory. He
stood gazing at her, with a cold, almost contemptuous steadiness: no
beam of tenderness softened the brilliancy of his penetrating eye, that
seemed to dart into her very soul. She coloured, and returned his half
salute with one still more expressive of indignant pride; and, with
increased vivacity, renewed her conversation with Lord George Meredith.
Mordaunt did not visit their box the whole evening, though Lord
Osselstone staid in it for some time, occasionally smiling, and
sometimes even calling forth Selina's observations on the scene, to her
so replete with novelty and attraction: while once or twice following
the direction of her unconscious glance, his eyes were directed to an
opposite box, where Augustus seemed to be evidently renewing his devoirs
to the pretty Miss Webster, to whom, as Selina thought, he had been so
unnecessarily civil at Lady Eltondale's assembly.

At last, as the closing scene was almost finished, and the Viscountess
was preparing to leave her box, escorted by Sir James Fenton, the door
was suddenly opened by Sedley, who came to attend Selina to her
carriage; she gave a smothered sigh as she thought "Augustus would once
have done the same," but accepted the proffered civility, after having
introduced him to Lady Eltondale; who was already well acquainted with
him by name, as Frederick Elton's friend and correspondent, and
therefore she thought him a most desirable attendant on Selina. Thus
escorted, they hastened to their carriage, and drove without delay to
join another crowd, at the Duchess of Saltoun's ball. And here Selina
was, as usual, admired, followed, and flattered. Lord George Meredith
and Sedley had both engaged her, before they left the Opera, to dance;
and as it was one of her favorite amusements, she quickly entered into
all the gaiety that surrounded her, with that vivacity which is so
natural to youth, and so peculiarly belonging to her character.
Mordaunt, for the moment, was forgotten; or if his image intruded on her
mind, it rose as a dark cloud, that threw a gloomy shade on her present
pleasure, and served but to make her turn to the joys of dissipation
with increased avidity, as an antidote to its saddening influence. Is it
to be wondered at, that a girl so totally inexperienced as Selina was,
should yield a little to the many temptations that now surrounded her?
Without any calm, steady friend, whose sobered reflection would have
served as a counterpoise to her natural volatility, she found herself
suddenly transported from the deepest shade of retirement to the
brightest blaze of fashion.

Her youth, her beauty, her fortune, all conspired to place her in the
foremost rank of praise.--All the young men professing themselves her
admirers, all the women her friends.--Could she for a moment doubt
their sincerity being equal to her own? And could it be supposed, that,
believing their truth, she should be wholly insensible to such
unexpected adulation?




CHAPTER VI.

    Songez bien que l'amour sait feindre,
    Redoutez un sage berger,
    On n'est que plus prËs du danger,
    Quand on croit n'avoir rien ‡ craindre[5].

[Footnote 5:

    Remember still love can dissemble,
    And even with the wisest tremble;
    For when we think there's nought to fear,
    Often danger's lurking near.
]


Balls, parties, operas, followed each other in rapid succession; and as
rapidly did Selina rise to the very zenith of fashion. She became at
once the _ton_, and, being so, whatever she said, whatever she did, was
of course immediately pronounced "wisest, discreetest, best." She had
many followers, but Lord George Meredith was the only gentleman, who
had yet openly professed himself to be her suitor. It was, however, far
from Lady Eltondale's intention, that Selina should make any choice for
herself; or rather, she determined so to bend her ductile mind, that by
degrees that choice, which was in reality Lady Eltondale's, should seem
to be her own. She therefore carefully observed the manner of all the
young men, who were most sedulous in paying attention to Selina;
believing that she was fully capable of discriminating, whether their
intentions went beyond the amusement of the passing moment, and equally
certain of frustrating any plan that militated against her own. The more
Selina became _the fashion_, the more steady became Lady Eltondale's
determination to marry her to Frederick Elton; and with that
infatuation, which is a natural consequence of self-love, the deeper she
became engaged in the prosecution of her scheme, the more she felt
herself interested in its ultimate success. Lord George Meredith soon
rendered himself an object of her jealousy; and she therefore took an
early opportunity of casually informing Selina, through an apparently
accidental conversation with Sir James Fenton, of his Lordship's
unconquerable passion for gaming, and concluded by turning abruptly to
Selina, remarking, "that, no doubt, the fine oaks of Deane Hall would
serve to repair some of his losses; and, as he regularly made love to
every heiress that _came out_, perhaps Selina might, if she chose,
procure for herself the hitherto rejected title in reversion of
Marchioness Starmont." Lady Eltondale's sarcasm was not without its due
effect: by degrees Selina's behaviour to Lord George sunk into a cold,
though polite reserve; and his Lordship, understanding the change in the
manner both of aunt and niece, gradually withdrew his attentions. The
conduct of Mr. Sedley was much more equivocal, and almost baffled the
penetration of the Viscountess. It always happened his engagements and
theirs were the same, and wherever they went he became one of their
immediate party; but his manner was so perfectly careless, that the
rencontre seemed purely accidental. He admired Selina's beauty avowedly,
but with apparently equal _nonchalance_, sometimes complimented Lady
Eltondale on the elegance of Miss Seymour's dress, and much oftener
finding fault with Selina herself, if any particular ornament or colour
in it happened not to suit his fancy. To the Viscountess herself his
manner was in the highest degree attentive, and even insinuating; and
had the world in which they moved had time to attend to his conduct in
particular, it would probably have decided, that he was much more
assiduous in recommending himself to the aunt than to the niece. He
would often place himself, for a whole evening, behind Lady Eltondale's
chair, when the vivacity and singularity of his conversation,
compounded, as it was, of sense and levity, would withdraw nearly all
her attention from the rest of the company, while at the same time
Selina would appear almost unregarded by him. It also often happened, if
they were at a ball together, he would ask Selina to dance, "provided
she had not any other partner;" or tell her to "say at least she was
engaged to him, if any asked her she did not wish to dance with;" and
such was the pleasure Selina always experienced from his natural
vivacious manners, that it seldom happened that the engagement was not
fulfilled. And yet it seemed almost a matter of indifference to him,
whether it was so or not; he often appeared fully as anxious to procure
other pleasant partners for her, as to be the chosen one himself. One
evening, Selina supposed she had engaged herself to him, and waited in
anxious, though vain, expectation of his coming to claim her hand; and
when, as his apology for not doing so, he told her laughingly, that he
had totally forgotten their engagement, she was almost tempted to be
affronted. But he so good naturedly called the next morning, to bring
her the music of the last new ballet, and appeared so unconscious of
having merited her displeasure, that it quickly vanished, and their
friendship seemed more firmly established than ever.

Certain it is, that Selina felt more at ease with Sedley, than with any
other of the beaux who now constantly attended in her train. Sometimes
the compliments of her professed admirers were too exaggerated for even
her vanity to believe. But, with him, she felt she could at all times
talk and laugh unrestrainedly; he seemed to have no pretensions, and
therefore she did not think it necessary to be on her guard against
either wounding or encouraging them. If the inconsiderateness of her
buoyant spirits, or her inexperience of the rules of etiquette, led her
into any trifling dilemma, she was always certain of his good humoured
and effectual assistance in relieving her from her embarrassment;
whilst, on the other hand, he had imperceptibly assumed the privilege,
which she had as unconsciously yielded to him, of reproving her for any
trifling sin, either of omission or commission, against the laws of
fashion. She therefore reposed a certain confidence in Sedley, that led
her to have a different feeling for him, from that she experienced for
the other individuals by whom she was surrounded. For her natural
timidity led her almost always to yield her opinion, without contention,
to that of any other person, whose knowledge or abilities she supposed
superior to her own. She even felt relieved, by believing she could in
safety repose on the wisdom of another; for she had never yet been
placed in a situation, in which she was necessitated to act for herself.
Her ideas of the perfection of her father and Mrs. Galton had been
such, that she not only never had disputed their authority, but had so
entirely relied on their judgment, that her own had never been called
into action. With her recollections of them Augustus Mordaunt had
hitherto been united: the first affections of her heart had turned
towards him, as to the playfellow, the companion, the brother of her
earliest infancy; and had he too been her guide on her first entrance
into life, she would probably have been induced to bestow on him a still
dearer title. But Sir Henry's death, and Lady Eltondale's subsequent
artifices, had totally separated poor Selina from all these her earliest
friends. The misunderstanding, which had at first arisen partly from
accident, between her and Mordaunt, was afterwards carefully increased
by the crafty Viscountess; and her two unsuspecting victims, by their
mutual errors, facilitated the success of her machinations. Both,
conscious of the integrity of their own feelings, avoided rather than
sought an explanation, which both considered due to their own individual
pride. By both the perceptible alteration of each other's manner was
attributed to the change that had taken place in their relative
situation; and, above all, as the interruption of their intimacy had
occurred by imperceptible degrees, no opening was left for
reconciliation by the pretext of decided grievance. Whenever they met,
which was now but seldom, a mutual indifference seemed to have succeeded
to that regard, which had once been so prized by both. As yet however
the indifference was but assumed.--Mordaunt felt, that it would be long
before reason could extinguish his love for her, who was the world's
idol as well as his--but every sentiment of wounded affection and
indignant pride led him to conceal the passion he could not cure--The
more he became conscious of the necessity of self-control, the more did
he close up the real feelings of his heart in an impenetrable armour of
cold and studied reserve. On the other hand, Selina's feelings had taken
a far different coloring. His having, on their first meeting in town,
apparently repulsed her advances to a renewal of their former intimacy,
had given her the severest pang of mortification she had ever
experienced; but vanity soon came to her assistance, and when she found
that he alone appeared insensible to those charms which were so prized
by others, she began, not unnaturally, to attribute his apparent
unkindness to an insensibility she was undecided whether to resent or
despise. Whenever, therefore, by accident they happened to be in the
same society, she rather assumed than corrected the appearance of
flirtation and coquetry, which was dissimilar to the artless _naÔvetÈ_
of her earlier days, and was least suited to the unbending frigidity of
his present deportment. With these sentiments it is not then to be
wondered at, that their mutual society should become a source of pain,
rather than of pleasure, to both; and Lady Eltondale, watching with
secret satisfaction the widening breach, made it still more irreparable,
by ostentatiously appearing to court that intercourse, which both now
evidently wished to shun.

At the same time Sedley, apparently without design, seemed to rise in
Selina's estimation, in the proportion as Augustus fell, and gradually
began to insinuate himself into her regard. In Sedley's society Selina
felt perfectly unrestrained. With him her manners were always natural:
she felt assured, that he was, as he professed to be, sincerely her
friend; and she rested with satisfaction on the belief, that he aspired
to no higher distinction. Even the vigilance of Lady Eltondale was for
once baffled. Mr. Sedley's situation in life was exactly in that mean,
which least attracted her notice: his paternal estate was sufficient, as
she believed, to render even Selina's fortune of no vital importance to
him; and judging of Selina by herself, she believed it almost
impossible, that a girl so universally admired, as she undoubtedly was,
would be content to remain a commoner all her life. Besides, she knew
Sedley was Frederick's most intimate friend, and therefore she did not
hesitate to make him the confidant of her views regarding Miss Seymour;
believing that by doing so she might safely encourage his attendance on
her niece, and at the same time make that attendance an additional
defence against the designs of others. But the Viscountess had now to
learn, that duplicity on one side engenders artifice on the other:
Sedley was even more in her son-in-law's confidence, than in her own;
and, while she with wily care cautioned him against allowing Selina to
suspect her plan, she convinced him, that, in seeking the gratification
of his own passion, there was no risk of thwarting the affections either
of his friend, or _the heiress_ allotted to him. It was true, from a
passage in Frederick's last letter, he was led to believe, that it was
his intention to pay his addresses to Miss Seymour on his return to
England, and he therefore cautiously suspended his own operations. "At
present, (thought he) the girl certainly prefers me to every other man;
for now she has quite forgot that perpendicular statue Mordaunt, and it
will be difficult enough for him to revive any regard she might once
have had for such a philosophical personage as he is, whilst both Lady
Eltondale and I keep guard over her. Then if she has sense and
steadiness enough to refuse Elton, when he proposes for her estate, for
I'll take care she understands he does not care a farthing for herself;
why then, notwithstanding my pretty Columbina, I will, without any
remorse of conscience, marry her myself, if it was for nothing but to
rescue her from that devilish calculator of compound interest, that
noble aunt of hers--But if that same crafty duenna, that female
Machiavel succeeds, which, after all, is by no means improbable,
considering her wickedness and Selina's innocence; why then let them all
take the consequence. Frederick will get the old oaks--she'll get his
old title, and I, or any other man, may get her love that pleases." So
reasoned Sedley--and thus did this modern Pylades acquit himself of the
charge of any breach of friendship, as he thus deliberately prepared to
rival his own Orestes.

Far different, and much less successful, were the means adopted by
Webberly for carrying his designs into execution. He had become
painfully convinced, that the paths of fashionable extravagance were not
to be trodden with impunity; and as his credit decreased with his banker
his attentions to Miss Seymour were redoubled. Whenever she appeared in
public, as at the theatres, or in the Park, he was her constant
attendant; "and, like the shadow, proved the substance true," as far at
least as related to her fortune. But notwithstanding his assiduity, he
found it almost impossible to procure access to those more distinguished
parties Lady Eltondale and Sedley frequented; and, being as much
enlightened by his self-interest as the Viscountess was deceived by
hers, he determined to keep a watchful eye over his _ci-devant_ friend,
and heartily repented having ever introduced him at Deane Hall.

While these two competitors were thus, in different ways, striving for
the golden prize, Selina was not less an object of regard to Lord
Osselstone.--He, as might naturally be expected, was usually to be met
in the same circle in which Lady Eltondale moved: but it was more
difficult to account for the perceptible attention he constantly paid to
Selina. At first he seemed more than usually pleased with the
artlessness and vivacity of her manner; and the recollection of the
kindness of his behaviour to her at the moment of her distress, at Lady
Eltondale's first party, made her show a sort of confidence in her
manners and address towards him, that, had she been more experienced in
the ways of the world, his very superiority might perhaps have
prevented. But with Lord Osselstone the idea of Mordaunt was inseparably
connected; and as the recollection of the one became painful, the
pleasure she had derived from the society of the other decreased. She
became gradually suspicious of his character, as a greater familiarity
with it convinced her it was not easily to be understood; and she was
sometimes tempted to wish, either that she was less an object of his
Lordship's observation, or that the veil could be entirely withdrawn,
which seemed so constantly to shroud all his feelings from her view.

At last the day of Selina's presentation at Court arrived. Never had she
looked so lovely--never was she so much admired.--Her heart beat high
with exultation, and her eyes sparkled with redoubled animation, as she
heard her own praise from every lip. When the drawing-room was over, and
she found herself seated in the carriage with Lady Eltondale, she could
not, in the vanity of the moment, repress a wish that Mrs. Galton had
seen how much she was admired: adding, while a smile of conscious beauty
played on her ruby lip, "I think if Mr. Mordaunt had been at Court
to-day, even he might have condescended to have acknowledged his country
friend." It was the first time Selina had voluntarily named him for many
months, and the Viscountess hailed the auspicious omen. She knew that
not to breathe a name on which our thoughts most dwell, is even a more
dangerous symptom, than when it is the sole subject of our conversation.
The spell with Selina now seemed broken; and Lady Eltondale profited by
the opportunity afforded, continuing the conversation in a careless
manner, in hopes of accustoming Selina to the deliberate discussion of
his negligence towards her. "If (thought she) I can habituate her to
talk about him, and to talk calmly, the day is my own:

    Lorsqu'on se f‚che, on peut aimer encore;
    Lorsqu'on raisonne, on n'aime plus."




CHAPTER VII.

    "The town, the court, is beauty's proper sphere:
    That is our Heaven, and we are angels there."


     MISS SEYMOUR TO MRS. GALTON.

     London, May 25,----

     My dear, dear Aunt,

     Your last letter has made me very unhappy. Is it possible that you
     can really believe I have forgotten you?--I acknowledge that I have
     been very very remiss about writing; but indeed my heart has always
     been right towards you, though perhaps my conduct has not been so;
     however, I acknowledge my fault in this instance, though Lady
     Eltondale told me the other day, when I regretted not having
     answered either of your two last letters, that nobody but me kept
     a debtor and creditor account of correspondence; and that she was
     sure you could not really be uneasy about me, as you could never
     look at a newspaper without seeing my name in it, and of course
     knowing I was both "alive and merry." And, indeed, I often wonder
     how people have time to think and write so much about such a
     foolish girl as I am.--Do you know, the milliners have called a new
     cap, and a little satin hat, by my name?--Could you have believed,
     that your poor Selina would ever have been godmother to such
     bantlings? _Mais le vrai n'est pas toujours vraisemblable_; and I
     verily am installed, without any probation, into all the dignities
     of the _ton_. Mr. Sedley always tells me, I must be more than ever
     attentive to my manners; as, if I was to walk like the
     "Anthropophagi, whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders," I
     should make it the fashion, and every other girl would do the
     same. I do acknowledge, dear dear aunt, that I am quite delighted
     with London. It far, far exceeds my expectation: indeed all the
     descriptions of it I used to hear from Miss Cecilia Webberly are so
     different from what I found the reality to be, that I wonder where
     she can have met the originals of her extraordinary caricatures.
     And as for Vauxhall and Astley's, that Miss Martin used to talk so
     much about, I should hardly believe there were such places in
     existence, if it was not for the advertisements I sometimes see in
     the newspapers. Poor Lucy! I wonder what she is doing now at Deane,
     vegetating in the country, as Lady Eltondale calls it, like a red
     cabbage, all through the winter. Do you know, aunt, I never like to
     think of the poor old Hall: I was so very happy there--so
     cheerful--so contented--you all then loved me so dearly, I had not
     a wish ungratified: now, in town, I am much more gay, but yet I
     seldom go into a crowded room, without a kind of feverish anxiety
     about a something, I know not what; and I seldom return home, at
     night, without a languor on my spirits I never experienced in
     former times;--but all that will soon wear away.--I am much fonder
     now of going to parties than I was at first; for though I always
     liked balls and the Opera, I did not much admire routs, but now I
     think them very pleasant, for I generally meet Mr. Sedley, and he
     is always entertaining, and always kind to me: and, after all, I am
     determined to like the life I lead. For of what avail would it be
     to me to regret those quiet peaceful days, which can now never
     return? and if they did, they would probably appear insipid, after
     the greater pleasures I have now been accustomed to: so whenever my
     thoughts happen to turn to the poor dear old Hall, I jump up and
     immediately seek out Lady Eltondale; and there is something so
     calm, so elegant, and at the same time so freezing about her, that
     no person could feel what she calls romance in her presence. Her
     manners are like the snow on the Alps, they smooth down all the
     surface, and give a dazzling brilliancy to the whole appearance;
     but they are cold, almost to petrefaction, and I believe, after
     all, cover only a heart of stone. Do you know, I have found out
     lately I could never love Lady Eltondale. I have the greatest
     reliance on her judgment, and I am sure there is nothing she could
     _advise_ me to do (for she never _desires_ me to do any thing) that
     I would not do; but if I was to live with her to all eternity, I
     should never call her aunt, as I do you; or feel for her, in any
     degree, as I feel for you. I believe the difference is this--I
     would go any distance to be with you, or to prove how much I loved
     you; but if you and Lady Eltondale were to give me contrary
     directions, (don't be angry,) I should regret that I could not
     fulfil yours, but I should feel with her there was no alternative.
     We don't see as much of the Webberly family, at least of the
     ladies, as I expected; for though they call very often, they are
     not on Lady Eltondale's "at home" list; and, except one day that I
     went with them to Somerset House, and last Sunday in Kensington
     Gardens, I have scarcely met them any where since we came to town.
     The last time, however, that I saw them, Mrs. Sullivan was all
     bustle and importance, for she has received an invitation from one
     of Mr. Sullivan's relations, to go and visit him in Ireland; and
     she talks so much of his "_intense_ fortune, and great old castle,"
     which Lady Eltondale, by the bye, says, is only a _ch‚teau en
     Espagne_. But poor Mrs. Sullivan declares, "her Carline shall be an
     air-ass after all, as she is sure Mr. Sullivan is so proud of his
     geology, that he will take care to leave every thing after him to
     his progenitors; and it is but fair he should give it to her
     daughter, as all old retailed estates ought to ascend to the hairs
     male." I sincerely hope, that dear charming Miss Wildenheim will
     not be dragged after them into one of those horrid Irish bogs: what
     a pity it is she should, in any way, be united to such a barbarous
     family; theirs is certainly the connection of _la belle et la
     bÍte_. But I had almost forgot to tell you, that Mrs. Sullivan and
     her son and heir intend to do me the honour of adding me to their
     establishment also. I wish I could describe Mr. Sedley's manner and
     words, as he entertained Lady Eltondale and me last night at the
     Opera, with an account of Mr. Webberly having invited him to
     dinner, for the express purpose, he says, of informing him of his
     intention to propose for me, in form, very shortly; and that Mr.
     Webberly told Mr. Sedley this, lest he should have any intention of
     doing so himself. I don't know whether the idea of Mr. Webberly's
     own design, or his ridiculous suspicions of Mr. Sedley's, amused
     Lady Eltondale or him most: however they both agreed, that it was
     quite impossible I should ever marry a commoner. I wish you knew
     Mr. Sedley well, as I am sure you would like him, and be convinced
     that your prejudice last autumn, and your idea that he was
     unprincipled, would soon vanish. He is uncommonly good natured, and
     always tells me all my faults, and I am not the least afraid of him
     as I am of Lady Eltondale; indeed he is the only person in town I
     have real pleasure in conversing with. When I talk to any body
     else, I am always afraid of their misconstruing either my vivacity
     or my gravity. But Mr. Sedley's conversation is always adapted to
     the turn of the moment. If I am gay, he does not accuse me of
     levity; and if I am inclined to talk rationally, he does not call
     it pedantry. Would you believe it, the other night, when I know Mr.
     Webberly thought he was making love to me, we were literally
     talking of Montesquieu's _Esprit des Loix_, which you may remember
     was one of the last books we read together--I mean with Mr. Temple.
     Lady Eltondale is to give a great ball next week; I believe soon
     after that we shall leave town. Lord Osselstone, whom I meet
     constantly----Lady Eltondale has this moment called me into the
     drawing-room--I must go.--Good bye, dear dear aunt.

     Yours most affectionately,

     SELINA SEYMOUR.

The pretext the Viscountess made use of for interrupting Miss Seymour
was, that she might comply with Mr. Sedley's request of showing him her
drawings, as to see _them_ was ostensibly the purpose for which he had
called that morning; though in truth a day seldom passed, in which he
did not find some good reason for visiting Portman square. Selina made
no hesitation in producing them; for, though she was not quite exempt
from the foible of personal vanity, yet she was entirely free from that
despicable affectation, which assumes the appearance of modesty, when
the reality is most wanting. Her drawings were, in truth, beautiful, and
much superior to the common school girl exhibitions of would-be artists.
But her knowledge was even superior to her execution; and she so
correctly appreciated the merits of her paintings, that she received
both the encomiums and the criticisms they produced with equal candour.
While her miniatures and her portfolio were lying on Lady Eltondale's
table, Lord Osselstone was announced. At first he expressed the surprise
he felt, at thus unexpectedly discovering Selina's talent, and then
complimented her on her excellence with his usual politeness. But
believing Sedley's gallantry was more agreeable than his own, he
gradually withdrew with Lady Eltondale to another part of the room.
Their attention was, however, soon attracted by a _brouillerie_ that
had arisen between Sedley and Selina. It appeared, that he had possessed
himself of a drawing out of her portfolio, which he seemed determined to
retain; alleging it was a subject that particularly suited his taste;
while she was still more anxious to regain the stolen treasure. In the
struggle that ensued, the drawing fell to the ground; and Lord
Osselstone, stooping to pick it up, discovered it to be a beautiful
portrait of a pointer. The dog, at full length, was inimitably drawn;
and over the different parts of the paper the same head was sketched in
pencil, in a variety of different attitudes; and in one corner was
written also in pencil these lines of Metastasio's Partenza:--

    Soffri che in traccia almen
    Di mia perduta pace,
    Venga il penner sequace
    Su l'orme del tuo piË.
    Sempre nel tuo cammino,
    Sempre m'avrai vicino[6].

