[]SKETCHES OF THE TIMES.

CHAPTER XVII.
Some of Emily's unfaſhionable Accompliſh⯑ments. A female Polemic of the laſt Century.

IN the houſe of Miſs Million, the cha⯑racter of Emily had opportunities of unfolding itſelf not hitherto preſented. Rarely had ſhe quitted the ſide of a blind parent to enter into a contracted circle; and if this circumſtance had been detri⯑mental to her ſagacity in human nature, it proved not unfavourable to the high culture of her elegant accompliſhments. In the enthuſiaſm of ſolitude fine talents [2] are purſued with an intenſity not expe⯑rienced by thoſe whoſe active circle, di⯑verſified by the feſtivities of diſſipation, or the buſtle of buſineſs, can only enable them to become lovers of art, and not artiſts. Solitude, which ſo frequently excites the querulouſneſs of genius, is a ſevere mother who forms a lovely pro⯑geny; what in the great world had only been a momentary amuſement, there be⯑comes a permanent occupation. Sweet is the uninterrupted induſtry of genius, magical it's contracted day, and delicious that inebriation of taſte which becomes an abſorbing paſſion. In ſolitude alone can now be acquired that difficult faci⯑lity, which, though it performs its mira⯑cles of art inſtantaneouſly, has been the ſlow and painful acquiſition of great prac⯑tice and greater meditation. Emily roſe with the fun; her prayer was a ſilent ori⯑ſon of aweful pleaſure; her crayon was in [3] her hand during her morning walks, and if ſhe brought home ſome romantic figure, ſome tenderer tint, from the aſpect of nature, it was a new enjoyment. The clock told the hour of midnight, when, with regret, ſhe relinquiſhed her volume, and diſſolved the enchantment of her fancy. Often, as ſhe ſat by her father, her buſy ſpirits were ſo diffuſed in her little employments, that Balſour could only hear her gentleſt ſuſpirations; and would ſay afterwards, I could almoſt ſee you Emily very buſy.

Emily, when ſhe now compared her talents with thoſe of the favourites of fa⯑ſhion, including ſome profeſſional artiſts, felt a new confidence in her powers: but ſhe was ſilent, as well as modeſt; for ſhe found that ſhe was inferior to all, if that inferiority is to be allowed becauſe ſhe was inexpert in the dull and formal rou⯑tine of life. A perſon of true genius is [4] ſoon placed beneath the level of equality among the frivolous, becauſe talents give no real ſuperiority among ſuch aſſociates; they are applauded rapidly from an old cuſtom; but having been applauded with⯑out feeling, are as rapidly forgotten. The permanent intereſts of ſuch a ſociety, con⯑ſiſt in every thing that is the reverſe of genius; ſo that a certain mark of medi⯑ocrity of talent, is the pleaſure which ſuch a circle affords. To Emily their converſation was a language, of which the rudiments were unknown; their amuſe⯑ments paſſed away, too numerous and too rapid to leave any delight; and their moſt important concerns ſeemed the bur⯑leſque of human life, while what occa⯑ſioned the moſt voluble lamentations, ex⯑cited her interior ſmile. Her beauty was likely to occaſion ſome trouble from the men; but her extreme docility, and unpre⯑ſuming manners, rendered her at firſt ſup⯑portable [5] to the women. She conciliated their favour by her willingneſs to be con⯑ſidered as an inoffenſive cypher, which of itſelf was of no value, unleſs placed by thoſe who made a figure in the preſent circle.

It is but performing an act of juſtice to Miſs Million to declare, that ſhe was infinitely delighted by the varied powers of her new companion; ſhe told all the world ſo; and evinced as much pleaſure in exhibiting the performances of Emily, as if they had been her own. Emily could not but feel a warm gratitude for ſuch inceſſant partiality; but it often coſt her the pang of a deep bluſh, and the diſguſt of an amplification, of which herſelf was at once the divinity worſhipped and the victim immolated. There was ſuch a roughneſs in the gentleneſs of Miſs Mil⯑lion; of her incenſe ſhe was prodigal; but in her zeal, ſhe ever threw cenſer [6] and incenſe together in the face of her di⯑vinity. In vain Emily entreated the favour of being placed in the ſhade, Miſs Million felt too much not to exhale her admira⯑tion in panegyrics. This amiable lady, it muſt be acknowledged, loſt nothing by this exceſs of kindneſs; the higher the praiſe ſhe beſtowed on Emily, the ſtronger it's dazzling reflection fell on her own cheriſhed perſon. Was it not evident, that the more ſhe talked of "the old blind lieutenant's daughter," her be⯑nevolence was amply diſplayed? The more ſhe was enraptured by the brilliant finger of Emily on her harp, it was clear the nerves of her intendered ſoul caught the melodious vibrations; and no one could ſay, when ſhe overflowed in rap⯑tures concerning light and ſhade, as ſhe pointed to her paintings, but that Miſs Million muſt have a very ſenſible taſte for the magic of her canvas. Emily, [7] however, received the approbation and eſteem of Lady Belfield, whoſe favour ſhe felt an ambition to enjoy; for Lady Belfield was herſelf a woman of talents, and might have been a woman of genius, and therefore knew the real value of her varied and felicitous accompliſhments.

Miſs Million's circle was by no means confined; ſhe was proud of the acquaint⯑ance of every perſon of faſhion; and be⯑ſides her paſſion for maſquerades and bo⯑tany, ſhe was a diſtinguiſhed patroneſs of literary merit; her name was enrolled among the earlieſt ſubſcriptions; ſhe had received the honour of a dedication of a novel, which was decorated not only by her name, but by the ſplendour of her engraved arms; and beſides theſe literary diſtinctions, it was rumoured, that ſhe herſelf had written one ſonnet, yet pre⯑ſerved in the virgin modeſty of a manu⯑ſcript. She was indeed declared to be [8] a prodigy of genius by ſeveral of her friends, but particularly by three or four great critics (one of whom it was univer⯑ſally whiſpered wrote in one Review, if not in all of them) and who did her the honour of dining with her regularly three days in the week.

An important perſon in the houſe of Million, was Mrs. Bully the houſe⯑keeper. She was a coloſſus of vulgarity, a daemon of religion, and a dragon of virtue. On one occaſion "her ſtars" had doomed her to make a ſlight ſlip; but religion had now ſo completely varniſhed over this ancient piece of Engliſh china, that it was a ſecret flaw, rather than a vi⯑ſible crack. Nature had been kind to her fellow-creatures, in exhibiting her character in her appearance, but its glar⯑ing groſſneſs was frequently ſubdued by her ingenuity. Philoſophy exults in teaching men to conceal or ameliorate [9] their defects, and ſhrewd vulgarity is not inferior to philoſophy. The tones of a voice, groſs as the furred porch from which they iſſued, ſhe could render not diſpleaſing to ſome by adulation; arms, that might have wielded the ſpear of Goliah, were rendered not repulſive by officiousneſs; and the heavy circumference of her body, could on occaſion roll with celerity to the ſervice of her patrons. She was in⯑deed a manſion-houſe of mortality; and to look on her was to admire the ſolidity of thoſe materials, which Nature can form when ſhe ſimply works with mere fleſh and blood. Nature, indeed, had com⯑mitted no error in the formation of Mrs. Bully; every part was uniformly groſs; but Nature's blunder conſiſted in the whole. A being ſo nervous and athletic, ſhould never have been a woman.

Nor was her mind of an inferior ſize to her body. Since her ſlippery adventure, [10] above hinted, ſhe had held a moſt pious abſtinence from human fleſh; her conſti⯑tutional ideas, however, occaſionally flamed in her expreſſions, but were ſmothered in her actions; of the latter ſhe was faſtidi⯑ouſly nice, ſo as to be enabled to diſcover, in thoſe of other people, a hundred little peccancies againſt chaſtity, which eſcaped their conſciouſneſs; for it is obſervable, that perſons who are themſelves not of the cleaneſt part of the human ſpecies, are wonderfully alert in diſcerning the ſlighteſt atoms of dirt on a very clean perſon. Her mind was as active as it was robuſt; and her ſtrong paſſions, not hav⯑ing any more an opportunity of venting themſelves in the mollifications of love, made moſt terrible exploſions in obſolete theology and politics. She read few books publiſhed within this century. The period of her reſearches was thoſe days of fanatical controverſy, which ſo long diſ⯑graced [11] unenlightened England, when, neither ſtationary in her religion or her politics, every feveriſh reformer promul⯑gated a ſyſtem of his own. The national genius, therefore, had no ſyſtem at all, and branched out into reciprocal perſe⯑cutions. What then was occaſioned by the energy of religion and politics, may, perhaps, be renewed in this age, on an inverſe ratio, becauſe we have no religion and no politics.

Mrs. Bully had, therefore, high-church arbitrary notions, and jacobite jure divino principles. Some of her favourite au⯑thors were Prynne, and Sir Roger L'Eſ⯑trange. Filmer, on the divine right of kings, gave her political creed; ſhe ſtu⯑died the orthodoxy of that holy buffoon, South; and was recreated by the merry jeſts of Timothy and Philalethes. The wickedneſs of the age ſhe derived from Socinianiſm; it's ſpirit of ſedition from [12] the uſurpation of the Calviniſtic William; and every loſs of the Engliſh, and their allies, ſhe attributed to a judgment of heaven, for that cool and tolerant ſpirit of religion, which, much to her ſorrow, ſhe now ſaw prevailing in the kitchen as well as in the drawing-room.

When Emily made her appearance in this family, ſhe gave riſe to numerous ſpeculations among the domeſtics. As they could not poſſibly conceive how Miſs Million could want a companion, who lived in one continued ſeries of company, ſome ſuppoſed, that the life of Emily was as precious to Mr. Million as that of his over-gorged Bob. Mrs. Betty, the confidential maid of Miſs Mil⯑lion, being the mere looking-glaſs of her miſtreſs, reflected her panegyrics. But Mrs. Bully, their preſident in high coun⯑cil, obſerving that Emily went rarely to church, poſed Mrs. Betty, and alarmed [13] ſome in the council, by enquiring which was her religion? This queſtion, per⯑haps, is one of the moſt difficult enquiries that can be made in the preſent day. Mrs. Bully had formed dreadful ſuſpi⯑cions of Emily's orthodoxy, becauſe of her irregular church attendance; and yet to diſlike a church, does not indicate any irreverence for religion; for ſince the church is perſonated by the parſon, we conceive it is no impiety to forſake any houſe of God, when we find that the faſhionable clerical ſeems more inclined to pay his reſpects to his pariſhioners than his reverence to his God.

She one day bounced into her apart⯑ment, and ſeating herſelf, began her in⯑quiſitorial examination. She opened by an high eulogium of reading, which ſhe compared to cookery. "I love (ſaid ſhe) the old firloin, and plain round of beef, where 'tis cut and come again; none of [14] your flimflams and French diſhes. Your modern books are like enough proper for their authors' wits, being very ſmall and thin. I like your books big as Bibles; ay, and the Bible is the beſt book. Novels are the reading of your fine ladies; but if we like love-ſtories, there's a mort of um in the Bible."

"I think, Mrs. Bully, (replied Emily) moſt of them had better have been omitted."

"The Lord preſerve your ſoul! not a tittle muſt be done away. Every word there is God's word. Read St. Auſtin's City of God; and the church has de⯑cided. Let me tell you, Miſs, that the church of England is without ſpot or wrinkle; mark that! and curſed are all diſſenters."

"I am no diſſenter, Mrs. Bully; but theſe are matters for different heads than mine."

[15] "What is your eternal ſalvation to be obtained by others, as the curſed papiſts ſay? Mayharp, Miſs, you don't believe in the Athanaſian creed?"

"I do not underſtand it."

"That's an old vile excuſe for not believing. Now a ſyllable can be done away. Does'n't it tell you, that you muſt be damned if you don't believe in it? Take my word for it, that Saint Athanaſius knew more about his own creed than that fiend Arius. And what think you of Conſtantine the Great?"—

"Some ſay he was a felon."

"I tell you, Miſs, he was a ſaint, Don't you know, Miſs, the diſtinctions and the differences between Trinunities, Coeſſentialities, Modalities, eternal Ge⯑nerations, eternal Proceſſions, Incarna⯑tions, and Hypoſtatical Unions?"—

"What is all this, Mrs. Bully? Are ſuch terms, points of faith? They ſeem fitter for a Conjurer than a Chriſtian."

[16] "Oh! that I had lived in thoſe bliſs⯑ful days of controverſy, where the con⯑cerns of a whole city conſiſted in diſputes about the Conſubſtantiality; when, in quitting the ſhop of a trader, one not only got by one's divinity a great bar⯑gain, but alſo the man to change his re⯑ligion; when the dear boys in the ſtreet would fight one another for Arius and Athanaſius! To be ſure Arius had the beſt of it while he lived; and Conſtantine wrote to them, that they were both fools for diſputing about what no one could underſtand: but didn't Arius die, like the Empreſs of Ruſſia? Foul heretics ſhould die in foul places; dark holes for poi⯑ſoned rats. And pray, Miſs, what do you think of Tim and Phil?"

"I am not acquainted with the names of all the ſervants in the houſe."

"Servants! I am ſo uſed to them, that I always call them by theſe familiar [17] names. I mean the dialogues of Timothy and Philalethes. There your Tom Paines, and all ſuch Sadducees, are anſwered. Have you got, Miſs, all Sir Roger's works, and a good number of the pam⯑phlets of Cromwell's times? I collect and read all;—ſmall type, large paper, and thick volume. I love tugging at a book, not ſkimming like a mealy butterfly."

"Really, Mrs. Bully, all your authors are not even known to me by name. I have only two books, I think printed by one of Cromwell's party, and thoſe are the Paradiſes of Milton."

"Abominable! I marvel, Miſs, how you can bear a page of ſuch "a blind guide," as Sir Roger wittily called him. His eyes ſhewed a judgment of heaven. No wonder he drew the devil ſo well, for he was only deſcribing his protector Oliver. He'll protect him finely in the eternity of hell torments; ſecretary now [18] to Lucifer! And pray, Miſs, how do you like South for his joking ſermons; and the elegant Stanhope on the epiſtles, who obſerves, that an unbeliever, if he were in heaven, would find no more pleaſure there, than a pig in a drawing-room; and Scott, and Archbiſhop Laud, and Biſhop Blackhall, whoſe works are in three folios, heavier than I can hold in my hands, and which I bought the other day for three-pence each? A curſe on this Arian age! All weighty books now are ſelling by weight!"

"My favourite ſermons are thoſe of Blair."

"Abominable! why they contain no⯑thing but morality! not a word on the conteſted points of faith, the incarnation, the conſubſtantiality, grace, and juſtifi⯑cation; little aſthmatic periods, as if he wanted ſenſe to carry him through a dozen words. You have a great deal to learn, [19] Miſs, on the ſcore of religion and politics. You think I don't read novels; but I like much thoſe in folio. I am now read⯑ing the great Caſſandra, and the no⯑ble Oroondates. That Oroondates was a brave fellow; he killed above fifty he⯑roes, almoſt as brave as himſelf; and his ſpeeches are ten honeſt pages in length; none of your ſqueaking heroes, who are afraid to ſpeak out like men; but I know the reaſon, for their authors have nothing for them to ſay."

"I could never read (ſaid Emily) thoſe voluminous romances. Their heroes and heroines are a diſtinct order of beings from ourſelves; and I have my ſuſpicions, whether they ever exiſted but in the prurient fancies of their authors. Their deſcriptions are never local, one place is depicted like another; their ſtyle is in⯑ſufferably languid; their incidents, with⯑out being romantic, violate the known [20] cuſtoms of every age; and their authors ſeem to have merely deſpoiled Homer of his true heroes, to transform them into the diſguſting petit-maitres of Paris. A race that, when they exiſted, were only ridiculed, and that now are quite obſo⯑lete. Such are their protracted conclu⯑ſions, that we cannot but quite forget what we had read, ſhould we ever arrive at the cloſe of the twelfth volume."

"Abominable! I forget nothing. Since, Miſs, you don't like bulky books, mayhap you have never read the Bible through?"

"Many parts I have never finiſhed. I would neither corrupt my imagination with impurity, nor ſteel my heart by bar⯑barous narratives and ſanguinary perſe⯑cutions."

"Then the Lord preſerve you from damnation! Samuel hewed Agag alive, and he did well; he was an Arian of his [21] day. And the Philiſtines, the Canaanites, the Hittites, and the Jebuſites!—(ſhe roſe from her chair gradually) noble work in thoſe days! Oh! that I could ſend this arm, like another Samſon, among your Arian dogs, your Socinian wolves, and your roaring lions of Prieſtleyites! I tell you the church of England is without ſpot or wrinkle; and James the III. not William the III. was our king. Why does the French rebellion proſper, but becauſe people don't go to church on Sundays? No wonder that the wind blew ſo boiſterouſly laſt night, that three trees have been blown down in the park, and their majeſties were obliged to riſe from bed.—We are all a-going! The earth reels like a drunkard! as nobly ſaith Iſaiah. Manifold are our ſins! as Moore ſays in his laſt year's almanack. We are an abomination before the Lord! Oh! that I could eſchew this Babylon! [22] I tell you, Miſs, the church of England is without ſpot or wrinkle."

So ſaying, ſhe hurried out of the room, and, flinging the door, haſtened to com⯑municate her intelligence to the kitchen; horror for Emily's Arianiſm, and contempt for her taſte for novels in folio, ſpread from her through all the lower part of the houſe.

CHAPTER XVIII.
Emily meets Charles and Vaurien. The Diſſentions of two great Critics, ſhewing the Utility of Chriſtian Names.

LADY Belfield contracted with Emily a more paſſionate degree of friendſhip than a lady of her high rank, in general, is capable of experiencing; but her Ladyſhip is one of thoſe not very rare inſtances, we imagine, where we ob⯑ſerve an amiable and ingenious female ſtudiouſly annihilating her virtues and her talents in the giddy, and often cri⯑minal, vortex of diſſipation. Nature will ſometimes prevail over Faſhion.

One morning, when theſe two la⯑dies were converſing with Miſs Million, [24] Charles and Vaurien were announced. When they entered, their eyes were at once directed on Emily; ſhe recogniſed Vaurien, and deeply bluſhed; her con⯑fuſion was fortunately concealed, while Miſs Million introduced theſe gentle⯑men. Lady Belfield ſaid, "Dear Miſs Emily, allow me to ſpeak a word for one of theſe men; for that great child is as ſilent as a Turkiſh mute, (looking on Charles); and half a word for the other, who, I am ſenſible, wants no aid of mine to engage the attentions of an accom⯑pliſhed girl." Vaurien made a very ele⯑gant compliment, and Charles a very ſilent bow. Neither of the two ladies ſuſpected that they had ever met before; and they themſelves did not chuſe to notice their former rencounter at Mrs. Wilſon's; for which, no doubt, each had ſome peculiar reaſon, and which to diſ⯑cover may ſerve, if the reader thinks [25] proper, to exerciſe his thinking powers, as well as his eyes, although the latter are generally conſidered as the only re⯑quiſites for novel reading.

Vaurien was the ſoul of the converſa⯑tion. He flew from topic to topic, and poured out to Miſs Million all the little news that he had collected in the courſe of that morning's perambulation. He hinted at a marriage, narrated a duel, diſcovered an intrigue, and informed them, that laſt night Lady Bab loſt ten thouſand pounds at one ſitting, and was obliged to retire for the unexpected de⯑livery of a ſon and heir. He was a vo⯑lume of ſecret memoirs; and every trifle was embelliſhed by the graces of his manner. To Emily he directed a richer vein of converſation: he liſtened to the copious catalogue of her talents, as given by Miſs Million; and when one of her paintings was pointed out to his obſer⯑vation, [26] he gazed on it for ſome time, commended it in a few energetic ex⯑preſſions, and, at the ſame time, exhi⯑bited his accuracy of taſte by ſome ſlight corrections, and his pictureſque fancy, by deſcribing how, from that ſubject, another might be formed more romantic to the imagination. Emily was more gratified by this diſcriminating criticiſm than the general applauſe of others, and formed a high conception of that opu⯑lence of fancy, which ſeemed always to enrich what it found. Lady Belfield in⯑treated her to touch her harp; ſhe played with her accuſtomed eaſe; and while ſhe was receiving the thanks of her fair friends, Vaurien ſwept his hand careleſly over the inſtrument, and called forth the tendereſt air. Solicited to proceed, he ſaid: "Ah, no! I venture not above a prelude, after harmonies like thoſe which have now charmed. All my ſkill [27] is only an effuſion of the heart, and all my airs are only a few aſſociations of the memory, when I wandered in the viny vales of Languedoc." Emily, it muſt be confeſſed, was delighted by the ſingular verſatility of his powers. Lady Belfield rallied Vaurien upon this diſcovery of his harp muſic: "What a dangerous man are you, Vaurien, when you can conceal even little accompliſhments, that they may be reſerved to ſurpriſe and delight on the moſt impreſſive occaſion. It is to Miſs Emily we owe your performance on the harp. But you, Charles, neither ſay, nor do any thing."

"Your Ladyſhip knows (replied Charles) that ſome are born to embel⯑liſh life by all that it has of the agree⯑able, while others muſt reſtrict themſelves to admire and love that merit they dare not rival."

Emily liked Charles for this liberal commendation of a perſon who was evi⯑dently [28] his rival; that is a merit (ſhe thought) ſuperior to the merit itſelf.

Vaurien had now come down to the very laſt morning anecdote; and he knew that there was a certain point in conver⯑ſation, when an able and ſagacious talker takes his departure. It is that point, at which what we have ſaid leaves a lively impreſſion on our friends; a quarter of an hour more would weary, or leſs would not ſatisfy. It exacts no ordinary judg⯑ment to know when to quit a chair. The exhauſted Frenchman was now riſing, when the two great critics, Mr. Acrid and Mr. Antique, were announced. With indecent haſte Antique ruſhed in, breath⯑leſs. "I have," cried he "got near a whole page traced accurately on oiled paper. I tell you, Mr. Acrid, 'tis an original. We have had a ſecret committee; but no one can read it except Ireland; he is inſpired; he reads it juſt as if it were his own writing!"

[29] "And have you a page of Shakſpeare never read before?" ſaid Miſs Million.

Antique. "I heard Dr. Parr ſay, that he muſt expreſs his conviction in periods more dignified than Ireland could roll. I ſaw Boſwell fall on his knees, raiſe his hands, and thank God!"

"Mere antiquaries are ever to be duped," replied Mr. Acrid with a dic⯑tatorial tone. "Without taſte to diſ⯑cern, penetration to decide, or that illu⯑minating ſagacity that combines it's un⯑erring calculations; with a brainleſs head and ſightleſs eyes, you pore on inſcrip⯑tions, ſepulchral monuments, and manu⯑ſcripts that would never have been ſuch, had they merited literary honours. You only read the dullneſs of other times, and call this erudition; the groſs jeſts of our groſs forefathers, and you conceive you are men of wit. You diſcover ſome clumſy utenſil, and you engrave it as a model for modern elegance. The dulleſt [30] writer of a dull age, becomes to the mere antiquary the moſt precious of his own times; and yet ſuch bear no other re⯑ſemblance to Midas than by his exterior ſign, their touch cannot turn lead into gold. You have already ſtifled poor Shakſpeare by your commentaries, the text cannot breathe freely amidſt your incumbrances. Here is a man who writes with an orthography of his own invention, and in a ſtyle that has no in⯑vention at all; and every fool of learning is ſummoned to admire a modern ſkeleton in an ancient leaden coffin. But did not my friend George take the true dimen⯑ſions of the intellects of the director of your worſhipful ſociety? A curved cor⯑ner of an old chimney-piece, duly ſteeped in what ſhall be nameleſs, till it became variegated with the dark rainbow hues of antiquity, and, taſted by his ſagacious finger, ſmelt of other times, was engraved with ſome Saxon characters, and the name [31] of Hardycknute; at length, being pro⯑perly vinegared and verdigreaſed, it ex⯑cited his antiquarian curioſity; he doats on it to madneſs, makes ſyllables of let⯑ters and words of ſyllables, and enriches the archives of your ſociety with a moſt learned diſſertation on the drinking-horn of Hardy [...]knute! Lay your Ireland's Shakſpeare on this curved corner of an old chimney-piece."

The laugh went againſt Mr. Antique, who ſat down much cooler than he came in, muttering vengeance. A circum⯑ſtance occurred to theſe two great cri⯑tics, which may ſerve as an exemplary leſſon to ſome greater ones, to under⯑ſtand each other when their diſputes run loud and ſwelling as a ruſ [...]ing torrent, or quick and fiery as kindled ſtraw. Mr. Antique was a virtuoſo and a collector, more famous for his library than his learning; wealthy in medals, profound in title-pages, an ogler of ſtatues, and a [32] great admirer of the works of nature when they appeared in the forms of but⯑terflies, pebbles, and conchae veneris; he therefore was tolerably read in authors who had written on curious ſubjects; but Mr. Acrid held ſuch authors in ſovereign contempt, and vociferated his raptures for writers of taſte. In point of under⯑ſtanding, or intellectual power, he was much on an equality with his brother critic, whom he ſo much contemned. Not but that his criticiſms were ex⯑tremely juſt, which they could not fail to be, as they were, with little variation, the ſentiments of the nobleſt critics; and yet we are informed, that his entire li⯑brary conſiſted of only two biographical dictionaries, ſo that he travelled on the high roads of literature merely at the public expence; and when it happened that he was ſtopped at a turnpike-gate, he only diſcovered his extreme poverty. The following dialogue now enſued:—

Antique. "You will find a very mi⯑nute detail of that picture in Richard⯑ſon."

Acrid. "Richardſon detail a picture! Not he. He was no petty virtuoſo."

Antique. "Mr. Richardſon no vir⯑tuoſo! Give me leave to affirm, that he is at the head of our virtuoſos. He was both a curious collector and a very mi⯑nute deſcriber."

Acrid. "Richardſon a puny col⯑lector! Sir, it is falſe, very falſe. That he was a minute deſcriber I agree."

Antique. "I repeat he was a curious collector. I retort your charge. I know he prolonged his tour, and remained above a year at Rome. It took him three months only to deſcribe one of Pouſſin's pictures."

Acrid. "He never was out of Eng⯑land. His imagination was a true Bri⯑tiſh ſea-coal fire, and borrowed not a ſpark from a foreign rival."

Antique. "Not out of England! I ſhall grow mad! 'Tis a calumny which only an inſidious enemy could propa⯑gate. His very minute deſcriptions teſ⯑tify his ocular examination. His works give us the very attitudes."

Acrid. "So, Sir, you think that a man muſt travel out of England to catch thoſe correct reſemblances which true taſte admires. Truly your taſte is ſin⯑gular; but his works are immortal."

Antique. "Immortal! Why no man of any taſte would give them houſe-room."

Acrid. "Not Richardſon's works houſe-room! (he lifted his hands higher than his head)

"O! for ſhame, Mr. Antique," ſaid Miſs Million. "No one can agree with you there."

Antique. "Why they are all daubs; mere garret furniture."

Acrid. "I loſe my patience—I am nearly ſuffocated with rage. Do you [35] mean, Mr. Antique, to inſult me by inſulting Richardſon?"

Antique. "Mr. Acrid, do you mean to reflect on my connoiſſeurſhip, by ſup⯑poſing that I could approve of his wretched works? Where are they now to be found? All gone and forgotten!"

Here Mr. Acrid roſe in great paſſion, looked with a diſtortion of countenance on Mr. Antique, a mixture of fierceneſs and contempt; then ſmoothing his face into a ſardonic ſmile, that is, with a gay countenance and an aching heart, he turned to the ladies, and appealed to them, if Richardſon's works were not in every body's hands, and in every col⯑lection of taſte?

Antique. "In every body's hands, and in every collection of taſte! Was ever man ſo provoked and inſulted as I am?"

Acrid. "His fable is protracted, but his lively and delicate ſtrokes place every object before the eye."

Antique. "What do you mean by his fable? But I confeſs his minuteneſs is admirable."

Acrid. "Every character is ſo pro⯑minent, it is as in the great original of nature."

Antique. "Agreed, as to the great original; but nature is quite a ſuperflu⯑ous term.

Acrid. "The artleſs ſentiments of Pamela, the refined delicacy of Clariſſa, the elevation of Sir Charles Grandiſon."