[Footnote 6:

     At least allow that in the track,
    Once mark'd by joys now fled,
    My wandering thoughts may trace the path
    Which thy dear footsteps tread:
    For once where'er those footsteps stray'd,
    Still, still beside thee I delay'd.
]

"I have seen the original of that admirable portrait," said Lord
Osselstone, in a tone of inquiry, as he politely returned the drawing to
its mistress; while at the same time his dark penetrating eye rested
full upon hers. She looked down instantly, and blushing deeply, replied,
"Perhaps your Lordship may have seen the dog: I meant it for Carlo. I
only drew it from recollection:--it's a mere daub of no value now;" and
so saying, she tore the drawing into a thousand pieces. Mr. Sedley
uttered a volume of apologies and regrets; and Lady Eltondale, half
laughingly half sarcastically, remonstrated at her not having sooner
been informed of Miss Seymour's talent for taking dogs' portraits;
alleging that she would now make Mignon sit for his picture. Then seeing
that Selina's embarrassment was increased, and Lord Osselstone's
observation of it not withdrawn, she proposed adjourning to Selina's
boudoir, to see some of her other miniatures that adorned it. Here her
various occupations, her books, her harp, her work-box, all of which had
evidently been lately used, served by Lady Eltondale's address as fresh
subjects of conversation; and the current of Selina's thoughts being as
rapidly turned, she soon resumed her natural gaiety; and perhaps Lord
Osselstone's regret was scarcely less manifested than Sedley's, when the
arrival of Lady Eltondale's carriage put an end to their visit.

The Viscountess made no further mention of Carlo's portrait, and both
the original and the picture seemed to have entirely vanished from
Selina's recollection, till a few days afterwards she discovered on her
writing table in the boudoir an exact representation of Carlo himself in
a _garde de feuille_. The dog was in bronze, on a marble pedestal, and
on his collar were engraved the words, "_Je la garderai pour mon
maitre._" Selina was not less delighted than surprised at this
unexpected present; and immediately ran to thank Lady Eltondale for it,
conceiving her to have been the donor. But she denied any knowledge of
it, and they both concluded the gallantry must have been Sedley's.
Accordingly the next time they met him, Selina made her acknowledgements
for the gift. At first he expressed, in the most natural manner, his
surprise at her address, and affected total ignorance of the occasion of
her gratitude. But notwithstanding his laughable confusion and affected
unconcern, both the Viscountess and her niece attributed the present to
him;--a circumstance that gave room for reflection to both their minds,
though the feelings it occasioned in each were far different.




CHAPTER VIII.

    The enchantress summons to a splendid hall:
    ---- ---- In gay festoons around
    Bloom'd many a wreath with rose and myrtle crown'd.
    --The nymphs, who late encompassing their queen
    Round her bright throne, like hov'ring clouds were seen,
    Now range themselves to wind the magic dance;
    The magic dance of pow'r, the dead to raise,
    Or draw embodied spirits down to gaze;
    Now pair by pair, now groupe by groupe unite,
    The loveliest forms in thousand folded light.

    SOTHEBY'S OBERON.


Before the day arrived which had been fixed for Lady Eltondale's ball,
to which Selina alluded in her letter to Mrs. Galton, a note from Lord
Osselstone was received by the Viscountess, desiring her commands to
Vienna, and informing her, that he and his nephew purposed immediately
commencing a tour to the continent they had long meditated.

Selina felt almost relieved by the certainty of Mordaunt's absence, for
she still felt a degree of painful embarrassment in his presence, though
she had taught herself no longer to expect any attention, and scarcely
even recognizance from him in public. Nor was she much more at ease in
the society of Lord Osselstone. Whenever he was near her, whatever might
be his apparent occupation, she still felt an indescribable
consciousness, that she was the object of his peculiar attention.
Sometimes a sort of reflected sensation in her own eye led her to
believe, that his was fixed upon her; though often, when this feeling
made her look round to meet his glance, she would perceive it was
directed elsewhere. At other times, if engaged in conversation, when she
had no idea whatever of his proximity, she would discover, by some
casual observation, that he had heard all she had said; and his
Lordship would then continue the discourse, be it what it might, in the
strain best adapted to the moment; for Lord Osselstone particularly
excelled in the talent of conversation:--he could--

    "Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it
    Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of the minute."

Whether the subject was lively or sententious, gay or serious, his
abilities seemed equally applicable to all. At times his wisdom would
call forth Selina's powers of reasoning; at others he would encourage
the playfulness of her wit, till it "touch'd the brink of all we hate."
But beyond that verge no temporary exhilaration of spirits ever betrayed
the chasteness, the delicacy of Selina's judgment. And yet,
notwithstanding the urbanity and politeness of Lord Osselstone's manners
to Selina, she never felt herself perfectly at ease with him. She could
not be secure of what his real sentiments were, therefore, by a natural
consequence, she was diffident in the expression of her own. She once
described her feelings in regard to the Earl, by saying to Lady
Eltondale, in her usual playful manner, "When I talk to Lord Osselstone,
I always feel as if my mind was on stilts; and, though he seems only to
follow my lead in conversation, I get almost out of breath, lest I
should not keep up to my traces; but when I talk to Mr. Sedley, his chat
runs on with mine in its own natural way, sometimes scarcely creeping
along, and at others setting off in a full gallop: a Frenchwoman would
say, "_Je dÈbite avec l'un et cause avec l'autre._""

By this fortunate continental tour Selina was relieved from the dread of
encountering, on the festive night, the only two people whose presence
ever damped the amusement she derived from those scenes of gaiety in
which she now shone so conspicuous; and, with unmixed delight, did she
anticipate the fÍte, which, in her opinion, would eclipse all that ever
had preceded it. The munificent allowance which, by her father's will,
was made to the Viscountess for Selina's residence with her, was by no
means an unacceptable addition to Lord Eltondale's income; for though he
"never had time" to look into his own affairs, and was little aware of
the real extent of their derangement, yet the constant remonstrances of
his steward convinced him most unwillingly, that they were in a very
embarassed state. It was not, however, Lady Eltondale's intention, that
the sums received for the maintenance of her niece should be
appropriated to the discharge of any of her husband's debts;--she
claimed them as her own, and expended them in increased extravagance and
dissipation. So sensible was she of the advantages she derived from
Selina's remaining with her, that, though anxious for the match
ultimately being made between Miss Seymour and Mr. Elton, she was by no
means anxious, that their union should take place before the expiration
of her minority, at which period she knew that her niece would of course
form an establishment of her own.

The ball, which was now announced by the Viscountess, was ostensibly
given for Selina; and all that taste could design, or expense procure,
was put in requisition for the magnificent display. Selina, who had
never by deprivation been taught the real value of riches, was delighted
at the splendid preparations, and became a docile pupil in the arts of
profusion under the admirable tuition of her aunt. Lady Eltondale was
the character above all others most dangerous for the guidance or
imitation of youth. Her faults were so varnished by the specious
elegance and charms of her manners, that even the experience of age
hesitated to bestow on them the stigma of vice, while the most
thoughtless could not fail to discover, that she neither revered nor
understood the fixed immutable rules of virtue. It is true the breath of
scandal had never sullied the gloss of her fair fame; but for this,
perhaps, she was more indebted to the frigidity of her heart, than to
the rectitude of her principles; and that total annihilation of all
feeling, which she recommended both by precept and example, was more
likely to eradicate the better sentiments of benevolence and generosity,
than to serve as an effectual preventive against the temptations of
passion.

Lady Eltondale was scarcely less anxious than was Selina, that her
entertainment should stand foremost in the annals of fashionable
dissipation; for many little springs of self-interest were now set in
motion in the calculating head of the Viscountess. She was arrived at
that age, not only of her natural life, but of her existence in the
world of fashion, when she felt it not undesirable to procure some
auxiliaries, to support her on that pinnacle she had for many years
occupied. She could not forget, that before her marriage she had been
followed and flattered as a beauty, nor that, when she assumed her
present title, she had been still more courted as a leader of ton; but
she now felt conscious, that both those enviable distinctions were
beginning to fade, and she was therefore not unwilling to profit by the
various advantages she derived from the society of her niece, whose more
novel attractions drew renewed crowds to her assemblies, and fresh
visitors to her door. Nor did any personal jealousy interfere with the
more substantial pleasures she enjoyed by being _chaperone_ to Miss
Seymour. Lady Eltondale was well aware, that their beauty was so
dissimilar, that their individual admirers would always be distinct; nor
did she believe that any person, who was capable of duly appreciating
the high polish of her more matured grace, would be diverted from their
admiration by the unstudied, though exuberant charms of a girl of
seventeen. It was therefore with more satisfaction than envy, that Lady
Eltondale contemplated the unparalleled success of Selina's toilet on
the night so eagerly anticipated by both, as she appeared--

          "In brilliancy of art array'd,
    Jewels and pearls in many a curious braid,
    Show that the unnotic'd di'mond's sunlike rays
    Fail to eclipse the self-resplendent blaze,
    Which round the unrivall'd charms of native beauty play'd."

"Vhy, Miss Seymour, I never seed nothing like that ere sprig in my
life," said Mrs. Sullivan, bustling through the crowd up to Selina, who
had just finished the first dance with the young Duke of Saltoun. "All
the vay as you vent up and down the middle, it nodded about and sparkled
so--you looks for all the 'versal vorld like the queen of dimonds." "Or
rather the queen of hearts," said young Webberly, with a low bow and a
deep sigh; while Selina, meeting Sedley's glance, could scarcely receive
his compliments with a becoming composure of countenance. "Or if," said
Sedley, advancing, "you want a simile, Webberly, suppose you call Miss
Seymour the planet Venus, shining at night with unrivalled
splendour;--that will do, you know, ma'am, both for the sprig and the
lady," continued he, turning with a ludicrous reverence to Mrs.
Sullivan. "Vhy as for the matter of that there, Mr. Sedley," replied the
indignant matron, "my Jack could raise a smile himself in no time,
without no promoting of any one's else's whatsomdever. He's not such a
ninny-headed feller neither as you seem to take him for, Mr. Sedley. He
can see as far into a millstone as e'er a one, Mr. Sedley; and, as far
as his mother tongue goes, he can talk orthography with you or any one
else." "No doubt, my dear ma'am," returned he, with immoveable gravity,
"and nothing can surpass his mother's tongue;--

                       "'In her
    There is a prone and speechless dialect
    Such as moves men: beside she hath a prosp'rous art,
    When she will play with reason and discourse.'"

"Aye, aye, Mr. Sedley, you may go on as you please; preside in your own
vay, but remember I knows what's what. I can tell Miss Seymour here,
impudence is a bad prostitute for honesty." Though Selina could not
quite understand the full import of Mrs. Sullivan's observations, which
she endeavoured to render still more significant by shrugs and gestures;
yet by the heightened colour of the lady's complexion, and a transient
gravity that passed over the countenances of both gentlemen, she plainly
discovered the conversation had taken a turn unpleasant to all parties;
therefore, with that true politeness which arises from natural
benevolence, she endeavoured to soothe the irrascible feelings of each,
by diverting their thoughts into another channel. To Mrs. Sullivan she
paid an elegant, and not very exaggerated compliment on Cecilia's
particularly good looks. To Mr. Webberly's request that she would dance
with him, she acceded with an alacrity, that seemed to verify her
expression of regret that her other engagements obliged her to postpone
hers with him for some dances; and by sending Sedley on an embassy to
Lady Eltondale, she prevented a renewal of the skirmish between him and
the offended mother, which the equivocal expression of his countenance
led her to believe was not an impossible event. "Lawk, mama!" exclaimed
Miss Webberly, in an elevated tone, as soon as he had left the groupe,
"I wonder you can condescend to notice him so;--you're always fighting
him now." "Vhy I know, Meely, I oughtn't to demon myself to such a
feller; but I can't bear, not I, to see him ballooning (lampooning) poor
Jack there, while every feature in his physiology shows that he's
mocking him up all the time:--I can't bear no such hypercritics, not I."
Cecilia now warmly undertook his defence, which she entered upon with
still more zeal as the subject of her mother's philippic had made an
_amende honorable_ to her at least, by engaging her for the same set
that her brother was to dance with Miss Seymour, who in the mean time
having succeeded in parting the combatants, had gone to resume her
station amongst the dancers.

The time at last arrived for the fulfilment of Selina's engagement with
Webberly, and they stood up together. At first the youth was so busily
engaged in settling his cravat, putting on and taking off his glove, and
eyeing askance his neighbour the Duke of Saltoun, all of whose motions
he endeavoured to imitate, that he had no time to attend to his fair
partner. At last he recollected his duty, and hastily stepping across
the dance, prepared to give utterance to a tender speech he had composed
in the morning. But as he stooped forward to pour the soft accents in
his fair one's ear, having, like the simple partridge, safely deposited
his head, he became careless of the rest of his person; and
unfortunately his noble prototype the Duke, at the same moment exerting
himself vigorously in a Highland fling, came unexpectedly in contact
with the dying swain, and threw him sprawling into the arms of his
mistress, before either were prepared for so novel a situation. The
salute was as little agreeable to poor Selina as it was unexpected, and
she hastily disengaged herself from Webberly before he had succeeded in
recovering his balance, or the Duke had uttered more than half his
apologies. At last the youth accomplished regaining that erect posture,
which is man's first characteristic, and returned in silence to his
place opposite Selina, where he occupied himself, indefatigably in
pulling down his coat behind, pushing up his hair before, and looking
sternly round, in the vain hope of suppressing the titter that buzzed on
all sides of him. Thus without his renewing the attack, did they reach
in silence the top of the dance, and before the effect of his disaster
was obliterated from his mind or his countenance, their turn came to
begin. He now determined, by increased exertions, to make amends for his
unfortunate commencement, and by dint of manual labour to eclipse even
the Duke of Saltoun in agility. His figure was athletic, and his limbs
were ponderous; but art, in nature's despight, had made him at least an
active dancer. And now he cut, and he leapt, and he sprang into the air,
till the perspiration burst from his forehead. If by chance he got
foremost down the middle, he dragged Selina's fragile form after him,
_vi et armis_, the whole length of the set; but this inconvenience she
did not often encounter, for he generally spent so much longer time than
necessary in his coupees, and his settings, and his pirouettes, that he
was forced to sail down the middle after his partner, like another
Johnny Gilpin, while with terror in their countenances all beholders
cleared the course before him. It was impossible for Selina long to
endure the danger and fatigue of such a partner; and before they had
half measured the length of the set, (except by the flying visits before
mentioned) she proposed retiring to the bottom. But that situation was
not more propitious to our hero than the top had been; long before he
became stationary his breath was exhausted, and that gradual extension
of the lungs, which he intended to be the

    "Softest note of whisper'd anguish,
    "Harmony's refined part,"

became an audible and protracted groan, whilst his eyes, starting from
their sockets from the violence of his exertions, were any thing but the
messengers of passion. "Good God! Miss Seymour, what is the name of your
partner?" exclaimed Sir James Fenton, as he calmly surveyed the gasping
hero through his spy-glass:--"Mr. Weatherly do you call him? Poor young
man! he must dance for the good of his health! Tam O' Shanter himself
never saw such 'louping and flinging' as he has exhibited to-night--pray
introduce me to him." Then without waiting for the solicited
presentation, he advanced to the new Vestris, and, with all possible
gravity, began to compliment him on "his astonishing performance." Each
compliment called forth a fresh specimen from the flattered beau, as he
was turned, or otherwise joined in the dance, to the infinite amusement
of the surrounding crowd; and what between the necessary application of
his pocket handkerchief, the exhibition of his extraordinary talent,
and the proper returns of bows and smiles to every address of the
malicious Sir James Fenton, he had no time left for courtship.

Supper was at length announced, and Sedley, who with his partner had
been standing near Selina, offered her his arm, alleging, that Mr.
Webberly was too busy just then to attend to her: "Yes, (replied Selina
laughingly, passing her arm through his) my Achilles seems only
vulnerable in the heel to-night." But Cecilia not choosing to lose any
share of Sedley's attention, roared out, "Why, brother! brother John,
what are you capering there for, like a great jack-ass, as you are, and
leaving Miss Seymour to take care of herself?" The hint was not lost
upon him--he made one _entrechat_ which cleared the intimidated throng,
and brought him to Selina's side, then seizing her hand, he led her
triumphantly off before she had time to remonstrate, or he to recover
sufficient breath to apologize for his previous inattention. However he
fully determined to make up for his lost opportunity at the supper
table; and therefore, fearful of interruption, was by no means desirous
to find room for his mother and sister, who with Sedley and Cecilia
joined them. But Miss Seymour's politeness to her guests counteracted
his design; and while he was fortifying himself with a copious draught
of _champagne_, as a necessary preliminary to the declaration he
purposed making, Mrs. Sullivan was endeavouring to insinuate herself
into the little space which her daughters had reserved for her, with
more attention to their own comfort, than to their parent's
circumference. At last, however, she became seated, and, with maternal
solicitude, immediately turned her anxious eye on her beloved son's
countenance. But great was her dismay, and rapid was her utterance, as
the following eloquent address burst forth in a sharp _contralto_ key,
"Vhy, Jack! Lord deliver me, Jack! you be all of a lather! And your
nose, child, as smutty as a sweep's, from one end to t'other; why what,
in the name of mercy, have you been about? Oh! vhy your hands be puxzy,
I suppose, and so they have taken all the japanning off Miss Seymour's
fan here, I suppose."--"Mother can't ye mind your own business, and
leave mine alone," roared the dutiful son, in a voice of thunder, at the
same time profiting by the hint he condemned, and again wiping his
face.--"Vhy I only tell you for own good, Jacky; but you are grown so
copious of late, there's no wenturing to speak a vord, and my advice
never makes no oppression on you, else I'd discommend your buttoning
your waistcoat; and if you impress that ere wiolent perspiration you're
in, I shall have you laid up in a titmouse fever, that's all Jack.--I
know it ba'nt the fashion to mind any thing a parent says, now-a-days;
but if I vasn't your own mother that bared ye, you'd attend to me, fast
enough; though, (continued she, turning to Selina,) Miss Seymour, a vife
is another guess matter to a young man; and Jack would make a wery good
husband, I'm certain, if you'd but fancy him, though he's not quite so
diligent to me as he might be."

Meantime, poor Jack, his faculties almost benumbed with his mother's
rhetoric, and his own previous exhaustion, had allowed her to proceed
without interruption, while he busied himself in buttoning the
unfortunate waistcoat, that had called forth her animadversions. But his
evil stars still pursued him: in his agitation he also buttoned up the
greater part of the very pocket handkerchief which had before been in
such constant requisition; one unlucky corner alone escaped; and, as he
stood up to help himself to a fresh bottle of _champagne_ that was at
some distance, this singular appendage struck his anxious parent with
fresh dismay. Her exclamations, at his extraordinary appearance, were
too much for the risible muscles of the rest of the company. A universal
shout of laughter burst from the whole table. In vain did Mrs. Sullivan
roar out, "Button it up, Jack! button it up!" In vain did Jack cast the
most indignant glances, not only upon her, but upon the whole company.
The laugh was not to be repressed; and, starting up, with a tremendous
oath, the unfortunate Webberly rushed out of the room.

It may be supposed, Selina did not much regret his absence; and in the
following dance, Sedley's inimitable caricature of the whole family
amply compensated to her for the trifling mortification their vulgarity
had occasioned. To use the language of the Morning Post, "The dancing
was continued till a late hour, when the company departed, highly
gratified by the splendor of the entertainment, the elegance of the
hostess, and the unrivalled charms of her accomplished niece."




CHAPTER IX.

     Here's another letter to her: she bears the purse too, she is a
     region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheater to them
     both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and
     West Indies.

     MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.


As fate had hitherto been so unpropitious to young Webberly, and his
anxious mama, in their personal interviews with Miss Seymour, they
decided, at their next _tÍte ‡ tÍte_, which was generally of a much more
friendly nature than their public communications, that he should not any
longer delay making his proposal in form, which Mrs. Sullivan could not
believe she would hesitate in accepting; for, like the monkey in the
fable, she thought nothing equalled her own progeny. On this occasion
at least, her son implicitly followed her directions; he was aware that
his finances were so reduced, he should never be able to stand another
London campaign, without some new resource, and the gaming table had
lately not been as productive a one as he usually found it. With the
assistance of his sisters, he therefore composed a letter full of darts,
and wounds, and happiness, and agitation, and gratitude, and eternity;
and "used the arts that lovers use;" in hopes, by the superabundance of
his professions, to compensate for his real indifference. For, in truth,
he cared only for Selina's fortune, as he actually loved Miss
Wildenheim, as much as it was in nature for so selfish a being to love
any body. And though he was equally as incapable of justly appreciating
her character as of understanding Selina's, yet her talents were so
veiled by the calm dignity of the manners, that he felt less intimidated
by them than by the brilliant vivacity of Selina's. But, in
anticipating the possibility of becoming Miss Seymour's husband, he
fully, in imagination, indemnified himself for the temporary
mortifications her undoubted superiority now occasioned him, by the
magnanimous resolution of treating her, when she became his wife, with
all possible contempt; believing, as many husbands do in similar
situations, that an ostentatious display of authority will persuade
others, that the dependent is really the inferior being, like the boy on
the ladder, who tramples on that which alone supports him.

Selina and Lady Eltondale were together, when the Viscountess was
presented with an enormous packet, sealed with a coat of arms as ample
in its expansion as it was modern in its date; "Good Heavens!" exclaimed
her Ladyship, holding up the cover, "arms! and the man; here, Selina,
the envelope only is for me: your _nouveau riche_ admirer requests I
will present to you this inimitable manuscript." Selina hastily ran
over the composition, which had cost some hours to indite; and then, no
longer able to keep her countenance, burst into a hearty fit of
laughter, while her cheeks mantled with blushes, "Well, at last, Lady
Eltondale, here is the promised proposal: I had no idea what a real love
letter was--pray read it." "No my dear; excuse me, my dear: all such
tender professions are similar, they '_consistent ‡ dire aux femmes avec
un esprit lÈger et une ame de glace, tout ce qu'on ne croit pas, et tout
ce qu'on voudrait leur faire croire_[7].' I am much more curious to know
what your answer will be."--"A refusal undoubtedly," replied Miss
Seymour; "but I must request of you, Lady Eltondale, to convey it for
me." "You know, Selina, you are your own mistress; it is unnecessary
for me to offer any advice." Selina felt the rebuke; but before she
could make any apology, her aunt continued, "In this instance I think
you right: title, my dear, is the only thing to marry for; it is
terrible to be obliged to purchase one's place in society; and even the
richest commoners are only valued in proportion to their expenditure;
whereas a nobleman maybe as poor and as shabby as he pleases, his wife
must always have precedence." "But surely, Lady Eltondale, you would not
have me marry for precedence." "It is what ninety-nine girls out of a
hundred marry for," resumed the Viscountess, with perfect _sang froid_;
"and as I do not see much difference in your character from that of the
rest of your sex, I conclude what makes others happy would satisfy you."
"I think," replied Selina, hesitatingly, "I should never be happy,
unless I married a man whom I loved and esteemed, and who, I was very
sure, loved me." "Ha! ha! ha! very sentimental, indeed! Child, that
would do admirably for a novel, but in real life, take my word, such
nice distinctions are but little attended to: fine feeling is an
essence, that soon evaporates when exposed to common air; it is
generally adviseable to have something substantial at bottom, to fill up
the phial when the effervescence subsides." "But, is it possible, Lady
Eltondale, that you would have me marry a man I could not love or
esteem, or who did not love me?" inquired Selina, in a tone of gravity
more approaching to censure, than her noble aunt had ever before heard
her use. "Pian! piano! carissima! half your proposition is defensible;
and to that half I willingly accede. When a woman marries, the only
thing necessary for her to be assured of, is her own heart, or rather
her own mind. Every man, when he asks your hand, will certainly profess
to love you; time and experiment can only prove his sincerity, or his
steadiness;--but you, with all Mrs. Galton's philosophy in your head,
must acknowledge, that all a woman's comfort in life depends on her not
knowing the pangs of repentance." "Assuredly." "Well then, a woman who
marries for love, generally sacrifices nine tenths of her life to a
passion, that can, at best, last but a few months; and spends her
remaining years in regretting her 'fond dream:' but she who calculates
well before she marries, and weighs calmly the _pour_ and _contre_ of
the lot she chooses for life, can, at all events, never repent the
choice, which she made deliberately. But, however, why should we cavil
about words, when there is not a chance of our ever dissenting in
action?" Then reaching out her beautiful hand to Selina, with a
bewitching smile, "Come, my love," added she, "tell me what I am to say
for you to your _inamorato_." And then, by Selina's dictation, she
returned a polite, but positive refusal to the obsequious Webberly.

[Footnote 7: Proceeding from a frivolous head and a cold heart, their
object is to express to women all that men do not feel, and all they
wish to persuade them they do.]

The time now approached for Lord and Lady Eltondale's leaving London, if
so might be called that removal of their physical bodies to another
scene of action, where their habits, their pursuits, and their
associates remained the same. The Viscountess had not yet completed the
annual circle of dissipation, and it was therefore determined, that
while Lord Eltondale returned home alone, her Ladyship and Selina
should, by a visit to Cheltenham, protract for a still longer time their
return to the comparative retirement of Eltondale. Of course the due
preparation for this new scene of gaiety served as an excuse for renewed
visits to the whole circle of shops. In one of these expeditions Lady
Eltondale had left Selina at Mrs.----'s, in Bond Street, while she paid
a visit in the neighbourhood; and Selina was just in the act of trying
on a bonnet, that the officious milliner declared was supremely
becoming, when her ears were suddenly assailed by the loudest tone of
Mrs. Sullivan's discordant voice, "Yes, it be wastly becoming, to be
sure; but, for my part, I thinks a little servility and policy, much
more becoming to a young lady, be she never so much of an airy-ass. Aye,
Aye, Miss Seymour, you may stare and gobble; but it's to you, and of
you, I'm a speaking." "Of me, ma'am?" returned the half frightened
girl. "Yes, Miss, of you, with all your looks of modesty and
ingeniousness;--but in my day, whenever a young lady got a love letter
from a young man, she never lost no time in supplying to him; and, for
my part, I think a purling answer to a civil question would never do
nobody no harm, if it was the queen herself, in all her state of
health." "If you allude to a letter from Mr. Webberly"--"To be sure I
do," interrupted the zealous parent, "what else should I delude to? And
if you did receive Jack's pistol, Miss Seymour, why didn't ye condescend
to answer his operation yourself?" "I thought, my dear madam, Lady
Eltondale could express my regrets much better than I could." "Aye! Aye!
Lady Eltondale, that's it--I'll tell ye vat, Miss Seymour--that 'ere
Lady Eltondale vill make a cat's paw of you, if ye don't mind. As to my
Jacky, he doesn't care for your refusal a brass farthing--but ye may go
farther, and fare worse--he's healthy and wealthy, as the saying is; and
he's not a man for a girl to throw over her shoulder--ye mayn't meet
such a carowzel as his, every day in the veek.--But now I'll tell ye
vat, once for all--ye see me and mine be a-going to Ireland; and it may
so be, that ve may never see each other no more.--Now, ye see, I always
respected your old father, and so out of compliment to him, I'll just
give you a piece of my mind; and that is, that that Lady Eltondale,
with all her valk-softly airs, has some kind of a sign upon you, depend
upon it, or she'd never take all the trouble she does about ye, for it's
not in her nature to do it for mere affection to you or your father
either; and that 'ere sheep-faced Mr. Sedley, with all his aperient
indifference, and no shambles (_nonchalance_), as they call it; he's
playing the puck with you too, I can see that, fast enough; and so, now,
as I have given you varning, and wented my mind a little, I'll just
shake hands with you, for old acquaintance sake." The reconciliation was
scarcely effected, before Lady Eltondale returned for Selina, who most
joyfully escaped from her _soi-disant_ friend. She casually mentioned
the rencontre to the Viscountess, but did not mention the hints she had
received; thus showing to her instructress her first essay in the
practice of her own lessons in the art of dissimulation. By nature
Selina's disposition was candid, even to a fault. For she was not only
willing to confide all her actions, all her thoughts, to those she
loved; but so necessary did she feel it to her happiness to be able to
repose all her feelings, and even the responsibility of her conduct, on
the bosom of another, that she would have preferred having an
indifferent friend to being deprived of a confidant. But her intercourse
with Lady Eltondale had already, in some degree, seared her best
feelings. She had already, even then, acquired that general anxiety to
please, which appertains more to vanity than to benevolence, and which
never fails, in time, to wither the finer sensibilities of the soul. The
natural superiority of her talents enabled her, to discover the true
character of those she associated with. But even her penetration was
dangerous to her purity. She saw hypocrisy was the means, and
self-interest the end, pursued by all: even the stronger passions were
brought under their control: and in being convinced, that in the crowd
that surrounded her there was no individual she could love, she
experienced a chasm in her heart, which left it more open to the
reception of those petrifying principles, that Lady Eltondale so
sedulously inculcated. At this moment, in Selina's history, she stood on
that narrow line, which separates vice and virtue. Her avidity of
praise, by teaching her how best to improve and exercise her talents,
had as yet but increased her charms; and her distrust of others first
taught her to exercise her own judgment. Circumstances were still to
decide, whether her strengthening reason would serve to control the
affections of her heart, or whether the school of stoicism, in which she
was now entered, would entirely eradicate its better feelings: whether
her natural volatility was to be corrected by reflection, or matured
into coquetry by artifice: in short, whether the dormant seeds of a
rational education would finally spring up in the very hotbed of
fashion, which called forth the premature weeds of folly and
extravagance; or whether the intoxicating incense of flattery, aided
both by the precept and example of the designing Viscountess, would
destroy them in the bud, and offer up one more heartless victim as a
sacrifice to that world, which but repays with present scorn and future
repentance the devotion of its wretched votaries.




CHAPTER X.

     There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the
     sad, but sorrow wastes the mournful, and their days are few! They
     fall away like the flower on which the Sun looks in his strength,
     after the mildew has passed over it, and its head is heavy with the
     drops of night.

     CROMA.


Whilst Selina thus brilliantly moved in the gayest scenes of fashionable
splendor, Adelaide Wildenheim, unknown, unnoticed, was endeavouring, in
the calm retirement of the country, to acquire fortitude to support a
weight of misfortune, by which a less firm mind would have been crushed,
and which, from time and space, seemed but to gain increased momentum.

In the beginning of winter, each day to her had passed by but as the sad
shade of its miserable anniversary; for, at that period, she had not
even the consolation of seeing either Mr. or Mrs. Temple, and the
inhabitants of Webberly House becoming hourly more repugnant to her
feelings, she was insensibly falling a prey to that habitual depression
of spirits, which is equally fatal to the mind and body of those who
indulge in it; and which is indeed commonly but a refined name for
discontent, or ill temper. Some trifling circumstances roused her to a
sense of the state of her mind, and she immediately determined to
struggle against it; resolving, as the best preliminary, to look her
situation steadily in the face, and ascertain whether it was in her
power to remedy it; well knowing, that if once convinced it was
unavoidable, she should acquire strength to bear it, not only with
resignation but cheerfulness. Though she but too acutely felt, that in
losing a beloved parent, she had lost all that had formerly constituted
the happiness of her existence; yet, in her rigid self-examination, she
confessed she harboured more of repining sorrow at being deprived of
this blessing, than of gratitude to Heaven for having so long enjoyed
it; and acknowledged it was unworthy of a religious or a rational being,
to convert the felicity of one period of life into a curse for the
remainder by vain comparison. Turning therefore from the past, she
accused herself of being too fastidious in her sentiments towards the
companions of her present lot; and, with laudable self-delusion,
endeavoured to think her dislike of Mrs. Sullivan and the Miss Webberlys
unreasonable; and that from the affection of the charming little
Caroline she derived a pleasure more than equivalent to the annoyances
occasioned by her mother and sisters. But here the mother and sisters
very naturally brought the brother to her mind, and with him a long
train of reflections, which ended in her adopting the wise but simple
plan, of laying her situation open to Mr. and Mrs. Temple, in order to
consult them, as to the propriety of her quitting Webberly House at the
expiration of her minority.

Young Webberly's attentions to Miss Wildenheim had, previous to his last
visit to town, been unremitting; and no less marked was his mother's
disapprobation of them, arising partly from interested motives, partly
from the idea of Adelaide being the natural sister of Caroline; which
made Mrs. Sullivan regard the prospect of her marrying her son with a
sentiment little short of abhorrence. But these objections had but
little weight with Mr. Webberly, who, when Selina was not present to
awaken his vanity or his cupidity, found no counterpoise to his
conceited passion, which was more piqued than restrained by the
dignified simplicity of Miss Wildenheim's manners; and had she given him
any encouragement, no remonstrance from his mother would have prevented
his making the most explicit declaration of his attachment; for it was
the practice of this amiable family, to set their mother at defiance,
whenever she, in the slightest degree, interfered with their wishes.
Adelaide's pride and sense of propriety equally prompted her desire to
relieve Mrs. Sullivan from the presence of a person, who was evidently a
cause of quarrel between her and her son; and therefore, when the
Webberly family proposed visiting London, in the beginning of March, she
wrote the subjoined letter to Mrs. Temple:--

     MISS WILDENHEIM TO MRS. TEMPLE.

     My dear Mrs. Temple,

     The kindness you and Mr. Temple have honoured me with encourages
     me, to apply to you for advice in a most embarrassing situation. I
     am sure your usual humanity will prompt you, to grant it to one
     who has, at present, no friend to resort to for counsel but
     yourself. If you will permit me, I will call upon you, and lay open
     to your view my situation and my wishes. But as it is not justice
     to a friend in asking advice to give but a half confidence, before
     you hear my plans, I ought to make you acquainted with all the
     circumstances regarding myself, that it is in my power to confide.
     Though all matters of business are best discussed _viv‚ voce_, yet
     there are things it would be impossible to speak, and are
     sufficiently painful to write: such a distressing task it is the
     object of this letter to fulfil. My history is but short, and
     simple--all my happiness was centred in a beloved father; all my
     misery caused by his loss. Oh! Mrs. Temple, what grief can be
     compared to that desolation a daughter feels, when she is deprived
     of the parent, whom it has been the study of her whole life to
     please; when she first finds she has no filial duty to perform, no
     approving smile to look for!

     My father was not only the tenderest parent, but my sole
     instructor, and, in his fond love, condescended to be even my
     companion and friend. His image is the first object memory recurs
     to in my infant years; and I now feel, that to be enabled to
     practise his own lessons of resignation and fortitude, I must
     banish that image from my mind. The aid I might derive from
     employment is denied me; for every pursuit is inseparably
     associated with scenes I ought not now to think of. 'When I look up
     to Heaven thou art there; when I behold the earth, thou art there
     also!' My mother having died at Hamburgh the day I was born, this
     beloved father was the only parent I ever knew. He, though a German
     Baron, was both by birth and education English, being the son of a
     British peer. But some unfortunate circumstances, with which I am
     unacquainted, gave him an unconquerable aversion to his native
     country; and having, by the maternal line, inherited large
     possessions in Westphalia, he very early in life repaired to the
     continent, where he continued to reside, principally at Vienna,
     till I had attained my nineteenth year. About sixteen months ago,
     to my inexpressible astonishment, he adopted the sudden resolution
     of visiting England. His health, which had always in my
     recollection been delicate, had about that period rapidly declined,
     and I have the grief of thinking, that the journey to England
     shortened his life. The misery of this thought is still further
     aggravated by knowing, that he came to this country solely to
     accomplish my introduction to his family, with whom he had never
     maintained any intercourse or correspondence since the period of my
     birth. How little during the progress of our journey did I suspect
     its fatal termination! The usual tenderness and indulgence of my
     father's manner was, if possible, increased, and visions of the
     brightest joy occupied my mind. Our journey through France was the
     most delightful one we had ever undertaken. My father concealed the
     anguish of his own mind, and to divert my attention from observing
     it, spared neither pains nor expense to gratify every capricious
     fancy I formed. We remained a month at Paris waiting for letters
     from England, which were to direct our future proceedings, and
     during that time passed so rapidly from one public place to
     another, that we never had a moment's private conversation. At last
     my dear father received letters to inform him, that the late Mr.
     Sullivan, who had been his old friend and fellow-soldier, and whom
     I had known very well in my childish days at Vienna, waited at
     Dover to welcome us to England. This communication, the precursor
     of all my sorrow, was read by me with the most extravagant joy.
     When we landed at Dover, we also met Mr. Austin, my father's
     former law agent, and one of his sincerest friends. For two days I
     scarcely saw my father, as he was in constant consultation with the
     gentlemen I have mentioned. On the morning of the third, I was
     informed he had decided on resigning me to their care; that Mr.
     Sullivan would immediately introduce me to my relations, as Baron
     Wildenheim himself was under the unavoidable necessity of returning
     to France without delay. You may imagine my despair on receiving
     this fatal sentence:--the scenes that ensued are too dreadful for
     me to touch on. My beloved father's life fell a sacrifice to the
     agitation of his feelings. Oh, that I had died too! Pity me, dear
     Mrs. Temple, and excuse my writing any more. Nothing now remains,
     that I cannot tell you when we meet.

     Ever sincerely and gratefully yours,
         ADELAIDE WILDENHEIM.

The day after Mrs. Temple received the above letter, she called on Miss
Wildenheim, and invited her to remain at the Parsonage, if she had any
dislike to accompany Mrs. Sullivan to London; saying, in conclusion,
"Mr. Temple told me the other day you looked so ill, he was afraid you
would suffer from the journey; and desired I would make my best speech
to induce you to stay with us. Indeed it would be an act of charity, for
we have had so great a loss in the dear family at Deane Hall! If you
will afford us the gratification of your society, we can at leisure
discuss the subjects you wish to consult us upon, and you shall have my
opinion; and, what is of much more value, Mr. Temple's, to the best of
our judgment. You know not how sincerely we commiserate your
misfortunes, nor what an interest we feel in your welfare." Adelaide
gratefully accepted her friend's invitation, assuring her she felt
convinced, that spending a little time at the Rectory would more
effectually mitigate her grief, than any other probable occurrence.
Mrs. Temple immediately applied for Mrs. Sullivan's permission, who gave
it with a joy that defied concealment, as by this means what she
supposed the only obstacle to her son's union with Miss Seymour would be
removed; for whenever Adelaide was present, his interest and inclination
were at constant variance.

One fine evening in March, the Webberly family commenced their journey
to London, and stopping as they drove past the Parsonage, left Miss
Wildenheim to the care of its friendly owners. Mrs. Temple and her
children were setting out on their evening walk, and Adelaide, begging
she might not disappoint the little folks, joined them in their ramble
with the utmost delight. It would be difficult to say, whether the
mother or children were most pleased to see her--the latter joyfully
recollected her skill in story-telling and singing; and Mrs. Temple,
feeling most sensibly the want of her accustomed intercourse at Deane
Hall, would have welcomed a much less agreeable guest, and therefore
received her young friend with even greater pleasure than usual. The
whole party walked long enough in a brisk blowing wind, to make them
relish, on their return, a blazing fire, and a tea-table rather more
substantially provided, than is commonly to be seen in more modish
families.

When the children went to bed, Mr. Temple, saying he had letters to
write for the next morning's post, retired to his study, in order to
give Adelaide an opportunity of opening her heart to his wife. "Come, my
dear Adele," said Mrs. Temple, "neither you nor I shall be comfortable,
till we have had this conversation, that I see hangs so heavily on your
mind. Tell me what it is that distresses you, my love, and, if possible,
we will find a remedy for it."

Adelaide, with as much composure as she could command, informed Mrs.
Temple, that during the short period Mr. Sullivan survived her father,
though he treated her with great kindness, yet he had taken no steps to
fulfil the promise he had given of introducing her to her family.
Immediately on his death, Mr. Austin came to Webberly House, and
expressing his regrets that circumstances rendered it impossible for him
to receive her into his own family, as he was on the point of taking an
invalide daughter to the Madeiras, advised her nominating Mrs. Sullivan
her guardian in conjunction with himself. Adelaide, abhorring all
clandestine proceedings, earnestly solicited Mr. Austin's permission, to
inform Mrs. Sullivan for what purpose she was placed under her late
husband's protection. To this he consented only in part, refusing his
sanction to this lady's being acquainted with the name of Miss
Wildenheim's noble relations; charging her, on the contrary, to conceal
it carefully from all the world till she came of age, as he feared her
claims would meet with decided opposition from part of her family, and
little support from any; and informing her, that a premature disclosure
might ruin her future prospects; and that law proceedings would be more
costly, and less efficacious, while she was a minor, than when she could
act directly for herself. In pursuance, therefore, of this advice,
Adelaide, with the reservation of this one point, told Mrs. Sullivan all
the particulars she knew of herself and her father; and in so doing,
went through a series of interrogations of the most distressing nature,
as Mrs. Sullivan, having little delicacy of feeling herself, was really
almost unconscious of the wounds she inflicted on that of others. After
deliberating a few days, she, as has been before mentioned, consented to
accept the proposed guardianship; and Mr. Austin immediately proceeding
to the Madeiras, his ward was therefore temporarily deprived of his
protection or advice. After relating these particulars, Adelaide
endeavoured to explain to Mrs. Temple her reasons for wishing to leave
Webberly House; and in executing this unpleasant task, was much
embarrassed between the necessity of doing herself justice, by showing
she was not actuated by any unreasonable whims or caprices, and her
respect for the laws of hospitality, which made her regard as sacred the
transactions of any family she domesticated with. But, indeed, she
seldom _thought_, and never _said_, the worst the actions of those she
associated with would warrant. However, Mrs. Temple was one of those who
could understand _‡ demi-mot_, without waiting for a harassing detail
sufficient to satisfy a court of law, and often listened to rather from
a love of _slander_ than of _justice_. "I am well aware," continued
Adelaide, "that the reception I shall meet with from my relations very
much depends on the respectability of the manner, in which I first
present myself to their notice. The moment I am of age, Mrs. Sullivan
may, and probably will, withdraw her protection from me; for she has
lately hinted once or twice, that she much regretted having ever granted
it. I therefore think the most advisable course for me to pursue is, to
write her a polite letter, conveying my thanks for the asylum she has
hitherto granted me, but expressing my doubts of its being agreeable to
her longer to continue it: requesting, if my surmises are well founded,
that she will have the goodness to seek an eligible home for me; or,"
continued she, looking mournfully at Mrs. Temple, "permit me to apply to
my _only_ friend to aid me in the search: but that, if on mature
deliberation she can satisfy her mind, that she really does _wish_ my
continuing to reside with her, I shall prefer doing so to domesticating
myself in another family, till I can ascertain whether my own will
receive me; but that, when this point is once decided, either for or
against me, I do not mean to trespass further on her hospitality. And
now, my dear Mrs. Temple, this is the subject, on which I am so anxious
to obtain your opinion and that of Mr. Temple. I know not what apology
to make for having so long trespassed on your patience by this tedious
recital." Mrs. Temple begged to consult her husband, before she
expressed her own ideas, as she feared to trust to her unassisted
judgment on a point of so much importance. But before she left the room,
she took up a volume of Patronage, and laughingly pointed out to
Adelaide's notice the following passage:--"You will never be a
heroine--What a stupid uninteresting heroine you will make! You will
never get into any _entanglements_, never have any adventures; or, if
kind fate should, propitious to my prayer, bring you into some charming
difficulties, even then we could not tremble for you, or enjoy all the
luxury of pity, because we should always know, that you would be so well
able to extricate yourself,--so certain to conquer, or,--not die--but
endure."

Mrs. Temple, in the first spontaneous benevolence of her heart, had
nearly been tempted to offer Adelaide an asylum at the Rectory, till her
future line of life should be finally decided; but quickly recollecting
what was due to Mr. Temple, repaired to his study, more for the purpose
of suggesting it to him, than for that of stating her young friend's
queries; which dispatching in as few words as possible, without further
preparation, she proposed her own plan in the most abrupt manner
possible; and as quickly read in his countenance his marked
disapprobation of her inconsiderate project. "My dear Charlotte," said
he, after a short pause, "the goodness of your heart makes you always so
zealous to promote the happiness of others, that you quite forget your
own. But, my love, you must respect the sanctuary of your domestic
peace; it, like the Paradise of our first parents, admits of no
intruder. I am inclined to believe Miss Wildenheim to be a most
estimable young woman. The prudence and uprightness of her present
proposition strengthens my former good opinion of her. As long as these
impressions remain, I shall be happy to receive her occasionally as a
visitor, and will most willingly do any thing to promote her welfare,
short of domesticating her in this house. But, setting yourself out of
the question, my dear Charlotte, do you think you would act justly
towards your daughters (recollect Anna is now eleven years old), by
introducing into the very bosom of your family a girl we have so
superficial a knowledge of; and whose situation is so doubtful and
extraordinary, and who may after all be but a foreign adventurer?" As
Mr. Temple said this, his features wore an expression of unusual
gravity. "Oh, James!" exclaimed his wife, "don't let your prudence make
you unjust: go to her, and if you will impartially look on her ingenuous
countenance, and observe her simple manners, you will never pronounce
her a foreign adventurer. Besides, after knowing Mr. Austin so many
years, can you suppose him capable of being an accomplice in a fraud?"
"You are right, my dear Charlotte: I was most unjust," replied Mr.
Temple, his brow relaxing from the austerity that had overcast it a
moment before. "And I," said she, extending her hand with a smile of
conciliating sweetness, "was equally imprudent." In this confession she
was perfectly sincere; she hardly wished to dissuade her husband from
his sage resolution; for he had convinced her judgment, though perhaps
her feelings were yet unsubdued.

It may here be remarked, that there is something in the ties of
relationship, which acts as a sort of necessity, and makes us excuse the
faults, which a domestic scene displays in the most perfect characters.
But it is far otherwise in friendship; and those who there court too
great intimacy, resemble the man in the fable of the golden eggs, and
often destroy in a day riches, that, by wise forbearance, might have
lasted their lives.

Mr. Temple, on going up stairs to Adelaide, told her, that the line of
conduct she had marked out for herself was the most proper she could
adopt, giving it his unqualified approbation. He then proceeded to give
her much sage advice, adding to it the most comforting assurances of
support and protection. Adelaide poured forth her gratitude and her
pleasure, with all the ardency of feelings long suppressed. Her spirits
rose in proportion to their previous depression. She once more had the
happiness of hearing a reverend voice address her in tones of
approbation for her virtues, and of consolation for her distresses.
Perhaps the evening of this anxious day was one of the happiest of her
life.