Antique. "What connexion have theſe novels with the works of Richard⯑ſon? I could never read them. No facts, all imagination.

Acrid. "With this avowal, you yet preſume to appreciate the merits of Ri⯑chardſon; you aſpire to dictate as an ar⯑biter of taſte!"

Miſs Million. "Dear Mr. Antique, is this poſſible? never read Richard⯑ſon!"

Antique. "Have you all conſpired together to make me crazy? I ſhake with indignation. Do you ſuppoſe that I, who attend every picture ſale in town, can read ſuch enormous novels? I have enough to do to read through all the ſale catalogues of books and pictures; and I have an entire collection, with their prices marked, for theſe twenty years paſt; an invaluable library of catalogues. If Jo⯑nathan Richardſon the father, not Jona⯑than Richardſon the ſilly ſon, the firſt of whom I have been talking of, had ſeen them, what volumes of criticiſm had come out!"

Acrid. "Jonathan Richardſon! why, man, we have been talking of Samuel Richardſon! I know nothing of your pair of Jonathans!"

Antique. "Then, poſitively, my dear Acrid, we are all in a miſtake! I mean Richardſon the painter, and you Richard⯑ſon [38] the noveliſt! You know the firſt has publiſhed ſome very curious diſſerta⯑tions on his art; a great critic in paint⯑ing, but the worſt of painters! I praiſed his fine deſcriptions of pictures, but could never agree that his own works had any merit. How the deuce has all this hap⯑pened? As for the other Richardſon, I know nothing about him; a collector never values ſuch writers.

Acrid (with an air of triumph). "There, ladies, Mr. Antique has confeſſed he has never read the great Richardſon, the Shakſpeare of noveliſts; and yet he will aſſert and aſſure you, that he can decide on Shakſpeare in manuſcript."

Antique. "That, my dear friend, entirely conſiſts in the foxineſs of the ink, and the dingy fine yellow brown of the pa⯑per, with the water-mark of the jug; all worthy of the divine man! Let us not part in anger. Critics ſhould be more cautious [39] in their controverſies, and chriſtian names are full as uſeful as ſurnames."

Through the interceſſion of Miſs Mil⯑lion, peace was eſtabliſhed between this couple of critics; but a latent revenge rankled in the breaſt of Antique, for Acrid's contempt of him, and Ireland's Shakſpeare; and when Miſs Million en⯑quired the literary news of the day, he took an opportunity to diſtil his gall on Acrid's diſcernment. We ſhall therefore reſume our dialogue.

Antique. "We have ſome important intelligence in the republic of letters; you have not then heard concerning Eliza?"

"All that we underſtand (ſaid Miſs Million) is that the amatory effuſions of Eliza are only known for their delicacy, their harmony, and their poetic beauty, ſo often admired by Mr. Acrid. The fair ſtill is in the ſhade."

Acrid here made a very curtailed bow, and quickly retired.

Antique. "Ay! Ay! let him go! let him go! to insult me with my defec⯑tive taſte for Shakſpeare! Now, ladies, judge what kind of diſcernment Mr. Acrid is bleſt with. Eliza! Ha! ha! ha!"

"Eliza" exclaimed Miſs Million "is certainly a delightful poeteſs! ſhe has two great merits; ſhe not only writes finely, but copiouſly and inceſſantly. Her laſt ſweet paſtoral of 500 lines, is excellent; but I wiſh ſhe had divided it into five paſtorals. But theſe lines are fanciful beyond poetical fancy; they are quite faſhionable poetry: obſerve the bril⯑liant concetto of the cloſe!

Antique. "You don't know the news, I ſee. You will agree with me, that they muſt be execrable. Why they are Dick Diſtich's!"

[41] Miſs Million. "O ſhocking! what is Eliza, Dick Diſtich?"

Antique. "Hear the anecdote! Dick Diſtich, you know, wrote verſes in all meaſures; but, in quantity, they were without meaſure. As he was ſo kind as to reverſe his name at the cloſe of his poems, it was of uſe to the incautious. Ridiculed, but not ſo fortunate as to be neglected, he retreated to the country in a nervous fever. His name he knew would damn his works; ſo calling himſelf Eliza, and getting a female friend to tranſcribe his poems, he ſent them to the famous paper. All the old Cruſcans roſe to a man! Odes, elegies, and ſonnets, were poured on Eliza, enough to have made a fine ſnow-ſhower at Drury Lane. Eliza was rather broad and warm in her diction. She was a Sappho, a tenth muſe, and a fourth grace. Our poets were ena⯑moured of this moſt ſenſitive Eliza. [42] Acrid was as clamorous in his raptures, as fifty amorous cats on the pantiles. He imagined her to be the old Laura; ſo he addreſſed her with this tender billet: "Amiable Eliza! I love you; can you pardon the avowal? But I have made it; and I know not to repeat of it. My paſſion is like your genius; it terrifies or ſoothes; hope and deſpair prey on my ſoul. Hope! alas! I do not hope, and yet I love." The anſwer of Eliza to this amatory note, was the moſt conſolatory, and bid him hope for every favour; but ſhe added, "What if you knew me? would your claſſical eye approve of my perſon? Alas! I am ſhort and brown; but ſo was Sappho; my noſe is ſnubbed; but ſo was the beautiful Poppaea's; I have a ſingular cuſtom when I kiſs to bite; but ſuch were the marks of fondneſs which Flora left on her Pompey. If my perſonal defects can thus be forgiven, as ſo [43] many claſſical imitations are in my verſes; then will Sappho receive you as her Phaon; but, I fear, faithleſs and accom⯑pliſhed as that boy." An appointment was made. Dick invited ſeveral friends to witneſs the lover's firſt interview. We ſtood behind a ſcreen; the great critic arrived; when lo! to the credit of his critical talents, his Eliza ſtood before him, in the contemned perſon of poor Dick Diſtich. What's the conſequence? The critic's reputation has received the coup de grace, while Eliza's verſes are now all condemned in one maſs. What was ſweet fancy in Eliza, is rank dulneſs in Dick Diſtich. The poetical hermaphro⯑dite has gained nothing; and the ſex are but ill complimented; for when Dick was ſuppoſed to be a woman, thoſe verſes were applauded, which are now con⯑demned becauſe he is a man. So, ladies, I recommend the poor devil to your pro⯑tection."

[44] "Lord! I wiſh I had known all this before," cried Miſs Million. "Here is a confuſion in the realms of taſte! We have been applauding the narcotic infuſions of Dick Diſtich, while we thought them the diſſolving effuſions of a Sappho. How can one judge of people's poetry, if they deceive us with names?"

"In theſe caſes" obſerved Charles, "we can never fail, if we read poems without regarding names. Should the reader then blunder, he muſt not blame the author. You may now exclaim with Juliet, ‘What's in a name?—’ and then, ‘O Diſtich, Diſtich, wherefore art thou Diſtich?’

CHAPTER XIX.
An Engliſh Woman poiſed between a Briton and a Gaul.—A clerical Buck.—A phi⯑loſophical Voluptuary.

VAURIEN had become the friend of Lady Belfield; and this word, even in the dictionary of faſhionable lan⯑guage, has not degenerated into a non-entity; but the adroitneſs of vice, knows to diſguiſe it's impurities, by adorning them with the holy titles that are ſacred to virtue; it is thus that it's groſſneſs is con⯑cealed, it's deformity invites, and it's horrors are crowned with delights that are not it's own. We think, at firſt, that we enjoy love, when we graſp at luſt; that we are ſoothed by friendſhip, when we liſten to ſy⯑cophancy; and that we purſue amuſement [46] when we are heavily dragged through diſ⯑ſipation. To the clear eye of reaſon, the pleaſures of vice pay an involuntary tri⯑bute of honour to virtue, by aſſuming it's name; and it is at leaſt a conſolation to ſome, and a conviction to many, that vice would loſe half of its ſeduction, did it not at firſt appear in the diſguiſe of ſome virtue.

Lady Belfield, enamoured of the gay and accompliſhed. Frenchman, was for ſome time occupied in his enjoyment; but it was no ſoothing alliance of the heart; no imperiſhable union of two kindred virtues; it was merely an inflam⯑mation of the ſenſes; a flame that raged at intervals, and often ſunk in the dying embers of paſſion, and left behind them the diſguſts of criminal pleaſure, the cold aſhes of ſatiety. The modeſt and re⯑ſerved Charles, ſtill agitated her ſoul with thoſe delicate impreſſions, by which the [47] bluſhing form of unpolluted man touches and irritates even the boſom of cor⯑ruption. His modeſty but inflamed de⯑ſire, and his apathy was a myſtery ſhe could not penetrate. In vain ſhe planned occaſions to ſurprize him into ſeduction; his principles were firm; and could they ever have yielded, another paſſion at this time came to his aid, and his heart was filled with the image of Emily.

Charles had frequently entered into con⯑verſations with this amiable girl, and ſhe had diſcovered in him a ſecret value which was more delightful to her feelings when abſent, than the recollection of Vaurien's more applauded and dazzling qualities. Vaurien faſcinated in her preſence; Charles enchanted in his abſence; one was to be looked at, and the other was remembered. The one was all that imagination could form of the agreeable, and the other all [48] that ſentiment could form of the tender. The voice of Vaurien was muſic that re⯑galed the ear, but the voice of Charles penetrated the abſtract ear of memory. Vaurien exhibited the moſt agile graces of form, the moſt delightful amenity of manners; and, never uniform, varied a thouſand ſhapes, and charmed in all. Charles had nothing of this verſatility; he muſed, and was rarely gay; but there was a ſweetneſs in his ſeriouſneſs, and a dignity in his comportment, which, by it's very uniformity, impreſſed a heart ſuſ⯑ceptible of reflection and ſentiment, with features more prominent and energetic, than the ſofter lineaments of Vaurien. Vaurien never gained on reflection, all was ſeen at once; nothing was concealed for the private eye; he ſeduced the pub⯑lic applauſe, but could not fix the individual affection. Charles exhibited a latent merit. His commoneſt action [49] proceeded from a ſuperior impulſe. In the ſilence of meditation, in that ſecret hour when abſent from our friends, we try, without paſſion, their merits, their follies, and their weakneſſes, Vaurien appeared a common man, who ſeemed to perform uncommon actions; and Charles an uncommon man, whoſe actions were ſet off neither by oſtentation nor ſingula⯑rity. Vaurien poſſeſſed the mind of Emily, but Charles was the inmate of her heart.

Emily and Charles, amidſt their bril⯑liant circles, ſeemed only to taſte of a fugitive happineſs, when they could con⯑trive to ſit together, and indulge their ſympathy of ſentiment. In the eyes of Emily might be read her ſoul; ſhe look⯑ed her thoughts; ſhe had none to diſ⯑guiſe; but ſome perplexities, ſome bluſhes, ſome tremors, ſhe experienced in theſe ſhort interviews with Charles. He [50] read to her, one day, the cloſe of the Spring of Thomſon, where, with peculiar ſenſibility, that poet of lovers raiſes a lit⯑tle fairy exiſtence of conjugal felicity; a fading dream, that claims a tear from the eye it has ſolaced; a heaven of love, that charms and pains it's trembling, it's ſuf⯑fering, it's doubtful martyr. As he pro⯑ceeded, his eyes wandered from the book to Emily; he pronounced words while attention wandered; he ſtopped ſud⯑denly; Emily leant on his ſhoulder, to look at the verſe; ſhe ſaw a tear gliſ⯑ten on the page. "You have miſſed whole lines, Sir," ſaid ſhe. "I will recom⯑mence the paſſage, Miſs Emily; I was thinking that the tender Thomſon loved and was beloved, yet knew not the only felicity of Love. I proceed—

Charles raiſed his eye from the volume; the face of Emily was covered with bluſhes; ſhe gazed on him, and ſeemed to withdraw her eye with timidity, re⯑luctance, and alarm. When he came to theſe lines,

Charles uttered an audible ſigh. Emily, ſmiling, ſaid, "Sure that ſigh was not for Thomſon!"—"Ah! no, Miſs Emily, I wonder why I ſigh; what lines can have a leſs-adorned ſimplicity? and yet they penetrate my heart. I fear that ſigh was nothing but vanity and ſelfiſhneſs; it was for myſelf."

[52] It is evident, that when Thomſon is read by two young perſons of either ſex, with this taſte and ſenſibility, the Sea⯑ſons threaten to diſturb the repoſe of friendſhip by the intruſion of love; and when love is conducted by poetry, his armed hand is wrapt beneath a gay man⯑tle, and ſtrikes more deeply a perfidious blow.

Emily's quiet was attempted to be diſturbed by others. The Reverend Ephraim Dandelion enliſted among her admirers. He was a boyiſh divine, a caſſocked huntſman, and a clerical buck. His viſits to Miſs Million were not ſo uninterrupted as he deſired, owing to his father, an opulent Rector reſiding in the vicinity of Saliſbury, and alſo to the Biſhop of that dioceſe, who, as he ob⯑ſerved, was "a blockhead of the old ſchool." Indeed, this Biſhop was by no means a man of faſhion; he bore a moſt [53] religious antipathy towards all thoſe young clergymen who were in full poſſeſſion of a plurality of livings, and who eſcaped from them all to reſide in the metropolis, and to dreſs their hair as they thought proper. Ephraim was the hope of his family, be⯑cauſe he was the eldeſt ſon; he had there⯑fore been his father's favourite in his cra⯑dle; in which place the ſacerdotal infant may be ſaid to have felt a ſimoniacal propenſity, for indeed ſimony was a con⯑ſtitutional vice in that family. There, by ſome ingenuity of his pious father the Rector, he was inducted into two good advowſons, ſo that ere the young gentle⯑man iſſued from his pupillage, he pre⯑ſented himſelf to his own livings, and pi⯑ouſly undertook the cure of the ſouls of ſeveral pariſhes. He was a young man of modeſt diſpoſitions, and held in vene⯑ration the holy profeſſion; and as he at once was a Nimrod in the field, and a [54] Narciſſus within doors, he decently pro⯑cured two perſons to perform his own du⯑ties. For this purpoſe he found two fa⯑thers of large families, at the market-price then of forty pounds a year. He was alſo a rigid obſerver of the utmoſt ſo⯑lemnity in the performance of all church ſervices, and teſtified an uncommon zeal for eccleſiaſtical rights; the former con⯑ſiſted in the perſonal appearance of his curates; and whenever he heard the ſlighteſt complaint of a naſal twang, or a guttural digeſtion of words, or of a brown⯑iſh black coat, ſuch a curate was diſ⯑charged at a week's notice; and his zeal for eccleſiaſtical rights was evidently ex⯑hibited in his ſeizure of all bands, black gloves, white favours, funeral ſcarfs, and the chriſtening or marriage guinea. On the whole, he was a moſt orthodox ſup⯑porter of the church; underſtanding by this word a certain ancient building, en⯑circled [55] by a burying-ground, and the in⯑terior furniſhed with a certain water-ba⯑ſon, vulgarly denominated the baptiſmal fount; burials and chriſtenings, therefore, producing no inconſiderable income, he moſt zealouſly ſupported the aforeſaid church.

But although a ſturdy advocate for church ſubordination, he could not con⯑ſent to grant this to his Biſhop. Too active in field ſports during the ſummer, and quite exhauſted in town diſſipa [...]ions during the winter, he moſt juſtly com⯑plained of the inceſſant and perſonal at⯑tacks of his ſaid Biſhop; who, particu⯑larly at one of his annual dinners given to his aſſembled brethren, did moſt inde⯑licately reprimand our faſhionable Rector; Vicar, and Prebendary, for all theſe ho⯑nours and their appurtenances were united in young Ephraim. He reſolved now to throw off the yoke of eccleſiaſtical ju⯑riſdiction; [56] and, to the great comfort of our ſacerdotal bucks, they may enjoy the revenues of an eccleſiaſtic, without the boriſh performance of the functions. Ephraim had great intereſt with the Prince, for two reaſons: In a drunken frolic at Brighton, he had received the honour of being thrown into a gravel⯑pit, by which means he broke his leg; but as his neck was entire, he did not much lament the fracture, ſince it was a kind of claim on princely patronage; and the other reaſon was, that the Re⯑verend Ephraim Dandelion was a perſon of inimitable talent, in imitating the bray of an aſs and the whine of a pig. The aſs and the pig, with the above-men⯑tioned daſh into the gravel-pit, procured him an honorary place in the Prince's army of Chaplains. This honour brings with it the uſeful privilege of enabling the poſſeſſor to hold as many livings as [57] he can get, while it comfortably relieves him of the tedious duty of reſidence; ſo the happy Ephraim, aſpiring now to a Biſhoprick, never more entered the pa⯑lace of his Biſhop.

Although we know of no facts (for of facts ſhould all true hiſtories like the preſent conſiſt) that might tend to ac⯑cuſe him of any venial liberalities to his miſerable curates, yet he was well ena⯑bled to commit ſuch follies; for he now held, in livings and ceteras, above two thouſand a year, according to his own frequent avowal, and little leſs he ex⯑pected from the worthy Rector his fa⯑ther, who was of a moſt plethoric habit, was a Gargantua in point of ſtomach, one of the moſt orthodox veniſon eaters in his county, and had been twice touched by an apoplexy.

A character more ſingular and inte⯑reſting was the voluptuous Sedley. A [58] paſſion for ſelf-enjoyment was the ſource of his actions; his life was a ſyſtem of refined Epicuriſm; his ſtudy was an art to irritate deſire, and to protract enjoy⯑ment; to throw over the nudities of imagination a thin and brilliant veil, woven by the Graces. He was born with a ſenſitive heart and a romantic fancy, but his natural benevolence was fre⯑quently ſacrificed to his artificial grati⯑fications; yet of his dangerous talent, his numerous victims rather murmured than complained; their ruin ſeemed a⯑dorned; deſpair was half ſoothed by the memory of it's paſt enjoyments; and, at leaſt, the ſincerity of their maſter was evinced in his having become his own victim. His fortune and his felicity were alike exhauſted in the fatal ravages of his paſſions; a dark vacuity in his heart terrified his ſolitude; with all the fer⯑vour of affection he found he could not▪ [59] love; with all the curious felicity of en⯑joyment he found he had never enjoyed; enervated by the anguiſh of diſappoint⯑ment, yet ſtimulated by the fever of hope, he wandered in a tumultuous purſuit of that pleaſure, which, if fugitive, torment⯑ed with deſire; and, if embraced, ſickened with ſatiety.

There was ſomething grand and ro⯑mantic in his entire eſtabliſhment. All the luxuries of Europe were his domeſtic enjoyments; every ſenſe was flattered, and the imagination itſelf was attempt⯑ed, to be ſatisfied. He held a corre⯑ſpondence with foreign parts, to import every novelty of refined ſenſuality; and the ſame ſhip often conveyed to him, a picture of Raphael, a hogſhead of Montepulciano, and a female ſelected for ſome peculiarity of ſeature. His houſes reſounded with muſic; and all the arts of amenity crouded to the opulent idler. [60] The heats of ſummer were cooled by the ices of winter; and his winter garden was prodigal of the roſes of ſummer. Every day he religiouſly gratified his five ſenſes. It was this Engliſhman of whom Mercier relates, that he boaſted of having ac⯑quired a ſixth ſenſe. It conſiſted in the ſingular fancy of aſſembling females, who reſembled by their features the beauties of other times. He diſperſed through⯑out Europe portraits of his ancient fa⯑vourites; and ſometimes prolonged his mornings with the Scottiſh Mary and Anne Bullen, and ſometimes was ſeated at ſupper between Cleopatra and Poppaea. The illuſion was ſtill further promoted by preſerving their coſtume, and dreſſing every beauty according to the country and the age ſhe perſonified.

In his country retreat he was charmed by an Arcadian taſte, and realized the romance of the golden age. There he [61] would habit himſelf as a ſhepherd, and walking by the ſide of a ſtage-dancer, his favourite ſultana, while ſhe played on a little harp, he held a crook in his hand, a baſket at his ſide, and wore a ſtraw hat wreathed with roſes. In the ſemblance of peace and enjoyment, he wandered through the winding alleys of ſpring, and diſported in the rich ſhrubberies of his ground. His companions at diſtance war⯑bled their tendereſt airs, and the ſympho⯑nies of muſical inſtruments reſponded to the harp of his ſhepherdeſs. Nightingales, trained for this purpoſe, iſſued from their neſts, and ſettling, ſome near the fantaſti⯑cal Arcadian, and ſome on the harp of his miſtreſs, rivalled her provoking me⯑lodies, fluttered, fainted, and fell at her feet.

To ſuch puerilities can deſcend the in⯑ordinate indulgence of an ungoverned fancy; and in vain will the incredulous, [62] in his circumſcribed experience, cenſure theſe inſtances, as the ideal pictures of an author's heated fancy, ſince theſe are facts ſanctioned by their truth; and others, not of an inferior extravagance, not long ago amuſed the tedium of the exiſtence of a noble Lord.

But in Sedley, his puerilities were not unaccompanied with taſte, nor was his voluptuouſneſs inhuman and void of ele⯑vation. Voluptuouſneſs had made him no otherwiſe to be condemned, than in thoſe ſeducing powers, and thoſe brilliant illu⯑ſions, which betrayed the ſenſibility of the feminine heart. The voluptuouſneſs of a woman can never be pardoned; chaſtity is like a ſeal to a rich caſket, which, while preſerved entire, we know can never have been pillaged of it's gems. Senſuality is maſculine, for it is groſs; let the crime and the puniſhment be reſerved for man. Sedley was, otherwiſe, the friend of hu⯑man [63] nature, and loved the enjoyments of others, becauſe to him it was an enjoyment. But when, at certain intervals, his ſenſes were exhauſted, recollection obtruded it⯑ſelf on his ſtartled mind; it came in the wan form of ſatiety, that ſpectre of de⯑parted pleaſure! The images of thoſe he had rendered miſerable, of ſome the ſui⯑cides, and of others the lives, gave to his repentant heart the pains themſelves had experienced. The gay Sedley ſhed the bittereſt tears in ſilence; and he mourned at once the unhappineſs of his compa⯑nions and his own. "I am a wretch," he would ſay, "but not from the malice of my heart, but from it's pervading ſoft⯑neſs; I periſh with thoſe that I have loſt, and I have not inflicted one pang on others, which I would not bear myſelf—Not I! but Nature is inhuman; I liſten to her voice, the wanderings of my heart are her inſpirations, and if ſhe betrays [64] thoſe whom ſhe conducts, who can wreſ⯑tle with the divinity of Nature? She has given too few ſenſes, and too numerous deſires; and nature forms herſelf the tor⯑turing ſcourge, that affrights and afflicts the gentleſt of the human race!" Such was the character, and ſuch the reflec⯑tions of Sedley.

At a morning viſit to Miſs Million, Emily, not being preſent, became the ſub⯑ject of their animadverſions.

"She is certainly a d [...] fine girl, only too modeſt," ſaid the Reverend Ephraim Dandelion.

"O!" exclaimed Miſs Million, "you can't conceive what vaſt pleaſure it has given me, to have found out the old blind Lieutenant's daughter. When I ſaw her at Exmouth, I repeatedly preſſed her with invitations to Portman-ſquare, but never expected to ſee the poor thing. There ſhe was quite ſolitary and timid.

[65] "We ſhall then beat her hollow," cried Dandelion, "for a hare is ſoli⯑tary and timid, but yields as fine ſport as a fox."

"She is a delicious creature!" cried Sedley.

"The moſt amiable and accompliſhed!" ſaid Lady Belfield.

"The moſt faſcinating!" ſaid Vaurien.

"I think" gravely obſerved Charles, "ſhe will be in ſome danger among us all."

"What danger, Sir?" ſharply repri⯑manded Lady Belfield. "I will anſwer for you poſitively. A young woman is never in danger in the great world, among the moſt poliſhed part of ſociety. We do not blazon forth every caſual indiſ⯑cretion; an honourable ſilence protects a woman; while in your plebeian circles, the ſlighteſt gallantries are conſtrued into unpardonable levities; the moſt agreeable [66] fleurettes are ſuppoſed to be declarations of love; and if an aſſignation ſhould be diſcovered, the whole family, venerable papa, the little ſiſter, and the tall brother, and the whole generation take the alarm. A duel and a divorce complete the vulgar farce; nothing leſs will do than an abſo⯑lute Lucretia! whoſe hiſtory no one cre⯑dits more than Curtius leaping into the great gulf."

"Indeed, Lady Belfield," replied Miſs Million, "I had forgot to mention to you, that half of Mr. Charles' merits are loſt in his morality. What is meant by this ſame morality? I am ſure it gives no know⯑ledge of the world; for Lord Cheſter⯑field's divine works they ſay are immoral, and the inſupportable Rambler they ſay is a very moral work. But, Lord! don't let us talk of morality! it always brings on my nervous complaint. I do not know what to do with myſelf this whole day. [67] (the yawned) I wiſh I had ſome new place to go to."

"Juſt now," ſaid Vaurien, "the Lord Mayor's ſhow is ſetting off from the Man⯑ſion-houſe. What do you think of a ride to the city?"

"O, vulgar!" cried Miſs Million, "I never drive into the city but on Sundays; the ſtreets are ſo narrow, and the carts are ſo broad! But what does your Ladyſhip think of this ſhow?"

"I am quite diſengaged, Miſs Million," ſaid Lady Belfield.

"Why then we'll ſet off directly. Well, but my dear Vaurien, what ſhall we do after the ſhow?"

"Truſt to good fortune! There is the wax-work in Fleet-ſtreet."

"Abſolutely childiſh! What thinks your Ladyſhip?"

"It would be ſo great a novelty to me, that I am ſure I ſhould be pleaſed."

[68] "Well, then we'll go to the wax-work in Fleet-ſtreet" ſaid Miſs Million. "I dare ſay it will be in all the papers to⯑morrow. Then where can we paſs two hours more? I can't think of coming home to dreſs till five. Then, from five to ſeven are my two regular deſperate hours; 'tis a melancholy interval of time, when one is quite dreſs'd for dinner, and wiſhes for it, without appetite, merely to ſee company. All the nobility are miſe⯑rable from five to ſeven."

"I have many!" cried Vaurien, "The ventriloquiſt, and the ſtone-eater; the Corſican fairy, and the Poliſh dwarf. There's a collection of Chineſe curioſities; three monſters, with throats as large as their bodies; a full-grown elephant; and a lap-dog, which may be put in a ſnuff⯑box, going to be ſhipped off for the Dutch governor of Batavia; and, above all, there is a poupée of Madame Tallien, who now [69] reigns like the Queen of France, and which is juſt brought over by a French milliner, as a model of the preſent Pariſian faſhion; not three perſons in town have ſeen it! the dreſs is richly fanciful, and perfectly in the old Roman ſtyle; the breaſts uncovered, one ſide of the robe drawn up, which delightfully exhibits the whole leg, and a little higher; it is the moſt voluptuous and moſt brilliant dreſs."

"Delightful!" exclaimed Miſs Million, "let us ſet off."

"My dear friend," ſaid Sedley, "pray give me the addreſs, that I may have a copy of the poupee of Madame Tal⯑lien."

Emily now entering, was invited by Miſs Million to the whole circle of theſe morning amuſements; but ſhe pleaded indiſpoſition, and the company retired. Sedley, however, gave up the poupee of [70] Madame Tallien, for the preſent moment, and returning into the breakfaſt-room, found himſelf alone with Emily. It was a moment he had long deſired, but which had hitherto eluded his attempts. What paſſed between our amiable heroine and our refined voluptuary, is, perhaps, enti⯑tled to the honours of a ſeparate chapter.

CHAPTER XX.
A Converſation with a philoſophical Voluptuary.

"I HAVE brought," ſaid Sedley, as he returned, "a verſion of my fa⯑vourite poet; here it is, Miſs Emily, for you was it compoſed; but even you have failed to inſpire me with the deli⯑cacy and amenity of the voluptuous Ana⯑creon of France. L'Art d'Aimer of Ber⯑nard cannot be tranſlated, at leaſt permit me thus to conſole my own inability. Could you but catch the ſeductive graces of the original, I ſhould trace, in the touching languor of your eye, the en⯑chantment of your heart. He is the Al⯑bano of poetry. In his amiable minia⯑tures [72] he paints the playful triumphs or the children of love; fervid, yet chaſte; true, yet flattering. It is only nature embelliſhed.