CHAPTER XI.

    Helas! ou donc chercher ou trouver le bonheur?
    En tout lieu, en tout temps, dans toute la nature,
    Nulle part tout entier, partout avec mesure,
    Et partout passager, hors dans son seul Auteur.
    Il est semblable au feu dont la douce chaleur,
    Dans chaque autre ÈlÈment en secret s' insinue,
    Descend dans les rochers, s' Èleve dans la nue,
    Va rougir le corail dans le sable des mers,
    Et vit dans les glaÁons qu'ont durcis les hivers.[8]

    VOLTAIRE.

[Footnote 8:

    Alas! then where should happiness be sought?
    In Nature's self.--Cast but thine eyes around,
    In every place, in every age, 'tis found;
    No where entire, but always in degree,
    And fleeting still, except, Oh God! with thee,
    (Thou its great Author.) Like thy fire, its heat
    In every other element we meet;
    Deep in the bosom of the harden'd stone,
    As in the clouds its vital power we own;
    In ocean's caves, in coral beds it glows,
    And lives beneath the glacier's endless snows.

As the reader may find it not uninteresting to compare the ideas of such
great writers as Pope and Voltaire on the same subject, the opening
verses of the fourth epistle of the Essay on Man are here subjoined,
though perhaps an apology is due for transcribing lines impressed on
every English memory.

    Oh Happiness! our being's end and aim!
    Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate'er thy name:
    That something still, which prompts th' eternal sigh
    For which we bear to live, or dare to die;
    Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
    O'erlook'd, seen double by the fool and wise.
    Plant of celestial seed! if dropp'd below,
    Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow;
    Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shine,
    Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine?
    Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
    Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field?
    Where grows? where grows it not? If vain our toil,
    We ought to blame the culture, not the soil:
    Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere,
    'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where;
    'Tis never to be bought, but always free,
    And, fled from monarchs, St. John! dwells with thee.
]


Whilst Adelaide remained at the Parsonage, she had the advantages of
becoming acquainted with a scene of domestic life of the most admirable
nature; and she did not fail, with her usual good sense, to derive many
useful lessons from her intercourse with Mrs. Temple. From her example
as much was proved to her mind by reason, as had been demonstrated _ab
absurdo_ by the Webberly family; and as, during Baron Wildenheim's life,
she had never been domesticated with females of her own rank, the faults
of the one, and the merits of the other, appeared to her view with all
the force of novelty. Mrs. Temple in herself, her children, and her
establishment, displayed a model of amiable and judicious conduct; as a
wife and mother, she was beyond praise, and nothing could exceed the
comfort and respectability of her well regulated family; for being a
woman of good understanding, she did not carry _management_ to an
extreme, that is destructive of the comfort it is meant to promote; nor
was she possessed by the would-be thrifty housewife's expensive and
troublesome mania for pickling and preserving, but in all things
observed that happy medium, which good sense alone knows how to keep.
Mr. Temple had in his youth lived much in the world, there associating
principally with literary and scientific men; with several of such as
still survived he maintained a constant correspondence, and, by
occasional visits to London and Oxford, where his affairs sometimes
called him, he renewed his acquaintance with men of his own stamp. He
also kept himself up to the changes and occurrences of the times, by
taking in at the Parsonage the daily papers, reviews, and the best of
the new publications of every description. Two or three times a year
some members of his or Mrs. Temple's family visited the Rectory; and
they preserved such habits of friendly intercourse with their rich and
poor neighbours, that they seldom found that want of society, which is
so universally deplored.

It would be curious to make those, who are constantly lamenting the want
of good society, point out where _it is to be found_.--Dissipation, say
they, has banished it from great capitals and watering-places. What in
country towns is called society, consists of a repetition of card
parties, differing from each other in no one respect, except as to the
rooms they are held in; where, besides "old men and women," are to be
found _girls_ of all ages, doing their best to amuse themselves, without
the smallest assistance being afforded them by the hostess; with here
and there an old married clergyman, an attorney's or apothecary's
apprentice, "thinly scatter'd to make up a show," and remind the ladies
that "beaux are not to be had." In the country, unless people have
fortune, which enables them to bring their company, like other luxuries,
from a distance, society consists of a few dinner parties in summer,
where a tedious repast is quickly followed by tea and coffee, which
serve as a signal for every body to go away, that they may, before
darkness comes on, walk or drive home in safety over bad roads; and the
master and mistress, as soon as their guests have departed, congratulate
each other that "every thing went off so well." Nor is it the least of
their joy, that their company have gone off too!

To all this it may be answered, that our mothers and grandmothers tell
us society was very gay in their young days. The truth is, people were
not then so fastidious, and were content to be amused in any way they
could. There is now a twilight of refinement spread over the middle
classes, just sufficient to show them disagreeables they had never
before suspected, but not bright enough to teach them the best way of
avoiding them. Formerly people could be amused with an ill sung song, or
an awkward dance. But now every girl must sing bravuras and dance like
Angelina. The young men, having reached a still higher pitch of
refinement, neither sing nor dance at all.

The same fastidiousness reigns throughout. Every body's dress must be of
the newest fashion; and a whole family is put to inconvenience for a
week, to give their company an attempt at French cookery. In short, if
people cannot be entertained "in a good style," they are resolved not to
be entertained at all. Pleasant society, like happiness, if proper means
are taken to cultivate it, is, with very few exceptions, to be found
every where or no where. The misfortune is, people repulse it, unless it
comes arrayed in the very garb they wish it to wear. How few have the
wisdom to act on that sage maxim, "When we have not what we like, we
must like what we have!" This was always Mr. and Mrs. Temple's practice;
and, though they enjoyed to the utmost the intellectual pleasures
afforded by the society of Miss Wildenheim, they found in the kindness
and simplicity of Mrs. Martin's sentiments pleasure of another kind, and
to a well judging mind one not less delightful. With this good lady and
her _coterie_ they occasionally varied their winter evenings, by playing
a friendly game of cards; and Lucy was not unfrequently the companion of
Mrs. Temple's summer walks.

Mr. Temple was extremely anxious, to make Adelaide's present visit to
the Parsonage of lasting benefit to her peace of mind. When she had been
there the year before, her grief was too recent to render any allusion
to the subject of it advisable; and at Webberly House it was treated
with so little delicacy, that her pride, as well as her tenderness of
feeling for her father's memory, made her most carefully confine it to
her own bosom. With the bitterest anguish at heart she outwardly carried
the appearance of quiet contentment. Had she continued thus
circumstanced much longer, she would either have sunk into an early
grave, or have acquired an unbending sternness of character, that would
have crushed all the finer feelings of her soul, and have made her as
impervious to joy as to sorrow. Though she spared no pains, to promote
the welfare of others by every means in her power, and, whenever duty
commanded, hesitated not for an instant, to perform any sacrifice it
might require; yet, perhaps it had been the fault of her education, to
lead her to rely too much on her own mind to secure her happiness; and
it was the misfortune of her nature to have feelings of such intensity,
that she feared to trust them to exercise even their just power. This
peculiar turn of character, thus moulded by circumstances, did not
escape Mr. and Mrs. Temple's observation, and they anxiously endeavoured
to rouse her from this state of mental torpor. Until the letter she had
addressed to the latter, she had never ventured to express the sorrow,
that corroded her heart, to any human being; but having once voluntarily
touched on it, Mrs. Temple designedly led her to speak of it, and while
she probed the wound, prepared the lenient balm that in time would heal
it. The peculiar tenderness of soul, that Adelaide possessed from
nature, had been most wisely balanced by the firmness of mind she had
derived from education; only the most unpropitious circumstances could
have endangered either degenerating to an extreme. To insult she was
impervious, but the voice of kindness was to her like the soft breath of
spring, which

    "Melts the icy chains that twine
    Around entranced nature's form."

Relaxing into all the softness of her sex and age, her tears flowed
without restraint, as she poured her sorrows into Mrs. Temple's friendly
bosom; and, from the well merited praise and judicious counsel she
received in return, derived a supporting power, that raised her to a new
existence. From consolation Mrs. Temple proceeded to admonition,
forcibly representing to Adelaide how culpable she would be, if she
continued to nourish in secret a grief, that would render of no avail
the capability of usefulness she possessed in mind and fortune, and by
this wilful waste of happiness, not only for herself but others,
counteract the intention of her being; finally pointing out to her,
that, though she had lost the object of her first duties, the world yet
presented a wide field, in which she was bound to exert herself to
supply their place by others, even should she never find any of equal
interest or importance.




CHAPTER XII.

    O! Primavera, gioventu del' anno,
    Bella madre di fiori,
    D'herbe novelle, e di novelli amori,
    Tu torni ben ma teco
    Non tornano i sereni
    E fortunati di de le mie gioje.
    Tu torni ben, tu torni
    Ma teco altro non torna
    Che del perduto mio caro tesoro,
    La rimembranza misera e dolente.[9]

    IL PASTOR FIDO.

[Footnote 9:

    Delightful spring! youth of the year,
    Thou blooming mother of the opening flowers,
    The fresh'ning verdure, and the new-born loves--
    Thou now returnest! But no second spring
    Will e'er return of those serene delights,
    That bless'd my fleeting hours of happiness--
    Thou now return'st! But with thee nought returns
    To my sad thoughts but renovated sorrow,
    And bitter mem'ry of departed joys.
]


The Parsonage garden was now blooming in all the beauty of summer, and
the hedges had exchanged the fragrance of the violet for that of the
flaunting woodbine. Instead of a brisk walk of a bracing March evening,
its happy inmates enjoyed a sauntering ramble by the light of the newly
risen stars, over rich meadows, or through wooded glades and cheerful
valleys.

Mrs. Temple and Adelaide were one evening returning from such a walk:
every thing was at rest in the surrounding scene; the very flowers of
day had closed their corollas, and ceased to give forth their perfumes;
but the air was fragrant with the night-blowing orchis, and the new-mown
grass; and sometimes it brought to their ear the melody of the
nightingale, the hooting of the owl, or the hum of the night crow.

Such a scene is more favourable to meditation than discourse; and, when
speech is found, it more resembles thinking aloud than conversation. The
two friends had continued long in silence, when Mrs. Temple said, "I am
never so pious as in such a scene as this; my heart overflows with
gratitude to the Author of the spontaneous happiness, that, unsought,
seems to pour in on the mind." "Certainly the devotion of the heart is
most pure in such a temple," replied Adelaide; "I wonder the worship of
the air was not in ancient times more general. It appears to my mind the
best emblem of the deity, that man by reason alone can form;--it is
every where present, every where invisible; in it 'we live and move, and
have our being.' We confess its awful might in the storm, and feel its
beneficent power every moment of our lives." These and similar
reflections cheated the friends of their time till they reached the
Parsonage, where a light in the drawing-room informed them Mr. Temple
had returned from his ride. As they entered the room, he gave Adelaide
the long expected letter from Mrs. Sullivan; she hesitated for an
instant to open it, with that undefined dread we always feel on
receiving any communication from a person, whose good will we are
doubtful of possessing. However, on reading her letter, she was not a
little relieved to find it written in a style of unusual civility; but
was surprised beyond measure to find it request, or rather _desire_, her
to meet Mrs. Sullivan at Shrewsbury, from whence she intended proceeding
to Ireland, declining all discussion as to matters of business, till
their return to Webberly House. In her first surprise, she did not
perceive the short period of Mrs. Sullivan's intended absence from her
accustomed residence; but a confused picture of being taken to another
kingdom, and separated from the only people from whom she had any chance
of receiving kindness or protection, mixed with painful recollections
of her last journey, rose to her mind. Her first thought was not to go;
but she as quickly remembered, that Mrs. Sullivan's authority, as her
guardian, was indisputable; also that she ought no longer to trespass on
the hospitality of her kind hosts. The agitation of her countenance did
not escape Mrs. Temple's observation, but she forbore to notice it; and
Adelaide, commanding herself sufficiently to bid good night, retired to
her room.

When she read Mrs. Sullivan's letter more attentively a second time, she
smiled at the phantom she had raised to terrify herself; for she found
her guardian proposed returning home rather before she should be of age,
and that of course the dilemma, she had fancied would arise from her
being in Ireland without any positive claim on Mrs. Sullivan's
protection, would not occur.

Being convinced she could not avoid going to Ireland, her next
endeavour was to persuade herself the journey would not be unpleasant;
for it was always her custom to look for the best side of every thing
and every body: she therefore soon discovered, that becoming acquainted
with a country and a people she knew as little of as the Iroquois
tribes, would afford her more amusement, than spending another summer at
Webberly House. The civility of Mrs. Sullivan's letter was so striking,
that Adelaide began to think she had been too harsh in her judgment of
her character, and determined that her expedition should commence with a
voyage of discovery, to ascertain the unknown perfections of the mother
and daughters. A strong intellect may command the feelings, but the body
is not so obedient as the mind. Adelaide found, though she could compose
her thoughts to rest, she could not quiet her nerves to sleep, and
therefore got up with the sun; and taking a book to fix her ideas,
remained out of doors till Mrs. Temple's early breakfast hour.

At breakfast she read to her friends the subjoined letter from Mrs.
Sullivan. Notwithstanding all her distress of mind, it was with the
utmost difficulty she could command her countenance while she did so.
She omitted some passages, and slightly altered the wording of others;
but though her eyes during this time were perseveringly cast down, their
comical expression was not thus concealed; for the light that streamed
from beneath their half-closed lids was reflected on her cheek, and
brightened her whole countenance, displaying as unequivocally what
passed in her mind, as if she had directed to her auditors the most
meaning glances of arch drollery. She was too generous to wish to expose
Mrs. Sullivan's extreme ignorance to her friends, as it was exemplified
in this ill spelled, ill written scrawl. But she had yet another
secondary motive, which prompted her to screen it from their eyes; and
this trifling circumstance may perhaps explain her character more
effectually, than one of greater importance, in which nine rational
people out of ten would act alike.

She had but little vanity, yet from nature and education was proud in
the extreme. This ambiguous quality, partaking of vice and virtue, which
is "both perhaps or neither," was interwoven in the very texture of her
mind, was blended with many of her virtues and most of her errors, and
prompted her always to shield as much as possible from ridicule any
person she was even slightly connected with. Mrs. Temple was nearly as
much amused by the grave dignity of her countenance, when she looked up
after reading her letter, which seemed to say, "You ought not to laugh,"
as she had been by its droll expression a few moments before.

     MRS. SULLIVAN TO MISS WILDENHEIM.

     London, June 1st.----

     My dear Miss Wildenheim,

     I've received your letter, and am glad to hear your well: so is
     Meelly and Cilly. I be sometimes troubled with the vind; but
     howsomedever I gets my health middling. This comes to say we be all
     a-going to Ireland with all speed; and I must _retreat_ and
     _insist_ that you come two; and we can taulk all about what you
     wrot me in March when we returns from them there outlandish parts.
     But I'm in great hops Jack will mary his cozen Hannah Leatherly
     after all, which I just menshion, as young girls be very apt to
     think ever a man that looks after 'em be in love with 'em. But says
     I to my eye, Addle Wildenheim has two much spirit of her own to
     covet her neighbour's goods. So, my dear, if you'll meat us at
     Shrovesbirry, I'll be excedin glad to be your shoprun; and we mean
     to reeturn to Webberly House afore the time comes of your mynoritie
     been over; so till then I wont here taulk of your chousing no other
     garden.

     We be a goin to see Mr. Sullivan and his sister, for he thinks he's
     a going to put on his wooden great coat, so he's anxshious to see
     my little Carline, for it's quite natral he shoud desire to see his
     nearest akin; and so we shoud a gone six weeks ago, only for
     certain good raisins that made us wish to stay over Lady
     Ashbrooke's bawll, which was three nights ago. But no good come off
     it, after all. Some folks are so fine and so sassy, they'd turn up
     their noses at their own bread and butter. But every dog has his
     day, and Carline may be as grate a airass as no other guess parson.
     So now I conclude with complements to Mr. and Mrs. Temple. I'll
     send John Arding to retort you from Webberly House to Shrovesbirry,
     and so you may expect him in less than a weak. You must come in
     the post-shay; and you'd better bring your made Lamotte with you,
     but you must send her back from Shrovesbirry (mind I'm at no costs
     for her jurney); for I can't take but one made to attend both you
     and I. Seeing she can taulk no English, she'd be of small sarvice
     to I. I've got a stout girl to do our turn. You must pay half the
     wagers and travailing expences, and I'll charge you naught for her
     wittals; for d'ye mind me, Mr. Sullivan will see to that, which
     will be all the better for you: a penny saved is a penny got, as my
     poor father tot me betimes. I'll send Mrs. Harris home to Webberly,
     (so she'll keep kumpany with Lamotte); for she'll be wanted to do
     the sweetmeats and pikchols this summer; and I wish, my dear, you'd
     wright word to John Gardiner, to sell all the fruit at Deane which
     isn't vaunted for persarvin; and I expect a good account when I go
     home. So hopping to met you at Shrovesbirry without fail,

       I remane your affectionate friend,
          HANNAH SULLIVAN.

     P.S.--I'm sure you'd be very sory to take Lamotte to Ireland,
     you've tot her such bad kustoms, becase she's lived with you since
     you was a year old. She'd be 'mazed attendin I. You no I be's a
     bustling body, and a trifle hasty; but I'm nothing the worse for
     having a good spirit of my own.

Adelaide's delicacy prevented her from allowing her friends to suppose
she had any dislike to accompanying Mrs. Sullivan to Ireland, well
knowing that if they were aware of it, they would apply to her guardian
for permission to protract her stay at the Parsonage; and she succeeded
in impressing them with an idea, that the project was far from
unpleasant to her. This matter being discussed, they gave her a pressing
invitation to spend the following winter with them, during which time
Mr. Temple promised, if she gave him authority so to do, to use his best
endeavours either to procure her reception by her family, or an eligible
abode, wherever she might wish to fix her residence; also authorizing
her, should she find herself in any dilemma previous to her return, to
apply to him for whatever assistance she might require. The worthy
rector soon interrupted Adelaide's warm acknowledgements for his present
and past kindness, by saying, "I hope this delightful scheme, to which
Mrs. Temple and I look forward with so much pleasure, will not be
prevented by your being run away with by some fine fellow at the other
side of the channel. Joking apart," said he seriously, "there is an
English gentleman, who is as much in love as his nature will suffer him
to be, to whom I hope no consideration will ever tempt you to unite
yourself." Adelaide blushed and blushed, till the tears stood in her
eyes. Mr. Temple looked at her with astonishment; "Is it possible!"
thought he: "You may think me impertinent, Miss Wildenheim, but I know
you never contemn the advice of experience and friendship. It would be
heart-rending to see you so thrown away;--such a total dissimilarity of
character can never produce happiness. You are beings of a different
sphere. The moment in which you marry Mr. Webberly, you sign the misery
of your whole life." The expression of her countenance was now quite
changed, and the few calm words she spoke, convinced her reverend
adviser she _then_ felt convinced she could never marry Mr. Webberly.
But he had, in the course of his life, seen so many strange matches
made, that the word "amazement" in matrimony had to him lost its
meaning; particularly as he had so often known it commence without
"dearly beloved" on the part of either of the persons concerned; and
still having some little distrust of the future, he would sincerely have
rejoiced to hear, that Mr. Webberly had done Miss Leatherly the honour
of making her his wife. When Adelaide retired after breakfast, Mr.
Temple questioned his wife as to the possibility of her having become
attached to Augustus Mordaunt, whom she had frequently met at the
Rectory. "What vain creatures you men are!" said she: "A girl can't
spend a sleepless night, and be a little agitated by an unexpected
change in her plans, but you must suppose her colour comes and goes in
the intermittent fits of a love fever." "You may quiz, Charlotte, but I
assure you, when Miss Wildenheim used to meet Augustus here, her eyes
told more than her tongue." "Then believe me, they told intolerable
stories! No young woman of good sense, or good conduct, will ever love a
man, who does not show her the most unequivocal preference. After all,
what is called love has its residence more in the brain than the heart.
Believe me, Adelaide is no such fool; she has strength of mind to
conquer even a reciprocal attachment, if necessary. She has a great deal
of feeling, with an equal portion of reason and reflection; but I think
her _imagination_ is rather in the minority, at least it takes its rise
from her feelings, not her feelings from it." "Well, Charlotte, you may
think an attachment a very silly thing now; but, you know, you were in
love once yourself." "Never with you, I assure you: you know, my dear,
that was impossible, for you were old enough to have passed for my
father when we married. I had always too much respect for your
reverence. Yet I don't think I have made the worse wife, because I never
mistook you for a Strephon, but saw from the first you were a good,
plain, steady country parson." "And but for this good, plain, steady
country parson, Charlotte," said he, "you would never have been the
estimable woman you now are. But to return to Miss Wildenheim: what is
it that distresses her? You are clear there is nobody in England she is
sorry to leave behind." "Pardon me; I think she is very sorry to leave
us." "That I take for granted; but on the whole she seems pleased with
her expedition. Perhaps she is unprepared to meet so unexpected a demand
on her purse; and Mrs. Sullivan's elegant epistle does not say a word on
the subject of money:--she should have had more consideration! I will
make an estimate of what the journey to Shrewsbury will cost her--will
you give it to her, and say I shall be happy to advance what money she
may require." "That I will," replied Mrs. Temple; "Poor thing! I'm sure
she would die before she would ask Mrs. Sullivan--at least _I_ should,
without doubt." When Mr. Temple made out his memorandum, and his wife
giving it to Adelaide repeated his offer, she was so touched by this
new instance of her friend's kindness, that she could not for a short
time reply to Mrs. Temple; but pressing her hand with the earnestness of
gratitude, remained silent for an instant, and then, both by word and
look, expressed her grateful sense of all the benefits they had bestowed
on her. "In the present instance, however," said she, "I need not
trespass on Mr. Temple's goodness; I assure you I am quite rich,
sufficiently so to make this unexpected journey no inconvenience."
"Nobody is rich now-a-days," said Mrs. Temple; "in such an extravagant
family how have you managed, my dear Adele, to get into such a good
condition of purse?" "When I was first at Webberly House, I was too
unhappy to have any fancies to indulge; and as soon as by your
benevolent care I recovered from my primary state of stupefaction, I
became so terrified at my unprotected situation, that I determined to
provide for any emergency that might occur, by limiting my expenditure
as much as possible. Impressed with these fears, I _dared_ not give
myself habits of extravagance. I assure you I have been economical
almost to parsimony." "Your poor pensioners do not say so," rejoined
Mrs. Temple, in a tone of affectionate approbation.--"I do not think it
permissible, my dear Mrs. Temple, to provide for future wants by the
neglect of present duties. I look upon charity in proportion to our
means, as a necessity as indispensable to our condition as daily food
and raiment; a due portion of whatever fund procures the one, ought
surely to provide for the other." "You are a singular girl," said Mrs.
Temple; "I will apply to you Goldsmith's epitaph on Dr. Bernard:--

    "If you have any faults, you have left us in doubt,
    At least in six weeks I could not find them out."

The few days Adelaide had to spend at the Parsonage flew most rapidly
away. She saw the dreaded morning arrive, in which she was to commence
her journey, with a heavy heart, and perhaps those she was to leave
behind were yet more sorrowful than herself. In the separation of
friends, those who depart are never half so much to be pitied as those
who remain. Change of scene, motion, and fatigue, insensibly divert the
former; but the latter have nothing new to fill up the uncomfortable
void they feel. It is long before the eye ceases to look for the beloved
face it has been used to gaze on, or the ear unconsciously to expect the
well-known voice or step. The children had bid farewell to Adelaide the
night before, not without many pressing entreaties for her speedy
return; but the father and mother got up at a very early hour, to take
leave of her on the morning of her departure. At the sight of Mrs.
Temple she could no longer control her feelings, but threw herself in
an agony of sorrow into her arms, saying, it was her fate always to be
torn from what was dear to her in life, and that she should know nothing
like happiness till she saw her again. Mr. Temple, seeing her make a
great effort to restrain her tears, said, "Do not, my dear young friend,
suppress the expression of your sorrow; here are those who respect your
tears--they are most natural to your age and sex. You have too much the
habit of suppressing your own feelings, to avoid distressing those of
others. We shall all meet happily again in a few months, and then your
connection with that unamiable family will cease. You are too deserving
of happiness not to meet with it;--indeed you will find it in your own
mind, when you recover from the first shock of the heavy affliction it
has pleased Providence to assign you. You may, if it is any consolation,
take with you an old man's blessing; whose utmost wish would be
gratified in having a daughter to resemble you." Mrs. Temple, who had
been nearly as much comforted by his commendation as Adelaide, now said,
"Rouse yourself, my dear girl, and look at all those impertinent
Webberlys, as much as to say, 'I hold ye in sovereign, contempt.' I wish
you were not content, with _feeling_ your own superiority, but would
occasionally assert it. I should like to see them smarting under the
power of ridicule certain arch smiles have told me you possess--indeed,
indeed, my dear, you are righteous over much: do oblige me, and be a
little spiteful."

By the time breakfast was over, Adelaide's spirits were comforted by Mr.
Temple, and rallied by his wife. Though she could not trust herself to
say, "Good bye," she stept into the carriage with tolerable composure;
but when she lost sight of them and their cheerful abode, she
experienced an acuteness of sorrow she some time before had thought she
was as incapable of ever feeling again, as an equal degree of joy.

When the carriage drove away, Mr. Temple made a speedy retreat into his
study; and the traces of tears were still visible on his wife's face,
when they met at dinner.




CHAPTER XIII.

    One only passion unreveal'd
    With maiden pride the maid conceal'd;
    Yet not less purely felt the flame--
    Oh! need I then that passion name?

    SCOTT.


Civil people always meet with civility, and Adelaide accomplished her
journey without meeting either accident or insult. When the carriage
stopped at the Talbot Inn in Shrewsbury, she was received at the door by
Mr. Webberly, who had evidently been watching her arrival. On her asking
for his mother and sisters, he pointed to a window, where she saw Mrs.
Sullivan attired in a sky-blue habit of cassimir, with a white beaver
hat and feathers. Cecilia, in a modish pelisse, looking at that
distance very handsome; and Miss Webberly, in the opposite window,
_intently_ reading. Mrs. Sullivan met Adelaide half way down stairs,
apparently glad to see her. The young ladies greeted her with a slight
bow, just muttering a scarcely audible "How d'ye do:"--one turning to
stare out of the window, the other affecting to bestow all her attention
on her book. Little Caroline, exclaiming "Oh, tie my frock quick, quick!
there's my dear Adele come: I hear mama talking to her,"--burst from an
inner apartment, heedless of the remonstrances of her maid, and jumping
up with one spring, twisted her ivory arms about her neck; and as
Adelaide fondly pressed the lovely child to her heart, her countenance
expressed those feelings--

    "Which are to mortals given,
    With less of earth in them than Heav'n:"

For affliction had indeed "touched her looks with something that was
scarce earthly," and, when brightened by any emotion near akin to joy,
smiles such as might have beamed in the face of a seraph illuminated
hers. Mrs. Sullivan, in a tone of sorrowful admiration, whispered to
Cecilia, "Jack can't choose but fancy her; she's beautifuller than ever:
I han't seen her like since we parted." "Law, mama!" replied Cecilia
with unmixed vexation, "I believe you've taken leave of your senses,
since you used to say she was a sallow poking thing. You forget what
beautiful girls the Miss Nathans, and the Miss Bakers, and all the
Lunnon ladies are." Here, with affected indifference and real
mortification, she stopped to examine the subject of their discourse
through her glass. As she continued to gaze, her soft cheek became
crimsoned with anger, and her beautiful eye, which seemed formed to
convey the tender feelings of the gentlest female heart, scowled with
the dark expression of envy. Adelaide, turning her eyes on her face,
met that glance, and sighing to see the youthful bloom of this fair
creature deformed by malevolent emotions, felt for her the pity of a
superior nature, that from its own beatitude beholds the fretful
passions of a being incessantly employed in weaving the web of its own
misery, and mourns that it may not save the wretched victim from its
self-destroying arts.

When Adelaide sat down, Mr. Webberly, leaning over the arm of the sofa,
began a complimentary conversation, which she soon terminated on the
excuse of retiring to make some slight alteration in her travelling
dress before the time of dinner. In the course of this evening, Mrs.
Sullivan and her son overloaded Miss Wildenheim with officious
civilities; and the young ladies paid her many ironical compliments
intended as insults; but she _would_ not show, by word or look, that she
understood them otherwise than according to the literal sense, and
amused herself a little maliciously (forgive her, for she was but human)
by observing their disappointment at finding their best efforts at
mortifying her fail of success. But at night, her feelings were those of
bitter anguish, as she involuntarily compared this day with the last she
had spent at the Parsonage of Deane, in the enlightened society of her
kind friends. "But I shall meet them again ere long, and shall enjoy
their society doubly from the comparison of my present associates. I am
resolved to think the time till we meet as little disagreeable as
possible." Her thoughts then reverted to the scenes of her early life,
on which they could now rest with mournful complacency; and, as she
recalled to memory the precepts of her beloved father, with a pardonable
superstition, she fondly flattered herself that he yet spoke to her
heart. The treasured admonitions of this revered parent at once
fortified her mind and soothed her feelings; on them she continued to
ponder till sleep deprived her of recollection and his image at the same
moment. Her heart was cheered by a sentiment of filial piety, similar to
that so beautifully expressed by Scott's Ellen:

    My soul, though feminine and weak,
    Can image his; even as the lake,
    Itself disturb'd by slightest stroke,
    Reflects the invulnerable rock.

Notwithstanding Adelaide's best endeavours to persuade herself the
Webberlys _en masse_ were a pleasant family, and not less amiable than
agreeable, she now found them more intolerable than ever.

Mr. Webberly's attentions were as incessant as disgusting, and to her
astonishment his mother no longer gave them overt opposition. His
sisters, on the contrary, were more than ever devoured by "proud spleen
and burning envy;" but they excited in her mind only the most profound
compassion. Pity is said to be near akin to love; it is sometimes
however very closely allied to that mournful pardon we grant to a
character, whose irremediable defects excite our unqualified hopeless
disapprobation.

As for Mrs. Sullivan, Adelaide felt grieved she could not like her, for
she at least had the feelings of a mother; and where is the character so
degraded, that these will not give a claim to our love, to our
veneration? When she saw this poor woman, full of love and pride in her
elder children, pour forth her fondness on them, and saw the ungrateful
objects of her tenderness insultingly disdain it, because it did not
appear in the language and gestures of what they supposed to be fashion,
she redoubled her attentions, and her sweetly soothing manners,
sometimes chased the starting tears from the offended mother's eye,
sometimes made them flow from the bitterness of the comparison they
caused her to make. But when, softened by compassion, Adelaide was
reproaching herself for her want of liking to a woman, who, though a
mistaken, was an affectionate mother, some trait of ostentatious
arrogant despotism to those not united by ties of relationship sent her
benevolent feelings, with accelerated motion, back to the source of
kindness from whence they had begun to flow. Vulgarity alone was no
crime in her mind; she considered it merely as an accident to which
certain conditions are liable, and, therefore, when it was an
accompaniment of worth, she did not _dare_ to feel it a fit subject of
contempt. She was too noble in soul, too pious in heart, to presume on
her accidental advantages of education, to despise "the pure in spirit,"
who are, however lowly in earthly station, glorious in the approving
smile of Heaven.

But as Mrs. Sullivan was on one point alone entitled to respect, and
even there imperfectly, (for, owing to the mercenary artifices of her
elder daughters, she was nearly indifferent to Caroline,) Adelaide had
now a hard task to perform--namely, to fortify herself once more with
indifference to all her associates. Her feelings had been awakened from
their temporary torpor by her visit to the Temples, and she now felt it
most painful to lower them to the icy temperature they had attained in
the soul-benumbing atmosphere of Webberly House. "However, (thought
she,) I must only play the dormouse, and, like it, having gone through a
few months' torpidity, I shall then wake to an existence of positive
enjoyment."

Mrs. Sullivan, during Miss Wildenheim's absence, had become conscious of
the value of her decorum of manner; for besides the attention it
prompted this young lady to pay her, as due to the person under whose
roof she resided, it acted as a restraint on the rudeness of her
daughters, who, when unshackled by the presence of an example of
propriety in their domestic scene, opposed their mother in every trifle
with the most perverse obstinacy. Mr. Webberly, as soon as he had been
refused by Selina, told his mother, in the first effusions of his
wounded pride, he was determined to marry Miss Wildenheim directly. "He
was rich enough to please himself after all; he was sure she was a far
personabler woman than Miss Seymour, though Miss did think no small beer
of herself." As he could not have Selina, his mother now wished him to
marry his cousin Miss Leatherly, who was nearly as rich, though she had
not the advantages of connection, that had won her pride to prefer Miss
Seymour. She had long delayed her answer to Adelaide's letter,
determining she should seek another home; but her son declared if she
did not bring her to Ireland, he would not go either, but would remain
in whatever place she resided till she was of age, and then it would
not be in his mother's power to prevent their marriage. Mrs. Sullivan,
alarmed at this menace, determined no longer to use open opposition, but
to trust to chance and the possibility of Miss Wildenheim's own pride
assisting her to defeat his wishes; therefore offered to compromise the
matter, by saying she would bring Miss Wildenheim with her to Ireland,
on condition he did not actually propose for her till the period fixed
for their return to England, promising she would do nothing to prevent
his paying her what attentions he pleased; but, at the same time giving
him to understand, the match would never receive her approbation,
reminding him that a ten thousand pound fortune with a wife was nothing!
and that he had little now left but what she pleased to give him. Mr.
Webberly had found out from Selina's conduct, it was possible he might
be refused; therefore, yielding in part to his mother's wishes,
acknowledging, on second thoughts, a little delay would be no bad
thing, as it might enable him to conquer his mistress's resentment for
his having transferred his attention elsewhere, which he elegantly
expressed, by saying "In the first brush of the thing she may cuff off
her nose to punish her face."

Our travellers proceeded on their journey with the most dissimilar
feelings possible. Mrs. Sullivan enjoying the idea of the fortune this
expedition would secure to Caroline--the Miss Webberlys, in sullen
discontent, were forming schemes to make their mother return as soon as
possible to the neighbourhood of London, supposing the society of
Ballinamoyle must be still more insipid than that in the vicinity of
Webberly House--their brother engaged in promoting the success of his
passion for Adelaide, she not less so in keeping him at a distance, and
in the endeavour to divert her thoughts from her companions to the
country they passed through--Caroline alone, with unfeigned pleasure,
was enjoying the change of scene, and coaxing her "Dear, precious
Adele," who returned the sweet child's caresses with equal affection.
The weather was intolerably hot; the Miss Webberlys would not consent to
have their pelisses faded by opening the barouche--"You know, mama, we
can't get any thing from London for a long time, and you would not have
_us_ dress in the Irish fashions:" so the four ladies and Caroline were
nearly suffocated with heat; little relief was obtained from letting
down the front windows, for Mr. Webberly and a footman in the driving
seat intercepted the air. Mr. Webberly had placed himself there, that he
might from time to time cast sweet looks at Adelaide. She sat with her
back to him that she might not see them; but this was of little avail,
for he tapped her every five minutes on the shoulder, on pretence of
pointing out some remarkable object to her notice, therefore she
willingly accepted Mrs. Sullivan's offer of making room for her on the
other seat. Oh! how she envied the abigails, as they drove past in the
post chaise! she could not enjoy the pleasure of walking up the hills
with Caroline, as in that case, Mr. Webberly was at her side in an
instant, ready primed with the compliments he had composed on the
barouche seat. But notwithstanding all this, she was enchanted with the
picturesque scenery of North Wales: the Vale of Langollen, Capel
Kerrick, and Lake Oggen, called forth her rapturous praise, in the
expression of which she was sometimes joined by her companions, though
they were little capable of feeling the pleasure she experienced.

Mrs. Sullivan's parsimony always showing itself in trifles, she
quarrelled with all the drivers, ostlers, chamber maids, and waiters, as
she came along, by offering them less than people who travelled with the
same _cortËge_ usually did. The Welsh are a remarkably sturdy people;
and if, on entering Wales, you offend the man who drives you the first
stage, the bad effects of his irascible feelings follow your carriage
wheels to the last. What must it be when each equestrian is individually
enraged at you!

The carriage windows were no sooner drawn up, to put an end to the
clamour occasioned by such squabbles on the outside, than the usual
contentions were renewed within, which seldom ceased till the time for
wrangling with the ostlers arrived again, for which a scold to the last
turnpike keeper, for the badness of the roads, in proportion to the high
tolls, served as a prelude. However, they at last reached Holyhead: as
Adelaide skipped into the inn, overjoyed to be comparatively at liberty,
she exclaimed, in thought, "Thank goodness, so much of my Purgatory is
over! Why Webberly House was Heaven to this! However we shall travel
only a small portion of the time I am to spend in penance for my
sins.--They will all be sea-sick to-morrow, and then I shall have a few
hours' peace."




CHAPTER XIV.

    Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float
    Upon the wanton breezes; strew the deck
    With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets,
    That no rude savour maritime invade
    The nose of nice nobility.

    COWPER.


On the following evening, wind and tide answering, the packet in which
our travellers were to embark was prepared for sailing.

The music of the indefatigable harper, in the passage, was completely
drowned by the uproar of an universal commotion; the persons and voices
of masters and mistresses, children, ladies' maids, footmen, and
boatmen, were mixed in one undistinguished throng, as they crowded
about the inn door. Mrs. Sullivan stood at the foot of the stairs
screaming, loud enough for her shrill _contr'alto_ to be heard above all
the murmuring crowd:--"Meely! Cilly! do bestir yourselves; we're too
late by a mile! here's the wery last boat imparting." The tardy-gaited
damsels made their appearance just as one of the boatmen informed their
mother, the captain had sent to say, he would not wait another minute;
and they reached the side of the ship exactly at the moment he prepared
to put his threat in execution. Poor Mrs. Sullivan had seldom seen, and
had never been on the sea before, therefore it is not surprising that
she was much terrified at finding herself in a small boat, on this, to
her, unusual element; however, after many exclamations of terror, she
congratulated herself, and all the party, on being safe on board: she
might now have said with Foote,

    "When first I went on board, Good Lord! what a racket,
    Such babbling and squalling fore and aft through the packet;
    The passengers bawling, the sailors yo-ho-ing,
    The ship along dashing, the wind aloft blowing;
    Some sick, and some swearing, some singing, some shrieking,
    Sails hoisting, blocks rattling, the yards and booms creaking!"

It was that season of the year in which such of the Irish bipeds as are
birds of passage, pay a summer's visit to their native shores: the
packet was crowded to excess; and not only every birth was taken, but
the cabin floors were spread with mattresses for the supernumeraries.
Mrs. Sullivan had secured the _state_ cabin, where people pay an
additional price, for the honour and glory of encountering imminent
danger of suffocation, in a commodious apartment, six feet broad by
eight feet long, containing four beds, two above and two below; and in
this receptacle of pride, many a repentant victim of human vanity has
sent forth pious aspirations after "_a new birth_." Mrs. Sullivan, on
going below, found that, besides the beds in the state cabin, only two
others could be procured for Caroline and the maids; she however settled
the matter, much to her satisfaction, by saying, "Willis must sit up all
night." But Adelaide seeing the poor woman's face changing colour, with
a compassion that never rose for an _inferior_ in Mrs. Sullivan's
breast, said, "If you will allow me, I will make up a bed for myself in
the floor of your cabin, with the night sacks and dressing boxes; and
then Willis can have my birth; she looks very sick, poor thing, perhaps
you will give her leave to go to bed now." "I have no dejection to your
doing what you likes with your own birth, Miss Vildenheim; but if Villis
goes to bed, what can I do to undress?"--"Oh! I will be your waiting
woman with pleasure." So saying, Adelaide seized the golden opportunity
before the permission could be recalled, and persuaded the fainting
Willis to occupy her bed.

When they returned to the deck all was comparatively quiet; the ladies
were seated, and the gentlemen walking about in parties, examining the
various groups of females which presented themselves to their view. Next
to Adelaide was seated a very elegant woman, whom she heard addressed by
the name of St. Orme, and whose husband was walking arm in arm with a
remarkably handsome man, who united in his deportment the mien of a
soldier, with the air of a man who had lived much in the world. His back
was to Adelaide when he first attracted her notice, but when he came
close to her, she started up, and met the hand he extended to her, with
reciprocal cordiality, and their mutual astonishment, making them for an
instant regardless of the presence of so numerous an audience, they
addressed each other in the language they had long been accustomed to
converse in, and, after a few hasty sentences of German, Adelaide,
blushing to her fingers' ends, on perceiving she had attracted the
attention of every person present, introduced the handsome stranger to
Mrs. Sullivan as Colonel Desmond, and he was not a little surprised to
find in her the widow of his most particular friend. This ceremony being
over, Colonel Desmond again addressed Adelaide: "Good Heavens! Miss
Wildenheim, who could have thought of seeing you _here_! how time does
run on! I hope you don't forget what I remember with so much pleasure,
that our acquaintance commenced before you were six years old; and that
you used to seat yourself on my knee, with as little ceremony as that
beautiful child is preparing to do on yours." Adelaide's dialogue with
her new found friend was suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Sullivan becoming
so qualmish, that a speedy retreat to her own cabin was judged
advisable, and Colonel Desmond, after assisting the ladies to go down
stairs, returned to the deck, his fair acquaintance remaining below to
give her promised aid to her _chaperone_.

Though Colonel Desmond was then in his forty-fifth year, his florid
complexion, brilliant eye, and martial air, made him appear nearly ten
years younger; nor were the few unwelcome gray hairs, that attempted to
tell tales of other times, in contradiction to their darker companions,
in sufficient number to counteract the appearance of youth, that the
finest set of teeth in the world gave to his face. His forehead, eyes,
and brows, seemed the seat of sense and manly daring, but all the kindly
affections of human nature dwelt about his mouth. Adelaide had early
applied to him the motto of the Chevalier Bayard--_L'homme sans peur et
sans reproche_: and in the days of youthful enthusiasm, he had, in her
scale of admiration, ranked next to her father--nor was he unworthy of
her regard.

This gallant soldier was the second son of a country gentleman, whose
family had lived from generation to generation in habits of friendship
with that of the late Mr. Sullivan, who was also a younger son. These
young men were companions, school-fellows, and friends, and on the death
of their fathers, found themselves but scantily provided for. Edward
Desmond, being intended for the church, had gone through some part of
his collegiate course in the university of Dublin; but on the death of
his father, agreeing with his young friend, that "it was much better to
be a soldier than a damned quiz of a parson" resolved to exchange the
cassock for the sword. Being a protestant, Edward did not labour under
the same disabilities as his friend, but he would not separate their
fortunes, and determined to share the same fate, and follow the same
standard; accordingly they left their homes, in order, as they expressed
it, in the words of a favourite song, to "go round the world for sport."

They entered the Austrian armies, and the first five years of their
career served under the command of Baron Wildenheim, during which time
he proved himself their patron and friend; gratitude on their side, and
regard on his, preserved the intimacy thus formed, by correspondence and
personal communication, long after they had ceased to be brother
soldiers. Colonel Desmond remained in Germany, several years subsequent
to Mr. Sullivan's return to England, so that he was much better known to
Adelaide than the latter gentleman; and till she recollected he was
unmarried, she had often wondered her father had not left her to his
guardianship, in preference to a person who was to her a comparative
stranger. Though Desmond and Sullivan had commenced their career of
life together, they did not long continue on an equality as to
character. The superior education Edward had received, in order to
qualify him for the profession he was originally designed to embrace,
showed its beneficial effects in far different pursuits; for whilst
Maurice Sullivan plunged into every species of dissipation, his
companion, incited by the expostulations and example of Baron
Wildenheim, occupied himself in the acquirement of the knowledge most
necessary to his profession, occasionally varying his studies by the
pleasures arising from the cultivation of literature and the fine arts.
But, however advantageous Colonel Desmond's intercourse with Baron
Wildenheim had been to the formation of his character, it had latterly
been dangerous to the peace of his mind. He had so long regarded the
daughter of his friend with almost parental affection, that he was not
exactly aware of the moment, when his feelings towards her became those
of a lover; but when awakened to a sense of the real nature of his
sentiments, his hours of solitude were tinctured with regret, as he
bitterly lamented that hitherto disregarded want of fortune, which
forbade his seeking the hand of the lovely girl. Neither Adelaide, nor
the Baron, was ever conscious of this attachment; she only felt for him
as a sort of second father, in whose approbation she delighted, and by
whose admonition she profited; honour and generosity withheld his using
any endeavours to win further on her regard; and feeling that
self-control would not much longer be possible, he left Vienna,
apparently induced only by the desire to revisit his native country.
Time and absence had deadened, but not changed his feelings: with such
sentiments, it may therefore be supposed, what happiness this unexpected
meeting gave to both. The Miss Webberlys had come down below with their
mother and Adelaide, so that the latter was obliged to stay in the
suffocating cabin, where she remained in durance vile above an hour;
from time to time she heard Caroline's little merry voice on deck, and
longed to be there also; at last, when the little girl retired to bed,
she gave Adelaide Mrs. St. Orme's compliments, to know if she would like
to come on deck, adding, that she and Colonel Desmond were waiting in
the outer cabin to take her up. With the utmost delight she profited by
this good natured attention. When they ascended, she found all the
passengers disposed of for the night, except Mr. and Mrs. St. Orme and
Colonel Desmond.

Miss Wildenheim's present _chaperone_ was a very elegant pleasing Irish
woman, who added to the ease of well bred manners that sort of
kindliness, which appears in those of her countrywomen in general. She
was of good family, and was so well assured of her own place in society,
that she never took the least trouble to impress any body else with an
idea of her consequence; but her unaffected simplicity of dress,
manner, and deportment, were the best credentials she could present to
those accustomed to move in the same rank of life with herself. Adelaide
and she understood each other at once: before their acquaintance had
lasted half an hour, a casual observer would have supposed they had long
been known to each other.

It was a most delightful night, the ship was smoothly cutting her rapid
way before a fair, wind, and as it passed, the rippling waters sparkled
with the beams of the moon. Colonel Desmond, leaning carelessly over the
side of the vessel, half sung, half hummed, this verse, translated from
an ancient Irish song:--

    The moon calmly sleeps on the ocean,
      And tinges each white bosom'd sail;
    The bark, scarcely conscious of motion,
      Glides slowly before the soft gale.

    How vain are the charms they discover,
      My heart from its sorrows to draw!
    Whilst memory carries me over
      To _Ma cailin beog chruite nambo_.

Adelaide thought the sound of his well remembered voice "pleasant and
mournful to the soul, like the memory of joys that are past;" and it was
insensibly leading her into a train of ideas, which she was not sorry to
have interrupted by general conversation. How much did she enjoy the
delightful freshness of the night, and the enlivening sallies of her
animated companions; they were, however, at length terminated by Mr. St.
Orme complaining of the increasing chilliness of the air, and proposing
that she and her fair companion should take refuge from it in the body
of her barouche, which was on deck. There they passed the remainder of
the night most comfortably; and, when the sun rose, Miss Wildenheim was
very sorry to hear they were entering the bay of Dublin, as she
recollected her landing would put an end to the temporary release the
packet had afforded her from the annoyances of the Webberly family.