"Bernard was my friend, as well as maſ⯑ter; he was the moſt amiable man at the moſt amiable court. An arbiter elegan⯑tiarum in the moſt refined circles at Pa⯑ris; the art of pleaſing in converſation was ſtill more ſenſibly felt than the art of de⯑lighting by his graceful and diſſolving verſe. Voltaire conſidered him as a pro⯑digy of elegant voluptuouſneſs^*. His verſes reſpire a continued ſoftneſs, are gay with a thouſand pictures, and are the [73] enamellings of poetry. In his manners, what eaſy, yet reſiſtleſs grace! No man had ſo much of that light flower of taſte which blooms but for a rapid moment, thoſe brilliant colours that fade while we gaze on them. Ah! that any thing of Bernard ſhould be periſhable!"

"Mr. Sedley," interrupted Emily, "I love all kinds of enthuſiam; but in this caſe, as you labour with great perplexity to deſcribe your maſter, tell me at once he was an effeminate, refined, and lively Frenchman."

"For your ſex his paſſion was exceſſive; but he was inconſtant; and yet, Miſs Emi⯑ly, he was beloved. Not a Pariſian beau⯑ty complained of his infidelities; for the charms of his genius they pardoned the wanderings of his heart; and he cenſures his own inconſtancies with ſuch gaiety, that they ſeem to be only ſo many triumphs.

"I know not how it happened, but poor [74] Bernard ſurvived himſelf. In my laſt re⯑ſidence at Paris, I found the voluptuous poet a mere ſhadow of exiſtence; and he who had charmed by the lightneſs and the tenderneſs of his effuſions, was then a mute idiot. I have been at the opera with him when they performed his own admirable Caſtor and Pollux. He gazed with a vacant eye, and we could draw no other converſation from him than inceſ⯑ſant enquiries if his Majeſty was ſatis⯑fied? If Madame de Pompadour was pleaſed? Courtier to the laſt, the royal favour was the ſolitary ſentiment that oc⯑cupied the inſenſate idiot. Ah! Miſs Emily, it was an humiliation for the man of pleaſure and the man of wit, to view their gay and amiable chief with eyes that diſtilled unmeaning tears, an exani⯑mate frame that ſat motionleſs, and whoſe voice could not utter an expreſſion but which confirmed his idiotiſm."

[75] "The title of his poem," obſerved Emily, "is to me a condemning criti⯑ciſm. I ſhould be very ſorry, I aſſure you, to be taught an "Art of Love." I fear it is a misfortune for moſt in theſe times to be in love without art. But by your account of Bernard I am much gra⯑tified; you know I am delighted by a moral tale, and I think your's is ex⯑tremely moral; it is a true and melan⯑choly picture of thoſe fooliſh wits, who, abandoned to the fury of their paſſions, are not leſs pernicious to themſelves than to their neighbours. Since you have printed this dangerous poem, have the candour to give this laſt anecdote of Ber⯑nard's life, as a preface or a poſtſcript. Mr. Sedley will believe me, when I ſay I am not faſtidiouſly moral; I do not con⯑ſider every deviation from our own ac⯑cuſtomed habits to be turpitude, or even error. I have ſeen prudes grow outrage⯑ous [76] at freedoms with their perſons, which I ſhould conſider as very inoffenſive. If I were in France, where, I am told, the ladies indulge in many familiarities, more harmleſs than they ſeem, I think I ſhould only conſider them as local cuſtoms. But libertiniſm, Mr. Sedley, in whatever form it comes, whether it be gay with the ſpi⯑rits of youth, or vapid with the tremors of age, adorned by the charms of verſe, or ſyſtematized by the philoſophy of proſe, is irreconcilable to my feelings. I will not look for the reaſons that may have ex⯑cited its abhorrence; it is enough for me, that it's inſpection raiſes a diſguſt ſo na⯑tural and energetic, that I loſe my pa⯑tience when I ſeek for reaſons. I do not know that I could give any ſatisfac⯑tory reaſon why I prefer perfumes to ordures, but that my organs are ſo framed as to be attracted by the one, and to be repulſed by the other. In theſe caſes, [77] the beſt reaſon will be, in not attempting to reaſon; as, to return to your poem, all my art of love will, I hope, be, to have no art at all."

"A ſlight miſconception, not a differ⯑ence in opinion, amiable Miſs Emily! has afforded you this vindictive exulta⯑tion. How juſtly you obſerve, that there are rapid ſenſations which are ſo natural as not to exact the frigid and impotent efforts of an inactive reaſon. Do not form ſuch ſerious, ſuch gloomy notions of love; look not on it's innocent plea⯑ſures with the melancholy eye of reaſon. You have been told, that the deſires of love are crimes, but they are only amuſe⯑ments; you conſider him as a tyrant or a traitor, but he is only an amiable boy; he exacts but one gentle conceſſion, ſo well expreſſed by Thomſon, when he ſays—

It is this ſubmiſſive ſentiment, tender and ingenuous; prompt, yet durable; ar⯑dent, yet continued that diffuſes the ſoul in the ſenſes; and, fertile and eager in deſire, lives and increaſes on the o'er⯑flowing lap of pleaſure^*. Who more modeſt and retired than a ſenſitive lover? In ſhade and in ſilence are all the ſurtive careſſes of love received. Love is a ſe⯑cret enjoyment, it admits of no partici⯑pation; it is for the applauſe of his miſ⯑treſs, [79] and not for that of the world, a lover pants.

"Lament then with me, my dear Miſs Emily, the prejudices of our age and our country; how rarely does love unite two hearts in the ſanctioned pleaſures of ma⯑trimony! The conjugal couch we con⯑ſider as polluted, when two congenial ſpirits meet—but meet too late; and ſhould they love as nature dictates to the heart, we reproach them, we diſgrace them, we haraſs them with the iron ma⯑nacles of law. Unnatural laws, but moſt natural loves! How often have I wiſhed to have been an inmate of thoſe countries which we call barbarous, but which I ad⯑mire, as the only regions where nature is not offended by the haughty temerity of man! O! happy people, where the lover compoſes his fragrant letter with the freſheſt flowers; where the yellow jonquil tells his deſpair; the crimſon roſe, the [80] conſenting bluſhes of his beloved; and the chaſte lily, the conſummation of his amatory hopes. Nor do the Canadians, with a conciſe rudeneſs, experience per⯑haps inferior delight, when they ſend a lighted match to their miſtreſs, and if ſhe blows it, they are happy. But pre⯑cipitated love loſes half it's pleaſures. Sweet and romantic is the varied interval between deſire and enjoyment. The de⯑light of the chace is not in it's game, but it's purſuit. Let a baſhful miſtreſs be capricious, be cruel, be every thing; but let her at length be kind. We claim but the reward of induſtry, a holiday in the toiling year of ſlavery

"If we liſten to Nature, can we err? "To enjoy is to obey," declares your own poet of reaſon. And what is the arid uniformity of life, but a dull and unmeaning paſſage, unleſs ſome tranſient roſes are ſcattered at our feet? Our ex⯑iſtence [81] is derived from our ſenſes; corpo⯑real ſenſibility is the ſource of our paſ⯑ſions, the motive of our thought, the magnet of our ſociability; and, in one word, it is our miſery or our enjoyment. Nature never relinquiſhes our heart; it's emotions cuſtom may pervert, and rea⯑ſon may condemn. But to the tremb⯑lingly alive how tedious is cuſtom! how diſmal is reaſon! Ah! reaſon, Miſs Emily, what is reaſon? nothing but a prevailing ſyſtem of opinions, which in time are mutilated and reverſed, and which, directed merely by accidental cuſ⯑toms, is various in every people. Rea⯑ſon is compelled to elaborate with ter⯑rible pangs, ſyſtem upon ſyſtem, and de⯑ſtroys itſelf, in it's attempts of ſelf-pre⯑ſervation; and when a man is devoid of ſenſibility, he is conſidered to be the ableſt dialectician. Now, if ſenſibility is but the ſoft workings of nature, mark [82] how unnatural is reaſon! But pleaſure, that is, ſenſibility gratified, is the ſponta⯑neous effuſion of nature; it's language is univerſal, it's actions are uniform; the ſame at the burning line as on the icy Alps. Our ſenſes are the porches of na⯑ture, ever open to all our pleaſures; rea⯑ſon magiſterially would cloſe them; but theſe veins are the canals of delight, and would you freeze them? Reaſon may make a conqueſt, but Pleaſure alone can be loved, for ſhe is the enchanting and the native ſovereign of the heart."

To this ſubtile and tedious philoſo⯑phy Emily patiently liſtened, and then replied. "Alas! Sir, why do you em⯑ploy your talents in a cauſe ſo feeble, and yet ſo dangerous? All that you have beautifully ſaid cannot conceal the diſ⯑guſting reality; it is only ſpreading the variegated hues of the rainbow on the filthy webs of ſpiders. I anſwer you, [83] however, that reaſon, melancholy as you term it, is my pleaſure. I therefore agree with you, that I ſhould loath exiſtence, did not indulge my pleaſure. Reaſon is immutable, for it is truth. I acknow⯑ledge that there exiſts a falſe, as well as a true reaſon; as there is a pleaſure that is true, and another which is falſe. It is therefore not difficult to deſcribe the one, while we are only alluding to the other; and, perhaps, had I not been rather ſin⯑gular in my habits of life, and my taſte for reading, I might have been deluded in liſtening to you; I might have miſtak⯑en a falſe and ſpurious pleaſure, for that which alone is true and durable. Conſider, therefore, the wickedneſs of propagating maxims which all may liſten to with pleaſure, while few can diſcriminate with judgment."

"Dear Miſs Emily, it is you who form ſophiſms. Why will you call rea⯑ſon [84] pleaſure, and it's variance, immuta⯑bility? Is that pleaſure, that commands an abſtinence from enjoyment, and which is frequently known to communicate an antipathy of exiſtence? No, not all the propoſitions of Locke can change one organ that inebriates the heart. And is this reaſon immutable, which is variable as the heavens, and as changeable in a people as in an individual? When rea⯑ſon flies to the cloiſter, does pleaſure fol⯑low? When the anchorite ſhuts up the human heart, what remains but the wan⯑ing ſpectre of man? Pure and trace⯑leſs is the pliability of pleaſure, pure and traceleſs as this kiſs!" He took her hand, and raiſed it to his inclining lips. It was done with ſuch modeſty and gentleneſs, that Emily could not be angry; ſhe was only confuſed.

"Mr. Sedley," ſhe ſaid, "I know theſe freedoms are conſidered rather as [85] favours done to us; but allow me to in⯑dulge my own ſenſations. I have lived in retirement; I cannot grant ſuch in⯑ſidious liberties. You would not, I am ſure, be ſatisfied with that poor gratifica⯑tion of ſeizing from an unprotected fe⯑male that which ſhe muſt not refuſe, and will not grant."

"Heaven forbid, my charming Miſs Emily, angel as you are, in mind as in form! Pleaſure is no ſolitary gratifica⯑tion, it is a dividual enjoyment; if you are miſerable, I therefore cannot be happy. Alas! you perſiſt in refuſing the ſupreme felicity of a chaſte voluptu⯑ouſneſs; in preferring the ſpiritleſs re⯑poſe of life, to that enchantment which gives to one day the exiſtence of an age, the deliciouſneſs of mutual poſſeſ⯑ſion. But recollect, that with the indul⯑gence of this chaſte voluptuouſneſs, no virtue refuſes to be united; and ſuch [86] amiable women have adorned ſociety, and cheriſhed the duties of humanity. I muſt not quit you without repeating Saint Evremond's charming and philo⯑ſophical inſcription for Ninon de L'En⯑clos; I can give it you almoſt lite⯑rally:—

When the philoſophic voluptuary quit⯑ted Emily, he placed his poem in a book ſhe had been reading, unperceived by her, and ſhe now retired to dreſs. Mrs. Bully ſoon afterwards entered, and her [87] curious and inquiſitorial eye, always ex⯑erciſed on the appearance of a volume, unfortunately diſcovered in Emily's this "Art of Love." "A pretty title in⯑deed," ſhe exclaimed, "for a modeſt young lady! Yet Miſs Emily can't read the Bible becauſe of ſome amorous hiſtories, which "ſhe began, but would never finiſh." A curſe on ſuch Socinian⯑iſm!" Here ſhe turned over the leaves, and then cried out, "Lord ſave us! here's a deſcription of two newly-mar⯑ried lovers on the morning couch of Hy⯑men, which I ſuppoſe only means a bed. What's this?—

"Abominable! 'tis n't fit to be read by a Chriſtian! Very well, Miſs Emily! Not fit to be read!" So ſaying, ſhe ſnatched the poem, hurried to her cham⯑ber, ſat down, and having quite read it through, locked it up in one of her ſe⯑cret drawers.

CHAPTER XXI.
Of Loving by Anticipation. A Year of Patronage.

LOVE, in it's earlieſt ſtage, has a variety of ways of exhibiting itſelf. There is love at firſt ſight, which we ob⯑ſerve to be a very faſhionable and expe⯑ditious manner with ſome of our living noveliſts; yet I cannot applaud them for any invention in this reſpect. To detect the fineſt foldings of the human heart, is the pleaſing ſkill of us domeſtic biogra⯑phers. Then, there is love without love, by which we underſtand the Platonic af⯑fection; but what a ridiculous figure would the amiable boy make, if he were to hold in his hand an uſeleſs torch with⯑out [90] a flame, which, we are inclined to think, is the chimerical flambeau which every Platoniſt waves. But the moſt re⯑markable, and, we conceive, the moſt in⯑genious kind of love, is when we are per⯑fectly enamoured of a perſon, whom we have never ſeen, and of whom we have never heard. It is a kind of love to which we are extremely partial, having ourſelves formed a hundred delightful miſeries of ſuch deliciouſneſs; pleaſures of which, aſſuredly, only exquiſite ge⯑nius, or exquiſite madneſs, has ever felt the inebriation. A Spaniſh hero, in one of the plays of Calderon, to apologize for his moſt fervent, but moſt ſudden paſſion, obſerves, that he loved his miſtreſs before he knew her, becauſe he was fated to love her. Others, the very Caeſars of love, may exclaim, I ſaw, I loved, I conquered! but then ſuch a happy victory will more depend on the heroine than the hero; unleſs [91] the latter ſhould poſſeſs a brilliant enqui⯑page, a noble manſion, and a noble income; and in that predicament, the hero may juſtly attribute his triumph entirely to himſelf. But of the kind of love which we form for a perſon quite unknown to us, the moſt pleaſing inſtance is that of the once famous Zayde, who by the means of an unknown portrait, hung in her father's gallery, felt a moſt vehe⯑ment paſſion for her lover, about twenty years before ever ſhe ſaw him; ſo that, without any violation of decency, ſhe might have thrown herſelf into his arms at the very firſt moment they met; but, unfortunately, when ſhe met the man ſhe ſo ardently loved, ſhe paſſed ſeveral years in his ſociety, which a reſolution not to love him, becauſe ſhe loved his picture, which it is evident was not neceſſary for her to know was his picture, till the laſt page of that romance.

[92] Among this claſs of lovers by anticipa⯑tion, we muſt place our good Charles; for he was fond of Emily, and his heart palpitated warmly at the ſound of her name, long before their firſt accidental interview at Mrs. Wilſon's; he loved without having ſeen her; for he loved her moſt affectionately for her filial piety, and her patient ſufferings; but when he ſaw her, to love is but a poverty of con⯑ception, to deſignate with preciſion the tumult that ruſhed on his heart, that made him inactive in the day, and reſtleſs in the night. With Emily, the grand affair of love was far different; as ſhe had not any equal impulſes to love Charles before ſhe ſaw him, when ſhe did ſee him the paſſion grew by ſlow gradations; ſhe was averſe to indulge the ſuſceptibility of her heart; ſhe had a latent propen⯑ſity to a dangerous infection, rather than that ſhe felt the immedicable diſorder. [93] To gain the full poſſeſſion of her virtuous heart, it was neceſſary to merit it; and as ſuch opportunities do not eaſily occur, (at leaſt in true hiſtories like the preſent) it was long before ſhe perceived the juſt claim of Charles to that valued gift. And when ſhe began to love, moſt unfor⯑tunately it occurred, that ſhe was obliged to dread, and to hate, as we purpoſe ſhortly to detail.

Emily entered the parlour one day, followed by the Reverend Ephraim Dan⯑delion. She flung open the door with a haſty violence, unuſual with her mild manners; her face was one bluſh; her whole frame one diſorder. "Heavens! what is the matter, child?" enquired Miſs Million. "Nothing, Madam;" re⯑plied the confuſed Emily, "but Mr. Dandelion, I preſume, will be taught to reſpect himſelf, or me, for the future. As it aſſuredly will not be repeated, it would [94] be giving it too much importance to re⯑member it."

"Well, but what was it Emily? I dare ſay ſome country joke of our young biſhop."

Dandelion replied: "Miſs Emily is ſo touchy, that ſhe takes fire as eaſily as the wadding of my gun, or as a little field of furze. What the deuce can a man do with his hands more inoffenſively, than to arrange the tucker of a charming girl? True, my hand ſlipped; and Miſs Emily was in ſuch an agitation, that, d [...]e, ſhe frightened me."

The eyes of Charles darted fire; they were fixed on Dandelion. The Reverend Ephraim moſt probably caught them, for he bent his head, and employed himſelf in pulling the ſtraps of his boots. Emily marked the full direction of Charles's fer⯑vid eyes; ſhe felt an emotion of gratitude and alarm.

[95] "Indeed, is that all?" ſaid Miſs Mil⯑lion, bridling, with a look which ſhe di⯑vided between the plaintiff and the de⯑fendant, but which might be diſcrimi⯑nated, by an analyzer of a look, into an inſulting ſneer for Emily, and a jealous reproach for Ephraim. "I adviſe you, child, that if ſuch harmleſs freedoms are to occaſion ſuch violent reſentments, to hide yourſelf from the figure of a man. But you have ſeen ſo little of the great world, that ſuch gaucheté of manners muſt be the conſequence. But I do not ſee, Mr. Dandelion, what you have to do with Miſs Emily!"

"Mr. Dandelion," obſerved Vaurien, "would do well, when he thruſts his hands into a roſe-buſh, to take care of not ſcratching himſelf with the briers. I wiſh, my good friend, the tucker had been well armed at all points. You have had but a bloodleſs victory, and have [96] taken the outworks without even the apo⯑logy of a ſiege."

"You country gentlemen," ſaid Sedley, "are moſt robuſt in your refinements; you cruſh in your embrace, and your rap⯑tures annihilate delicate nerves. 'Tis all buſſing at a goſſip's chriſtening. I think you are the only reſpectable part of the com⯑munity who perpetuate the venerable kiſſing of Queen Beſſe's days, or her good father, whoſe kiſſes, I think, generally concluded with blows. I believe a woman conceives a kiſs from a country gentleman full as dreadful as a tug or a ſhake. You are all for overflowing bumpers; no matter what wine! You have done, in the turning of a lock, what a ſenſitive man would have taken three years about."

"D [...]e," ſaid Dandelion, "you all ſet me, like a pack in full cry. I am ſure I am ſorry to have offended Miſs Emily; but I never yet offended by a little play."

[97] "Play, Sir," continued Sedley, "why it is coming to blows! I fear Miſs Emily has received ſome marks from your cud⯑gelling arms. I know a friend, Mr. Dan⯑delion, who is a man of ſenſibility and re⯑finement, and who has now paid his de⯑voirs, to an amiable woman, theſe twelve years; he never paſſed an evening with her but in the company of a third perſon; he admires her muſick, ſhe admires his verſes. He was ſeven years before he kiſſed her hand; but to have touched her tucker—Sir, as ſoon would he;—but I'll ſay no more."

When the company broke up, Charles took Dandelion aſide, and ſaid: "Miſs Emily Balfour I am ſorry to ſee in this houſe, without a protector. Such, I ima⯑gine, ſhe cannot want long; but, till ſhe has a protector, we ſhould all of us conſider it as our indiſpenſable duty to perform that office. You, however, do not.

[98] If you would conſult your own eaſe, I muſt inſiſt that you never offer to give pain to that Lady, by a ſingle word, or a ſingle action."

"So ho, young ſquire!" whiſtled Dandelion, "you are the protector of Miſs Emily! Who gave you this right?"

"My humanity. I do not mean to in⯑terchange any converſation. To a perſon of your character conviction muſt be brought by other means. Mr. Dandelion, my father was a clergyman; it is an awful profeſſion; and he who ſeems aſhamed of it, has attained a degree of depravity which I think is quite of a recent date." So ſaying, he gave a violent ſhake to his cropt hair and braided tail; for when our young parſon was in town, his cle⯑rical encircling curl was twiſted into an elegant tail, ſuſtained by a tortoiſeſhell comb.

[99] "And pray, Sir," calmly demanded Dandelion, "what can you mean by this?"

"Perhaps you may underſtand me bet⯑ter now," ſaid Charles, repeating the ac⯑tion, to the utter diſcomfiture of his faſhionable crop, while the braided tail hung diſhevelled on his back.

"I believe you mean to inſult me!"

"Preciſely ſo. I have now only in⯑ſulted you; but, mean as you are, the next time you do not eſcape correction."

While this ſhort dialogue was paſſing between Charles and Ephraim, the door had been left a-jar, and the maid of Emi⯑ly, in paſſing, had been attracted by the firm tones of Charles. The whole ſcene was revealed. Through the magnifying glaſs of her eye ſhe examined every mo⯑tion, and, in a very poetical amplification of our hero's conciſe proſe, ſhe detailed the whole to Emily; who, when the ter⯑rible [100] deſcription was cloſed, rejoiced to find that the duel was a bloodleſs en⯑counter. Charmed by the modeſt, the ſenſible, and concealed manner, which Charles had choſen to protect her, this action was repaid, by her little heart, with more than gratitude.

In this manner Emily paſſed ſix months in the houſe of Miſs Million, much to her diſſatisfaction. The refinement of Sedley was inſidious; the brutality of Dandelion diſguſted; the intereſt ſhe took in Vaurien was cenſurable; and the growing affection ſhe felt for Charles was imprudent. Miſs Million had now heard her ſo frequently applauded by every one, and particularly ſince the attack of the Reverend Ephraim on the fair boſom of our heroine, that ſhe began to feel weary of a girl who carried the whole weight of attention to her ſide. Her diſpleaſure gleamed through ſeveral obſcure hints [101] dropped to Mrs. Betty her waiting-maid, who blew the gleams into a kitchen flame. They met a moſt terrible bellows in the mouth of Mrs. Bully, who, beſides accu⯑ſations of Socinianiſm, whiſpered in cloſe ſecrets, and talked in imperfect ſurmiſes, that ſhe had made a moſt important de⯑tection of the looſe morals of Miſs Emily. This part of her accuſation agitated the cu⯑rioſity of the lower part of the houſe; and a moſt unfortunate circumſtance, which then happened, confirmed all the foul ac⯑cuſations of the orthodox and benevolent Mrs. Bully.

Emily now viewed the altered features of patronage; ſhe ſaw herſelf the de⯑pendant of a mean, an unfeeling, and an uneducated woman of faſhion. To her ſenſations every look was reproach, every expreſſion contempt, and every civility inſult. Not that Miſs Million uttered her vulgar ſentiments in their clear and [102] appropriate language; but, to the lumi⯑nous ſenſibility of Emily, the ſordid heart of Miſs Million lay open; and her ſenſi⯑tive ſoul now ſhivered, in all the varying ſeaſons of a year of patronage. It was now ſhe perceived that ſhe had not re⯑garded the counſel of her father, in ſeek⯑ing her independence from herſelf; ſhe ſaw her exiſtence in ſorrow or in pleaſure, as the face of her patroneſs choſe. Com⯑pletely miſerable, and humiliated in her own mind, ſhe felt herſelf unprotected, and knew not wher to find a refuge.

CHAPTER XXII.
Vaurien's Friendſhips.

THE friendſhip of Charles for Vau⯑rien had become indiſſoluble. Some opinions, which the Gaul had at firſt thrown out, alarmed him; but he conſi⯑dered them only as thoſe dangerous para⯑doxes, peculiar to the intemperate philo⯑ſophers of his country; nor was Charles a little delighted, by perceiving the energy of his own eloquence, operating on the ſuperior intellect of Vaurien, who had gradually relinquiſhed his own notions, one by one, and, at preſent, ſeemed only a mere reflection of the pure and honeſt Charles. He repoſed on the boſom of this cheriſhed friend; his virtues daily excited [104] admiration; and none ſo much as his ex⯑traordinary liberalities, ſince his late remit⯑tances from France, which, as he informed his friends, he had been ſo fortunate as to receive. To Vaurien, Charles poured his ſe⯑cret ſorrows; he touched mournfully on the diſſipations of Lady Belfield, and lamented the contempt he hourly received from his former gentle patroneſs. "As for my Lord, you acknowledge," ſaid he, "that he is ob⯑ſtinately loſt to reaſon, and an enemy to that conſtitution which protects his perſon and his property; which muſt be ſlowly reformed, not rapidly deſtroyed; united cloſer, not diſorganiſed. In vain I wil⯑lingly yield ſome principles, which I deem political ſuperſtitions; but, in return, he yields me not one opinion, however fan⯑taſtic, however deſtructive. He and his party would innovate all things; but my Lord does not agree with Mr. Subtile, Mr. Subtile with Mr. Dragon, nor Mr. [105] Sympathy with Dr. Bounce. Philoſophy has it's prejudices, not leſs pernicious, not leſs inhuman, than the popular prejudices of the moſt intolerant people. And at what aims this philoſophy? In forming a man without a heart! It is of no conſe⯑quence to me, whether a perſecuting re⯑ligion burns me in an auto-da-fe, or whe⯑ther a perſecuting philoſophy conducts me to the guillotine; it is always the ſame thing for my neck."

To ſimilar converſations Vaurien had not only given his approbation, but ex⯑preſſed his ſurpriſe that a free Briton, like Charles, ſhould violate his dignity by the dependence of patronage. "Grati⯑tude," ſaid he, "for the reception ac⯑corded to a foreign wanderer, ſtill kept him in the houſe of Belfield, but his day of enfranchiſement ſhould not be far; and he ſhould rejoice to obſerve Charles ſpurn his ſplendid, but ignoble chains;" [106] and for this purpoſe offered a liberal ſup⯑ply of money. Charles felt grateful, and only refuſed the offer through delicacy, obſerving, "that whenever his patrons ſhould hint at a diſmiſſion, he would re⯑joice to accept it." "Tres bien," ſaid Vaurien, muſing.

Lady Belfield was exaſperated by the inſenſibility of Charles; ſhe had exhauſt⯑ed her whole artillery, and ſhe in vain eſſayed to ſoften the human ſtatue into animation. She now ſuſpected that his heart was occupied by ſome rival. To her confidential Vaurien ſhe opened her ſur⯑miſes; their mutual paſſion had greatly ſubſided, and, it it's height, it was a love that knows no jealouſy. Her Ladyſhip and Vaurien would have mutually aſſiſted each other in procuring themſelves new lovers.

"Indeed," replied Vaurien to the en⯑quiry, "it is an inſult to your Ladyſhip. [107] Shall I dare to ſay, you have a rival, in an abject being?"

"I deſire, Vaurien," ſaid her Ladyſhip, reddening, "that you will inform me."

"I cannot; my indignation would pre⯑ſerve ſilence."

"Senſitive Vaurien! You anticipate my feelings. I inſiſt on knowing."

"He is my friend; you muſt grant me the moſt inviolable ſecreſy. Charles is unworthy of your regard. Your ri⯑val," added Vaurien, with a ſneer half⯑ſuppreſſed, "is a low woman, picked from the ſtreets, and whom he has placed in a petty ſhop." He gave the addreſs of Mrs. Wilſon.

The face of Lady Belfield burned; her eyes caught fire; and ſhe ſaid, ſcarce audibly: "Is the wretch ſo low? How humiliating the villain! His preſence is a reproach. Vaurien, he ſhall not remain here."

[108] "At this houſe," continued Vaurien, "Miſs Balfour accidentally hired lodg⯑ings. He has taken me frequently to this woman's; but the ſweet Emily, for whom you know I feel a paſſion, a paſ⯑ſion as yet ungratified, knows nothing of her character."

"I have told you, Vaurien," replied her Ladyſhip, "that I have already ſe⯑cured that dear girl to reſide with us ſome time. Receive that innocence with gentleneſs; ſmile at leaſt on the victim of my friendſhip and your love. When ſhe bleeds, let me not hear her cries."