CHAPTER XV.

    To sail in unknown seas,
    To land in countries hitherto unseen,
    To breathe a fresh invigorating air:
    ----All this, I am convinced,
    Will renovate me a second time,
    To be what once I was.

    LLOYD'S MYRHA.


Before any of the other passengers came on deck, Mrs. St. Orme and
Adelaide contrived to make their morning toilet quite _comme il faut_,
and when it was finished, and their dressing-boxes were repacked, they
drew up the blinds of the carriage, and beheld a most beautiful scene.

The sun was shining in all his brightness, and seemed to exult on
beholding the fair isle, that, cheered by his smiles, was venturing to
raise her lovely face from beneath its misty veil, no longer fearful of
beholding the dark visage of Night, who, sullenly retreating from his
glorious foe, had turned his louring brow on other daughters of the sea.
The hill of Howth rose proudly from the bosom of the deep; and whilst
its rocky sides, from age to age, beheld unmoved the fury of the
sounding surge, the pointed summits of the distant Wicklow mountains
courted the beams of morn and the dews of evening, ere they descended to
visit the plains beneath. The bold promontory of Bray rushed to meet the
foaming waves; and by its side the beautiful bay of Killina retreated
from their half spent rage; whilst in the distant sky a darkened line of
smoke pointed out the site of the fine city of Dublin. "Dear Ireland!"
exclaimed Mrs. St. Orme, whilst the tear of feeling and the smile of joy
struggled for mastery in her beaming eyes--"Oh! only those who have
pined for their native land beneath a stranger sky, whose eye has been
long unblessed by her loved face, whose ear has vainly paused to hear
once again her kindly, though unpolished accents; who have held her--

          'dear by every tie
    Which binds us to our infancy,
    By weeping Mem'ry's fondest claims,
    By nature's holiest highest names;'

can feel their souls moved to sympathy at the sight of her children's
emotions, when they at last behold her cherished soil." Poor Adelaide!
she felt the current of life retire from her chilled heart, as it was
oppressed by the sad thought, that no revered parent or beloved sister
would receive her in the arms of affectionate love, when she landed on
the smiling shore, that spread before her sight. She gazed on the
countless dwellings, that met her view, with a bitterness of sorrow that
was faithfully depicted in her speaking countenance. In every mourner
Mrs. St. Orme saw a friend; and understanding the nature of her
companion's affliction, from a conversation she had the evening before
with Colonel Desmond, she pressed her hand, saying in the kindest tones
of benevolence, "You will find friends every where; in that hospitable
land there are many warm hearts, to whom you will quickly be dear." The
expression of Adelaide's gratitude, though mute, was eloquent, and she
soon recovered herself sufficiently to answer, with apparent ease, the
various inquiries put to her by Mr. St. Orme and Colonel Desmond, who
now appeared to offer their services.

About nine o'clock all was again commotion in the ship; many a strange
figure might have been seen in the cabins below. Here Mr. Webberly,
doffing his white cotton nightcap, and reeling on the floor, was cut
short in the ecstasy of a yawn, and of an outstretched arm, and
balancing opposite leg, by a return of the sickness, which had kept him
below stairs all night, to Adelaide's great joy. There a fop was calmly
settling his hat, so as to display the glossy curls, that were to appear
below its edge, to the utmost advantage. Behind that white dimity
curtain a lady is viewing herself in a pocket glass, and laments her
bilious complexion; but quickly comforts herself with the reflection,
that she can wear a veil, and in a day or two she shall be ten times
fairer than ever. One gentleman is damning the steward for suffering his
sea store to be demolished, who appeases him by saying he will give him
another hamper to ransack. There is the wag of a mail coach, continuing
his jokes with a fat cook, whose tongue has seldom ceased since they
left London, in the endeavour to persuade every one she met that she was
a lady of great consequence, and who literally talked all night, to the
edification of the people in the cabin with her. An odd looking man is
running about with a box of artificial flowers, tormenting every body,
by asking if the custom-house officers will seize them; and to every
reply rejoining, "I'll just give them a trifle, just a trifle. Do you
think they'll search my night sack?" Lastly, the English Abigails loudly
declare they shall die; and the Irish that they _will_ die, whilst in
the intervals of sickness they endeavour to quiet a set of squalling
children.

When these motley groupes assembled on deck, it was agreed by most it
would be much better to take boats to Dunleary, than to wait for the
returning tide to land at the Pigeon House, which is the regular station
appointed for the packets.

Adelaide now offered her arm to Mrs. Sullivan, who had just ascended the
cabin stairs in a rueful condition. Her face was indeed the emblem of
"green and yellow melancholy." Somebody had done her the favour to sit
upon her hat, and had bent its white plume in every direction; her
habit was crumpled up in a thousand folds, and the queen of Otaheite
herself could not have boasted of more feathers than adorned it in
detached spots. Mr. Webberly, who accompanied his mother and sisters
upon deck, as he looked at Adelaide's lovely face, blooming with the
freshness of the sea air, said to himself, "Well, Miss Wildenheim must
have his Majesty's patent in her pocket to be so beautiful, when all the
other women look so bad. Sister Cilly is as ugly as old Mother Shipton
this morning; and as for Meely, she's enough to frighten the crows. I
wonder what business that Colonel Desmond has to talk to Miss Wildenheim
so--he's too civil by half; I've a month's mind to tell him so; and how
she does smile and show her white teeth at him. I see nothing so
diverting about him, not I."

"Jack!" said his mother, interrupting his reverie, "Miss Wildenheim has
dissuaded me to go in that 'ere boat;--do get our band-boxes put in it.
They say we mustn't take none of our trunks, neither one of the
carriages. I suspect me they're playing tricks upon travellers; and if
so be, I'll take the law of them as sure as my name's Hannah Silliwan.
The ship may sail away with all our things afore ever we can send the
constables after it.--They say the Irish are a sad set of rogues. I vish
I vas safe back in Lunnon again."

The party were soon summoned to the boat, and quickly reached the pier
of Dunleary in safety. This place is merely a fishing village, chiefly
inhabited by those amphibious animals called bathing women, whose
appearance renders their sex nearly as dubious as their occupation makes
it difficult to decide whether they mostly inhabit the land or the
water. A crowd of these strange looking creatures assembled about the
newly arrived ladies. Adelaide involuntarily shrunk from one of them,
whose complexion was at least three shades darker than fashionable
mahogany, who had but one furious black eye, and was of a stature that
promised the power of carrying into execution the evil designs, which
seemed painted in that eye. This woman's voice, when she spoke, was
nearly as appalling as her aspect when silent; but yet she was perfectly
harmless, and had never been known to injure any human being.--"Clear
the way there, Moll Kelly! Don't you see you're putting the ladies all
through other? Can't ye lend a hand to the spalpeen while you're doing
nothing? Or do the t'other thing, and take yourself aff clane and
clever?" said a good-natured looking man, who formed one of the crowd of
idlers, who stood wrapped up in great coats (a hot day in June), with
their backs propped against the pier, or the walls of the houses
opposite to it. "It's myself that would be sore and sorry not to be
agreeable to them. I just stepped down to take a peep at their sweet
faces, God bless them!" said she. Adelaide, shocked at the repugnance
her countenance had involuntarily expressed to this unoffending mortal;
made the _amende honorable_ by slipping into her hand, as she passed
close by, a piece of silver, accompanied by a smile of conciliation.
"Och, its yourself that's the real quality;--and did ye look on the like
of me, jewel?--I'm entirely obliged to your ladyship." A number of men
now came up, saying, "I'll whip your honour up to Dublin in a crack."
"Plase your honour, mine's the best going gingle on all the Black Rock
road." "Arrah, hould your palaver, Barny," said a third; "didn't my
Padderene mare beat the Bang-up coach to tatters the day Mr. Shorly
broke his arm; when the gingle, for no rason in life, upset? The Lord
spare him to his childer, poor gintleman." Colonel Desmond now came
forward to explain what this might mean--namely, that there was no
other conveyance to Dublin except the carriages he pointed out, which
were sufficiently expeditious, and perfectly safe, if their drivers
would not insist on running races with the stage coaches. Accordingly
the party were stowed into these gingles, which more nearly resemble
sociables in miniature than any other vehicle; but their backs, instead
of being solid wood, are railed. They are totally uncushioned, and are
drawn by one stout, though ill-conditioned horse. They soon struck into
a very fine road, sufficiently broad to lead to a city twice the size of
Dublin, on which numberless cars, carts, and carriages, of all
descriptions, passed each other, without the smallest inconvenience,
except from clouds of white dust, peculiarly distressing from the nature
of the soil. The views on all sides were exquisite, combining the
various beauties of marine and mountain scenery, ornamented with
abundance of wood and an appearance of high cultivation. The peculiarly
vivid green of the grass justified to our travellers the appellation of
"the emerald isle," which Ireland has long possessed. They saw at a
distance many beautiful seats; but were not a little diverted by the
names of the diminutive villas which rose close to the road. Three
houses, built in a row, had in large letters on their walls, _Anne's
Hill_, Many _Vale_, and Ballynacleigh. A house was perched on a little
mount, glorying in three lilacs and a laburnum; on its gate was engraved
_Val ombrosa_. Another, with half an acre of ground and a single row of
trees before the door, was called Wood Park: and they observed more than
one Frescati and Marino. The proprietor of one of these abodes did not
consider his house sufficiently near the road, though within a stone's
throw, therefore had erected a brick and mortar building, the size and
shape of a sentry box, resting on the wall which divided his domain from
the road, so as to overhang it; and at the moment the gingles drove
past, he was enjoying the delights of this "_happy rural seat of various
view_" reading the newspapers in the moments he could spare from
watching the company who drove by. Our travellers were much pleased with
the regular and beautiful appearance of Dublin, as this entrance into it
is not defaced by any mean hovels, the abode of squalid poverty, which
are the too frequent preludes of many a magnificent capital. Entering at
once into Bagot-street, which is handsome and well built, they drove
through several fine streets and squares, caught a glimpse of some
elegant public buildings, such as the college, the _ci-devant_
parliament-house, and the rotunda, and at last stopped at Layton's
hotel, in Sackville-street, which is inferior to few in London.

And oh! the luxury of comfortable quiet rooms and beds, after being
condemned to the turmoil of a Holyhead packet, and exposed to the
dislocating powers of a Black Rock gingle! Our travellers retired at an
early hour, to profit by these lately unknown comforts; and here,
wishing them sound sleep and pleasant dreams, we bid them "good night."




CHAPTER XVI.

    Ah! si mon coeur osoit encore se renflammer!
    Ne sentirai-je plus de charme qui m'arrÍte?
        Ai-je passÈ le temps d'aimer?

    LA FONTAINE.


When the ladies entered their breakfasting room the morning after their
arrival in Dublin, they found it fragrant with the most delightful
flowers; and the tables presented specimens of the finest fruits this
city could boast of. Adelaide quickly recognized Colonel Desmond's
habitual attention to the fair sex; whilst Mrs. Sullivan exclaimed, "A
fine bill I'll varrant me for all these here kick-shaws:--I'll ring for
the waiter to take them away." Her hand was on the bell, when Cecilia
stopped her, by declaring she could eat nothing but fruit. "Who would
have dreamt of seeing hot-house fruit in _Ireland_! Those flowers will
keep me from fainting this hot day; don't send them away, mama:--unless
I have every agreement you can procure me, I shan't be able to exist in
the odious country you have dragged me over to." By this time Adelaide
descried a note directed to herself on the breakfast table; the stalk of
a _rose unique_ was slipped into it, and on the outside was written in
pencil, "Herself a fairer flower." She smiled at the gallant colonel's
compliment, and found her note contained a polite _congÈ_ from Mrs. St.
Orme, who much regretted being obliged to leave Dublin at too early an
hour to bid her adieu in person; but expressed a flattering wish, that
an opportunity might occur for cultivating their further acquaintance.
Adelaide, throwing down her note on the table as soon as she had read
it, turned to examine the beautiful bouquets that adorned the flower
stands; and every individual of the Webberly family took the
opportunity of making themselves _au fait_ of its contents. Had they
been caught in the fact, they would hardly have felt ashamed, for any
thing short of a _letter_, their code of the laws of honour permitted
them to peruse. "A _letter_ they would not read for the world"--when any
body was looking at them!

Breakfast was scarcely finished when Mrs. Sullivan's servant entered the
room, to know if she was at home to Colonel Desmond and Mr. Donolan? An
answer being given in the affirmative, they quickly made their
appearance. Mr. Donolan was nephew by marriage to Colonel Desmond's
elder brother; but though this connection made them sometimes associate
together, they were as completely dissimilar in mind as they were in
person. Mr. Donolan was, as Cecilia called him, "a very pretty man." His
hand rivalled her own in whiteness; his hair was not less carefully cut,
combed, and curled in the most becoming manner; and the fair Cecilia
might have worn his delicate pink waistcoat and worked shirt collar, as
elegant and suitable accompaniments to her riding-habit, without the
most scrutinizing eye discovering they had ever formed a part of male
attire. This Hibernian Jessamy was the only child of a wealthy Catholic
merchant of Dublin: the youth being too precious to be exposed to the
hardships of a school, was nurtured at home by an obsequious tutor and a
doting mother, in the most inordinate vanity. That vivacity of mind,
with which nature usually endows his countrymen, fell to his lot also;
and had it been properly directed, might have procured him well-earned
fame; but unfortunately it only served as an impetus to his self-love,
in a never-ceasing career of egotism, which made him prefer the casual
"_succËs de sociÈtÈ_," to the lasting benefit to be derived from
solitary study. The reward of scholarship was of too tedious attainment
for this impatient genius, who, without ceremony, dubbed himself a
"_dilettante_," a title universally conceded to him by his Irish
acquaintance, who took the liberty of quizzing him most unmercifully.
Young Donolan did not fail to take advantage of the opportunity the
general peace afforded for visiting the continent; he had there acquired
a knowledge of the fine arts, which was just sufficient to enable him to
interlard his conversation with those technical terms of
connoisseurship, which, as "The Diversions of Purley" observe, commonly
serve but as a veil to cover the ignorance of those who use them, and to
privilege him to treat with sovereign contempt all the 'Aborigines of
West Barbary,' as he most patriotically termed such of his countrymen
and women, as had not redeemed the original sin of their birth, by at
least a six week's visit to England or France. Mr. Donolan's manners
corresponded to the double refined tone of his mind, (we are bound to
apologize to him for using this term, as it betrays his father's
_ci-devant_ trade of sugar-baking): he stood on the threshold of
fashion, and finding he could never be admitted into the sanctuary of
the _bona dea_, was content to copy from a distance those more
conspicuous embellishments of the object of his adoration, which, being
singled from the finer web on which they are originally engrafted by the
mystery of art, become deformities when deprived of their connecting,
though almost invisible thread; and, thus detached, start forward in
unmeaning caricature. But so little was he conscious of his _outrÈ_
travesty "_du bel air_," that in the plenitude of his folly he had
applied to himself Frederic the Great's description of the Prince de
Salm: "Il est pÈtri de gr‚ces; tous ses gestes sont d'une ÈlÈgance
recherchÈe; ses moindres paroles, des Ènigmes. Il discute et approfondit
les bagatelles avec une dextÈritÈ infinie, et possÈde la caste de
l'empire du tendre, mieux que tous les Scuderi de l'univers[10]."

[Footnote 10: He is saturated with graces! His every gesture is of
refined elegance; his every word an enigma. He investigates and
discusses trifles with infinite dexterity, and is more completely master
of the etiquette of gallantry than all the Scuderies of the universe.]

Mr. Donolan owed his introduction to our travellers to having
accidentally met Colonel Desmond that morning at the Commercial
Buildings in Dame-street; an elegant establishment, something of the
nature of the Adelphi in London; and the place in the Irish capital
where the wanderer is most likely to meet his acquaintances. In answer
to some of Colonel Desmond's interrogatories, Mr. Donolan mentioned
having just received a pressing invitation to visit Bogberry Hall, but
that he was afraid it would not be in his power to visit Connaught this
summer. "Certainly a journey there is a much more serious undertaking,
than crossing the Alps was before we were indebted to Buonaparte for the
Simplon road," replied Colonel Desmond laughing; "but you must some time
or other be doomed to remain in this limbo for a short time. You had
better encounter its apathetic powers now;--I am going to escort Mr.
O'Sullivan's English connections to Ballinamoyle: perhaps they may
enable you to support your penance with tolerable ease." "_Ah ma foi!
maintenant c'est toute autre chose_, as the French say," replied Mr.
Donolan: "I think I will visit my aunt. And you know," continued he,
bowing to the exact angle which the upper part of the body of the most
fashionable Parisian dancing-master forms with his lower, "more than one
specimen of an accomplished gentleman will be necessary to convince the
strangers, who have done our country the honour of visiting it, that
there are some Irish not deserving the appellation of Goths and
Vandals." "Really, my good fellow, you do me too much honour," replied
Colonel Desmond; "only your modesty could induce you to place me on a
par with yourself." "_Point de tout, mon cher, point de tout!_ You, like
me, have had the advantage of travelling; nobody could suspect either of
_us_ of being Irish." Provoked by this last observation, Colonel
Desmond, as they left the coffee-house, hummed the air of the song which
begins thus:--

    "When Jacky Bull sets out for France,
      The gosling you discover;
    When taught to ride, to fence, to dance,
      The finish'd goose comes over,
    With his tierce and his quarte Áa, Áa,
    And his cotillon so smart, O la!
    He charms each female heart, ha! ha!
      When Jacky returns from Dover."

Perhaps the satirical expression of his countenance had not entirely
passed away, when he introduced Mr. Felix Donolan to the ladies of the
Webberly party, as an "amateur and connoisseur of the fine arts, and an
adept in chemistry, mineralogy, botany, and craniology." Colonel Desmond
begged to know how he might be of use to the travellers, either as
regarded their stay in Dublin, or their journey to Ballinamoyle,
reminding Mrs. Sullivan of the permission she had granted him the day
before, to escort her thither, and requesting her leave to constitute
Mr. Donolan another knight-errant in the service of the fair itinerants.

Mr. Donolan's vanity acted in two ways regarding his country: it
prompted him to use every _secret_ endeavour to make it appear in the
best point of view to strangers, whilst it led him to assert his own
superior refinement by pretending to despise it. He recollected that
Irish posting was famous and infamous, but that an English tourist of
much celebrity had spoken in high terms of the packet-boats on the
canals which lead to the interior; he therefore strongly advised Mrs.
Sullivan to proceed as far as she could by this mode of conveyance.
Colonel Desmond said in reply, "I don't think, Felix, that method of
travelling has any thing to recommend it, except its extreme cheapness."
The two words, _extreme cheapness_, conveyed an argument to Mrs.
Sullivan's ear, that was not to be refuted by the powers of the most
able logician; therefore it was agreed, that the next day but one they
should proceed in the manner Mr. Donolan advised. It was also settled,
that the mean time should be spent in seeing as much of Dublin as they
could; and Colonel Desmond left them to procure the Provost's permission
to show them the college of Dublin to the best advantage, by introducing
them to such parts of the library, &c., as he only can admit strangers
to see. The _dilettante_ was highly delighted with the party. Mrs.
Sullivan's cockney dialect he designated as "Anglicisms," and therefore
much to be preferred to the most classical English, that could be
conveyed to his ear, degraded by that peculiar accent of his country
called the _brogue_. He was completely at a loss, whether most to admire
Miss Cecilia Webberly's London airs, or Miss Wildenheim's foreign
graces; and on leaving the room, said to himself, with the most affected
tone and gesture imaginable,

    "How happy could I be with either,
    Were t'other dear charmer away!"

Colonel Desmond, on his return, found the ladies and Mr. Webberly
prepared to attend him to the college, where they proceeded on foot.
This building stands in front of a small park, called the college
gardens, appropriated to the students, who are in number about five
hundred. The college presents a handsome front, of the Corinthian order,
constructed with Portland stone, forming the base of a place of
triangular form, named College Green, which, besides the edifice which
designates it, boasts of the late beautiful Parliament House, that still
continues to adorn the land it once benefited: _Stat magni nominis
umbra_. The interior of Trinity College corresponds with its external
elegance. The travellers visited the museum, the library, the chapel,
the hall for examinations, and the provost's fine house and gardens. In
the library they saw, with the compassion her name always excites, the
hand-writing of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots, in a Sallust she
gave her sons and read, with unmixed horror, a letter of her great
grandson, James the second, commanding the cruelties of the siege of
Londonderry. Colonel Desmond did not fail to point out the exquisite
botanical drawings of the celebrated Anna Maria Schurman, and Quin's
bequest, which, besides many other bibliothecal rarities, is supposed to
contain the finest copy of Virgil extant. As the party passed through
the college yard, they were much surprised at the extreme youth of some
of the students, who seemed scarcely old enough to have reached the
higher forms of a grammar school; and Colonel Desmond told them the
remarkable fact, that a few years ago, two boys entered the college on
the same day, one from the north of Ireland, of thirteen, the other from
the south, of eleven years of age. The former had been, long before this
period, fitted to enter on his academical course; but his father not
being sufficiently rich to send him, he was, for a considerable time,
usher at a grammar school, till a subscription was raised by the
publication of his juvenile poems, which enabled him to enter Trinity
college. After leaving the college, our party proceeded down Dame
Street, so called from the monastery of St. Mary les Dames, founded in
the year 1146, by Dermot M'Murrough, king of Leinster, which stood on
this spot. Dame Street is the Bond Street of Dublin; and here, at
least, that want of crowds and equipages, so melancholy in many parts of
that city, more especially at this season of the year, is not
perceptible. The multitude of beggars has long formed a prominent
feature in the aspect of the Irish capital; and from their mouths the
traveller generally receives his first impression of the energy of
language possessed by the lower Irish. No unaccustomed ear can listen
without emotion to the awful words in which they clothe their
benedictions. Were they of as moving power in Heaven, as on earth, they
would be cheaply purchased by the alms of the passing stranger. Our
party met with many such petitioners, whose prayers were proffered in
words too solemn to be here transcribed. A woman, who called herself
"The gentle Eliza," was recorded never to have asked in vain; she seemed
once to have filled a higher station, for her figure was elegant, and
her voice soft and musical, though a dejection, verging on madness, was
depicted in her countenance. She appealed first to the heart, and if
there she knocked in vain, she successfully addressed the vanity of her
hearers, in a strain of varied flattery. Her life was irreproachable,
and her history unknown.

Adelaide's attention was soon however diverted from this interesting
object, by another of a very different description. A squalid looking
woman, in the garments of extreme poverty, was leading her child by the
hand, whose spotless skin, as white as snow, and its clean neat clothes,
formed a surprising contrast to the mother's tattered filthy
habiliments, Some hasty passenger knocked the poor infant
down.--Adelaide raised it up, and as she beheld the countenance of a
cherub, exclaimed, "What a beautiful creature!" The starving mother's
mouth had opened to demand her charity, but her maternal pride made her
forget her misery. "Troth, she is a beautiful cratur; she's the joy of
my heart, and the light of my eyes; many's the long mile I've carried
her, and thought it no toil; she makes me kindly welcome wherever I go;
it was the Lord God sent her to me, an angel of comfort in my trouble:
and may you never know trouble, dear; but my blessing, and the Lord's,
be about you, when you get up, and when you lie down, and in your dying
hour[11]." Adelaide felt her heart thrill within her, at this
unpurchased benediction; she had scarcely given her all the silver in
her purse, and less than she wished to bestow, when Colonel Desmond's
sleeve was twitched by a venerable looking old gentleman, who begged to
speak a word to him.--His countenance was uncommonly fine; he had

          "The eye which tells
    How much of mind within it dwells;"

his reverend temples were adorned with the most beautiful flowing silver
locks; his language and manners spoke the gentleman and the scholar;
his threadbare coat alone told that he too was a mendicant! Colonel
Desmond satisfied his usual demand of "Will you lend me a guinea?"
without looking up to behold the blush that crimsoned his aged cheek;
and with no other commentary than a deep sigh, rejoined his party.