From this converſation Vaurien haſ⯑tened to his Lordſhip. With Belfield he had for ſome time paſt engaged in complicate conſpiracies. "This morn⯑ing, my Lord," he ſaid, "a truſty cou⯑rier has brought me letters from Breſt. Rowan O'Connor has ſecured Connaught. We have a garriſon of Defenders in all [109] the remote towns of Ireland. Surely po⯑tatoes are inflammable, the Iriſh are ſo hot. Our party gains at Paris; the Ja⯑cobins are playing gently now with the Moderés, but, rely on it, 'tis the young tyger with his keeper, who attempted to domeſticate the animal, but when the tyger knew his ſtrength, he toſſed about the head of his keeper for his amuſement. An embarkation for England is prepar⯑ing, the coaſts are lined with men; the invaſion is at no great diſtance; but your Lordſhip wants patriotiſm, and this is the only moment when all the Thames ſhould roll, like another Pactolus, on ſands of gold. Money is wanted in Ireland. Dra⯑gon holds a correſpondence with almoſt every town in England; we have all the idle, the diſcontented, the bankrupts, and the hot-brained youth of every town; you ſee our party is formidable. Rant has become an itinerant orator, and his ſixpenny eloquence ſcatters more ſedi⯑tion [110] among the lower claſſes than all the money of your Lordſhip; he is quite intelligible to them; ranting, roaring, raving; he draws his metaphors from the very gutters of the people; and ſo far, like Virgil, as your Addiſon ſays, the fellow toſſes his dung about him with ſome effect."

His Lordſhip liſtened with intenſe de⯑light to this rapid ſketch of the Gaul. What he barely touched on, his fertile imagination expanded by anticipation. Already, on the ruins of London, a com⯑mittee of public ſafety ſeemed to ariſe. "Take all, my dear Vaurien, all I have to give; but the dilatorineſs of all thoſe projects, which you deſcribe ſo rapidly, has left me a ruined man. Mortgage I cannot more, and for ſwindling I have not ſufficient credit. If this invaſion of England fails, where ſhall I fly?"

"France," replied Vaurien, "will be proud to enrol the name of Belfield [111] among it's Engliſh citizens; we have al⯑ready ſome Britiſh worthies of a kindred merit. But I can proceed no further if Charles remains in your houſe. I ſuſpect he is a miniſterial ſpy."

"He ſhall have his diſmiſſion," ſaid his Lordſhip.

Such were the friendſhips of Vaurien; yet at the very inſtant he evinced a ſud⯑den ebullition of ſympathy, which virtue would have been proud to own. Paſ⯑ſing the hall, he obſerved a ſervant lad, who had retired into a dark corner, and ſeated on a bench, was weeping and ſob⯑bing. "What has happened, William?" enquired Vaurien.—"I have juſt re⯑ceived a letter, Sir, from my poor mo⯑ther, who tells me my father is dead. He has been bed-ridden theſe ten years. His death might have been borne, for my poor mother could hardly ſupport herſelf and a helpleſs old man. But we are both now in ſuch deſpair, I cannot [112] ſleep at the thoughts; my father will not have Chriſtian burial; the creditors inſiſt firſt on being paid; the body is detained, and heaven only knows where my father's ſoul reſts; it can never reſt ſurely if not buried in Chriſtian ground. Ah! Sir, I remember, that when the great Methodiſt Surgeon of our village anatomized the ſtrong man that was hanged for continually breaking out of priſon, he felt a qualm of conſcience, and employed me in the night to dig a grave in the church-yard, that the bones might be buried in holy ground; for he, no doubt, could not anſwer to his conſcience if they had remained unburied. If people are not buried in church ground, what will become of their ſouls? My mother is diſtracted, and I am afraid to walk in the night." Vaurien ſmiled at the artleſs tremors of the lad and his mother, and quieted their holy horror by his liberal aſſiſtance.

CHAPTER XXIII.
A Declaration of Love, not known to the Lover.

SINCE Emily's reſidence in Portman⯑ſquare, although ſo long a time had elapſed, Mrs. Wilſon had not yet paid her a viſit. This ſeparation had been occaſioned by miſfortune, and not by neglect. There are ſome beings who ſeem ſelected by "outrageous Fortune," not only to receive the full weight of her fatal "ſling," but to be stuck round by her haraſſing and petty "arrows." Mrs. Wilſon, in iſſuing one day for this very purpoſe, either that really ſhe had been ſo cloſely confined at her induſtrious counter, that ſhe was quite a novice in the art of walking the crouded ſtreets, [114] or that, accuſtomed to indulge many profound reveries of ſorrow, ſhe was ra⯑ther ſeen, than that ſhe herſelf ſaw, ſhe had hardly cleared the view of her houſe, when ſhe encountered a porter, who▪ with the full weight and the broad expanſion of a cheſt of tea, was equally oppreſſed as blinded, yet unfortunately determined, at the ſame time, to be rapid in his motions; ſo that the exertion of ſight entirely reſted on the paſſengers, and not on the porter. The latter indeed proceeded rapidly, but ſecurely, for he was in no danger of be⯑ing reverſed; but ruſhing round the cor⯑ner of a ſtreet where Mrs. Wilſon had arrived, at that very nicety of point of turning when the two future contenders are perfectly unperceived by each other—in not half a ſecond of time—the por⯑ter rounded, and Mrs. Wilſon fell! It proved no trifling fracture, and ſhe had [115] hitherto been confined to her houſe. Emily had more than once called on her, had ſympathized, and found her more eſtimable at every interview; yet her fa⯑ther's ſuſpicions had made in indelible impreſſion on her mind; and prompt as ſhe was at the tender call of friendſhip, ſuſpicion made her rather tremble than enjoy.

When this poor woman found herſelf in a ſtate of convaleſcence, ſhe came im⯑mediately to her young friend. "I hope, Miſs Emily," ſhe ſaid, "your ſituation is agreeable."

"Alas! Mrs. Wilſon," Emily replied, "if it is not, I muſt attribute it to my preſent ſtate of feeling. Every ſcene takes much, and ſometimes all it's effect, from our exiſting ideas. I feel, that if I were in an Elyſium it would appear gloomy. In the image of my father, there is yet too much life for me quietly [116] to remember that it has ceaſed to exiſt, his minuteſt habits, and his accuſtomed phraſes, ſtill engage my affections; and I gaze, on what I cannot view, and I liſten, to what I cannot hear. To me he is not dead! and I ſeem to live in the cruel torments of an abſence I never yet knew, and cannot teach myſelf to ſuffer. Conſider, then, my preſent ſituation; here is nothing but mirth and ſplendour, and my heart is agitated by a perpetual conflict of interiour miſery, and exterior gaiety. But with me the heart will ever prevail over all it's conſtraints; it will colour the ſcene I view, will prompt in my ſorrows the languor of my converſation, and muſt ill fit me to be the companion of Miſs Million. Every day I feel I am an intruder in this great houſe; and yet I conſider myſelf as it's humbleſt ſervant. I ſold my freedom when I united myſelf to it's generous owner. Gratitude takes [117] from me the power of choice; otherwiſe, much could I wiſh, my dear Mrs. Wil⯑ſon, that I ſtill occupied the ſmall room of your ſmall houſe; there I think I could feel quietneſs, and to me quietneſs ſeems an enjoyment; I almoſt think it felicity. My independence would then ariſe from myſelf; temperance would be my gratification; uſeful, yet not un⯑pleaſing occupations all my wealth, and your converſation would conſtitute all that I wiſh to hear of the world. When I entered this ſuperb manſion, I unthink⯑ingly violated the ſolemn injunction of my dear father, who, as if he had been aware of this ſplendid ſlavery, this ſilken chain, told me only to derive my ſubſiſtence from myſelf. Ah! if I were but once more in your little room!—but what do I ſay? There my father would ſit before me; every thing in your houſe would remind me of his preſence. The arm [118] chair would tell me where he twice ſwooned, and the bed would for ever revive his laſt, his affectionate, yet dig⯑nified hour! But theſe are fooliſh tears; the unavailing tears of memory; yet is their ſweet ſadneſs endeared to the liv⯑ing; they ever relieve me; and when I have wiped my eyes, my heart feels the energy of fortitude, and I then ſay, I live as Heaven chuſes."

"If you would live with me," replied Mrs. Wilſon, "I will change my houſe. On induſtry alone depends all my bu⯑ſineſs, and induſtry will make buſineſs in one ſtreet as well as in another. I have heard ſome of my neighbours, who have quitted their firſt ſhops to get into larger ones, complain, that their preſent ſtreet is not half ſo lucky as their former one. I have attempted, out of mere be⯑nevolence, and not of mere pride, to play the philoſopher. I have ſhewn them, [119] that in their firſt ſhops, with much leſs buſineſs, they were much more induſtri⯑ous; and that when ſome people get rich, it is a chance, that they become again poor; and really, without ſuſpecting it, I have purſued a certain notion of Ari⯑ſtotle's, which I met the other evening, that there is no good or ill fortune, but what ariſes from our own ill or good conduct; and that to ſay a man is very unfortunate, is to ſay, that he wants ca⯑pacity, or wants induſtry. However, I have made no converts of my good neigh⯑bours; and one particularly, who, I fear, by his expenſive mode of living, and by the affected education of his daughters, who, when their father's man is weighing cheeſe, are employed at delighting his ears by jarring with a concerto of Haydn, and who have hung round their ſhop, among Cheſhire and Wiltſhire cheeſes, ſome ſelect views of ancient Greece, I ſay [120] this poor man, who made a reſpectable fortune in his firſt ſhop by his own in⯑duſtry, is now convinced, that Great Ruſſel-ſtreet is one of the unluckieſt ſtreets in town. But I am flying off in a tangent when I have ſomething to communicate, of a ſerious and intereſting nature.

"What I now impart muſt, my dear Miſs Emily, be confided to your ſecret ear. It is not only your delicacy which I fear to irritate, but the kindneſs of the hu⯑maneſt man, which I tremble to offend. A devoted friendſhip for two perſons, whoſe happineſs is dear to me as the ex⯑iſtence of my children, will, if it is re⯑turned but in the ſmalleſt portion, re⯑ceive with affection, or pardon with fa⯑cility, what my heart has prompted me to diſcloſe."

"Why this embarraſſment, Mrs. Wil⯑ſon? What ſecret can you have to pre⯑face [121] thus ſolemnly? Can you fear to unfold, or I to hear, what you ſay in⯑tereſts me? The innocent have no ſe⯑crets. I aſſure you I never had a ſecret in my life. I have indeed been made ac⯑quainted with that kind of intelligence, but I generally found that a ſecret was only malice in diſguiſe. I muſt freely ſay, that extorted ſilence I can violate without any conſcientious yearnings. Have you a ſecret which you would not tell me as frankly as any other friend?"

"Indeed I cannot agree. Yes, I muſt ſay that innocence may have it's ſecrets, which it would expire before it would reveal. Ah! there are ſome delicate ſitu⯑ations, which, if not fearfully and cau⯑tiouſly concealed, might wear the moſt criminal aſpect." Mrs. Wilſon here gave a ſigh much more profound than au⯑dible.

[122] "Well, my dear Mrs. Wilſon," re⯑plied Emily, "you muſt know more of human nature than myſelf. I never could enter into any man's character but my father's. All men aſſuredly are not pur⯑ſued by the ſame ill fortune; and all, therefore, may not be as ſelf-ſevere. Of⯑ten has he told me, that he never con⯑ceived a thought that he was not prompt to expreſs. Excellent man! There was a holineſs in his mind. And reſpecting thoſe critical ſituations to which you al⯑lude, where innocence takes a criminal aſpect, he uſed to ſay, ſincerity is wiſ⯑dom. What to-day we conceal may ap⯑pear to-morrow; and the explanation we avoided will then come too late. We have got into our uſual moralizing ſtrain, my dear Mrs. Wilſon; but I am now quite prepared for your ſecret."

While Emily was pronouncing her [123] father's apophthegm on ſincerity, Mrs. Wilſon reddened, changed her poſture, and drew out her handkerchief to place before her eyes. Emily was intent on her netting. The pointed addreſs ſhe had made, her innocent heart never ſuſpected. When Mrs. Wilſon recovered from cer⯑tain uncomfortable ſenſations, ſhe pro⯑ceeded thus: "You know, Miſs Emily, that to the ſingular benevolence of Mr. Charles Hamilton I and my children are indebted for our daily bread. We ſhould now be worſe than mendicants; for men⯑dicity has it's friendſhips; alone in this metropolis, God denied me one. I con⯑ſidered myſelf as an outcaſt; no relative to aid me with an aſſuaſive word of con⯑ſolation; poverty was combined with deſpair. My ſoul ſickened, my exiſtence was poignant; more than once my armed hand was raiſed to my breaſt; but when my eye has ſought to take a final fare⯑well [124] of my children, the weapon fell, and the mother lived!" Here Mrs. Wilſon burſt into tears, and her thick ſobbings impeded her voice.

"Dear Mrs. Wilſon," ſaid Emily in emotion, "I believe your ſituation was as ſingular as the benevolence of Mr. Charles. His modeſty ſtudiouſly con⯑ceals his merits; but no man who is uni⯑formly benevolent can ſo far indulge his natural diſpoſitions; the voice of grati⯑tude will utter the ſecrets of modeſt philanthropy. He has felt for me here; I too am his debtor, but it is unknown to him; he has ſeen me embarraſſed, and has delicately extricated; he has ſeen me inſulted, and has ſilently protected. It would have been generous to have pro⯑tected a female, but to have done this unknown to all but to her offender has in it ſomething of the delicacy of thoſe ſenſitive beings who, in an age of roman⯑tic [125] generoſity, were only alive to the im⯑pulſe of heroiſm."

Mrs. Wilſon was now more compoſed; and this voluntary applauſe beſtowed on her friend cheered and animated; a ſoft ſmile brightened her tears, like a ſun⯑beam gilding a watery cloud. She ſaid, "perhaps, Miſs Emily, you have ob⯑ſerved Mr. Charles of late. How exa⯑nimate, how pallid, how melancholy!"

"He has told me," ſaid Emily, "he is unwell."

"Alas!" replied Mrs. Wilſon, "he thinks he never can be well. Sleepleſs nights and feveriſh days, if they can⯑not rapidly annihilate the ſource of life, preſs down it's elaſticity, and wear away ſlowly but ſurely it's ſprings. Never ex⯑pect more to ſee him other than he is; his malady is in his ſilence, and he will prefer that ſilence to his health; he pe⯑riſhes without the little conſolation of [126] ſaying, I periſh; enamoured of his ma⯑lady, he ſmiles in his ſufferings."

"Explain yourſelf," exclaimed Emily, earneſtly and tremblingly.

"I muſt firſt," continued Mrs. Wil⯑ſon, "aſſure you, that Mr. Charles ſome⯑times, in the native ſimplicity of his heart, confides circumſtances which he would not expreſsly mention. If my gratitude had not taught me to ſtudy him minutely, to catch every variation of his tones, every expreſſion of his geſtures, every diſtant combination of a caſual word, I had to this moment, like others, only perceived that his health decayed, while the cauſe would have been mantled over in the moſt reſolute concealment. Like you, Miſs Emily, in his reſidence he is unfor⯑tunate. You alike feel the tortures of a ſplendid dependence. Similar in your ſentiments, you are ſimilar in your ſuffer⯑ings. If you mutually look into your [127] own hearts, you will ſee that of the other."

A quick bluſh covered the face of Emily, warm as the firſt ſuffuſion of an early paſſion.

"And now, Miſs Balfour, when I ven⯑ture to ſay, that with diffidence, but with ardour, he loves you, muſt I be cenſured for unburthening a truth that has long oppreſſed my heart? Who in this world are dear to me but my children, and yourſelf, and Mr. Charles? Reſt only aſſured, that he knows not of my coming here, and ſuſpects not that I have diſco⯑vered the concealed ſource of his infeli⯑city. Did I not know him the nobleſt of men, I ſhould not have addreſſed my⯑ſelf now to the moſt amiable of women. Gratitude would not have exacted my diſturbance of your repoſe. Pardon me then, if I have acted erroneouſly; it is the error of reſpectful affection."

[128] Emily pauſed, was diſtreſſed, and ra⯑veled her net-work. "I know not how to reply," ſhe ſaid, "my dear Mrs. Wil⯑ſon. I have the higheſt regard for Mr. Charles. Not to value him would ſhew myſelf worthleſs. I owe him much. He is the only friend I have of his ſex. But when I aſſure you, that I never felt more than reſpect for the maſculine character, I ſpeak with my wonted ſincerity. The paſſion of love has never moleſted my quiet; I never could love any man but my father. I loved him becauſe he was great and unfortunate. But the friend⯑ſhips of my own ſex form the only ſo⯑cial pleaſures I can receive from another. There is no delicacy, none of the tender and melting features of nature in man. If my father had not been my father, even him I ſhould have thought ſevere. As for myſelf, I have found ſome relief; La⯑dy Belfield has given me an invitation to [129] reſide with her during an abſence of Miſs Million's from town. Believe me when I ſay, that the friendſhip of her Lady⯑ſhip, an amiable and accompliſhed wo⯑man, yields a careleſs, untempered joy, a fearleſs happineſs, which the ſeverity of man can never communicate."

"Name not Lady Belfield!" cried Mrs. Wilſon with energy and emotion. "I muſt not further prolong my viſit; but, dear Miſs Emily, remember that Charles Hamilton will be ſilent but muſt love. I conjure you not to notice to him, that I have mentioned his name to you on this delicate diſcovery. Never, perhaps, would he pardon, and his diſ⯑pleaſure would render the life I owe him loathſome."

She quitted the fair Emily, and left her abſorbed in thoſe tender trepida⯑tions of the mind, when with half-reluctant half-aſſenting emotions the earlieſt flame of paſſion breaks from [130] the heart, where it lay concealed and un⯑felt, to diffuſe itſelf over the form, to ſparkle in the eye, to bloom in the fea⯑ture, to melodize the voice, and to po⯑liſh the air; while nature, ſeconding the innocent embarraſſment, bewitches the lover by calling forth thoſe new-born charms, more fatal to his repoſe than thoſe he traced ere his miſtreſs knew her firſt amorous thought.

But the ſevere fortune of Charles doomed that this firſt amorous thought was never known to him, and, inſtead of charming, it terrified. The cradle of Love is wreathed by the Graces, and the muſic of Hope pours its faſcinating ſound; but to our hero, Love was nurſed by the Furies, and the melodies of Hope were exchanged for the myſterious re⯑proaches and the averted face of his Emily.

CHAPTER XXIV.
The Puniſhment continued when the Crime has ceaſed.

WHEN Mrs. Wilſon had quitted the faire Emily, and was paſſing through the hall, one of the footmen familiarly ad⯑dreſſed her, and was on the point of forc⯑ing her to an embrace, when violently burſting from his arms, in an agony of horror ſhe exclaimed: "And has it come to this?"—She ruſhed from the door.

"Body o'me!" cried the footman, "why the old dame thinks I don't know her again. She has gone off for all the world like a modeſt woman! So the Hol⯑born-hill madam is Miſs Emily's good friend! Birds of a feather, I warrant; [...]are intelligence for Mrs. Bully!"

[132] Let us follow the miſerable and humi⯑liated Wilſon! She reached home with⯑out a perception of having iſſued from the houſe of Miſs Million. The hall and the footman were fixed in her imagination; a repeated geſture ſeemed as if ſhe was continually ſhrinking from his touch; ſhe writhed in tortures; her face was now reddened by the deepeſt ſhame, and ſoon ſucceeded an aſhy horror over every fea⯑ture. As ſoon as ſhe had reached her houſe ſhe hurried to her chamber, threw herſelf on the bed, and ſpoke incohe⯑rently in an agony of ſpirits: "Father of Mercies, is mercy alone denied to me? Is not an error waſhed away by tears like mine? No! I had not endured thy final puniſhment; I ſee there was a degree of miſery yet reſerved for me, ſharper than the ſecret ſting that lay in my heart. When I was a proſtitute, my ſhame was reſerved for myſelf; there was no friend [133] to reproach; no perdition to the cheriſhed feelings of ſocial affection; no one marked me; I ſinned, no, I only erred, in peace. Children, children! what have ye not coſt me! what now will ye coſt me! Shall I curſe ye? ſhall I abandon ye? Have ye not extended your mother on the ſloweſt rack of agony?—Poor children, ye are innocent, I alone am guilty. Heaven de⯑crees that the puniſhment ſhall endure when the crime has paſt. Shall I mur⯑mur to taſte the bitterneſs my own hands have prepared? Now, wherever I wander, wherever I fix, 'the finger of ſcorn' will point at me, a low, a miſerable proſtitute! A fever ſhakes my frame. Cruel retro⯑ſpection! I thought myſelf reinſtated in virtue and comfort—one ſtroke of acci⯑dent deſtroys my eternal peace! This footman—The idea is inſupportable!—my ſhame is promulgated—Miſs Emily muſt at length know me the wretch I am [134] Wiſe was her father's counſel, that ſin⯑cerity is wiſdom; what we conceal to-day may appear to-morrow. Explanation has come too late! For the bluſh it would have coſt me, I now muſt give the pang that ſhall endure with life. She ſurely addreſſed herſelf to me, to claim the elu⯑cidation of my myſterious hiſtory. O tor⯑ture! I will fly into the country; I will ſeek ſome chance ſervitude; I will periſh, and no one ſhall know where the wretched Wilſon dies.—This then is the ſuſpended puniſhment of heaven! I taſted bitter⯑neſs; I feed on gall. My children, my children, if ye periſh, ye cannot reproach your delirious mother—it is your country, your God decrees it."

Leaving this victim of her own error and of public prejudice we return to the houſe of Million. As ſoon as the foot⯑man, who had more than once known her in her degrading character, entered the [135] ſervants' hall, he informed the coachman, that the dame of Holborn-hill had juſt paſſed from the apartment of Emily, and that ſhe flung out as proud as if ſhe had been a modeſt woman. The coachman related the circumſtance to his very good friend the cook, without "extenuating or ſetting down aught in malice." In theſe caſes the imaginations of men are not apt to prove ſo fertile as thoſe of the women, for reaſons known aſſuredly to an obſerver of human nature. The cook embelliſhed it, the chamber-maid refined it, while Mrs. Bully gave it the beginning, the middle, and the end, ſo ſeverely ex⯑acted by the great Ariſtotle in the com⯑poſition of an epic. And here we muſt obſerve, that lying is the eloquence of the vulgar. To affect and perſuade the hu⯑man paſſions requires a forcible emotion of the ſoul; for a gentle emotion, like the flat uniformity of a ſleeping ſea, cannot [136] pleaſe long. We muſt ſtorm the mind. Poets and orators will therefore beſt ſuc⯑ceed in taking poſſeſſion of the attention of their readers and auditors, becauſe they alike are ſkilful in amplification, which, in truth, is nothing but lying. An exact re⯑preſentation would not affect; we ſhould not long read a poem, or liſten to an ora⯑tion, which had nothing but the ſimpli⯑city of truth. Of this the vulgar are ſen⯑ſible, although the cauſe is concealed. There are no greater liars than the vulgar, for experience has taught them the uti⯑lity of lying; they employ augmentatives or diminutives, as they deſire to excite a correſpondent feeling; and the vulgar are, without knowing it, great poets and orators.

The cook mentioned, that a vile ſtrum⯑pet, known to John and Miſs Emily, had juſt gone out; the chamber-maid, that Miſs Emily and John were acquainted [137] with all the ſtrumpets in town; and Mrs. Bully hurried to Mr. Million, to aſſure him, that it was now high time to ſpeak out; that Miſs Emily was only fit com⯑pany for women of the town, and was concerned with John; that ſhe herſelf had ſeen in her poſſeſſion an abominable book, and was beſides a profeſſed Arian.

"Well, well, 'tis juſt what I thought!" exclaimed Mr. Million. "Taking the Lord knows who into the houſe of a bank director, becauſe ſhe was an old blind lieutenant's daughter. I ſhall have all the daughters of the old knights of Wind⯑ſor. Curſe her harp, twanging in my ears, that makes me as melancholy ſometimes as a fall of ſtocks." He haſtened to Miſs Million, who certainly was ſingularly ſhocked with the intelligence, conſidering that ſhe already had heard it from Betty two hours before, and was then quietly doſing over the laſt new novel.

[138] "My dear father," cried Miſs Million, "I am all of a tremor; my poor nerves! 'tis ſhameful! not fit to be told! Pray call in John, accuſe him before me, let me hear all that has paſt. It will be in the papers to-morrow; if Mr. Libel ſhould hear it, Million-houſe will be ſcandalized. A footman!"

John being ſummoned, related his ſim⯑ple ſtory; and reduced the epical lye of Mrs. Bully to a mere aſſurance, that the perſon who had iſſued from Miſs Emily's apartment was a common proſ⯑titute.

Miſs Million being now alone, ſent in for Emily, and began thus: "Miſs, when I ſuffered you to make Portman-ſquare your aſylum, it was from my benevolence." Emily trembled. "But you have abuſed my goodneſs, and inſtead of the girl you was at Exmouth, I find you are the aſſo⯑ciate of a low proſtitute."

[139] Emily, pale and alarmed, cried, "Hea⯑vens! what do you mean? Tell me, I be⯑ſeech you, quickly!"

"Your alarm and your tremor are ex⯑tremely adroit. Performed to admiration! Why, one would think, to look at you, you really trembled! But 'tis the pro⯑feſſion of your friend. One might ima⯑gine that you did not know who was the perſon who called on you this morn⯑ing."

"Her name is Wilſon; ſhe let lodgings to my father."

"I dare ſay ſhe lets lodgings. She is well known in this family; a very chere amie of John's. You will have the kind⯑neſs to quit Million-houſe as early as you can. I need not recommend you a lodg⯑ing." So ſaying, ſhe hummed a tender opera air, and left Emily in the parlour, motionleſs and ſilent.

At length ſenſation revived to con⯑ſciouſneſs. [140] She now relieved her op⯑preſſed heart in one of thoſe little mo⯑nologues her innocence had rendered ha⯑bitual.

"Then are my father's ſuſpicions veri⯑fied! All that he ſaid, how ſevere! how true! What confidence can we beſtow on our aſſociates! Friendſhip, how thy name is abuſed! Simplicity, how thy air is mi⯑micked! This wicked woman—Charles too—They muſt be united! She is em⯑ployed by him for the purpoſe of ſeduc⯑ing me! Every myſtery is now revealed. He was frequently quoting Thomſon's "boundleſs confidence of ſoul;"—ſo too did the licentious Sedley! She was un⯑willing to part with me at firſt; ſhe now offers me a refuge in her houſe; ſhe would even change her reſidence to receive me! This day ſhe told me that Charles loved me!—Hypocrite, how have I eſcaped your toils? And Charles too, refined diſſem⯑bler! [141] Does he deceive me, whoſe image my fancy cheriſhed next to my father's? He protected me from Dandelion—I thought it generous; I find it mean—He would reſerve me for his prey! Oh Emily, poor deſerted girl! I feel now as if the whole earth had conſpired againſt me. Where ſhall I fly?"

"To theſe arms!" exclaimed Vaurien, as he entered the parlour, throwing him⯑ſelf at her feet. "Your face, Miſs Emily, is covered with tears. Refuſe me not the conſolation of uniting mine. Not a tear on your face but melts on my heart. Tell me your diſtreſſes, accept my little aid. I have heard ſome abrupt effuſions of ſorrow; I cannot live and forget them."

Emily, confuſed, heſitating, and deeply ſobbing, had loſt her voice. Her fine auburn treſſes fell in diſorder on her face and her neck; ſhe raiſed two dewy eyes to heaven; the tears fell, and glittered on her [142] hair; ſhe looked a Magdalen of Guido. Vaurien, with gentleneſs placed her in a chair; he knelt, took her hand, imprinted a fervid kiſs; ſhe had not even the pre⯑ſence of mind to reſiſt, or to perceive his improper attitude. The image of her fa⯑ther was before her; ſhe gazed in a ſilent agony of imagination; her tears were re⯑newed; Vaurien was emboldened by her inſenſibility.—At this inſtant Charles ſlung open the door—He uttered an au⯑dible ejaculation. Emily ſtarted. "Where am I?" ſhe cried. "Is it you, Sir?" and ſhe darted a glance of anger and horror.

"Think 'tis no one!" replied Charles quickly, and hurried from the room.

"Deceiver!" murmured Emily. She covered her face with her hands, and ſat abſorbed in grief. Vaurien compoſed his attitude, and ſtood near her chair. Such was the confuſion of Emily's mind, that [143] few traces of what had occurred left their impreſſions on her recollection. The en⯑trance of Charles had revived her anger and her fear. When ſhe turned her eyes on Vaurien, ſhe looked with kindneſs; ſhe conſidered that his preſence had proved her protection.

Vaurien caught the inſtant change. "Do me the honour, Miſs Balfour, of ſuf⯑fering my aſſiſtance. What occaſions this great diſtreſs?"

"You ſee before you the moſt miſe⯑rable of her ſex. A woman without a friend."

"Say not ſo, adorable Miſs Emily; whoever knows you muſt be your friend; and if a ſofter name would not offend, there is who would only live to pre⯑ſerve it."

"Alas! Sir, you mean not to irritate a ſpirit already wounded. I have hung ever the verge of deſtruction, blindly, [144] feebly, yet boldly. O were my father liv⯑ing! Angel in heaven! art thou inſenſible to the voice of thy daughter? On earth thou didſt open to her the volume of her fate; and now can thy paternal ten⯑derneſs not reach thy miſerable wan⯑derer?"

"Dear Miſs Emily, your imagination is diſturbed. Calm the vehemence of feel⯑ing; inform, but do not agitate me."

"Mr. Vaurien, you perhaps can inform me. You know where I lodged with my father. The woman ſays, it is to you and Mr. Charles ſhe owes her exiſtence."

"Ah! Miſs Emily," replied Vaurien, turning aſide his head, "'tis a delicate ſubject; let your ſilence ſpare my feel⯑ings."

"Nay, dear Sir, I muſt ſay more, much more. You muſt tell me all if you would be my friend. Miſs Million has this mo⯑ment told me, that that woman—"

[145] "Is a low proſtitute."—Vaurien ſpared her the words.

"And you, Sir, have protected her?" ſaid Emily, quickly.

"She is the friend of Charles," conti⯑nued Vaurien; "I knew nothing of her. Common charity makes no diſtinctions among it's firſt claimants; I prefer aſſiſt⯑ing the worthleſs, rather than to chill the warmth of my heart by enquiries, which may delay too late the ſuccour due to the worthy."

"Generous man! And is it then true? I know nothing of human nature. I thought her a ſuffering angel."

"Native goodneſs! I repeat, ſhe is an infamous woman. Charles is her friend. I will never more enter that houſe: but ſurely they have not moleſted your tran⯑quillity?"

"O much, much!" cried Emily. "O deluſion of the heart! Heaven and my [146] father ſurely protected me. This woman had ſuch facile tears on her face, ſuch unobtruſive goodneſs, ſuch concealed me⯑rits. There is a refinement in depravity. I thought, till now, that the wicked af⯑fected an oſtentatious virtue."

"Truſt me!"ſaid Vaurien, "Lady Belfield has a juſt eſteem for your cha⯑racter; her houſe is open to you."

CHAPTER XXV.
The Miſery of Shame without Guilt. A novel Species of Authorſhip.

VAURIEN, when he met Charles on his return, rallied him for his abrupt departure from Emily. "She is a finiſhed coquette," ſaid he, "when you are preſent, but alone ſhe is one of thoſe dangerous girls, with overflowing hearts, who are apt to throw us off our guard. You witneſſed her charming diſ⯑order. 'Twas lucky you entered! A glance invites her, a word poſſeſſes her. She is now coming to Lady Belfield; a chaſte pair of doves to be yoked to the car of Venus! Could you imagine that the female character is ſo deceptive? [148] But deception is their occupation and their amuſement, their utile and their dulce."

Charles liſtened with horror, and ſhud⯑dered with reflection. Vaurien dropt ſe⯑veral obſcure hints of former interviews with Emily, and exhibited ſuch con⯑firmed familiarity, and offered to ſhare her favours with ſuch friendly confidence, that Charles, recollecting the viſible de⯑light which Emily took in all the con⯑verſations of Vaurien, and that diſdainful glance with which ſhe harrowed his ſoul when he broke in while Vaurien was at her feet, blamed his precipitation of paſ⯑ſion and contracted diſcernment, con⯑cluded the Gaul to be the favoured lover, and ſuſpected the purity of Emily.

"Ah! my friend," he cried, "would I were but baniſhed from this houſe! Patiently I cannot ſuffer one whom I re⯑vered as an angel to become before my [149] eyes an aſſociate for Lady Belfield. To view her will be hourly to revive regrets, which, ſuppreſſed by abſence, may ſlowly die away. Exiſtence becomes a torture in her preſence."

"Tres bien!" ſaid Vaurien, muſing.

In the mean while Lady Belfield had made exact enquiries relative to Mrs. Wilſon; nor did Johnſon, the old friend of Charles, heſitate to give into her Lady⯑ſhip's idea of the entire tranſaction, ſo prone are the beſt men to decide by ap⯑pearances. His Lordſhip had been al⯑ready prepared to unite with Lady Bel⯑field's meaſures; and a few days after the above converſation with Vaurien, Charles found on his table a note from her Ladyſhip, in her own hand-writing, containing a final diſmiſſion. Her Lady⯑ſhip laid conſiderable ſtreſs on his offen⯑ſive and degrading connections.—"Mrs. Wilſon," cried Charles, "will herſelf [150] vindicate this undeſerved obloquy."—At this moment the following letter was brought from this unfortunate wo⯑man:—

"Moſt unfortunate of her ſex!" cried Charles, "her life points a moral. It is a leſſon for the times. A dereliction from [154] chaſtity is puniſhed with exceſſive ſeve⯑rity, and unjuſt puniſhments produce real crimes. Woman muſt reſiſt the combined attacks of love; that paſſion, which our modes of education and our manners have taught her to think is the important occupation of life; but the negligence of a parent, an accidental occurrence, an unſuſpicious moment, a wandering of ſenſibility, a refined intrigue, the certi⯑tude of confidence, and the fondneſs of affection, overpower or inveigle that mo⯑ral ſentiment, which otherwiſe would have perſevered in it's habitual duties. Woman requires, therefore, a more energetic for⯑titude than even man; but fortitude is maſculine; and a female ſtands unpro⯑tected amidſt the illuſions of her heart. But when the hateful life of proſtitution is derived merely from the indigence and deſpair of virtue, it is ſtill chaſtiſed with the ſame torture; the domeſtic porch of [155] Peace is for ever cloſed. Such unhappy wanderers are inured to viciouſneſs by our barbarous and unrelenting accuſations. A wiſe and philoſophical regulation of the illuſtrious Frederick prohibited, under ſe⯑vere penalties, the aſperſion of that female who had returned to the arms of her friends, and to the renewal of thoſe do⯑meſtic virtues which ſhe had ſuſpended rather than deſerted. How long will phi⯑lanthropy tranquilly gaze on a vaſt multi⯑tude of females periſhing in youth!

"Poor Wilſon, thou art no criminal!—and yet thou wert a proſtitute. Child of ſenſibility! thy heart would burſt at the accuſation; thou didſt ruſh in the darkneſs of the night to feed thy periſhing children—Thou could'ſt not have been a proſtitute in the blaze of day! And I, who would not ſuffer a widow and her children to periſh in the ſtreets, am now involved in her apparent criminality. [156] Johnſon cenſured me for having formed diſgraceful connections; and to her Lady⯑ſhip I can now no more refer this unhappy fugitive. He who aids unfortunate vir⯑tue (for this woman is moſt virtuous) po⯑pular prejudice decrees as a participator in a libertiniſm he abhors!

"And Emily then knows my paſſion; and has ſo long deceived Mrs. Wilſon?—The flower that is covered with the vir⯑gin dews of innocence can then conceal a young and foul ſerpent! Yes, her I have ſeen; Vaurien, I have heard; her infu⯑riate glance ſhivered my frame. Yet can I never forget her. I loved her when I thought her virtuous; and I now muſt mourn her, as if a ſudden death had deprived me of her whom I loved. The pleaſures of life are not for me; I will ſit by the ſide of their tomb, and think of the departed happineſs it holds."

[157] He now framed a reſpectful reply to Lady Belfield, related the nature of his connection with Mrs. Wilſon, and lament⯑ed that her abrupt flight muſt render his conduct myſterious. When he quitted the houſe, Vaurien converſed with him in a tenderneſs of tone, that ſeemed as if he were ſhedding tears, and he inſiſted on his accepting a liberal loan to aſſiſt him in his purſuits.

Old friendſhips, that have been inter⯑rupted rather through inattention than pride, are in adverſity viewed by an eye that, clouded with a tear, gives a peculiar tenderneſs to the object on which it re⯑verts. Charles flew to Johnſon, and poured in his honeſt ear the change of his fortunes. Johnſon repeated his old obſervation on the danger of bad con⯑nections: "However," he continued, "truſt me, that Lady Belfield has ſome concealed reaſon for this diſmiſſion; ſhe [158] cannot conſcientiouſly object to any form of intrigue. I reſpect your ſilence; but it inſtructs me. And what now think you of your friend Vaurien?"

Charles replied, "He is the moſt en⯑gaging of men, and the moſt tender of friends. My honourable connections would have ſet me afloat on the wide ſea of life without maſt or rudder. The prompt kindneſs of Vaurien ſupplies the ungen⯑tleneſs of Fortune; he has voluntarily lent me a conſiderable ſum of money, which I refuſed but for his acceptance of my bond."

"So then," obſerved Johnſon, "after inſtilling in you an abhorrence for your dependance on Lord Belfield, the adroit Gaul has induced you to depend ſolely on his generoſity."

Charles with warmth replied: "You ever condemn in Vaurien thoſe actions which you would praiſe in another."

[159] "Yes, I have learnt, young friend, that virtue is not always implied by actions of virtue. Does that ſound para⯑doxical? I muſt even ſay, that the cri⯑minal is often virtuous; for as a vicious character may think proper to perform the duties of virtue, ſo may the virtuous cha⯑racter be preſſed into the commiſſion of crimes it abhors, but it cannot ſhun."

"And there," exclaimed Charles, "you have deſcribed Mrs. Wilſon."

Charles now communicated his diſpo⯑ſitions to adopt ſome literary avocation; and ſoliciting Johnſon's opinion, he re⯑plied as follows:

"If you deſire to be diſtinguiſhed as a genius of the firſt claſs, in ſome ho⯑nourable province of literature, whatever may be your parts and abilities, you are too poor, at leaſt by ſeveral hundreds a year. A finiſhed genius, in this age, is the labour of half a century; a writer [160] now blooms at forty, and flowers at ſixty. We require, in this age of taſte, ſuch hewings, and ſuch poliſhings, ſo much of the axe, and ſo much of the file, and ſo much fillagree work, that I conſider no writer out of leading ſtrings before thirty, ſuppoſing that then he has been care⯑fully ſwaddled, nurtured with the moſt delicate pap, and eternally humoured in what relates to place, connections, do⯑meſtic habits, coincidences, accidents, and a crowd of ceteras, which you will find numbered, one by one, in Helvetius. I ſee clearly now, that we ſhall have no more any men of genius; for after all theſe pains, in which I am ſure no mortal muſt expect to be ſucceſsful, the moſt inconſiderable accident or omiſſion may ſpoil the whole man of genius, as poor Triſtram was ruined by the want only of a window-pulley.

"Our great authors write little, and write rarely, and exhibit nothing of ge⯑nius [161] but in their compoſitions. I have been in company with two of our fineſt poets, four of our great hiſtorians, a dozen of our fanciful noveliſts, and they were as ſolemn and as dull as a court of aldermen when there is no buſineſs to tranſact. The fire of genius has become quite of a culinary nature; an immenſe fire, raiſed for the moment, for the preparation of ſome delicious repaſt, but when that is performed, the ſaving houſewife ſcrews up the ſides, takes out the coals, and leaves it in an ordinary dimenſion.

"You may acquire, however, a ſub⯑ſiſtence in literature if you are tolerably ingenious. I confide a ſecret; the man you ſee before you has obtained money by his literary performances, as if he were the firſt genius of the age."

"You ſurpriſe. I only knew the name of one Johnſon on the roll of modern ſame."

[162] "It ſhall not be my fault," replied Johnſon, "if you ever ſee another. Se⯑veral literary men of the day have ſold their works by a miſtake of the public concerning names. But I have ſome ho⯑neſty, and more delicacy. I am a name⯑leſs writer, but my productions have names. My occupation is to adjuſt, to arrange, to reſcind, and to ramify. Some⯑body brings me a ſolid glutinous drop, and my pen becomes diluent. I am fur⯑niſhed with the raw materials, and then I weave ſilk, cotton, or worſted, at the order of my employer. I lardoon mea⯑gerneſs. Sir, I am the writer (which you ſee is no ſynonime of author) of a li⯑brary. I have written Travels into Ruſſia, Tours into Scotland, Embaſſies to China, an Earl's Philoſophical Eſſays, a Baronet's Economical Reſearches, a Doctor's Hiſ⯑tory, and a Counſellor's Reports. I am the venerable parent of a dozen as chop⯑ping [163] literary boys as walk this town. You know this is an age of authors, and you perceive one of the reaſons. 'Tis juſt my employers, whoſe heads may be as bald as Caeſar's, ſhould wear their laurels or their literary falſe hair; for as the epigram ſays, 'they ſwear it is their own hair';—and ſo it is, for I know where they bought it. You were ſurpriſed the other evening, that Sir Alexander appeared to forget in converſation the principles of his own book; but I aſſure you, Sir Alexander never read his own book. The origin of this occupation (not ſo ſingular as it ſeems) was owing to this circumſtance; I was a writer in a Review, and whenever I examined a work, compoſed by a gentle⯑man, I made moſt alarming ſtrictures on the neceſſity of a knowledge of philoſophi⯑cal grammar, which no gentleman can be ſuppoſed to know, and I recommended an application to ſome man of letters, who [164] might be no gentleman, yet a philoſophi⯑cal grammarian. No one comprehended what I meant by the words philoſophical grammar; but they were formidable, con⯑fuſing, and alarming. Every month I re⯑peated the urgent neceſſity of philoſophi⯑cal grammar; gentlemen were frightened, applied to the printer, who gave my ad⯑dreſs, and ſince that time I have been a philoſophical grammarian, and having ſuf⯑ficient employment, not a word now ap⯑pears concerning the neceſſity of philoſo⯑phical grammar."

Charles now placed himſelf under the eye of this ſecret artiſan of literary works, and perceived, that where invention and imagination are not required, an author writes on in ſunſhine and in rain, in gaiety and in ſadneſs, and with a mechanical pen forms a mechanical book.

CHAPTER XXVI.
The Platoniſt.

AMONG the characters ſelected by Vaurien, as perſons whoſe talents and diſpoſitions ſeemed adapted to co⯑aleſce with his general views, by ſome peculiar bias of their own, was an ori⯑ginal enthuſiaſt, who in this hiſtory we ſhall denominate the Platoniſt.

He reſided in a romantic part of Scot⯑land, and had now arrived in town to attend the progreſs of a great work on polytheiſm. He accounted it as a fa⯑vour of the gods to have been enabled to ſubſiſt in that cheap country. There he found a pictureſque landſcape, ſur⯑rounding a cottage retaining an antique aſpect. It was indeed formed from the [166] ſmall remains of an abbey; and what is ſuppoſed to have been a watch-tower, ſtill ſtands at the extremity of his gar⯑den, and there he placed his library. There, abſtracted from all things and all men, he reads Plato and Homer, and views nothing but the ſkies.

His cottage is at the entrance of a deep foreſt, and the windows command a view of the high road, a circumſtance that occaſions him much anxiety; and he wiſhes that the cottage could only have been viewed by the gods. His life is ſolitary, but moſt poetical; yet we can hardly deem that a ſolitude which is graced by the ſociety of a beauty, ro⯑mantic, ſenſitive, and happy. He has a ſet of very ſingular companions; a great variety of animals and birds. His morn⯑ings are conſecrated in the watch-tower to Homer and Plato; the afternoons he gives to what he calls a converſation with [167] his mute friends; in the evening he wan⯑ders in the foreſt, explaining Plato to his lovely companion, and concludes the night with a hearty ſupper, and with the undiſturbed rapture that flows from a heart that beats in uniſon with his own.

At ſchool he formed this devotion for Homer, and a pedant inſpired a poet. It was owing to the accidental literary bigotry of his maſter, and his inceſſant reverence of that poet, which was not prompted by the ardour of taſte, but by the frenzy of verbal criticiſm. The buſt of Homer was placed over his chim⯑ney-piece, the head of Homer was en⯑graven on his ſeal, and in his hours of ſadneſs he conſoled himſelf with an Ho⯑merical verſe, and in his hours of mer⯑riment he toaſted the old Meonian, by pouring a generous libation to his me⯑mory. The infatuation of the maſter [168] was communicated to the ſcholar; but the impreſſions were of a more delicate and ſublime nature. In one it was the impotent extravagance of a frigid verbal⯑iſt; but in the other it became a de⯑bauchery of ſenſibility, breaking from a moſt inflammable and abſtruſe imagina⯑tion. He had unfortunately plunged deeply into the commentaries of certain Platoniſts, who explain Homer into alle⯑gories, diſcover celeſtial ſyſtems, and con⯑vert the Iliad into a Greek Bible of the arcana of nature.

When he quitted the ſchool, his mind was deeply tinctured by all the colori⯑fications of the Platonic priſm. He muſed on the bewitching notion of uni⯑verſal beauty, which pervades that enthu⯑ſiaſtic philoſophy; but when at length he obtained a complete copy of Plato's works, the intellectual malady diffuſed itſelf in every nerve of his mind; and [169] ſuch was the conflict of his animal ſpi⯑rits, that he could never read Plato with⯑out violent palpitations of the heart, and more than once ſuch has been the agony of his ſenſibility, that he fainted over the volume as he held it with a kind of religi⯑ous tremor. Theſe indeed are the peculiar features of enthuſiaſm, that abſtraction of the imagination which roves amidſt un⯑known ſcenes, and gazes on poetical chi⯑meras. It is felt by poets in the fury of their orgaſm, by philoſophers in the ideal fabrication of their ſyſtems, and by myſ⯑tics in their attempts to abſtract them⯑ſelves from earth to heaven.

When we read the diſcoveries of ano⯑ther, we acquire a ſpirit of diſcovery. The imitative genius of man becomes every thing to which it is accuſtomed. He read of a thouſand fine meanings in Plato and Homer, which he could never have imagined, but having once ima⯑gined [170] them, he added a thouſand more of his own. A mind like his only requires the ſcattering of a ſmall handful of ſeed to cover it's extenſive and fertile ſoil with a vaſt effloreſcence; and like that happy climate that feels not the rigour of a changing ſeaſon, his mind was a year of one continued ſummer. Every day brought it's new diſcovery, and every day was a day of triumph.

Like other inſpired perſons (for he conſidered his delight as inſpiration) he now conceived it a duty to enlighten a dark and erring world. "All Europe," he cried "is ſurrounded by a diſmal night; hence men are continually mo⯑leſting each other, and one man only im⯑pedes another while he himſelf is im⯑peded." He obſerved old religions de⯑caying, while modern ſects were filthily ſpawned forth, and lamely crawled from each antiquated and expiring monſter. [171] He firſt communicated his notions to a private circle; ſome conſidered them as the curioſities of a ſtudent of great learn⯑ing, ſome as the philoſophical amuſements and paradoxical vanities of a man of ge⯑nius, but few diſcerned that they were the deluſions of a literary lunacy. Their doubts ſoon ceaſed, when, to the aſtoniſh⯑ment even of the learned world in this cloſe of the eighteenth century, were publiſhed two quarto volumes, in which he avowed himſelf a Platoniſt in it's moſt religious ſenſe, and in which he af⯑fected to prove, that the Chriſtian reli⯑gion was merely a baſtardized and bar⯑barized Platoniſm. The divinities of Plato were the divinities to be adored; and he affirmed, that no people could be virtuous and happy if they were not taught to call God, Jupiter; the Virgin, Venus; and Chriſt, Cupid.

[172] It was now in vain to diſſemble. His friends attempted to reaſon; but logic reforms no enthuſiaſt. An enthuſiaſt cannot fail to gain his cauſe, becauſe he alone can be his own judge. In vain the world oppoſed, and worſe than oppoſed, neglected. He was an Atals for himſelf; the ſolitary ſupporter of a ſyſtem even too unreaſonable to be adopted by phi⯑loſophical reaſoners, and even too delu⯑ſive to delight philoſophical fanciers. He knew, he ſaid, he was the Gemiſ⯑tus Pletho of the age, and he was con⯑tent. To the oppoſing world he there⯑fore oppoſed Plato and Homer; and he looked not in this barbarous age to be re⯑warded with a garland in the ſchool of philoſophy.

He ſaw himſelf deſerted, but forgave the unkindneſs of men, becauſe he found himſelf conſoled, and indeed fully occu⯑pied, [173] by the humanity which he had diſ⯑covered in other animals. Even this was myſterious, for he darkly hinted that he was not a little verſed in the language of beaſts. He lodged in his houſe a moſt numerous ſociety; on the ſtairs, in his ſtudy, from the garrets to the cellars, and even to the very roofs, were aſſembled a numerous retinue of the mute citizens of the world, and he was obſerved to paſs entire days in a very large aviary of birds.

The Platonic ſyſtem had obtained him ſome admirers among the fair ſex. It was not ill adapted to their capacity; for being incomprehenſible, it's myſteri⯑ouſneſs irritated female curioſity, and it was at leaſt more ſublime than diſcloſing an enigma, or unfolding a charade. It was pregnant with the diſſolving ener⯑gies of a delicious ſentiment; for what the Platoniſt terms "the ſcience of uni⯑verſals," [174] is made to conſiſt in "UNI⯑VERSAL BEAUTY." It was a homage to the ſex. He uſed ſometimes to break out in expreſſions like theſe: "Beauty walks ſilently on the extremities of it's feet, alluring, raviſhing, and raiſing all things by it's power; it ſwims above the light of forms; it covers the occult union of the gods!" The entire ſyſtem was elegant and brilliant; it exhibited only forms of ſymmetry and grace; and the female attention, that was once allured by the ideal perfection of an eternal beauty (the image exiſting in the mind of the divine architect) and became ini⯑tiated into the Platonic doctrine of ideas, was ſoon entangled in a tiſſued net of ſilk and ſilver, that adorned rather than perplexed the lovely captive. Where ſhe ſought a maſter, ſhe found a lover; and, entranced, liſtened to the eloquence of diction, the dazzling of metaphors, [175] the inexhauſtible poetry, and the infec⯑tious enthuſiaſm of a man who came recommended by many accompliſhments of perſonal figure, and by many grace⯑ful acquirements. The Platoniſt is a maſterly muſician, a ſublime poet, and, when warmed, his voice is melodious, his eye is illuminated by quick intel⯑ligence, his face takes all the changes of his ſoul, every geſture is adapted to every ſentiment, and, like the Cumean Sybil, he looks the image of inſpiration. His uſual ſtyle on theſe ſubjects ſhews all the art of poetry without it's labour; he pours forth an opulence of diction, and his copious periods roll with mag⯑nificence, as if he were reading an Eng⯑liſh imitation of Cicero's manner; with felicitous expreſſion he intenders by pa⯑thetic ſentiment, and charms by the gaiety of exuberant imagery. Even his myſtic unintelligibility becomes a grace; [176] it ſerves as a reſting-place to repoſe the mind that has followed him in his ele⯑vations; and they who are not void of imagination lament when the Platoniſt cloſes his voluble and enchanting elo⯑cution.

He had long ſighed to unite himſelf to a beautiful female, on whoſe boſom he might meditate in rapture and re⯑verie. Solitude, deprived of ſuch a com⯑panion, preſented nothing to his ſenſi⯑tive ſoul but a deſolation of the paſ⯑ſions. The beaſts and birds, with all his vaunted knowledge of their language, he confeſſed were not equivalent to the ab⯑ſence of this ineſtimable aſſociate. Among men he could find no companions; for ſuch was the extreme irritation of his ſenſations, that his mind had refined it⯑ſelf to a feminine delicacy; it was ap⯑palled by ſerious expoſtulation, and ſhrunk in horror from coarſe merriment. [177] In explaining the principle of beauty he found conſolers and admirers among the women; but he diſcovered no female whom he could ſelect from all the world; for to a congenial diſpoſition and a ſingu⯑lar beauty of perſon he required what is ſtill more rare, an intimate knowledge of Greek.

Except a total ignorance of Greek, Charlotte Fenton was the nymph of his ſoul. Nature had caſt them in the ſame mould; but a diverſity of education had provided different materials to ſtore their imagination. From childhood ſhe had lived in a rural ſolitude, ſtudious of works of the moſt extravagant fancy; and all the day and part of the night were con⯑ſumed in a little circle of magic, from which ſhe never iſſued. She walked fearleſs on the utmoſt verge of romantic fiction. With all works of reaſoning ſhe [178] was diſguſted; her logic conſiſted in ſen⯑timent, and from the impoveriſhed nar⯑ratives of hiſtory, where all men to her eye ſeemed dwarfs, ſhe roved to the gi⯑gantic heaven of Homer, who, though ſomewhat diſguiſed in the verſions of Pope, were to her ſtill heroes. She read with avidity the ancient romances of "Amadis de Gaul," and feaſted on the ſix folios of "Perce Foreſt;" the Ara⯑bian Tales were not diſapproved; and Spenſer was the moſt modern poet ſhe read; but when our Platoniſt opened the vaſt ſcene of his philoſophical fancy, her curioſity flew with a hundred wings; ſhe gazed in mute aſtoniſhment, and ſat hours in ſilent meditation.

But the divine Greek was the only language by which he could communi⯑cate his ſenſations. She entreated his inſtruction, and they had ſcarcely ad⯑vanced [179] to the third book of the Iliad, when the delighted Platoniſt thus pro⯑poſed a new ſyſtem of life:—

"The ancient philoſophers," he ſaid, "when they felt the impulſe of divine energies, quitted the tumultuous habi⯑tations of men. We muſt fruſtrate the magic of Circe, and bid adieu to the detaining arms of Calypſo. For many years muſt we be exerciſed in the ca⯑thartic virtues, for the purpoſe of ſe⯑parating as much as poſſible the ſoul from the dark folds of the body, and then at length, when we have deſtroyed the tyranny of the paſſions, thoſe baneful ſuitors which had ſo baſely revelled in the palace of the ſoul, we ſhall enjoy the de⯑lightful beams of ſcience and wiſdom, till becoming eſtabliſhed, like Ulyſſes, in our paternal port, like him we ſhall be united with our father, from whoſe em⯑braces we have been ſo long unhappily [180] torn away. We ſhall find the lyre of true philoſophy on the banks of Lethe; there let us paſs away our lives in bliſsful contemplations, and in liſtening to di⯑vine harmony, ſecluded from the baſe multitude of mankind."

"And this, my lovely Charlotte, has been the only reſource of the enlightened and pious ancients. Either we muſt tra⯑vel or retreat; for the deluſions of mo⯑dern religions are an impiety to the gods. Pythagoras and Plato, the interpreters of nature, conſidered it as neceſſary, for the acquirement of knowledge, to traverſe many ſeas, and inhabit many countries; but for travelling we have no money. Euripides compoſed his tragedies in a cave, Democritus his philoſophy in a ſe⯑queſtered ſpot, Demoſthenes became an orator by the ſhores of the ſea, and Numa conſulted the nymph Egeria in ſilence and in ſolitude. Even the imi⯑tators [181] of theſe great men, Moſes, Jeſus, and Mahomet, alike retired at ſtated intervals to arrange their ſyſtems, athe⯑iſtical as they are! The preſence of the gods is only viſible in ſolitude. Archi⯑medes heard not the falling walls of his city; Carneades, at his meals, forgot to eat, ſo that he had nearly been famiſhed in his own houſe; and what think you of that philoſopher who deprived himſelf of his ſight, that he might not be diſturbed in his ſublime contemplations by inter⯑vening objects; and that other, who, leſt he might be tempted to iſſue from his ſtudious retreat, ſhaved half of his head, that it might hinder him from appearing in the world; for in that Platonic age no wigs were worn.