[Footnote 11: _Verbatim._]

This unfortunate man was of a respectable English family: in his youth
he had embraced the clerical profession, and was one of the most
eloquent preachers of his day; persuasion hung upon his lips; but, as
has been said of individuals of his sacred order, he served only as a
finger-post, to point out to others the path he did not tread himself.
His talents and his interest procured him considerable church preferment
in Ireland, which his extravagance and bad conduct ere long deprived him
of. After spending some years in a prison, he repaired to the Irish
capital, to live from day to day by any expedient that might occur.
Here he partly supported himself, by being what is called in Ireland a
"buckle-beggar," that is, a clergyman who solemnizes irregular
marriages; partly by begging, under the pretence of borrowing, from any
acquaintance he might happen to meet. He was now old and infirm, and
would, five days out of six, have wanted a dinner, but that one of his
former friends, who had, in better days, partaken of the charms of his
wit at his hospitable board, most humanely requested him, in his decay
of fortune and intellect, to share, at his table, a meal he could not
otherwise have procured.

When the ladies were tired of their promenade, they returned towards
their hotel. As Mr. Donolan took care of both the Miss Webberlys,
Colonel Desmond could not do less than offer his arm to Mrs. Sullivan,
Adelaide therefore was obliged to prefer the disagreeable necessity of
accepting Mr. Webberly's, to the more flattering prudery of declining
it: thus honoured, he walked along in triumph, looking from side to
side, to see who admired his lovely charge, and anticipating the moment
when she would be wholly and solely his. The _dilettante_, as they
passed under the admired portico of the House of Commons, took the
delightful opportunity of expatiating on the "_cyma recta_," and "_cyma
reversa_," in an architectural combat with Miss Webberly, in which she
met his triglyphs and metopes, with toruses, astragals, and plinths;
whilst Cecilia much enjoyed their loud talking, as it attracted the eyes
of numerous gentlemen to herself, who seldom failed to pass some audible
encomium on her beauty as they walked by. Mrs. Sullivan, mentally
lamenting the expenditure she had, in the course of their walk, made in
_charity_, feelingly inquired of Colonel Desmond, if there were no
asylums allotted to the poor in Dublin? "I believe, my dear madam,"
replied he, "no city, of the same size and wealth, is better provided
with charitable establishments; but our poor have an unconquerable
aversion to avail themselves of the relief thus afforded. As I went
towards the Commercial Buildings this morning, I met a remarkably fine
young man, who demanded alms; I remonstrated with him, and told him,
what I supposed him ignorant of, that employment for every artisan in
want was supplied at the House of Industry; he indignantly
replied,--'It's myself that knows that right well! is it a dacent
cratur, like me, you'd send to the House of Industry? Civil words eat no
bread; and if you keep your charity, don't demane me by making a pauper
of me!'"--Thus conversing, they reached the hotel.

Adelaide was not a little pleased to see Colonel Desmond and Mr. Donolan
join their circle at dinner. In the evening they were entertained with a
variety of itinerant musicians, whom the former collected from all
quarters of the town for their amusement.

Mrs. Sullivan's stay in Dublin was too short to admit of her party
visiting more of its public buildings; but the following day they
repaired to the fine botanical gardens in its neighbourhood; and ended
their morning excursion by driving through the Phoenix Park.




CHAPTER XVII.

        Pray now, the news?
    You've made fair work, I fear me: pray, your news?

    CORIOLANUS.


Mrs. Sullivan had agreed to leave Dublin in that packet boat which
proceeds westward, at nine o'clock in the morning, and which would take
her party to the Canal Inn to sleep, the same night: they were to spend
the second at some convenient resting place on the borders of Connaught,
and early on the morning of the third day expected to reach
Ballinamoyle.

Adelaide had employed herself the evening previous to their departure,
in writing Mrs. Temple an account of all she had seen worthy of remark
in the Irish capital, not forgetting to make honourable mention of her
friend Colonel Desmond. This letter was written in much better spirits
than the one she had sent from Shrewsbury by Lamotte; and when it
reached Mrs. Temple, she was as much gratified by observing this
circumstance, as by the tone of affectionate gratitude towards herself
and her husband, which pervaded it throughout.

At half past nine o'clock the bustle of leaving Dublin had completely
subsided, and the party assembled on the deck of the packet boat had
full leisure to view each other, and the surrounding country. As they
passed slowly along, one fine seat after another presented itself to
their eyes. The country being, hereabouts, principally laid out in
parks, lawns, and plantations; that want of wood is not felt for the
first twenty miles from Dublin, in this direction, which renders a large
proportion of Ireland so desolate to an eye accustomed to woodland
scenery. The boat was towed along by two stout horses; but the poor
animals were scarcely equal to the laborious task assigned them, and
went sideling along in a manner most painful to a humane eye to see.
They were driven by giddy boys, and some faint hearts on board quaked
lest any accident should occur from their carelessness. Passing the
locks is by no means a pleasant operation: you are shut up for a few
minutes between massive stonewalls, with a watery abyss beneath, which
seems to threaten to swallow you up; and one or other of your fellow
passengers is sure to take that opportunity of informing you, that a
packet boat was once upset passing a lock, that every soul on board
perished, by a variety of deaths, more or less horrible, according to
the vivacity of the imagination which the relater may happen to possess.
The bell which announces the arrival of the packet boat at the places
appointed for changing horses, assembles every individual within reach
of its sound, who can accomplish reaching the spot ere its departure.
Men, women, and children, of all descriptions, throng to gaze at the
passengers, and inquire the news from Dublin. Here are to be seen the
landlord, the physician, and the curate of the district, debating the
politics of the day. Some passenger gives them the newspapers, or reads
an extract from a pamphlet just come out, or relates rumours in direct
contradiction to those they heard the day before, which however reign
with unquestioned credit, till the next diurnal importation of lies
reaches them, which banish, in turn, their ephemeral predecessors, and
are themselves dispossessed of their authority by as short-lived
usurpers.

Colonel Desmond, as our party passed along, pointed out every thing
worthy of notice. He was an excellent _cicerone_, and there were few
questions asked he could not satisfactorily answer. Mrs. Sullivan was
much delighted with the good natured attention he paid her, partly from
his natural urbanity, partly from his regard for Adelaide, and for his
deceased friend, whose widow and child he could not see without wishing
to serve them.

Mrs. Sullivan, looking on him quite as a friend, made him the confidant
of her suspicions regarding Miss Wildenheim's birth, which she had
resolved to keep secret in Ireland, lest they should tempt her
brother-in-law to bequeath any part of his fortune from Caroline. In
answer to a long string of interrogatories, respecting her late
husband's life abroad, Colonel Desmond laughingly replied, "I really
can't affirm that poor Maurice was always immaculate, but he certainly
was guiltless of the sin of giving birth to this angelic girl. And I
must, as a friend, inform you, that his brother would more easily pardon
his presenting to him a dozen such claimants to multiply his name, than
you for taking a single letter from it: if you don't call your daughter
Miss O--Sullivan, she will never possess an acre of the Ballinamoyle
estate, which, I assure you, is well worth having, though it should
entail the ugliest name in the world." Mrs. Sullivan thanked him; and,
profiting by the hint, there was such a practising of the most pathetic
of interjections that day, that a stranger might have supposed, some
half dozen of the party were in the last agonies; or that they were a
set of strolling comedians, rehearsing for a tragedy, whereas they were
only getting up the farce, which was to be played at Ballinamoyle.

The Miss Webberlys were as much pleased with Mr. Donolan as their mother
was with Colonel Desmond. He was the first gentleman they had ever
associated with, in Adelaide's company, who did not prefer her to them.
The _dilettante_, a few degrees higher than Mr. Webberly in the scale of
intellect, appreciated Miss Wildenheim's merits sufficiently to dread
the use she might make of her talents; he felt her superiority, though
he did not confess, even to himself, that he did so: it is true, she
listened to him, when he spoke, with extreme politeness, but her replies
betrayed no sister vanity, that encouraged him to display his own.
Besides, she was better acquainted with the continent than himself,
therefore he could not hope to astonish her by his relations of the
wonders of foreign parts. He therefore transferred all his attentions to
the Miss Webberlys, paying them the most exaggerated compliments, which
they received as unblushingly as he bestowed. When he, for instance,
called the one Venus and the other Minerva, Amelia said in reply, "Now,
if Juno had but black hair, Miss Wildenheim there (pointing to Adelaide)
would do for her; and then we'd be the three Graces!!!" Colonel Desmond
having sufficiently paid his devoirs to Mrs. Sullivan, left her in
earnest conversation with a woman, not more elegant in appearance than
herself, who was entertaining her with an enumeration of the titled
guests she received at her house, whilst at every high sounding name
Mrs. Sullivan's reverence, and her companion's consequence, visibly
increased. Adelaide's friend, happy to be thus released, seated himself
beside her, and entered into conversation immediately. Mr. Webberly, who
had exhausted all the tender speeches he had conned for that morning,
was standing near her in total silence:

    "His eye, in a fine stupor caught,
    Implied a plenteous lack of thought;
    And not one line his whole face seen in,
    That could be justly charg'd with meaning."

Notwithstanding he was so much displeased at Colonel Desmond's thus
engrossing the object of his _speechless_ passion, that, unable to bear
the odious sight of his rival, he repaired to another part of the boat,
to listen to some young Irishmen, who were canvassing the conduct of
ministry with more warmth than wisdom. Colonel Desmond and Adelaide
rapidly passed from one subject to another: in the course of their
conversation he abruptly asked her what she thought of young Donolan?
She blushed deeply, and he saw her meek brow bend to chide the arch
smile that seemed to bid her lips pronounce words partaking of its own
nature.--"Come, come," said he, as she hesitated to reply, "out with it
Adel--Miss Wildenheim I mean: you were not always so prudent, but used
to trust the friend of your infancy with the first thoughts that rose in
your mind, without considering and reconsidering them; I am afraid your
residence in England has made you very reserved." "Indeed you mistake
me, Colonel Desmond," she replied: "the fact is, I am almost as much
ashamed to acknowledge any inclination to satire to myself as to you. If
I were once to give way to that propensity, I have so many provocatives
to indulge it in my present companions, I should never afterwards get
rid of the habit; and no heart or understanding can long withstand the
destroying powers of a love of ridicule. If you would permit me to
parody Shakspeare, I would say that the spirit of personal satire 'Is
indeed twice curs'd:' it often abashes the modesty of worth, and
paralyses the energy of genius; but oh! how surely does it, with tenfold
sterility, blast every generous feeling in the mind it inhabits--first
destroying integrity, for no retailer of bon-mots and ludicrous
narrations will long respect the rigid exactitude of truth; then the
feelings of benevolence fall its sacrifice; and finally, it perverts the
understanding, which, having exercised itself more willingly in
detecting absurdity than in discovering truth, soon becomes incapable of
relishing any serious reflection; and thus this fatal talent, like the
flame which dazzles our eyes by its vivid lustre, ends by consuming the
substance from which it derived its brilliancy."

"And pray, may I ask," said Colonel Desmond, with an arch, incredulous
smile, "how happens it that your present theory and former practice
differ so widely? You surely never could have suffered in your own
person from the effects of satire; no understanding could be so inept,
no heart so cold, as to aim at _you_ the shafts of ridicule; to what
cause am I indebted for this eloquent tirade?" "I have indeed," replied
Adelaide, blushing no less at his encomiums than at the confession she
was about to make, "suffered severely from the effects of satire: those
'Best can paint them who shall feel them most.' You may remember, that
very early in life I was suffered to be present at those assemblies of
literary characters, who used to meet in my happy home at Vienna." Here
she sighed, and paused for an instant, then repressing the starting
tear, continued, "Incapable of appreciating their merit, or
understanding their conversation, I was fully alive to the
peculiarities of their manners, so different from the model of refined
elegance I had daily before my eyes. Somehow the frank _Ètourderie_ of
my remarks amused; and the smiling pardon, that was granted to the folly
of a mere child, I mistook for an applause bestowed on wit. My first
sallies proceeded from the gaiety of a guileless heart, accustomed to
express every idea as it rose to the most indulgent parent and partial
friend; but, as I grew older, a _besoin de briller_ seized me, and I was
on the point of becoming one of that despicable class, who, while they
importune the goodness of Heaven for their daily bread, apply no less
earnestly to the weaknesses of their best friends for their daily
sarcasm, and rejoice more on finding one foible than ninety-nine good
qualities; when my enlightened monitor awakened me to a sense of my
danger. And now may I pronounce you _au fait_ of the cause to which you
are indebted for my 'eloquent tirade' against satire?"

"If you don't convince," said Colonel Desmond, "you at least persuade:
but, you know, there is no general rule without exception; so do be
ill-natured for once, and let me know what you were thinking of Felix,
when I detected those tell-tale smiles." "Well then," said she, "since I
must satisfy you, I will at least only be satirical at second-hand, and
answer you in the words of Mondon,

    Adolescent qui s'Èrige en barbon,
    Jeune Ècolier qui vous parle en Caton,
    Est en mon sens un animal bernable:
    Et j'aime mieux l'air fou, que l'air capable;
    Il est trop fat.[12]"

[Footnote 12:

    ----I despise
    A beardless censor, that with Cato's frown,
    Assumes the pedant in a scholar's gown:
    Mere vacant folly, void of all pretence,
    Is sure less hateful than affected sense;
    He is too vain.
]

"_A propos des fous_," replied Colonel Desmond, taking advantage of that
language in which so much can be conveyed to the mind without shocking
the ear, "_ce Monsieur la_," looking towards Mr. Webberly, "_est
amoureux--cela ce peut bien; mais Mademoiselle est elle amoureuse?_"
"_Ah! Dieu l'en garde!_"[13] exclaimed Adelaide, with unfeigned horror,
involuntarily raising her hands, lowering her brows, and throwing back
her head. "_Tant mieux!_ then I will act the part of Wall in this new
tragi-comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe; Pyramus shall truly say, '_O! wicked
wall, through whom I see no bliss_,' and will perhaps find our
entertainment '_Very tragical mirth_.'" Colonel Desmond faithfully kept
the promise thus conveyed; and, when present, completely shielded
Adelaide from Mr. Webberly's conceited love, and thus saved her the
trouble of standing on the defensive herself. And though the captivating
youth would willingly have sent his rival, like the pious ∆neas, to
visit his father in the realms below; yet such was the unwilling respect
that rival's manners extorted, that he never presumed openly to manifest
his real sentiments. All this time Caroline had been sitting at
Adelaide's feet on one of the small packages, dressing and undressing a
huge wax doll, which was her usual travelling companion, and
occasionally reading to it the "Memoirs of Dick the Pony," which her
indulgent friend had bought for her in Dublin. Colonel Desmond was
delightedly listening to her gay laugh, and watching her infantine
merriment, when her mother called her over, in order to display her
beauty to the obsequious acquaintance she was so much pleased with, who
had been profuse in Caroline's praise. As the little girl skipped
along, with the favourite doll closely pressed to her innocent heart by
one hand, and the open book in the other, her eyes dancing with delight
at the thoughts of Dick's adventures, he said to Miss Wildenheim, "I am
surprised to see how little Mrs. Sullivan notices that charming child;
every body but you seems to treat her with absolute unkindness." "I
assure you," replied she, "you do Mrs. Sullivan great injustice; she
does not behave _unkindly_ to Caroline, though certainly she is not too
prodigal of her caresses to the dear infant. I have heard this
indifference is not uncommon towards the offspring of second marriages.
I really believe some people's affections are of the oyster kind,
sticking through life to the spot they were first deposited on, without
ever having exercised the smallest volition in the affair." "I beg,"
said he, laughing, "that when you undertake to give my character in
short hand, you will recollect that 'No heart or understanding can long
withstand the destroying powers of a love of ridicule.'" "Thank you for
the memento," she replied, with one of her sweetest smiles; "the habit I
deprecate gains strength but too quickly."

[Footnote 13: "A propos to fools; that gentleman is in love--that is not
very surprising; but is the fair lady equally enamoured?"

"Oh! Heaven forbid!"]

Colonel Desmond now pointed out to Adelaide's notice the hill of Allen,
from whence the bog so called takes its appellation. The English name of
"Isle of Allen" is only a corruption of the Irish _Hy alain_, that is,
the district of the great plain country. This bog contains three hundred
thousand acres, extending through parts of the King's and Queen's
counties, and those of Kildare, Meath, Westmeath, Roscommon, Galway, and
Tipperary. The hill of Allen, according to the traditions of the
country, is the scene of action of Ossian's poem of Temora. On the south
declivity of the hill is said to be the cave where Oscar's body was laid
immediately after his death, over which his faithful dog Bran watched,
as so beautifully described by the poet. A few feet from the front of
the cave is a well, sacred to his manes, which is still much frequented
by pilgrims: on the same declivity is the tomb of the hero, marked by
one gray stone: through the valley below runs the rivulet, near which
the battle was fought in which he lost his life; and to the west of the
cave is seen the extensive plain of Molena, in the King's county, from
which rises the ancient Cromla, now called Croan Hill. Colonel Desmond
produced a beautiful edition of Ossian he had bought for his niece Miss
Desmond, and reading parts of Temora, pointed out these coincidencies to
Adelaide; who, when he had done, begged to look at the volume, and
happening to turn to the episode of Oithona, read the following passage
with no common interest: "_Why camest thou over the dark blue waves to
Nuath's mournful daughter? Why did I not pass away in secret, like the
flower of the rock, that lifts its fair head unseen, and strews its
withered leaves on the blast?_" As he marked the altered hue and
mournful expression of her angelic countenance, he accused himself of
cruel thoughtlessness in having raised painful associations in her mind;
now recollecting, that though Baron Wildenheim never spoke the language,
yet he was well acquainted with English literature, and that Ossian was
his favourite poet, whose sombre images peculiarly accorded with the
dark melancholy that seemed to overshadow his soul. "Happy the man,"
thought Desmond, as he gazed on Adelaide, "who shall dry the tears I see
from time to time rise in those beautiful eyes! How different is she now
from what she was at Vienna! Then her brilliant charms dazzled the eye
and the mind; but though her youthful bloom and her playful vivacity
seem to have been laid in her father's grave, yet she is more lovely
than ever: she is, as Ossian says in the poem she has now turned to,
'Like a spirit of Heaven half-folded in the skirt of a cloud.'"

A summons to dinner now assembled together below all the front cabin
passengers, and there was collected together such a groupe as none of
the young ladies had ever before seen, but which is to be met with at
any stage-coach dinner. Mrs. Sullivan and her new friend laboured to
outvie each other in airs of consequence, whilst some would-be beaux put
their gallantry on active service, to be overpoweringly civil to the
ladies in general, and to Cecilia Webberly and Miss Wildenheim in
particular. One little smirking man was peculiarly sweet upon Adelaide,
watching each word she spoke, and helping her to every thing she even
looked near. When she first applied to Colonel Desmond, who sat next
her, for the salt cellar, her inamorato seized the only one within
reach, and presenting it to her, said with a facetious grin, as he
leaned across Desmond with his chin projecting six inches out of his
well-tied cravat, "Excuse me for not helping you to it, Miss; it's the
only service you could require I would not with all the pleasure in life
perform, but should be loath for us to quarrel; they say salt is very
unlucky in parting friends." At the moment in which she bowed her thanks
to this dapper wight, a very tall man stood up to help himself to
something at the extreme end of the table from that where he was placed:
somehow his foot slipped, he reeled a few paces back, and, in his
retreat, effectually stopped Mrs. Sullivan's mouth with his elbow, who
had just opened it to its utmost extension, in the endeavour to raise
her dignity to a par with that of her companion, who the instant before
asserted "She had every thing in the highest style at her house, and
hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her there soon;" her auditor, in
emulation, was just proceeding to vaunt the glories of Webberly House,
when the thread of her discourse was broken off in the unexpected manner
just mentioned.

The moment the cloth was removed, the ladies made their escape from the
cabin, Mrs. Sullivan exclaiming, "My ocular faculties can't stand the
smell of the hung beef, and the cabbage, and the mutton, and the
blacking, not to disparage the gentlemen's boots; and except that fat
lady in the yellow poplin pelisse and blue satin bonnet, they are all
such low-lived people as I never see'd before in my born days." Her
"ocular faculties," (by which we rather suppose she meant the "olfactory
nerves," which Miss Webberly had remarked to the _dilettante_ at dinner
"were much offended by the hydrogen and ammonia emitted from the
viands," in order to tally with his scientific recommendation of
"carbonic acid gas, in the shape of bottled porter,") were, however, not
much better off above than below. The smoke of the fire by which the
dinner had been dressed filled all the deck; the servants were at their
meal in the second cabin, from whence proceeded another edition of the
beef and cabbage, et cetera, with the addition of the fumes of tobacco
and whisky punch. Adelaide's admirer presently appeared on deck, bearing
a great jug in one hand and a glass in the other: he addressed her
saying, "I have brought you some real ladies' punch, sweet to your
heart's content, and strong enough by Jasus to make any man in the
packet drunk, if he would only take enough of it." In vain Adelaide
declined the cup her Ganymede presented. "Don't be dashed," reiterated
he; "it won't do you a ha'porth of harm: a good beginning makes a good
ending. If you'll only set the example, I'll be bound to say all the
ladies will keep you in countenance. It's the true Inisowen, I'll take
my Davy it is?" "The true Inisowen" is a sort of smoked whisky, whose
smell is the most horridly sickening thing that can be fancied to those
unaccustomed to it. Adelaide found it quite overcoming, but luckily
espying Colonel Desmond ascending the ladder signed to him to come to
her relief, and when he obeyed, said, "Will you have the goodness to
assure this polite gentleman, I am no lover of ladies' punch?" so
saying, she removed to another part of the deck, to escape the odour of
the "true Inisowen." The disappointed youth retreated on Colonel
Desmond's remonstrance, saying, "No offence I hope, sir, to you nor the
lady neither:" and, as he went down below, muttered, "With all her
delicate airs, by my conscience if she was behind the cabin door she'd
take a _good_ swig of it."

The travellers had now fairly entered on the dreary bog of Allen. No
human form or habitation met their sight. Its only vegetable productions
were a little heath, sedgy grass, or bog myrtle, which were crossed here
and there by a half-starved cow or sheep; but they sometimes proceeded
miles without even seeing one of these, to remind them that the world
contained other living beings besides those in the boat. The road seemed
to shake as the horses passed over this

    "Boggy Syrtis, neither sea
    Nor good dry land;"

and they almost feared that the breaking of the thin stratum of earth,
that seemed to separate the waters above from the waters below, might
precipitate them

          "Into this wild abyss,
    The womb of nature, and perhaps her grave,
    Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,
    But all these in their pregnant causes mix'd
    Confusedly----"

Their passage through this dismal region seemed intolerably slow, as no
object marked their progress, but one unbroken sea of black lifeless
matter encompassed them on every side, from which the eye perceived no
escape. When the sun set, the heavens, like the earth, seemed dark and
uninhabited; no cloud travelled over its gloomy face, but one even fall
of misling rain made the aspect of the ethereal regions as unvaried as
that of the land they overhung. The passengers long looked in vain to
leave this abode of desolation,--

    "Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
    Seem length'ning as you go."