"I languiſh for retirement, that I may compoſe a life of Homer, of whom no⯑thing is known, and finiſh my Platonic commentary on our divine poet. I have [182] calculated the verſes, arranged the mate⯑rials, and the daily labour of three years will eſtabliſh a ſyſtem which ſhall endure with the elements it deſcribes. Does Venus inſpire my Charlotte to relinquiſh the atheiſts of an unplatonic world, and to ſoar to the myſteries of the divine geometrician?"

Such was the converſation of the Pla⯑toniſt, who diſcovered that Venus had inſpired. They ſought the romantic ſpot we have deſcribed, and the time now arrived, when they were ſent back to the world, enriched by the life of Homer, and the copious diſcoveries of our Pla⯑toniſt, to renovate the age of Aſtraea, when polytheiſm was to form an univerſal re⯑ligion.

CHAPTER XXVII.
Vaurien viſits the Platoniſt. The Language and Manners of Animals. The ſilent Voice of Geſture.

HOWEVER viſionary to ſome may appear the reveries of the Platoniſt, ſo unſettled are the opinions of moſt phi⯑loſophical men on the intereſting topic of religion, for every popular creed has been examined with ſeverity or ridicule, that, ſenſible of the beneficial influence of ſome prevalent ſyſtem, they have long ſought, and are ſtill ſeeking, for ſome new reli⯑gion, which, founded on the invariable principles of nature, ſhall offer to all peo⯑ple an univerſal opinion; thus that even the moſt rigid philoſopher may appear [184] amidſt the popular worſhip with a hand of reverence and a heart of piety, while the ſacerdotal robe ſhall no more diſ⯑guiſe the moſt eminent religious hypo⯑crite.

Polytheiſm, as explained by the re⯑ſearches of the learned, and by the fancies of the viſionary, is allegoriſed till it becomes a ſyſtem of natural philoſophy. The gods are but the elements, and they therefore ſtill exiſt viſible and palpable. Campanella was of opinion, that the world and the elements had ſenſation, becauſe that which is com⯑poſed of them has ſenſation, and nothing can be in the effect which is not in the cauſe^*. It is alſo now conſidered by ſome, that a revival of the notion of the demi-gods or hero-worſhip, would ſerve as a noble en⯑gine of that immortality which forms the paſſionate devotion of elevated minds. [185] The erection of a PANTHEON^† in this metropolis is, in ſome circles, a favourite [186] object. The Platoniſt terms this edifice "a place for commemorating the aſcent of excellent daemons." To worſhip ſuch men would be only adoring ſome parti⯑cular virtue, and perpetuating by our piety the virtue we adore. Every human virtue forms an attribute of the divinity, and the Creator would be reverenced, while we felt and confeſſed his attribute in his creature.

The age ſeems propitious to every ſpe⯑cies of fanaticiſm. Scepticiſm ſpreads ra⯑pidly, and ſuperſtition gathers new energy to oppoſe ſcepticiſm. Eſtabliſhed opinions are too moderate for either; hence religion breaks into ſectariſm, and philoſophy di⯑vides into ſyſtems. Extravagance wreſtles with extravagance; the imagination wan⯑ders aſtoniſhed and half-delighted, but calm ſenſe looks around, and retires in horror. Religion and philoſophy have become two gladiators; one departs not [187] without deſtroying the other; yet who ſhall be certain that one alone will tri⯑umph? Two gladiators have ſometimes periſhed together by their mutual aim.

One of the favourite projects of Vau⯑rien was an antichriſtian hope to over⯑throw the religion of Jeſus. He therefore aſſociated with all thoſe, whoſe talents or power would co-operate with this inten⯑tion. He deſired to overturn Chriſtia⯑nity, not becauſe it was a ſyſtem of re⯑ligion, but a ſyſtem of opulence; he was no enemy to the New Teſtament, but to the bench of Biſhops^*. He had formed a ſtrict intimacy with the Platoniſt, and [188] now viſited him, to ſtimulate his induſtry in the promulgation of polytheiſtical pub⯑lications,

When he arrived at his houſe, the love⯑ly Charlotte informed him, that the Pla⯑toniſt was then occupied at his prayers, in chaunting a noon-day hymn to Apollo. "You then," ſaid Vaurien, "do not unite [189] in his prayers?" Charlotte replied, "I hold Apollo in no eſteem, becauſe of his ill uſage of Daphne. We women are wil⯑ling to be won, but not to be forced. It is cruel to perſecute what we cannot ſubdue. Venus is my protector."—Vau⯑rien looked languiſhingly on Charlotte, and exclaimed, "Venus likewiſe is the goddeſs of young men; I worſhipped her in the remains of her temple in Greece." "Good Gods!" cried the romantic Char⯑lotte, "thou then art my amiable bro⯑ther; the firſt I have met who has paid due reverence to my divinity. The Pla⯑toniſt is mindleſs of her daily oriſons. Were we but in her temple to perform her rites, as Herodotus deſcribes!"—"All heaven, all earth, is her temple!" ex⯑claimed Vaurien; "and ſure the bluſhes that breathe like roſes on that cheek, the liquid brilliancy of thoſe eyes, the ſoft heavings of that boſom, proclaim the [190] preſence of the divinity."—"Ah!" ſaid Charlotte, "you are the firſt man who ever joined me in a votive teſtimony to Venus."

By this time the Platoniſt had con⯑cluded his long hymn to Apollo. Vau⯑rien now aſcended with difficulty. At the bottom of the ſtairs was a large kennel of dogs of various nations, who lived in a good underſtanding with each other, excepting when a bone was thrown among them, for then the dogs behaved like men, that is, they mangled and tore each other to pieces with ſagacity and without re⯑morſe. Monkeys and apes were chained on the baniſters. A little republic of cats was peaceably eſtabliſhed on the firſt land⯑ing place. He paſſed through one room which was an aviary, and another which was an apiary.

From the cieling of the ſtudy of the Platoniſt depended a poliſhed globe of [191] plated glaſs, which ſtrongly reflected the beams of the ſun. Amidſt this aching ſplendor ſat the Platoniſt, changing his ſeat with the motions of his god, ſo that in the courſe of the day he and the ſun went regularly round the apartment. He was occupied in conſtructing a magic lanthorn, which puerile amuſement ex⯑cited the ſurpriſe of Vaurien.

The Platoniſt accounted for it. "My diſſertation on the Eleuſinian myſteries is not all underſtood. The whole machinery, reflected on a white ſheet, will be more intelligible than any I could give on a ſheet of paper. In the preſence of the gods, in the moſt holy of the myſteries, daemons appeared with the heads of dogs; Pletho ſays this, who lived a thouſand years after the myſteries. Then I have 'omniform and terrific monſters;' then the demiurgus, the progreſs of purgation, inſpection, crowning, torch-bearing, and, [192] finally, friendſhip with the gods. But here is the great difficulty. How ſhall I repreſent 'the intolerable effulgence of the divine light?' Much it grieves me, that for this ſublime purpoſe a candle and a piece of coloured tin are all I can get into the lanthorn. The gods are not always fa⯑vourable to my attempts. After long expe⯑riments, I conceived I had diſcovered the perpetual ſepulchral lamp of the ancients. Laſt week I invited my friends to a phi⯑loſophical lecture on my perpetual lamp; I triumphed in my diſcovery; but ere my lecture cloſed my lamp was ſuddenly extinguiſhed. Good Gods!"

Vaurien condoling with him on the imperfection of all human repreſentations of the divinity, and the extinction of a perpetual lamp, enquired the reaſon for his ſingular attachment to the mute crea⯑tion? Here the Platoniſt aſſumed a dig⯑nified air, threw himſelf back in his chair, [193] to receive the full beams of the ſun, then muſing, raiſed his kindled eyes on Vau⯑rien, and addreſſed him:—"To you, whom I reſpect as the great reformer of the age, who feel a piety for the gods, and aid their ſolitary adorer, I will un⯑fold the inſpirations of wiſdom."

"Know then, that all men are brutes, and all brutes are men. At firſt their figu⯑ration appears materially different, but it is not ſo in reality. Many brutes ap⯑proach cloſely to the human form; and among men, many approach cloſely to the brutal form. We have monkey faces, bull heads, aſinine countenances, ſpider legs, and porpoiſe obeſity; and among females we have the face of a tygreſs, cat-like claws, owl-like ſcreech⯑ings, and ſerpentine involutions. That they are not more minutely exact, has abſolutely ariſen from the chance or⯑ganization [194] of nature; but their paſſions, their geſtures, and their propenſities are the ſame.

"You will object, that the brute crea⯑tion has not made an equal progreſs in art and ſcience with the human ſpecies: but this I deny; the brute creation are wiſer than we; they only cultivate thoſe ſcience which are of real utility to them: take for inſtance the ape, he is a perfect ſimilitude of man; the paws of an ape are much like our own; why then, you would ſay, have apes not made an equal progreſs with man? Becauſe (and I ſpeak from having lived among apes more than twenty years) apes are not ſo ſuſceptible of liſtleſſneſs or ennui as ourſelves^*; an ape [195] is never idle and always happy. And juſtly has Helvetius obſerved on this very topic, that it is to this deſire of ac⯑tivity we owe all the great actions of great men. Moſt men are deſpicable animals when by themſelves; a brute never. All generals, all poets, all hiſtorians, have be⯑come ſo through rank idleneſs; a liſtleſs exiſtence tortures; ſo, having nothing better to do, the general ſacks or maſ⯑ſacres a town, the poet writes his com⯑memorating ode, and the hiſtorian ſhall a thouſand years afterwards write you every particular, and very often in the preſent tenſe!

"And this I affirm, that in thoſe arts and ſciences which are of real utility to [196] animals and birds, they excel all man⯑kind. Can the weaver's loom ſpread the fineneſs of the ſpider's web? Can the architect build like the beaver? Sails the mariner like the nautilus? And in domeſtic life, can we ſkin fiſh like the cat? Clamber like the monkey? and ſcent like the dog? Aſk the Swiſs pea⯑ſant, Who climbs and hangs ſecurer on the ſharp points of precipices, himſelf or his chamois? They have, therefore, in far greater perfection than ourſelves, that peculiar art or ſcience they deſire. To excel in any, we adviſe a man of genius to apply only to a ſingle purſuit. 'Tis preciſely what does every brute, and therefore I aver, that every brute is a man of genius."

Here the Platoniſt pauſed, and deſired to exchange ſeats with Vaurien, as the ſun had got round to him; then, with a collected air, he reſumed his diſcourſe.

[197] "To you, the confident of my heart, I reveal it's wondrous ſecret. Know then, I have obtained the various languages of brutes, with whom I converſe by the hour. I can convert my perſon into all forms, my voice into all intonations."

"Their language is preciſely the ſame which men would employ in a ſimilar predicament. Imagine to yourſelf a company of dumb men; how would they converſe? evidently by geſtures. Such is the language of animals. Geſ⯑ture is a vocal ſilence, an incorporated voice. They too have their tones, but their geſtures are exerciſed with incon⯑ceivable perfection; and by theſe they preſerve a communication with their bro⯑ther brutes; I mean men. They have few ideas, but many ſentiments; are not logicians, but paſſionate beings; they feel exquiſitely, and yet they expreſs all they feel.

[198] "The emotions of GESTURE conſtitute a language far ſuperior to that of vocal enunciation. It is the ſpontaneous and univerſal language of nature. Our method of communicating our ideas is tedious, imperfect, and deceptive. By geſture alone we can diſcover the invo⯑luntary feelings of the heart. Say, do not the quick and flaſhing eye; the cheek, whoſe tints are fugitive; the half⯑averted mien; the frown, that breaks, that paſſes, but is not forgotten; the look that refuſes while the hand preſents, exhibit the perſonal diſpoſitions? The perturbed eye, the walk now quick now ſlow of Cataline, ſhewed in his diſtracted form the ſoul of conſpiracy. The unal⯑tered mien, the changeleſs peace of every motion of Socrates, who, at home or abroad, Xantippe confeſſed, never ſhewed one ruffled feature; did theſe not teſtify the regular current of his conſtant mind? [199] And the wretch with pliant features, whom Titus obſerved to turn aſide the half-ſtifled laugh at the misfortunes of innocence, while he gave abundantly cauſeleſs ſighs and tears, theſe indicated to Titus the concealed villain. In that young man, ſaid Sylla, ſpeaking of Cae⯑ſar, who walks ſo unmannerly along the ſtreets, I ſee ſeveral Mariuſes. Cicero relates of Anthony, that he frequently ſtruck the ground with his knees, by the vehemence with which he pleaded. Yes, my friend, as the bent bow is compreſſed with a double force, the arrow is more impetuouſly darted; 'tis an arrow driven by the ſtorm of heaven, that pierces where it touches. Who knew better of nature than Cicero, when he adviſed his brother, that to be affable in his government, he muſt do ſomething more than invite to feaſts. Nil intereſt habere otium apertum, [200] vultum clauſum; little it ſignifies to ſet your doors open if your face is cloſed. We Platoniſts have long known that geſture is the only language of the paſſions; and that brutes poſſeſſing this in greater per⯑fection than men, employ a purer and more energetic language.

"And indeed the great Campanella affirmed, that beaſts ſpoke to each other, becauſe they certainly underſtand each other; for which ſimple obſervation the Inquiſition ſinged his beard and threat⯑ened to burn his body. Such was his di⯑vine knowledge of geſture, that during his impriſonment of many years, he tells us, that he knew all the ſentiments of his abſent friends or enemies by mimick⯑ing all their geſtures, and taking all their poſtures. Some have had the temerity to affirm, that he was a melancholy hypo⯑chondriac: but Burke tells you he has [201] tried the experiment^*, and Lavater cites it as an indubitable fact; and are Burke and Lavater lunatics?

"And therefore on this curious topic, how admirable is an obſervation of Rouſ⯑ſeau, who ſeems to me to have been a true Platoniſt. "In neglecting," ſays he, "the language of ſigns, which ſpeak to the imagination, we have loſt the moſt energetic of languages. The impreſſion of words is always feeble, and we ſpeak to the heart much more forcibly by the eye than by the ear^†."

[202] "I am charmed," ſaid Vaurien, "by this account of the language of beaſts; and aſſuredly you have made many cu⯑rious obſervations on their national cha⯑racter and domeſtic manners."

"I have indeed long been a citizen of the vaſt republic of brutes, and they have conſoled me for the ingratitude of my own ſpecies. How I loſe my patience, when I hear your great philoſopher acknow⯑ledge the feelings of brutes to be more exquiſite than thoſe of men; and then pronounce, that their principle of mo⯑tion, though it ſeems determined by mo⯑tives, is merely mechanical, and depends abſolutely on their organization^*: but Buffon, I am told, only wrote on animals, which is quite a different thing from con⯑verſing with them. His ſublime narra⯑tive of the camel's journey through the [203] deſarts, is unrivalled by modern elo⯑quence; but he himſelf never travelled through a deſart, and he is therefore a greater poet than a natural hiſtorian.

"Ah, my friend, how enchanting is the ſimplicity of the domeſtic habits of brutes! When I become a match-maker between a dog and his female, how I envy the ſhort term of their courtſhip! He is no coxcomb, and ſhe is no coquette. He lingers not with cold compliments on the beauty of her colours, her birth, or her age. He feels but one deſire; the multi⯑plication of his ſpecies. But then what ſincerity in every geſture, what vivacity in his eyes, and with what tenderneſs his tongue careſſes his beloved. Men are ſuch eternal bablers in love or in rage; but an animal ſimply evinces his paſſion by a ſingle act. Is he revengeful? he honeſtly bites. Is he affectionate? he fervently licks. He is never an aſſaſſin, or an adu⯑lator.

[204] "How have I admired the cool ſaga⯑city and magiſterial air of a venerable furred long-whiſkered Tom, ſitting ſtate⯑ly, ſtretched voluptuouſly, or quietly doſing by my winter fire. Sometimes he goes a hunting, for a little recreation; but his velvet ſides are ſtuffed with that equability of humour, which ſhews, that his exiſtence is his enjoyment. Nothing but a female cat can diſcompoſe his ſe⯑rene philoſophy.

"Mules, becauſe they will not ſubmit to be tutored by us, who are not equal to them in point of their ability, after hav⯑ing carried the traveller on the ſlippery edge of precipices, picking their way, ſtep by ſtep, and ſtopping when near danger, when they arrive at home are beat and abuſed for, their ſtubborneſs. What wiſ⯑dom in the mules! what idiocy in the men! Some mules, having been chaſed from a paddock, never offered to return; yet it was perceived that the graſs had [205] been eaten. They watched, and obſerved, every night, that they leapt over the fences, and, after their ſtolen feaſt, re⯑turned to their adjoining field before the morning. Eraſmus tells us, he ſaw a dog that had been taught to convey meat, in a baſket, from the ſhambles: attacked by other dogs, he would defend his maſter's property; but when he ſaw his aſſailants too numerous, he would then ſnatch a piece of the meat, leſt he ſhould get no⯑thing but blows and honour in the ruin⯑ous war.

"Does not hiſtory preſent us with more numerous inſtances of the fidelity of dogs than of men? Like men of ſtrong ſen⯑ſations, their reſentment is proportioned to their gratitude. When I was at Mount-Edgecumbe I ſaw a monument, on which I gazed with awe: it is raiſed to the memory of a huntſman, who neglecting to feed his dogs for three days, as ſoon as he entered was torn to pieces; a dreadful [206] howling ſpread through the whole ſociety; and feeling more ſenſibly the paſſion of vengeance than that of hunger, they long left their victuals untouched. When a dog-butcher at Canton enters a ſtreet, all the dogs purſue him in full cry. When a Kamtſcadale loſes his ſtick, by which he drives the dogs of his ſledge, they in⯑ſtantly perceive it, and run off as faſt as poſſible, to overturn him in the ſnow. Ill treat a dog, he will long remember it; and, when you ſeek his reconciliation, will preſerve his dignity, and make no ad⯑vances while he knows the hand that now careſſes once ſtruck. And ſhall we now ſay with Buffon, that theſe are only pieces of mechaniſm, who merely derive their motion from their organization? I con⯑feſs it requires a patience, which looks like ſublimity, to acquire a knowledge of their habits and language. Swammerdam paſſed ten long years, extended on his [207] belly, to characteriſe the national genius of ants. Reaumur muſt have devoted as many, to diſcover the various nidifications of birds; and he indeed cleanly traced the manner in which they digeſted their food. I myſelf have patiently watched, through forty days and forty nights, the nuptials of a frog.

"To touch but rapidly (for I ſee the ſun is declining) on birds. Thomſon has deſcribed 'The Paſſion of the Groves' in mellifluous numbers, worthy of Plato, and with a knowledge of their language as marvellous as his numbers.

"The language of birds is elliptical, reſembling the periods of Tacitus; little ſaid, much underſtood. Every ſpecies has a different intonation, as every native of a large kingdom has his provincial dia⯑lect. The voice of the raven is ſolemn; of the dove mournful; of the rook gay, but aukward; while the merry wood⯑pecker [208] loudly laughs; and the fern-owl ſerenades his mate at the moonlight oak.

"I could give you inſtances of a ſub⯑lime maternal affection, a rapid yet in⯑tricate invention, a vigilant artifice in concealing ſome cheriſhed abode, heroic acts of ſexual attachment, and a ſpirit of ſociality, that, if interrupted, has an in⯑fluence on the health, the paſſions, and the enjoyments of the friendly brute.

"Delicate birds have their vanities as well as delicate people. A goldfinch be⯑fore a mirror is a perfect coquette; ſhe ſmooths her plumes as ſhe ſits on her perch, and gazes with delight; and if ſhe is provided with a little bucket and chain, ſhe will draw it up, and then look around that her ingenuity may not paſs unob⯑ſerved. Delicate birds have alſo an ex⯑quiſite delicacy of paſſion. The wild ca⯑nary ſooths with his ſong the dear con⯑nubial neſt. In the annals of my aviary [209] ſhall it be recorded, that one, as he was ſinging, ſuddenly dropt. The unfiniſhed ſong alarmed the female; ſhe ſlew from her breeding neſt, and ſought her ſilent conſort. She pecked at her friend; he was no more! She ſtood beſide him, re⯑fuſed nouriſhment, and gazed in ſilence till ſhe died^*."

"Such are the domeſtic manners, and ſuch the various converſations of theſe ci⯑tizens of the world! Join to this the Py⯑thagorean ſyſtem of Metempſichoſis, eſta⯑bliſhed among the wiſe ancients, and then judge of the awe and veneration I feel for this neglected portion of our fellows. Much it afflicts me, when I hear the experimental philoſophers conſider them⯑ſelves [210] ſcientific, when their ingenuity has invented the moſt exquiſite tortures. Here one famiſhes a vulture, to ſee how long it can exiſt without food; a locuſt has it's inteſtines pulled out and filled with cot⯑ton, then transfixed with a pin, remains five months moving it's legs and it's an⯑tennae, to the great ſatisfaction of the phi⯑loſopher; canine mothers, big with their infants, are anatomiſed alive, to rip out the young, who are born like ſo many Macduffs; aqua-fortis is dropt on a living animal, to trace the entire progreſs of ſingeing, blackening, and burning the liv⯑ing fleſh; and two ſparrows are ſtarved to death, to verify whether bruiſed ſeed, or minced meat, is beſt adapted to re⯑cover their almoſt extinct life. Good Gods!"

Vaurien having felicitated the Platoniſt on the new world he had opened to himſelf, ſaid, "propoſe to overturn [211] Chriſtianity by the publications of the Platoniſts, and to erect a Pantheon, that the Gods may be honourably reverenced."

"That is my important purſuit; I have already prepared the ſoaring and ecſtatic Olympiodorus, the noble and obſcure Heraclius; I join the Aſiatic luxuriancy of Proclus, divinely explained by Jam⯑blichus, and profoundly delivered by Plo⯑tinus. Plotinus, who was ſurnamed 'In⯑tellect' by his contemporaries, ſuch was the fervour of his mind, that he was ac⯑cuſtomed to write without attending to the orthography or the reviſion of his works, which perhaps occaſions their di⯑vine unintelligibility; for the celeſtial vi⯑gour rendered him incapable of trifling concerns, and he therefore committed them, as faſt as he wrote, to Porphyry, who, perhaps, labouring under the ſame divine influence, was equally incapable of orthography or ſenſe."—The Platoniſt [212] concluded this converſation with an in⯑vective, of which the ſtyle appears to us ſo curious, that we ſhall give the exact expreſſions, as a ſpecimen of the Platonic efferveſcence, in a Ciceronian period.

—"I have long perceived the igno⯑rance and malevolence of Chriſtian prieſts, from the moſt early fathers to the moſt modern retailers of hypocriſy and cant; every intelligent reader muſt be alter⯑nately excited to grief and indignation, to pity and contempt, at the barbarous mythological ſyſtems of the moderns; for in theſe we meet with nothing but folly and deluſion; opinions founded ei⯑ther on fanaticiſm or atheiſm, inconceiv⯑ably abſurd, and inextricably obſcure, ridi⯑culouſly vain, and monſtrouſly deformed, ſtupidly dull, and contemptibly zealous, Apoſtolically delirious, or hiſtorically dry, and, in one word, ſuch only as arrogance and ignorance could conceive, impiety [213] propagate, and the vapid ſpirit of the moderns be induced to admit^*."

"My dear Platoniſt," exclaimed Vau⯑rien, "if you can roll periods like theſe, your genius will be rewarded, by yourſelf being choſen by the nation to lay the firſt ſtone of a Pantheon in London, for 'the aſcent of excellent daemons.'

CHAPTER XXVIII.
A Jewiſh Philoſopher. A Diſſertation on the Jews, tending to prove that they ſhould not be burnt.

ANOTHER favourite project of Vau⯑rien, was that of aſſembling the diſ⯑perſed Hebrews. This impious project (as a good Catholic terms it) was not pe⯑culiar to the political imagination of this Gaul; ſince, among others, two of his compatriots meditated the ſame deſign. The Marquis of Langalerie, at the com⯑mencement of this century, diſappointed at every court to which he reſorted, pre⯑pared to collect theſe fugitive Aſiatics in the iſles of the Archipelago. A genius of a ſublimer character, the famous Mare⯑chal Saxe, having merely miſſed poſſeſſing [215] the empire of Ruſſia by his inconſtancy in love, ſolaced his ambition by a fanciful ſovereignty over the wanderers of Iſrael. This project is of that inviting and plau⯑ſible kind, that it will never be extinct in the romantic and chimerical heads of ſome fervid adventurers; but there exiſt oppoſing reaſons in the character of this people, which, depending on principles in nature, are irreverſible. The children of Jacob are compoſed of all nations, and cannot blend alike with the people among whom they reſide; as there are metals in nature, which no chymical proceſs can amalgamate with others.

Vaurien had made acquaintance with a Jewiſh philoſopher, and called on him for the ſame purpoſe he had viſited the Platoniſt. He found the Jew at dinner, eating pork-chops; and at the ſide of his plate lie open the Jewiſh Mendelſohn's Phaedon, a ſublime imitation of Plato on [216] the immortality of the ſoul. The Jew deſired to conclude his meal quietly, and proceeded in employing at once his teeth and his eyes; but the head digeſts not like the mouth; and the Jew had now ſo violently abſtracted his imagination, that Vaurien roſe with impatience. The phi⯑loſopher then ſtarted from his reverie, and lamenting that the ſublimeſt conceptions were the obſcureſt, cloſed his Plato, and liſtened to the Gallic Chriſtian.

"How long ſhall philoſophy," ex⯑claimed Vaurien, "mourn over the de⯑gradation of the human ſpecies? Our great revolution ferments the ſpirits of all our European youth, and of every friend to the rights of man. France has emancipated the negroes, France would emancipate the Jews. Whenever the le⯑giſlator violates the equality of nature, the ſtate appears to retain ſlaves; but, in reality, it loſes ſo many patriots. I was [217] preſent at one of the late earthquakes in Italy. The multitude were gazing on the ruins of a town; the nobles ſighed at the veſtiges of their grandeur; the opulent citizens mourned their buried fortunes. A voice from the multitude broke the melancholy ſilence, exclaiming, 'Now WE ARE ALL EQUAL.' A ſublime and ter⯑rible truth! Unhappy is that country, whatever be it's grandeur, in which a great portion of it's citizens would con⯑ſider exile as no puniſhment, and an earthquake would communicate the ſen⯑ſation of delighted vengeance. And this muſt be the feeling of every Indian Ne⯑gro and every European Jew. Every where found, and no where reſpected, wherever ye wander ye drag along the ſame ignominious chain."

"You deliver yourſelf," replied the Jew, "with the voluble eloquence of your na⯑tion. In this temperate climate we fear [218] no earthquakes, and we are no friends to ſuch frantic revolutions. As a philoſo⯑pher, I conceive it my duty, as it is my pleaſure, to correct popular errors by ſim⯑ple truths. A philoſophical hiſtory of the Jews would be a hiſtory of human na⯑ture; no nation has aſſumed ſuch a va⯑riety of aſpects; their government was theocratical, ariſtocratical, republican, and monarchical; now tributary, and now ex⯑acting tributes; fugitive and ſtationary, impoveriſhed and opulent, ſuperſtitious and enlightened; a people, now the moſt ignorant in Europe, introduced thoſe ſci⯑ences which are cultivated by all men but themſelves.

"But a converſation muſt not be a diſ⯑ſertion. It is difficult to ſay little on what we could ſay much. I ſhall confine myſelf to ſome of the moſt prominent popular prejudices.

"What has been the origin, between the Chriſtian and the Jew, of this impla⯑cable [219] hatred? Rivality. The principles of Chriſtianity are inimical to the princi⯑ples of Judaiſm. Chriſtianity, in it's ear⯑lieſt ſtage, was the rebellious child of an aged and imbecile ^* parent; at firſt the Jews attempted to puniſh Chriſtianity, afterwards Chriſtianity was enabled to maſſacre the Jews. Every thing is ſimple in it's connections; the principles of na⯑ture, [220] however involved by the artifices of men, are few and invariable.

"Not among the leaſt of Hebrew grie⯑vances has been that of the Chriſtians having written their hiſtory. The Jews are chiefly known by accounts drawn up by their enemies, who have vilified with monkiſh rancour, and perpetuated the calumny of the day. Reflect on the ig⯑norance of the Chriſtian ages; not that Chriſtianity neceſſarily includes ignorance, but ignorance may include Chriſtianity. The papal power was an univerſal mo⯑narchy. No ſolitary voice oppoſed the vulgar arm; yet ſometimes we catch in hiſtory a feeble voice, that, with a cautious generoſity, ſeems to whiſper ſomething for the ſufferers of Iſrael. Silent tears were ſhed from the eye of philoſophy. We now live in an age when a man may tell his fellow citizens, firmly and audibly, the cauſe of his tears. Yet even in this age, [221] when this people attracted their attention, have philoſophers ceaſed to be philoſo⯑phers ^* [222] "It is imagined that the Jews are diſ⯑tinguiſhed by a national countenance, and it is piouſly conceived as a mark in⯑flicted [223] by the divinity, ſimilar to that of Cain. Their complections are dark and aduſt, their noſe aquiline, and their eyes full and black; their caſt of features is frequently noble and expreſſive. The more poliſhed Jews, reſiding in England, are the deſcendants of thoſe emigrants who eſcaped from the human bonfires of Spain and Portugal. They have, therefore, naturally preſerved in their families the phyſiognomy as well as the cuſtoms, the habits, and the language of their anceſtors. The Jews, who have found a refuge here from their national degradation in Ger⯑many and Poland, are diſtinguiſhed by the fair complections, the grey eyes, and the red hair of thoſe nations. Had Lu⯑theraniſm found ſectariſts in Spain and Portugal, and flown to England from the ordeal of the Inquiſition, many members of our eſtabliſhed church had been diſ⯑tinguiſhed by what we term Jewiſh faces. [224] The Judaic viſage we ſometimes ridicule is frequently the countenance of his Spa⯑niſh Majeſty^* The Hebrews, who have no ſpot on earth their own, include all the varieties of the human ſpecies, and by differing from the natives, among whom they reſides, only ſhew that they are men.

"Their univerſal diſperſion and iſolated exiſtence have excited the curioſity of the philoſopher and the triumph of the theologian. It has been repeatedly af⯑firmed, it is repeated, and will be re⯑peated, that it is a puniſhment for their denial of the divinity of Jeſus. But the [225] Jewiſh nation had ceaſed to be a nation, and were diſperſed, long before the ap⯑pearance of Jeſus. Why has this fallible proof ſo long exiſted? Chriſtians are willing to accept this as an exiſting mi⯑racle; and Jews are willing to be con⯑ſidered as a nation ſelected by the divinity. A philoſopher, feeling none of theſe inte⯑reſts, modeſtly purſues truth, and boldly eſpouſes her. All national effects are to be traced to natural cauſes; every other cauſe is that of fanaticiſm and cruelty; and the diſcovery, which exceeds reaſon, made only by reaſonable beings, is the feveriſh dream of a ſick man.

"Two cauſes have conſpired to pro⯑duce this diſperſion, and to give a diſtinct exiſtence among other nations.

"The political ſituation of the Jews is indeed a phenomenon in national man⯑ners. An artifice, for ſuch it was, if not inſpired by the divinity, at once ſingular [226] and ſublime, of their legiſlator, has gene⯑rated a power durable as the univerſe. Longinus termed Moſes a genius of no common magnitude.^*. Extending his views with a vaſtneſs that ennobles but not exceeds human ſagacity, by rigid and numerous cuſtoms which he conſecrated by their holineſs, he has produced, from [227] generation to generation, an inheritance of manners; has rendered the domeſtic life of a modern European the ſame as an ancient Aſiatic; and by his genius, through this awful interval of time, ſtill influences the fugitives he headed, and iſo⯑lates them among the moſt populous na⯑tions. What at firſt in his code ſeems mi⯑nute, frivolous, and abſurd, is ſublimely political. The ſimple rite of circuciſion he ſo ſagaciouſly adopted as an indiſ⯑penſable duty, ſtill further explains the magnificent conception of Moſes; per⯑ceiving that, mingled with other nations, they might aſſimilate to their cuſtoms, like ſmall ſtreams mingling with rivers, he commanded an operation, which, per⯑formed in the infant ſtate, compelled every man to bear in his body the Juda⯑iſm his heart had renounced.

"Another cauſe produced an univerſal diſperſion of Jews. Their commercial [228] character. Wherever a ſhip ſailed, a Jew voyaged; wherever a great town was eſtabliſhed, a Jew was it's inhabi⯑tant. It was neceſſary for them to ſe⯑parate that they might flouriſh. We trace this fact in what relates to their Engliſh hiſtory; they were numerous, but not congregated. He who could find no employment at York ſucceeded at Norwich, or was enriched at Lincoln^*. Their law not admitting of the military profeſſion, and animating them to con⯑jugal embraces, by conſidering ſterility as a malediction, their populouſneſs became remarkable; they loſt not by the caſu⯑alties of other nations, and accumulated men as they did money, by regular arith⯑metic. If they had not ſuffered ſuch ef⯑fectual [229] maſſacres, Europe might have ex⯑hibited the New Jeruſalem.

"The origin of their proverbial wealth is equally ſimple as the cauſes already aſ⯑ſigned. When Chriſtianity was eſta⯑bliſhed, it degraded beneath the rank of men the children of Jacob. Not merely vaſſals, they were frequently bond-men. With the other cattle the circumciſed ſlaves were transferred from proprietor to proprietor. Earl Richard purchaſed of his brother Henry III. his Jews, for a leaſe, that (to employ the forcible ex⯑preſſion of Prynne) "thoſe whom the king had excoriated, he might eviſcerate." A more remarkable inſtance is that of this king, who, when he ſuſpected the diſaffec⯑tion of prince Edward, to confirm his loyalty, made over the Jews to him; and the following year prince Edward, being as deeply indebted as his father, transferred them, by a new aſſignment, [230] for two years, to the Caturcenſian mer⯑chants^*. One bluſhes to find ſuch facts in the hiſtory of men.

"In this ſingular ſtate induſtry was a ſource of proſperity. Chriſtians were then moſt religious, little wiſe, and leſs induſtrious. Jewiſh wealth increaſed, and wealth produces privileges; they were proud in a mock parliament, in a chief juſtice, and an exchequer of their own. Opulent, they ſtill preſerved the cloſeſt frugality; abjectly penurious and groſsly ſordid^†. Even to apologize for theſe offenſive manners, cauſes are not [231] difficult to be aſſigned. Their domeſtic virtues, however, flouriſhed, luxuriant [232] and beautiful, like their own plam and almond tree on their natal ſoil. Time has accidentally preſerved ſome intereſt⯑ing narratives of their patient ſufferings, their fervid affections, and their heroic reſiſtance.

"Where wealth is concentered among the few, it finds perſecutors among the many. Their borrowers were great ex⯑penders and miſerable calculators. The eſtates of the idle Chriſtian were ingulphed by the mortgages of the induſtrious Jew, The ſovereign with their opulence filled his exhauſted treaſury, and the baron ſe⯑curely committed his rapine. Chriſtian injuſtice produced Jewiſh uſury. The price of money ever becomes propor⯑tioned to the riſk. Objects of national pillage, they became objects of national rage; half the nation was their debtors; a maſſacre was a receipt in full. Some⯑times they were expelled the kingdom [233] for their uſury^*, and then it was appa⯑rent that uſury was practiſed by Chriſ⯑tians; and while the Jews were univer⯑ſally execrated for uſurious practices, his [234] Holineſs of Rome, by the means of his bankers, the Caurſini, compared with a Jew, bore the ſame affinity as a ſkinner has to a ſleecer^†.

"At theſe periods calumnies were propagated, ſometimes abſurd and ſome⯑times terrible, and indeed have been continued to this enlightened period of time. I could ſhew volumes of compiled calumnies; I will confine myſelf to two. They have been frequently accuſed of crucifying children, and the chief narra⯑tive of this kind is even ſupported by ten hiſtorians. This fact is inſtructive. The agreement of ſeveral authors con⯑cerning ſome extraordinary circumſtance does not amount to it's proof; ſo many ſay a thing becauſe others have ſaid it. To [235] ſuch writers we may apply the ſimile of Dante:—

"It is thus all hiſtory is compoſed: nine of theſe hiſtorians copied from their predeceſſors; and the original narrator gives it as a rumour, and deſcribes it as a romance. I know not of any Jew who was hanged for crucifying a child; but I know, that when theſe accuſations were formed the king was very poor, and the fines were very heavy. The Jews have never uſed and wood for the purpoſe of crucifying Chriſtians, but the Chriſtians have employed a great deal for burning Jews^*.

[236] "It was long ſuppoſed, and I am told is yet, that the Jew is diſtinguiſhed by a peculiar and offenſive ſmell. To ſtink like a Jew is an adage which Furetiere has preſerved in his dictionary; but this ſmell, it ſeems, always diſappeared when a Jew was converted to chriſtianity^†. [237] The truth is, no rich Jew would become a convert to chriſtianity; the converts were therefore picked out of the filth of the ſtreets; ſordid in their manners as in their occupations; but when baptized, they paſſed through proper ablutions, were perfumed, and dreſſed; the virtue of the holy water had therefore nothing extra⯑ordinary.

"Their lower claſſes are accuſed of [238] being tutored and practiſed in diſhonour⯑able traffics: no traffic is diſhonourable where bread is wanted. They are induſ⯑trious, cunning, and fraudulent. Ob⯑ſerve the poor Chriſtian occupied in the ſame ſituation. Is it not difficult to aſ⯑certain between a Jewiſh and a Chriſtian pedlar who is the honeſteſt man?

"Such has been the ancient ſtate of theſe men. A chronologer tells us, when he arrives at a particular date, on this day ſix hundred Jews were maſſacred at York; and in the ſucceeding article, that the king was crowned with great ſplendor and rejoicing. I confeſs I cannot ſo calmly paſs over from maſſacre to revelry, nor account murder, leſs murder, becauſe it is given in a collective manner. Some, I believe, do not feel their heart more agi⯑tated by a recital of ſix hundred than ſix; others bluſh for their country and chriſ⯑tianity; [239] yet chriſtianity is not connected with perſecution.

"The ſtate of the modern Jews is not leſs ſevere than that of the ancient. They groaned in ages of perſecution, and in ages of toleration they are degraded. In England it is doubtful whether the Jews be citizens; they are merely tolerated in⯑habitants; even this expreſſion is too gen⯑tle. Since their laſt baniſhment, they at⯑tempted to return under Oliver; but the fanatics could not agree. Charles, gained by bribes, and indifferent on religious profeſſions, connived at their admiſſion; but the parliament of England has never abrogated their decree of expulſion^*. This [240] Britiſh land, which when the ſlave touches he becomes free, retains the child of Ja⯑cob in abject degradation. The Jew cannot purchaſe the houſe which he in⯑habits, and is not permitted to elevate himſelf among his horde by profeſſions which might ennoble his genius and dig⯑nify his people.

"Ruſſia has chaſed them from her in⯑clement region, Denmark will not tole⯑rate them, and in Norway and Sweden [241] not an Iſraelite wanders^*. Italy cantons them into obſcure quarters of her cities; now cloſes her gates to their entrance, and now places on them an humiliating badge. With them the holy father has not ſcrulped at an infamous breach of faith^†. Ger⯑many [242] ſometimes affords them but the protection of a ſingle night; every Jew⯑iſh child but increaſes the taxes of his pa⯑rent, and a marriage is as lamentable as a death. The Hebrew, father of many children, is ſevered even from domeſtic innocence; the ſons are diſperſed from their natal earth^*. Men, who may be ſaid to be born exiles, are children of af⯑fliction, who cannot but raiſe their diſin⯑herited hand againſt their mother coun⯑try. All men are not Jews; but how long will it be neceſſary to remind us, that all Jews are men?

"The Jews, therefore, who have plead⯑ed [243] their own cauſe, have dipped their pen in tears and in gall. Mr. Bryant has ſaid, 'They are every where diſtinct and un⯑converted, and conſequently enemies to the Goſpel. They are like the wa⯑ters of Styx, which remain unmixed wherever they flow, and retain their bit⯑terneſs to the laſt.'^* Here is imagina⯑tion and orthodoxy, but no humanity. This bitterneſs is an effect, and not a cauſe. Mr. Bryant and others are ſur⯑prized, why the Jews perſiſt in refuſing baptiſm; and the Jews are ſurpriſed why Mr. Bryant and others refuſe circumci⯑ſion. When two parties are equally in⯑ſane, they feel the ſame degree of con⯑viction, and can therefore never change their opinions. I can aſſure this learned, pious, and fanciful writer, that there are Jews who cheriſh their Sephar Torah with [244] the ſame zeal as Mr. Bryant does his New Teſtament; admire it as miracu⯑louſly; would die for it as devotedly. All nations are alike characterized by a veneration for the religion of their fore⯑fathers. The Divinity has implanted the ſentiment in human nature. God would view all men in peace, and men rebel againſt the Divinity in their mutual per⯑ſecutions^*.

"It remains now to add, that there is a mortifying inferiority in the mind of a Jew when compared with that of other Euro⯑peans. The entire ſyſtem of Hebrew educa⯑tion is inimical to the progreſs of the human mind; dark and ſtationary in ignorance, or bewildered amidſt intricate ſuperſti⯑tion, [245] their modes of life are little favour⯑able to form a taſte for the productions of nature and art; and the ſole occupa⯑tions permitted them, the arts of wealth, extinguiſh the bolder and prominent paſſions.

"The national character of this peo⯑ple is therefore monotonous; never il⯑lumed by a glimmering, though a de⯑parting beam of reaſon, and never ven⯑turing on amelioration; as the blind can only walk with confidence in their nar⯑row but accuſtomed precinct. Senſible they do not here bear chains under tyrants, they feel grateful that they exiſt under men; but the energies of glory die in inertion, and honour is ſtrangled by the ſilken cord of commerce.

"Every where the Jew degenerates: this degeneracy has paſſed from their mind to their form; diminutive and ti⯑morous, [246] they verify this verſe of Vir⯑gil:—

Cloſely tranſlated by Dryden;

The Jewiſh veins, impoveriſhed and ex⯑hauſted, want a mixture of Chriſtian blood. Their arms bear now the ruſt of fifteen hundred years. To athletic exer⯑ciſes their ſedentary occupations are averſe. From youth to age they breathe a ſickly exiſtence under the domeſtic roof; and

"The reform you propoſe to effect among this people is not deſirable, for at preſent they are unworthy of it. Their ſuperſtitions are perhaps never to be ex⯑tirpated. [247] They believe that their written law contains all that men ſhould know^*. [248] Omars, they would burn every book but their Alcoran. They believe that their oral law was really delivered by God to Moſes, paragraph by paragraph, as it now exiſts, conſiſting of twelve folios of abſurdities; a very Cyclopedia of igno⯑rance. Men muſt be trained gradually to ſupport the glorious weight of a ra⯑tional freedom. We muſt never hurry to feaſts the famiſhed; their enjoyment might be death. Your nation was not more prepared to enjoy liberty than the Negroes and the Jews, whom you now excite to ſnatch at the perilous gift. Let men deſerve liberty before they obtain it; permit them to reform themſelves; but to command reformation is, on your ſide, to give the name of freedom to deſpo⯑tiſm, and on their's, of glory to ſedition.

"Let us labour gently to looſen the bonds of prejudices, to extirpate unnatu⯑ral hatreds, and to convince the Chriſ⯑tian and the Jew, at the cloſe of the [249] eighteenth century, that 'modes of faith' were never modes of humanity, and that the hour ſhould have already paſſed, when the Chriſtian ſhould be ge⯑nerous and the Jew grateful. To oppoſe this principle is to cheriſh an abſurdity in politics, and a dereliction in mo⯑rals."^*

[250] Here the Jewiſh philoſopher at length ceaſed, and Vaurien departed, conſider⯑ing that the Jew was by no means ſo agreeable as the Platoniſt; that he ſhewed more erudition than he wiſhed to hear, and was as little adapted for his politics as for his amuſement.

CHAPTER XXIX.
A Committee of Public Safety: A Maſ⯑ſacre. An univerſal Peace. Grammar and Reaſon.

BESIDES the revolutionary aſſembly at Lord Belfield's, unknown to his Lordſhip a ſecret committee met at the houſe of Mr. Reverberator. They now joined, and Vaurien addreſſed them:—

"In England you have adopted two modes of getting rid of your kings; the reigns of Charles I. and James II. have produced to your nation more real uti⯑lity than if they had been the moſt ex⯑emplary princes. They have taught all ſovereigns, that there are different man⯑ners of regal puniſhment; by death or expulſion. Let every citizen give his [252] opinion reſpecting the preſent monarch, whom we have agreed to dethrone."

"Expel with a penſion," ſaid Sub⯑tile.

"Expel with a penſion," echoed Re⯑verberator.

"Expel without a penſion," cried Dr. Bounce. "He never gave me a living."

"Behead him," ſaid Rant.

"Aſſaſſinate him," exclaimed Dra⯑gon.

"This laſt mode," obſerved Vaurien, "combines expedition, ſafety, and tran⯑quillity. But this king, through a long reign, has not rebelled againſt his people, nor will his people eaſily rebel againſt a ſovereign, who, without imbecillity is affectionate, without effeminacy is do⯑meſtic, without tyranny is firm; a mo⯑narch, who, like another Auguſtus, ſuf⯑fered without a murmur, although it coſt a tear, the horrid calumnies of an eternal [253] Aretine; yes, the father of his country ſuf⯑fered himſelf what he could not permit the obſcureſt individual to ſuffer; he truſted to the purity of his life, and to the voice of his ſubjects; a ſovereign, whoſe confi⯑dence in their affections was ſuch, that he would have reclined his head and ſlept on the boſom of his meaneſt ſubject: but kings muſt fall if we would riſe."

"There is a vile rheumatic wind from that door," exclaimed Subtile; "cloſe it, Reverberator."

Reverberator, after ſome ineffectual at⯑tempts, cried, "Curſe the door, it will neither open nor ſhut; the hinges are dropt."

Vaurien ſmiled, obſerving, "the mo⯑narchy of that ſtate then is diſſolved. A door muſt have it's hinges."

"But it does not follow," cried Dra⯑gon, with a frown, "that a ſtate muſt have it's king. You Gauls catch at [254] every remote alluſion, burleſque the ſo⯑lemnity of your councils, and ruin your cauſe by your eloquence. Speak leſs, think more, and let your arm be your voice."

"A ſimile is harmleſs," replied Vau⯑rien; "but to proceed: May not the aſſaſſin be aſſaſſinated? The king is loved."

"A poiſoned arrow blown through a tube; it ſtrikes like the lightning; the inviſible is alone traced in it's effect," cried Dragon.

"Well thought," obſerved Vaurien; "kings to reſpect the people muſt fear them; therefore they muſt be beheaded or expelled."

"You obſerve," ſaid Subtile, turning to Reverberator, "how exact are my com⯑putations! This morning I calculated all our opinions, and caſting up all the probabilities and the poſſibilities, I com⯑puted [255] a certitude, that this evening we ſhould determine on aſſaſſination. But I have prepared another calculation. You propoſe, Dragon, that it ſhould take place when the King goes to Parliament. The chances are againſt you; for the wind may blow againſt the arrow, or the arrow may, for aught I know, be inhaled into your own throat. Then, there are the horſes, who, added together with his Ma⯑jeſty, make ſo many to one you miſs. We ſhould never ſtir a foot without cal⯑culation. When Johnſon entered a room he uſed to number and to meaſure his ſteps; it is thought to have been ſuper⯑ſtition; I believe it was done metaphyſi⯑cally; for it aſtoniſhes me, that not more legs are broken daily, ſince few calculate their ſteps, and a ſingle one, too long, or too ſhort, may overſet a man."

"Nature," ſaid Vaurien, "effects her facile operations without the intervention [256] of metaphyſics. We calculate nature, but are only amuſed by our figures. A new fact overturns an old ſyſtem. Reflect, my friends, on the neceſſity of diſpatch. What has been done at the Tower?"

Dragon replied, "This morning, for two hours, the tri-coloured flag was hung out, to the amazement and terror of the town. I got a boy to do this, merely by half an hour's converſation on liberty. Boys form the beſt citizens; every argu⯑ment to them is new and incontrovertible. I dare ſay, Citizen Rant, you find this at your lectures."

To which Rant anſwered: "Citizens, my lungs, my arms, my feet, this cadave⯑rous face, and theſe ferocious locks, flying like the ſerpent hair of furies, perform miracles among apprentices. I have learnt the French language ſince the revolution. I talk of Conſtantinople, while every one knows I mean London; of Mahomet, [257] when I ſtrike at Jeſus; and of a conſpiracy of the ſeven kings againſt the liberties of infant Rome, when I clearly deſcribe the allied powers. It is thus I defy all law. Helvetius did the ſame. Is not this ge⯑nius in me? All comes from Helvetius; he is the ova of human nature. The learned London Correſponding Society, our reſpectable bookſellers of 'Pig's-meat,' and our political miſſionaries, deſerve well of the republic; but they perſiſt all in printing what they have to ſay. I have printed in every claſs of literature; but whatever is moſt energetic from my tri⯑bune makes no impreſſion in print. My works are like the acidity of lemon ſqueezed on ſalts of wormwood; if the inſtant froth is not caught 'tis vapidneſs! My ſatire is termed outrageous ribaldry; my eloquence, inflated gaudineſs; my thoughts, tedious common place; 'tis ſaid, I have neither ſimplicity nor dignity, nei⯑ther [258] nature nor rhetoric. But approach my tribune, hear my ſcreams of indigna⯑tion, my whiſpers of diſcovery, the foam⯑ing vengeance of my mouth, the thun⯑dering reſolution of my arm, and the au⯑dible contempt of my foot. I aſſure you, citizens, a living line of animation runs along the room; I have ſeen the very benches tremble with rapture, while the oppoſite echo of my voice ſeems like that of ſome divinity, heard, but not ſeen. My butchers are reſolute as the gladia⯑tors of Rome; my tailors are heroes to a man; and my ſhoemakers are ſo many Solons. The canaille are the nobility of human nature."

"True," replied Vaurien; "and I have always been ſurpriſed at your Engliſh ari⯑ſtocratic cuſtom of decanting Port; you carefully reject the dregs; but the dregs are at once victual and drink, and con⯑tain more true ſpirit than the thin upper [259] liquor. Our French wine has no dregs, for it has no body; it is all alike, lively and ſparkling, but it will not keep; ſo we drink it off all at once. Time only ſlat⯑tens and ſours. Let us now underſtand from citizen Dragon the conduct of his propoſed maſſacre."

Dragon now puſhed on to the edge of his chair, raiſed two blood-ſhot eyes and a haggard countenance, then drawing up part of his coat-ſleeve till half his arm was bared, addreſſed the committee:

"Exactly a month from this night, or about one in the morning, I have prepared my friends. We divide in three bodies. The firſt aſſemble at Charing-croſs under the ſtatue of the tyrant; the ſecond collect at the Tower; the third penetrate the Bank. The Charing-croſs party will de⯑capitate by torch-light; the Tower will provde us with arms; but I fear we may be diſappointed at the Bank for money. [260] However an active night does much; when the ſun riſes we ſhall give up the city to pillage; that will be a kind of current coin for the people.

"When I was at Paris, I ſtudied 'the magnificent virtues of Robeſpierre, and the energetic heroiſm of Danton^*.' I [261] conſulted with the animated Barrere and the calm and perſevering Collot d'Her⯑bois. They conducted their maſſacres on a new plan. They firſt ſet fire to part of Lyons, without permitting a ſingle maſ⯑ſacre to be performed in the burning quarter, truſting to the juſtice of gun⯑powder. In the oppoſite quarters the patriots were marſhalled, and while they performed their duties quietly on the in⯑habitants, the fugitives who eſcaped from the flames were compelled to throw them⯑ſelves on their ſwords. This ingenious contrivance ſucceeded tolerably; not ſo much as they deſired; and they afterwards [262] very patriotically voted, when they per⯑ceived that they had only effected half a maſſacre, to raze the magnificent city of Lyons. Here you have 'hearts no bigger than pins heads;' you would have heſi⯑tated at this ſublime maſſacre."

"And do you mean," enquired Dr. Bounce, "to deſtroy London in your fury? Do you mean to burn my meeting in the Old Jewry?"

"Do not diſturb my reverie," conti⯑nued Dragon, darting a fiery glance on Bounce. "That night the two Houſes ſhall be the lamps of liberty to illu⯑minate the metropolis. Thoſe haughty phantoms of ſtate ſhall vaniſh. We ſhall walk in blood; we ſhall ſee by flames. At noon London will be half in ruins, and half it's citizens be piled on each other. Happy and fraterniſed people! Liberty ſhall be the benign ſunſhine to gild theſe horrors, and you ſhall be free when you exult over your ruins."

[263] "How many can you aſſemble?" de⯑manded Vaurien.

"Three hundred," replied Dragon, nodding earneſtly.

"Calculate, calculate!" cried Subtile, exultingly. "Not a probability; not a poſſibility!"

"You have deceived us," cried Vau⯑rien; "I conſidered half of London was at your devotion."

"Why, ſhall we not all unite?" conti⯑nued Dragon. "Rant has his appren⯑tices. Do you account liberated Newgate as nothing? Is the King's Bench unfur⯑niſhed with true republicans? Is Bride⯑well deſtitute of patriots? Will not half the young men of the day aſſemble when we once begin?"

"Calculate, calculate!" repeated Sub⯑tile.

"The Old Jewry is ſafe," ſaid Dr. Bounce, rubbing his hands.

[264] "C'eſt un jeu perdu," ſaid Vaurien "We muſt give up the maſſacre."

"Give up the maſſacre!" cried Dragon, ſtarting from his chair, and extending his bared arm; "I will firſt maſſacre myſelf. Rant, you are ſilent."

"I never open my mouth," replied the Lecturer, "unleſs I can collect an au⯑dience of more than three hundred."

"None of you," cried Dragon, "have made any progreſs in the philoſophy of po⯑litics. How few aſſaſſinated Caeſar! How inſtantly did Maſſaniello effect his revo⯑lution! One night completed the con⯑ſpiracy of Fieſco; and Marius and Sylla are immortal. Let us imitate the vaſt deſigns and ſplendid deeds of great men. In a cauſe like this the coward only is avaricious of blood, and the fool only is prodigal of words. A maſſacre in politics is an electric ſhock; it calls forth a flame from the coldeſt bodies. I have joined [265] in glorious maſſacres. You muſt want a feeble conception of the ſcene:—In the ſilence and ſhade of night, when the ſtill air is almoſt heard, then like a ſummer thunder ſuddenly burſting from all parts, ſhouts and groans, the ſhrieks of women, the claſh of ſwords, the firing of piſtols, the lurid ſkies now dark with ſmoke now red with flame, ſome fugitive and others purſuing, the people now precipitating and now precipitated, the ſtreets kennel⯑led with blood, the paſſage obſtructed by corſes, and the exulting eye of a true patriot glutted and tranquil amid bound⯑leſs carnage: at ſuch a moment, my friends, every conſpirator is ardent with triumph, while every citizen is frozen with terror. I entered a church at Paris with but a few friends; above five hun⯑dred prieſts had ſought an aſylum; they were chaunting Te Deum; when we en⯑tered all their voices were united, but [266] not one reſiſted our daggers; we gradually heard voice by voice decline, till only a ſo⯑litary accent ſounded in the hollow arches of the church; we left him to his fate, protected by the corſes of five hundred of his ſlaughtered companions. Believe me, the arm of an active patriot does not tire. Let men be aſſembled, and I aſk not a minute to a man. You have heard of the aſſaſſin of the Princeſs of Lamballe; I had him over, but he has been ſhipped off; he was a maſter. The rich cannot fight, and the poor will. Place a well-fed ſpi⯑der with one who has been faſting for ten months; the meagre one attacks, maſſa⯑cres, and gorges^*. Men are ſpiders in [267] this reſpect. Not a town in England but will riſe. Will not the French fleets be ſafe in our ports?"

"Conſider the winds, the winds," cried Vaurien. "You are as ſanguine as you are ſanguinary. You ſurely are diſeaſed with a calenture, and imagine the ſeas to be green fields."

"Damn the winds!" retorted Dragon. "Did not Monſieur Volney tell us, he would manage them by this time? Are we then to poſtpone a ſalutary maſſacre for a N.W. or a N.E.? You then have deceived me. I depended on the winds!"

"We cannot calculate the winds yet," obſerved Subtile; "but there is an ex⯑iſting poſſibility of this next year."

[268] "Aſſuredly, or in ten thouſand years hence," ſaid Reverberator.