CHAPTER XVIII.

    Lights! more lights! more lights!

    TIMON OF ATHENS.


These words were a joyful sound to our travellers, as with delighted
steps they once more trod on terra firma, on their way to the door of
the Canal Inn, where stood a slatternly dressed woman, shading a
miserable candle with her hand (in default of a lantern.) It was pitch
dark, more from the cloudiness of the night than the lateness of the
hour: and a considerable time elapsed before the vociferous demand for
lights was answered. In the mean time a universal uproar arose between
the passengers, the people belonging to the boat and the inn, and those
assembled to be listeners, for they could not be called spectators in
the total darkness. Portmanteaux, trunks, bags, bundles, and bandboxes,
were missent and scuffled for without end. At last "Order, Heaven's
first law," and the prime cheerer Light, "of all material beings first
and best," made their appearance together, and the Webberly party
entered this cold comfortless inn. It had been built by an English
speculator, who ruined himself in the project, and remains very nearly
as he left it, the walls unpapered, the floors uncarpeted; the only
change it has undergone since he was its proprietor being the breaking
of the bell-wires and the spoiling of the locks. Two or three women
serve in the double capacity of chambermaids and waiters. Each room
shows that it once had a bell; but you are soon fatally convinced, that,
to procure any thing you want, you must trust to vocal exertions alone.
To the never-ceasing cry of "Waiter! Chambermaid!" the answer is
something similar to the following, which assailed our travellers' ears
soon after their entrance:--"Arrah an't I go--ing? sure I'm going! Sweet
Jasus presarve me! I can't answer all the quality at oncest. Molly here,
and Molly there, and Molly every where; my brain's moidered, so it is.
Och! Mollying on ye, an't I going?" Mrs. Sullivan's servant, provoked at
this harangue, thundered out, "You're always go--in;--I don't want you
to go; can't you _come_ for once and be damned to you?"

At last, after considerable delay, Molly procured our chilled party a
turf fire and tea; but the water it was made with was so smoked, they
could hardly taste it, and their patience underwent a second trial,
waiting for a fresh supply. As Molly left the room, after bringing them
this second edition, she muttered to herself, "A pretty lady that, with
the brown peepers, and soft spoken too; if it wasn't for her, the devil
a foot I'd go near one of them to-night. By the holy sticks, my
mistress must get another maid. I can't be at every one's becks and
commands; and then it's the worst word in their cheek after all."

Our weary party retired to their rooms as soon as they could accomplish
having their apartments prepared, and had just fallen into a sound sleep
when they were roused by a violent ringing of an immense bell. "Oh Lord
have mercy on me!" shuddered out Mrs. Sullivan: "I thought we should
have foundered in that 'ere melancholic bog, but now we're a going to
perish by fire." A general rencontre in night-caps and dressing-gowns
took place in the lobby. Again Molly's shrill voice was heard screaming
out, "What a botheration you all keep! be aff to your beds wid ye.
Might'n ye be after knowing it was only the up country boat coming in?"
Molly's advice was immediately followed; but it was long before the
house was quieted from the disturbance occasioned by the fresh arrival.
Two hours after another boat came in with equal commotion, and the inn
was but a short time silent from this new disturbance, when the warning
bell rung for the packet to proceed, in which the Webberly family had
come from Dublin. Many a female started up on hearing Boots enter her
room by mistake, for that of some male passenger he had promised to
call; and he as quickly retreated over the frail barricade of boxes and
chairs she had placed against the door, to supply the place of key or
bolt. To sleep was now impossible, therefore all our party got up:
though Mrs. Sullivan the evening before had declared, she wouldn't go in
a canal boat again not for St. Peter nor St. Paul. The Irish are perhaps
the most noisy people in the world; the din of tongues on such occasions
as the present, can better be fancied than described--every man
committing his own business to the charge of some other person, and
turning his particular attention to directing that of his neighbour.

The gentlemen, on looking out of the windows, saw many a comical figure
issue from the house, some in Welsh wigs, some in red night-caps. Mrs.
Sullivan's friend, of the blue satin hat and yellow poplin pelisse, now
showed her jolly face, decked with numerous papillotes from beneath a
fur cap, and her expansive shoulders wrapped in a scarlet cloak, her
finery in her hand, as she had but a few miles to go ere she reached
home.

Molly returned to her general good humour this morning, having few
guests to attend to besides Mrs. Sullivan's family; and, to make up for
her ill temper the night before, was particularly attentive, providing
them with unsmoked water for their tea, and with bread, butter, eggs,
and cream, of the best quality. They did not fail to profit by her
care; and having made an excellent repast, prepared to recommence their
journey. Mrs. O'Sullivan, as she now called herself, offered Colonel
Desmond and Mr. Donolan seats in her carriages, which had arrived that
morning from Dublin, from whence they had been sent two days before.
These two gentleman accepting this accommodation, Caroline was consigned
to the care of the maids, to make room for the dilettante in the
barouche, Colonel Desmond taking the place of the servant on the driving
seat.

Mrs. O'Sullivan vainly attempted to practise towards the lower Irish the
"genteel economy" she had so successfully carried into effect in Wales.
The dexterous Hibernians, either by flattering or wounding her pride,
contrived to draw forth, _bon grÈ mal grÈ_, the money out of her
pockets. As she was walking out of the Canal Inn, Molly ran after her,
saying, "May I make bould to spake a word to your Ladyship?" At the
word _Ladyship_, Mrs. Sullivan turned round. "You've made a small
mistake, madam; it was tree tirteens (three shillings) you intended to
bestow me, and its tree testers (three sixpences) I've got." "No mistake
at all, my good girl." "Och! put your hand in your purse, and you'll see
I'm right. Grand quality like you always gives me tree tirteens: my Lady
Glenora always bestows it me every time she comes forenenst me." "Are
you sure that's true?" "Arrah where did you ever hear that Molly
Cavanagh tould a lie? May the breakfast I'm after eating be my poison,
and the devil blow me, if it isn't as right as my leg." Mrs. Sullivan,
that she might exceed Lady Glenora, gave her three and sixpence. Molly
now tapped Adelaide on the shoulder, and presented her with a beautiful
nosegay she had pulled from the inn gardens; but when she saw her
proceeding to open her purse, laying her hand on her arm, she stopped
her, saying with a half reproachful look of sorrow, "Is it _you_ that's
going to affront poor Molly? You're under no compliment to me at all.
You gave me entirely too much before. I'll warrant me you're a grand
lady when you're at home. You're as beautiful and as sweet as the posy
yourself; and may your pretty brown eyes never look but on a friend, I
pray God!" Adelaide, with one of her most charming smiles, and in the
sweetest tone of her dulcet voice, thanked Molly for her good will; and
as she stepped into the carriage thought to herself, "How my heart would
ache, to see the kindness of these warm-hearted people treated with the
scorn I fear is too often the only return it meets!" Colonel Desmond,
directing the drivers to take that road which would most quickly lead
them out of the bog of Allen, in a short time they got into a rich and
beautiful country, and their ears were gratified by hearing the carriage
wheels rattle against good hard stones. They had not long proceeded on
this road, when their progress was impeded by a barricade of cars drawn
across it, and a number of men immediately surrounded the carriages.
Mrs. Sullivan, terrified to death, said in a very low voice, "They're
going to rob and murder us;--what horrid looking creturs they be!" "They
can have no such intention in broad day-light, my dear madam," whispered
Adelaide. "Do look at them again; I assure you they seem perfectly good
natured." One of the men, hat in hand, now stepped before the rest,
saying, "Mending roads is dry work, your honours, this hot day; be
pleased to give the poor boys something to drink." Shillings and
sixpences were thrown to them in profusion. "Success to your cattle and
carriage! Long life and a happy death to your honours!" resounded from
all sides; and when the cars were removed, the hurraing setting the
horses off in a full gallop, it was some time before the drivers could
restrain them to a proper pace. About half an hour after this adventure,
a stout but strange looking man, without stockings or shoes, though
otherwise well clad, darted out of a house at the side of the road, and,
without uttering a single syllable, ran beside the carriage for some
miles. Mrs. Sullivan was again alarmed, supposing him to be the scout of
robbers she expected to see start up from behind every stone or turf
fence. Her fears were quieted by being told he was what in Ireland
called "an innocent;" that is, a _knave_ too idle to labour, who
lives--not by his wits--but by pretending he has none. The profession of
_idiotism_ is one that always secures its followers a good maintenance
in this country, and is considered by no means disreputable. Some one of
this brotherhood frequents almost every high road, keeping up in this
manner with the mail coaches and other carriages, till his strength,
which appears miraculous, is exhausted, or till his extended hat has
received money sufficient to satisfy him.

All the rest of the day the cavalcade proceeded most prosperously,
through a rich and populous country, seeing ugly or pretty towns, and
stopping at good or bad inns. At one of their earliest stages, Mrs.
Sullivan was much provoked to recognize in the landlady her packet-boat
friend, who asked her, with a self-conceited simper, if she had said a
word too much for her house. In the course of the evening they entered
Connaught, when the scenery gradually became more wild and romantic,
with bold masses of rock, and beautiful sheets of water, called in the
country loughs.

Mr. Donolan did not fail to profit by the opportunity, which being shut
up in the carriage with Cecilia Webberly afforded him, of making the
most sentimental love to her that was possible; though he was far from
sure he should find it expedient to proceed further than fine speeches,
for he felt nothing bordering on attachment to her. Perhaps his heart
was enveloped in too many silken folds of vanity and self-love, for the
charms of any woman to touch it with real affection; but a confused idea
floated in his mind, that, by marrying her, he might be enabled to
reside in England sooner than he otherwise could accomplish. Of her
large fortune he was perfectly assured; he thought her very handsome,
supposed her equally fashionable, and therefore determined, in the first
instance, to endeavour to gain her affections, leaving his own decisions
to futurity. She, on her part, thinking a lover might prove a very
agreeable resource against the _ennui_ she anticipated at Ballinamoyle,
encouraged his attentions _pro tempore_, resolving, should they ever
meet in England, to "cut him:--he knew nobody in London, therefore could
be a man of no fashion." Thus this heartless pair mutually imposed on
each other, whilst they plumed themselves on being the sole deceiver.
Miss Webberly, on the contrary, began seriously to think "he would make
a charming husband--so scientific! so agreeable!" Cecilia, suspecting
her incipient partiality, for the sake of what she called fun, flirted
incessantly with the _dilettante_, and retailed to Amelia all his florid
compliments, which conduct made her sister still more envious of her
beauty than ordinary.

Mr. Webberly and his companion in the barouche seat had but little
conversation, though their thoughts were principally occupied by the
same object. The taciturnity of the former, however, was enlivened by
the idea of his fellow-traveller being thus effectually separated from
Adelaide, during the greater part of their remaining journey. At the end
of every stage there was a race between them, to hand Miss Wildenheim
out of the carriage, where she generally sat bodkin between Mrs.
Sullivan and Amelia, in order to avoid receiving that sign manual of Mr.
Webberly's attention he had so graciously bestowed in Wales, and which
was as little approved by his mother as coveted by herself. Colonel
Desmond, being much more active and adroit than his youthful but
unwieldy competitor, almost always gained the fair hand they contended
for, at the same time giving his lovely mistress many an arch look and
gesture of affected pity for his rival's disappointment. Sometimes they
pulled open both the carriage doors at the same instant; in that case
Mrs. O'Sullivan or her daughter pushed herself forward, so as to prevent
her exit at the side on which their precious relative stood; and
Adelaide's countenance then involuntarily betrayed how much she was
amused at the unnecessary trouble they put themselves to.

Mrs. O'Sullivan being rather fatigued with her journey, was much
rejoiced, when about seven in the evening she was informed they were
entering the village of Ballycoolen, which was to be their resting place
for the night. This miserable place consists of but one long straggling
street, with houses built of all shapes and in all directions, forming,
with each other, every possible angle, except a right angle, a straight
line seeming to have formed no part of the builder's intentions.

Mrs. O'Sullivan's servant had been sent on before, to prepare their
accommodation: he was standing at the door of a wretched tenement; and
though by no means a very tall man, his hat touched the upper window,
for the house was so built that you descended a few steps to enter it.
The still despair of an English face was expressed in his, as with the
utmost quietness he said to his mistress, "It is impossible, ma'am, you
can put up here; you never saw such a slovenly place in your life." "I
am sorry to say," replied Colonel Desmond, in answer to her
interrogatories, "there is no better between this and Ballinamoyle: you
may remember, I told you, the canal would take you out of the direction
of the high road, and that you would be very miserably accommodated; you
will now have to put up with a carman's inn."

There was no option; therefore the ladies entered through a kitchen,
which also served as bar and larder. A set of carmen were sitting
drinking whisky punch and smoking tobacco (the same pipe passed from one
mouth to another in turn); they very civilly rose, and went out, till
the newly arrived and unusual guests should make their arrangements. The
ladies were shown into a parlour, where a pretty looking, but bare
legged and bare footed girl, was turning up a press bed, that had
remained untouched since the last occupier had slept in it. They agreed
to walk out till this place should be swept, and get "a wipe," as the
maid called dusting it, previously pushing up the window sash with some
difficulty, as the paint stuck together, from the length of time it had
been unopened. To the inquiry for beds, she answered, "Troth, we've four
brave good beds; and ye'z can have dry lodging at Susy Gologhan's, or
Gracy Fagan's, over the way, there beyant, for the sarvant maids and the
boys." Mrs. Sullivan declined ascending to the second story, when she
saw the house had no regular stairs, but that merely a sort of ladder,
without any thing to serve as bannister, led to the loft above. The Miss
Webberlys declaring once going up would be enough for them, requested
Adelaide to reconnoitre the premises. "You know, Miss Wildenheim," said
Amelia, "you're used to travelling in outlandish places; and an't afraid
of nothing.--I think I'll sit up all night, rather than mount the
ladder, and walk along that unrailed passage." Adelaide, quickly
ascending the redoubtable ladder, opened a door the maid pointed to,
which led into a small close room, with two beds.--It was lighted by
three little panes of glass fastened in the wall, but looking up, she
saw a large door with one hinge broken, laid against an aperture in the
roof, which she determined to turn to account, and begged it might be
set open to admit fresh air into the apartment. "Have you not another
room?" said she. "Aye, sure, and that we have, dear," replied the maid,
leading her along the passage. They went into a second, rather closer
and smaller than the first, with no friendly hole in the roof, to admit
the breath of heaven to visit it. Adelaide, looking on the bedstead,
perceived the bed clothes move, and, out of a mass of black hair, saw
two dark eyes shoot fire at her. "Pray, what's that?" said she, catching
hold of her attendant's arm. "Och! it's only the poor soldier, Miss,
just come back to his people, from the big battles over seas; but he'll
give his bed to you, with all the pleasure in life, if you fancy it,
Miss."--"Not on any account," quietly replied Adelaide, as she quickly
retreated to the passage--"I should be very sorry to disturb him. Mrs.
O'Sullivan will sleep below stairs; and we young ladies can occupy the
double-bedded room: will you have the goodness to show me your sheets?"
These she was surprised to find not only white, but fine, forgetting
that linen was the staple manufacture of the country, though but lately
introduced into this district.

This affair being settled, she joined the party in a walk; and, on their
return, they found their little parlour laid out tolerably comfortably
for tea; the kitchen, through which they had to pass, was swept clean;
all traces of the carmen, their punch, and tobacco, had disappeared; and
they might, by diverting themselves with the oddity of their situation,
have found amusement for the evening, had not the Webberly family,
encouraged by the _dilettante_, made, every five minutes, some
acrimonious speech against the country and its inhabitants, which
rendered themselves inclined to find every thing even more uncomfortable
than it really was. Adelaide was pained by the rudeness of this conduct
to Colonel Desmond, who, however, treated it as it deserved, and
quizzing them all from right to left, his raillery soon silenced Felix
and Amelia, who had sense enough to understand his ridicule. Tea was
scarcely over, when the most extraordinary uproar was heard. Every man,
woman, and child in the village seemed to have assembled about the
house, all talking in the most vehement manner!

The gentlemen, much alarmed, went out to inquire "what was the matter?"
and beheld two men, sawing across the wood-work of the upper part of the
gateway belonging to the inn yard, which was too low to admit Mrs.
O'Sullivan's carriages. As usual, when any thing is done out of doors in
Ireland, every person within _ken_ had repaired to the scene of action.
Two out of three were giving contradictory directions, whilst the
operators were swearing tremendously at the crowd, bidding them "go
along about their business." "Hard for us to do that same!" answered
one, in the name of the rest, "when sarra hand's turn of business we're
got to our kin or kin kind, till shearing time comes, barring sitting in
the chimney corner doing nothing." Messieurs Webberly and Donolan took
this inauspicious moment to rate at the men who were sawing the gateway,
expressing, in no very gentle terms, their dissatisfaction with the inn,
and all its appurtenances. The men suspended their operations; and one
of them, crossing his arms, his head on one side, and his chin stuck out
with a gesture of contempt, said, in a drawling tone, as he looked down
on them, from the top of the gateway, "Och! then, and it's grander
quality than ever ye were have been here, and never gave me no bother at
all at all! Upon my sowl, myself is cruel misgiving ye are but half
sirs, both of ye'z. It's long before you'd see the Curnel, that's the
real sort, (long life to his honour,) take on him so! If ye don't like
the place, in the name of the Lord, make aff wid ye'z: if ye can't be
agreeable, by the powers, we'd rather have your room nor your
company."--"But where would ye see the likes of the Curnel any how?"
rejoined a female orator of the assembly. "Sarra man, within twenty
miles of himself, that's the fellow of his brother, for standing a poor
man's friend on a pinch! It's the family that have been good to me and
mine, these hundred year before I was born, and will be after I'm dead,
if I've any luck."

The greater part of these harangues was unintelligible to Mr. Webberly,
but the _dilettante_ understanding the dialect of the country, though
he often pretended he did not, as in the present instance, took his
companion's arm, and, without proffering another syllable, walked into
the house.

In nothing do the lower Irish show their quickness of apprehension more
decidedly, than in distinguishing, as it were at a glance, what they
call "the real quality," that is, those who inherit a certain station in
society, from "_les nouveaux riches_." Their exact discrimination on
this subject is quite astonishing. Mrs. O'Sullivan could not perhaps
have visited ten cottages in Ireland, whose inmates would not, in a few
minutes, have discovered she was a low bred woman, who attempted to give
herself airs of consequence. During her stay in this country, this
foible was every where perceived, and profited by. The adroit flattery
she received, on this favourite point, perhaps drew more money from her
than she had ever before, in a given space of time, spent gratuitously,
either from motives of charity or of generosity. The cunning arts, that
opened her purse, were, undoubtedly, highly reprehensible in a moral
point of view. But why should we expect more upright disinterestedness
from the ignorant and necessitous class of mankind, than we hourly meet
with from the _independent_ members of the upper ranks of society, who
will delude a king or an emperor, with as little compunction as the poor
Irish cottager cheated Mrs. O'Sullivan? In the latter instance, however,
the mischief began and ended with the parties concerned; whilst in the
former, generations yet unborn may mourn the evils resulting from base
adulation.

As all the party assembled in the inn parlour were, with the exception
of Adelaide and the merry little Caroline, out of temper, they, by a
sort of tacit agreement, separated at an early hour. The parlour was
then converted into a sleeping room, for Mrs. O'Sullivan and Caroline,
a bed being constructed for the latter with the carriage cushions, and a
contribution of pillows. When the Miss Webberlys ascended the ladder
leading to their apartment, the maid of the house went before, and the
mistress behind, to help them up; the former holding a candle, stuck
into a hole scooped out of a large potato, all the candlesticks the inn
was possessed of, three in number, being appropriated to the use of the
ladies. Adelaide had reserved the worst looking bed to herself, and was
scarcely deposited in it, when down she sunk, and a more romantic
imagination might have supposed some such adventure was going to occur,
as was said frequently to have happened in a remote _auberge_ in the
Black Forest, where travellers were drawn down through trap doors, and
murdered. But she was only alarmed by the dread of the less heroic death
of being knocked on the head by the bed posts. Springing up with the
utmost expedition, she found, to her great delight, that the bedstead
was perfectly secure; but, proceeding in her search as to the cause of
her recent disaster, discovered that the sacking, which ought to have
been laced to support the bed, had been deprived of its cord, in order
to apply it to some other use. It never was, and most likely, never will
be replaced; but the bed, being dexterously poised on the edge of the
boards which connect the posts, will give the same surprise to every one
who sleeps in it, for many a year to come. After no little laughter,
Adelaide went into bed again, just as it was; and the inn being
perfectly quiet, all its visitants slept till a late hour the following
morning. After breakfast they recommenced their journey; and as they
repaired to the carriages, their attention was attracted, by hearing the
woman who had been so warm in praise of the Desmond family the evening
before, say to her friend (carrying a basket of gingerbread on her
arm), with the utmost seriousness of countenance and vehemence of
gesticulation, "The low-lived blackguard! to even such a thing at me!
All my people that went before me, and all that came after me, were
gintlemin and gintle la--dies. See dat now, Susy dear!" Our party were
not a little entertained at the figure and gesture of this extraordinary
sprig of gentility, and continued to look after her as long as the
carriages were in sight.

In the course of the morning they reached Tuberdonny, which was within a
few miles drive of Ballinamoyle, but here only one pair of horses could
be procured; they therefore had the pleasant prospect of spending
another night as agreeably as the last, as no more horses were expected
there till the following day. For some hours they found amusement in
viewing the antiquities of Kilmacduagh, close by, consisting of seven
antique churches; an abbey, with very curious workmanship on its walls;
and the most remarkable round tower in Ireland, constructed with immense
stones, which rises to the height of one hundred and twelve feet, and,
strange to say, leans seventeen feet out of the perpendicular, which is
four more than the celebrated leaning tower at Pisa.

As the travellers returned towards the place where the carriages had
been put up, they saw five horses, mounted by twice as many men and
boys, galloping furiously down the street; and, at the sight of the
servants in livery, the riders set up such a hurraing as was quite
deafening. Jumping quickly off, two or three of them came up with "Long
life to your honours! Myself's right glad to see your honours!" "Why,
what the devil do you know about our honours?" said Colonel Desmond,
laughing. "Didn't I hear at Kurinshagud, that your honour passed through
Ballycoolen, in two carriages? and haven't I been hunting ye all round
the country this blessed morning, thinking you might want cattle? It's I
that will drive you to the world's end in a crack!" The horses were soon
harnessed, and Colonel Desmond and Mr. Donolan, after handing the ladies
into the carriage, made their parting bows, and pursued their way to
Bogberry Hall.

Mrs. O'Sullivan did not reach Ballinamoyle till half past twelve at
night; for the horses, being not much the better for the morning's
chase, proceeded but slowly up a mountainous road. From the lateness of
the hour, she did not, on that night, see Mr. O'Sullivan; who, finding
himself indisposed in the evening, had unwillingly retired to bed,
delegating the task of receiving his guests to his cousin, an ancient
virgin, who presided over his _mÈnage_, and who gave the travellers, if
not a courtly, at least a cordial reception; and, after doing the
honours of an excellent supper, conducted them to their sleeping rooms,
which they most gladly occupied, and enjoyed all the luxury of the
sensation of comfort, as they compared them to those they had the night
before inhabited, in the miserable cabaret at Ballycoolen.


END OF VOL. II.

       *       *       *       *       *

Printed by S. Hamilton, Weybridge, Surrey.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber's Note: Hyphen variations within volume and between volumes
left as printed.]




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