"Damn your gigantic ſyſtem!" ex⯑claimed Dragon; "you talk of ten thou⯑ſand years, and ſuffer the exiſting hour to paſs away unnoticed, unknown, and unuſed. Your whole life is reduced to childhood."

"Nothing can be done with the Qua⯑kers," ſaid Vaurien. "My project of an univerſal peace charmed, but my mode terrified. My ſyſtem is, however, well calculated. France, by it's extent and it's populouſneſs, can hold out a war longer than any neighbouring country; ſo that when other nations are half de⯑ſtroyed, it will retain a reſpectable and ſelect number of republicans. In our cal⯑culations we look rather at the expence of powder and ball than of men; we have too many men, but are often in want of ammunition. The genius of our new [269] tactics is to fight inceſſantly by land, and at ſea to board the enemy, that we may relieve ourſelves from the ſuperfluity of our men. To deſtroy or be deſtroyed is the only ſecret of our art. A diurnal war of twenty years is therefore deſirable. I flatter myſelf two millions of our ene⯑mies might be annually got rid of. At the cloſe of the twenty years we ſhould be able to eſtabliſh, what hitherto has been the cloſet dream of the philoſopher,—an univerſal peace."

"Your calculation is commendable," replied Subtile; "but this general peace greatly reſembles the peace of a church⯑yard. It is a kind of peace which may be already enjoyed in a deſert. My pro⯑ject is evidently ſuperior. I would not ſlaughter, but reaſon with men. What are the cauſes or motives of war? Many in⯑deed have been aſſigned, yet they are all reſolvable into one; the propoſed ad⯑vantage [270] obtainable by a war. Now, of advantages or diſadvantages, no cri⯑terion exiſts but our conviction; it is, therefore, a matter for argument. Na⯑tions at preſent make war before they negotiate; they ſhould negotiate before they make war. A war rarely produces any real benefit to either party, but is attended with inevitable evil to both. At a peace the contending nations rejoice; rather ſhould they mourn; then only they perceive themſelves placed amidſt ruins and deſolations. A war has been often kindled by a miſterm in a treaty^*: and [271] thus alſo in law, which is another kind of war. I was ſaved at the Old Bailey, becauſe the Attorney-general had miſpelt my name Subtile, by Subtle. A letter more or leſs, a comma or a full ſtop, have fre⯑quently diſturbed the peace of Europe. I am of opinion that it is neceſſary to convince the world, that inſtead of armies compoſed of ſoldiers, it ſhould only form them of correct grammarians and expert logicians. Nations quarrel becauſe they do not underſtand each other. Reaſon is immutable; every obſtacle is removed by a lucid explanation. A treaty of war would be more deſirable than a battle of war. Who could reſiſt arguments ſtrong⯑ly deduced, and grammar nicely correct? There would be no miſunderſtandings, for there would be no miſterms."

"Grammer and reaſon!" exclaimed Rant. "I give my vote of diſſent in toto! What would become of me and my works [272] if grammer or reaſon were to be their cri⯑terions? Cannon and gunpowder are as neceſſary as pen and ink."

"I am no great admirer, I confeſs, of grammer and reaſon," ſaid Reverberator. "I have a natural antipathy to them; for when I was an oſtler at Newmarket, I ever obſerved that certain anomalies in the Engliſh language had the greateſt ef⯑fect on my horſes and my aſſociates. Some of our moſt energetic expreſſions are both unreaſonable and ungramma⯑tical."

"Mr. Subtile is, however, juſt in what he ſays reſpecting grammar and reaſon," ſaid Dr. Bounce; "for had the writer of the firſt chapter of Geneſis but known either, he would not have uſed the word Elohim, which plural word, Gods, has given to ſome a ſtrong proof of the exiſt⯑ence of the Trinity, by which ſo many honeſt men like myſelf are kept out of the hierarchy."

[273] "I ſhould fear," ſaid Vaurien, turning to Subtile, "that your treaties of war, to be conducted by logic, would be as deceptive as our preſent treaties of peace; for it ſeems you can reaſon with equal force on both ſides. You can, Mr. Re⯑verberator informs me, prove that man is a ſtone, and then, that a ſtone is not a man."

"I can," replied Subtile, with an ex⯑ulting tone. "It is the eaſieſt operation of my logic; for it is performed by the mode of the ancient ſyllogiſm. In my great work you will find many propoſitions more curious and extraordinary. To our pre⯑ſent buſineſs. I do it thus: A ſtone is a body; an animal is a body; man is an animal; ergo, man is a ſtone. Again: No ſtone is an animal; man is an animal; ergo, man is not a ſtone. Let beings, I repeat, rational and intelligent, act with rationality and intelligence, and I confi⯑dently [274] affirm, that a ſound logic would conduct the affairs of the world more forcibly than an iron world of ſoldiers."

"Moſt powerfully put!" replied Vau⯑rien, with a ſmile. "I am glad, however, that you have extricated me from the horror of petrifaction. Yet if I read your great work, I become a petrifaction again. Subtile, you merit the praiſe of our comic poet:

"But when ſhall we meet to agree?"—So ſaying he diſſolved the committee of public ſafety.

CHAPTER XXX.
A final Project of the Gaul. A Character of the French Nation.

WHEN Vaurien reflected on the in⯑determinations of his ſecret com⯑mittees, the imbecillity of his coadjutors, and the evident ſmallneſs of the number of true republicans in this country, he perceived that it was neceſſary to congre⯑gate men by other means than the pro⯑jects hitherto purſued. After profound meditation, he ſketched ſeveral plans equally ingenious, and at length ſelected one which appeared to promiſe an univer⯑ſal confuſion; to delight the young en⯑thuſiaſt in his cloſet, the enlightened by [276] honours rendered to ſcience, the popu⯑lace by the aſtoniſhment of a new and univerſal ſenſation, and the true republi⯑can by enabling ſuch to meet for mutual ſupport, and, like David, to "number his people."

He now ſat down to compoſe this great work. He entitled it, "A Procla⯑mation, in the name and authority of all Nations," and he called himſelf, "Agent General of all the Arts and Sciences."

It's deſign was an exhortation addreſ⯑ſed to all the Engliſh, the Scotch, and the Iriſh, to commemorate the birth, the works, and the name of Newton. He propoſed that an act of parliament ſhould immediately decree a national edition of his works; that his majeſty ſhould an⯑nually go in ſtate to Newton's printing preſs, and pay due homage to the art of printing, as the emperor of China, to reverence the art of agriculture, annually [277] conducts the plough. That columns ſacred to Newton be erected in every great town throughout the three ſiſter kingdoms; that the name of Newton be inſcribed among the princes of the royal blood; that a new order of knighthood be formed, called the Newtonian; that his majeſty ſhould beſtow on "the agent for all the arts and ſciences," the title of "Sir Newton Vaurien;" that a Newtonian fleet be prepared for new diſcoveries in every quarter of the world; and finally, that the houſe of the arch-philoſopher, which, we do not bluſh to relate, is at preſent converted into an eating-houſe, and eating is full as uſeful as philoſophy, ſhould be raiſed into a magnificent tem⯑ple, his diſcoveries to be ſet to Handel's muſic, and philoſophical hymns to be daily chanted to his memory throughout theſe three kingdoms!

[278] To defray the charges of this ſublime project, he propoſed that two guinea ſubſcriptions be depoſited at his banker's, and that any ſurplus of money, after the chop-houſe had been raiſed into a tem⯑ple, be applied to the relief of the poor, in the manner ſo humanely recommended by Dean Swift^*.

[279] Such is the literal analyſis of this ec⯑centric project! a cool and rational Bri⯑ton will inſtantly pronounce it the con⯑ception of infanity, and that no political miſchief could attend any ſimilar publi⯑cation; as if great madmen were not to the full as dangerous as great villains. If Vaurien were mad, there was certainly "a method in his madneſs;" but Vaurien was in good health, although not in high ſpirits, when he compoſed this great work. It was a final project. Every exertion of deſpair, if unſucceſsful, is conſidered as an act of lunacy, but attended with ſuc⯑ceſs, we then acknowledge it the ſub⯑lime [280] invention of no ordinary genius. This project ceaſes to be an abſurdity when confronted with ſome of a kindred character realiſed in France. The re⯑moval of the bones of Voltaire and Rouſ⯑ſeau, carried with an idolatrous pomp to the deification of a Pantheon, the na⯑tional commemoration of a ferocious li⯑berty by the exhibition of an allegorical pantomime, and the national dreſſes, motley and fantaſtical, in all forms and all colours, were aſſuredly not extrava⯑gancies of lunatics, but puerilites of de⯑ſigning men; puerile only in their ap⯑pearance, invented to captivate the eye; to pleaſe the fancies of women, to awe youth into reſpect, and to divert the paſſions of the multitude into any chan⯑nel of obſervation and converſe, rather than ſuffer them to roll their turbid waves amidſt the ſecreted fountain of power. The infantes barbati, bearded in⯑fants, [281] are to be uſed as other boys, and they give them harmleſs mockeries, that they may not entertain themſelves by ſeiſing on the dangerous inſtruments of men; but they will not permit the children of nature to amuſe themſelves with any other toys than thoſe manufac⯑tured à la mode Pariſienne.

There was ſagacity in this laſt attempt of Vaurien. He had hitherto promiſed to his patron rapid wonders, which ſhould be followed by each other with undeviat⯑ing and miraculous power. The Cardinal De Rohan did not more revere the buſt of Caglioſtro, whom he conſidered as the great illuminé of the age, than Lord Bel⯑field confided in the head of Vaurien; but the Gaul in every event had proved the dupe of his own impetuous imagina⯑tion. The fleets of France were diſperſed, were taken, and were burnt. The Iriſh were loyal, and felt a Britiſh indignation [282] at a Gallic gaſconade. The true repub⯑licans in London were too few to enu⯑merate, and too contemptible to liſten to. Bold, firm, and diſcontented men he found, but their audible diſcontent proved the freedom of our country. He ſaw that our government felt all the in⯑firmities of long adminiſtrations; no go⯑vernment can reach a ſtationary perfec⯑tion; all were formed by human paſ⯑ſions, and all are carried on by contend⯑ing intereſts; every government is good which is ſupportable. Vaurien ſaw that ours could not be as pure and vigorous as in it's youth of 1688; it's ſound con⯑ſtitution is rather debilitated by luxu⯑rious eaſe, than imbecile by a pithleſs and frigid age. He ſaw our preſs was free, our juries were holy, our judges honeſt; a miniſter may be cenſured and impeached, and the voice of the people can reach the throne; and the purity of [283] our conſtitution had been tried in it's fountain head. Vaurien had ſeen with ſurpriſe, that a member, who profeſſed himſelf independent, could expel, when he elevated his voice, a member who had been ſpawned forth from the filth of commercial corruption.

He perceived the imbecility of the chiefs of his party, who aſſumed the ſovereignty of human opinion, and one of whom only had a juſt claim to genius. In vain the unfeeling, the ſophiſtical, and the metaphyſical Subtile had choſen to characteriſe free men, like herds of Yahoos; in vain he had, with minute malice, and hyperbolical calumny, artiſtly painted a ſombrous and terrific picture, which he choſe to term the Engliſh conſtitution; in vain he had created a being with a petrifaction for it's heart, ice-water for it's blood, and clock-work for it's mo⯑tion, which he choſe to term a man. [284] Still more in vain was Reverberator, the noon-tide ſhadow of this metaphyſical giant; his ten thouſand years could only occaſion the laugh, forgotten with the moment. When Vaurien heard him af⯑firm the wonderful influence of mind over the exterior organization, and that life might be prolonged at will, and looked on this philoſopher of eternity, he ſmiled to view a diminutive frame, a ſhrunken countenance, a man broken down in the maturity of life, whoſe volu⯑bility was interrupted by an aſthma, whoſe vigour marched with tottering legs, and whoſe boldneſs trembled with ſhat⯑tered nerves. This Reverberator, who, conceiving that all things were acquirable by the perſerverance of habit, attempt⯑ed in his walk to take large ſtrides, that he might gradually make a gigantic ſtep; to diminiſh his food by ſlow gradations, that in time he might exiſt with the [285] leaſt, or poſſibly without any food; and on the ſame principle, ſtraining and ema⯑ciating his mind with his body, attempt⯑ed to become a man of genius, by writ⯑ing comedies without taſte, poetry with⯑out imagination, and politics in a rage. From Sympathy he could expect little, ſince although he was willing to overturn all religion, he ſtill retained ſo much of the prieſt as to inſiſt on becoming an archbiſhop of Canterbury. For the reſt of the ſociety, peace be to their manes!

Situated thus, deſolate in hope, and active in deſpair, he publiſhed this eccen⯑tric proclamation, and reſigned it to the influence of chance; chance, to which ſo many great characters have had recourſe, and which he knew, in the moſt complicated and ruinous game, ſometimes turns up the dice which decides our fortune.

Vaurien had ill calculated the genius of our nation. He had committed the [286] error of his Pariſian friends; they think we reſemble them; that is, they conſider us as men much worſe than we are. They have examined ſome looſe rotten bricks which have fallen from the Britiſh edifice, and decide on the wondrous piles by ſome natural caſualties. In vain we are told, that all men are the ſame men. National characters are oppoſite. To moral, and not to phyſical cauſes, can be aſcribed that hoſtility of opinions, which has, from age to age, removed, at ſo vaſt an interval, the genius of theſe neighbouring nations. The ſame winter and ſummer refrigerate and heat Paris and London, but not the ſame well-poiſed government and the ſame domeſtic vir⯑tues. Taſte, is a criterion of national cha⯑racter. Voltaire never comprehended the genius of Shakeſpeare; Johnſon never taſted the ingenuity of Voltaire. An Engliſh and French ſtudent peruſe the [287] ſame authors, but do not write the ſame ſentiments. Even the ſeverity of meta⯑phyſics in France has been rendered a vehicle of entertainment for women^*; but when Subtile followed with mea⯑ſured ſteps the paths of theſe airy Gauls, he could not ſoften his auſterity with their ſuperficial gaiety. We cannot ac⯑quire the volatiliſed delicacy, the lighter graces, and the ſuſceptible and feminine imagination of the French.

Redoubtable they are in politics, for they execute rapidly what they project inceſſantly; inſidious in their profeſ⯑ſions, [288] ſubtile in their hypocriſy, and ſan⯑guinary in their power. In France they feel to inexpreſſible delicacy, or to incon⯑ceivable horror; their individual mur⯑ders have ever been characteriſed by pe⯑culiar and complex barbarity^*; impe⯑tuous [289] feelings are fugitive, and take an oppoſite direction; they commit murders, and then inſcribe "ICI L'ON DANSE." Women in all things, they are women in vengeance. Impatient of reſtraint, in war, a ſiege diſcourages and repels them; in peace, an orderly conſti⯑tution could neither excite their love nor their reverence. Terrible in aſſault, contemptible in ſlight; vaſt in their projects, imbecile in their purſuits; capa⯑ble of imagining all things, incapable of performing any. They triumph for a moment, and deſpair through a century. Of all nations, they alone have felt that calenture of political imagination, which has aſpired to an univerſal monarchy or an univerſal republic; but they have never known that Britiſh vigour of judg⯑ment, which could form for Engliſhmen the moſt perfect conſtitution humanity can ſuffer. When the French were ſlaves, us they reverenced; when free, us they [290] imitated; now licentious, they envy and they hate. Europe they may afflict with continued revolutions; yet may their deſigns be fruſtrated; ONE revolution was ſufficient for the Engliſh. Danger⯑ous rivals, for they addreſs themſelves to the imagination; they ſeduce the eye and inflame the heart; they mingle pro⯑minent virtues, which conceal their radi⯑cal viciouſneſs; incapable of perſever⯑ance, but they will periſh in their cauſe if deſtruction comes rapidly; they will declaim on freedom, when they exerciſe tyranny; revere the humanity of peace, while their hand is armed with death; they will reform prejudices, while they introduce prejudices ſtill more calamitous; they term themſelves citizens of the world, while they ſly from place to place, and only leave in their career the memory of their deſolations. They come to de⯑ſtroy or be deſtroyed; to fraternize with them were to embrace and to periſh.

[291] The French reſemble water-melons, of which, proverbially, not one in a thouſand taſtes with perfection; their liquor is aqueous, and rarely delicious; while the Engliſh, like the cocoa-nut, bear a rough and hard incruſtation, which protects the milk of human kindneſs^*.

CHAPTER XXXI.
More of Vaurien's Loves and Friendſhips.

IT is now time to imitate the manner of Rapin in his hiſtory, who, when he has finiſhed a certain portion of the af⯑fairs of the ſtate, as we have done, re⯑turns to wind up thoſe of the church, and then on to the ſtate, and then back⯑wards to the church; a comfortable and unfatiguing regularity we much envy. We noveliſts are claſſed beneath our brothers who profeſs authentic hiſtory, and yet we have to feed the fire of our imagi⯑nation with the moſt coſtly aromatics; but the fire of an hiſtorian is extremely ſmall, and kept up by mere wood and coal. But as the eyes of moſt people are more perfect than the delicacy of their [293] olfactory nerves, it has happened that hiſtorians are conſidered as ſublime per⯑ſonages, and we as nugatory triſlers. As for our church affairs, they are much ea⯑ſier to narrate than thoſe of the other hiſtorians, a church being the very laſt object of a noveliſt's attention. It is with us as with many other men; to go to church for marriage is an act of deſpair; and when we diſcover that we are in an exhauſted ſtate, to ſave our reputation we have recourſe to the parſon.

Emily with ſecret pleaſure now gazed on Vaurien. She felt the ſame degree of faſcinated affection as Charles experi⯑enced. Placed in a ſimilar ſituation, they mutually loved and hated. When Emily liſtened to Lady Belfield, ſhe con⯑ceived ideas of contempt; and to Vau⯑rien, of confirmed horror relative to Charles. Of the character of Mrs. Wil⯑ſon ſhe had received indubitable evi⯑dence. [294] She and Charles felt alike; for the innocence and purity of both were the marked victims of the diſappointed paſſion of her Ladyſhip, and the cruel malice of the Gaul. Yet it is worthy of obſervation, that all theſe compli⯑cated miſchiefs were originally derived from a young man's charity for a miſera⯑ble proſtitute!

Emily had ſcarcely reſided a month with Lady Belfield when ſhe found her depen⯑dent life even more wretched than with the daughter of the loan-contractor. The beauty and diſſipation of Miſs Million by no means rivalled thoſe of her Ladyſhip; and having been born in Pudding-lane, ſhe was not ſo expert and creative in her derelictions from decency and virtue as her rival, who had been born in Groſve⯑nor-ſquare; and yet we ſhall not have recourſe to climate to ſolve this problem, [295] as many other philoſophers would. She had not yet ſeized on the natural genius of diſſipation; for it is by no means a facile labour to become the moſt aban⯑doned and the moſt amiable of women; an experienced taſte is required even in the ſelection of impurities.

The domeſtic manners of her Lady⯑ſhip were viewed with a ſenſation of horror. A ſtranger to her Lord, yet reſiding un⯑der the ſame roof; when deſcribing the embarraſſments of their fortune, her high play ſhe termed a national debt; an avowed and criminal intercourſe with her favourites was called a fleurette, and with her claimants a ſtamped re⯑ceipt. Her private converſations alarmed her hourly; for her Ladyſhip, to give an evidence of her friendſhip, threw off her reſerve, and, like the Dueſſa of Spenſer, diſcovered under the gay and brilliant [296] dreſs by which ſhe enchanted the public eye, a form of demoniac uglineſs and vi⯑cious diſtortion.

In Vaurien Emily perceived nothing but humanity and accompliſhment. He too wore a beautiful maſk; but art had ſo emulated nature, that if the innocent Emily miſtook a maſk for a face, others of more experienced ſagacity had been alike deceived.

Sometimes when ſhe ſat alone her thoughts wandered to Charles; his image had been placed on the altar of her heart, and we do not readily break the idols which we once have worſhipped. Yet on Vau⯑rien ſhe looked as on her protector, and fa⯑cilitated, by the deſolation of her hopes and the urgency of her wants, the de⯑ſigns he meditated.

In the mean while Vaurien perceived the growing paſſion of his rival, who, in the confidence of his friendſhip, con⯑feſſed [297] the reſtleſs emotions of his boſom. "To love her," ſaid Charles, "who me⯑rits not love, is a faſcination. It is in vain I combat and I reſolve; when her image comes before me, every thought turns to her; eternally I gaze on that in⯑tellectual phantom which takes the pure form without the impure mind of this girl." Vaurien was alike convinced of Emily's predilection for Charles; becauſe not only he had caught her abrupt mo⯑nologue, which we have given, at the moment ſhe had diſcovered the character of Mrs. Wilſon, but alſo becauſe ſhe made frequent enquiries concerning Charles, and mourned over his character leſs with the regret of diſpleaſure, than with the grief of paſſion.

Charles, although he would not enter the houſe of Belfield, was induced, by his reſtleſs anxiety, to enquire concerning Emily of her maid. By her he diſco⯑vered that ſhe was far from being of con⯑genial [298] diſpoſitions with her Ladyſhip, with whom ſhe did not appear on the eaſieſt terms; that ſhe was melancholy, and often had been obſerved in tears. The maid, however, confeſſed that Emily ſeemed much delighted by the ſociety of Vaurien, that ſhe often played to him on her harp, that they paſſed hours in con⯑verſation, and that ſhe conſulted with him on every preſſing occaſion. The in⯑terrupted connection between her Lady⯑ſhip and Emily he attributed to the ſpi⯑rit of rivalry, while the latter part of the information amply confirmed her charac⯑ter, according to the deſcriptions of his friend Vaurien.

His agitated ſpirits preyed on his frame, and his health viſibly declined. In his literary purſuits he gave marks of the diſtraction of his mind; and ſome ſingular blunders he had committed con⯑vinced Johnſon that he concealed ſome powerful emotion, too apparent in it's [299] effects. He ſaid to him one day, "My good friend, I did not know you was the abſent man; but you will ruin me. You inſerted, I find, in Mr. Snowden's Tra⯑vels to Ruſſia, Mr. Fervid's deſcription of his newly-diſcovered iſland under the Line; and you have ſent to the printer of the Britiſh Critic, the article on the aboliſhment of epiſcopacy, which was meant for the Critical Review, while this month the Critical contains that orthodox diſſertation to prove the nature of the Trinity on the principles of com⯑mon ſenſe. The literary world is in con⯑fuſion. The Rivingtons menace with the pillory; the Robinſons (who yet do not command the pillory) threaten to ſtarve me out of employment. You know that all the arts and ſciences, all the wit and genius of the age, are ab⯑ſolutely under controul of the Rivingtons and the Robinſons, brothers and book⯑ſellers^*." [300] Charles deſired to relinquiſh his purſuits, acknowledged himſelf ab⯑ſorbed in a paſſion fatal to his repoſe, that he loved an object who merited not love, and now related the hiſtory of Emily, which he had hitherto concealed.

Johnſon inſtantly inſinuated an idea, [301] that Vaurien had been deceiving him re⯑ſpecting the character of Emily.

"Impoſſible!" replied Charles. "Would the man who with one hand has given me the means of ſubſiſtence ſnatch from me with the other it's only enjoyment?"

Johnſon having received his promiſe that he would never more touch another manuſcript, aſſured him that he would ſoon give him more certain evidence of the artifice of the Gaul.

He ſeized on the earlieſt opportunity of conferring with Emily, and delighted her, when ſhe was aſſured that Charles was virtuous and impaſſioned.

"And whence," ſhe enquired, "his ſhameleſs connection with an abject be⯑ing?"

"Eccentric humanity! That being is a virtuous woman. We muſt learn to correct our prejudices if we would not [302] too frequently pierce with an added ſting the bleeding boſom of virtuous misfor⯑tune. What ſhe related is true; but ſhe could not relate all. Her modeſty con⯑cealed her incontinence." Johnſon related her intereſting connection with Charles. When he had finiſhed, Emily raiſed her eyes to heaven, exclaiming, "My father, once have you erred! Virtue, then, may aſſume a criminal appearance. Siſter of affliction! where does ſhe now wander? Victim of prejudice and delicacy! I could now embrace her with the confidence of virtue. I could preſs this woman, who was a proſtitute, to my artleſs boſom, as an image of maternal affection. Tell Mr. Charles he is an excellent young man; if I ceaſed to eſteem him, the cauſe of that ceſſation will convince him that I now muſt eſteem him but the more."

"If you eſteem him," ſaid Johnſon, then have I an accuſation againſt you. [303] Charles knows that you are attached to Vaurien, and take a viſible delight in his ſociety."

"I am only born," replied Emily, "to be deceived. Yes, Vaurien's accompliſh⯑ments were eloquent, and his virtues were ſplendid. His character now becomes un⯑intelligible. Is he then a villain?—Ah, my father! are you again right? My father, Sir, at his death, exhorted me to 'fly the agreeable.'—I ſhould not then have incurred this juſt imputation."

"Your father," obſerved Johnſon, counſelled you wiſely; the agreeable ever make an eaſy conqueſt of your ſex."

When theſe myſteries were elucidated, Vaurien diſcovered them in Emily's coun⯑tenance and converſation. She at length accuſed him of his ungenerous treatment of Charles.

Vaurien pauſed ſome minutes, then raiſing his hands, exclaimed with energy, [304] —"I appeal to heaven that I am not ungenerous! This man, and no doubt this woman, even at this moment, exiſt on my bounty! Since he provokes the diſcovery I have concealed, blame me not for the confidence I have held religiouſly inviolate. I will ſhew you his bond. All this can be but a colluſion of the wretch⯑ed parties. As for this Charles he is no where to be found; he has ſuddenly diſ⯑appeared."

He now ſhewed Emily the bond, which was for five hundred pounds; as ſhe looked on it, mingled ſenſations agitated; the generous concealment of Vaurien waked a beaming pleaſure in her eyes; the ſilence, the connections, and the flight of Charles gave a poignant reproach to her heart; her face burned with indigna⯑tion; her eye ſoftened with delight; the amiable character of Vaurien roſe to her mind;—and when ſhe turned towards Vau⯑rien, [305] ſhe gazed on an animated Adonis, liſtened to tones that melodiſed her ſoul, and was dazzled by eyes that melted with their tendereſt fires. He threw himſelf at her feet, confeſſed himſelf her adorer, and moaned in ſuch deſpair at the treach⯑ery and envy of Charles, that Emily, in piteouſly liſtening, ſhed tears with the tears of Vaurien.

This was one of thoſe moments of activity with the Gaul, in which his genius inſtantaneouſly performed what the ſlow conceptions of vulgar villains could not have atchieved by repeated deliberations. When he could force him⯑ſelf to reſiſt the overflowing ſympathy of the artleſs Emily, he had Charles imme⯑diately arreſted, and by a weighty bribe gained over his keeper to deliver to him any letters he might write. This done, he forged a letter to Johnſon, in Charles's hand-writing. Vaurien was expert in coun⯑terfeiting hand, and at Naples his inge⯑nuity [306] had once nearly been rewarded by having his hand ſevered; but he had timely decamped, preſerving, with the in⯑ſtrument of his art all it's former ſkill. In this letter to Johnſon Charles was made to inform him, that he was compelled to quit the kingdom in haſte and trepi⯑dation; that hitherto he had played the hypocrite; that his attachment to Mrs. Wilſon had been of a very ancient ſtand⯑ing, and had proved ruinous; and finally, he deſired Johnſon would call on Vaurien, to thank him for the conſiderable ſum he owed him, but which he could never repay.

Johnſon read the letter with ſilent aſto⯑niſhment. He examined and re-exa⯑mined. Charles did not appear, and every letter was evidently of his writing. He haſtened to Vaurien and Emily; each ſhared in the ſame aſtoniſhment. John⯑ſon, whoſe ſuſpicion had not entirely de⯑ſerted [307] him, ſcrupulouſly examined the countenance of Vaurien; never man ap⯑peared more poignantly afflicted. He ex⯑preſſed little, and ſcarcely were his words audible; a tear trickled on his cheek; he wrung his hands; he looked ſometimes on Emily, and ſometimes on Johnſon, ſhook his head, and groaned.

When Johnſon was quitting the houſe, he heard of ſo many of Vaurien's liberali⯑ties to the domeſtics, that his ſpontane⯑ous loan to Charles ceaſed to be extraor⯑dinary. William told him, that had it not been for Vaurien he ſhould not have known what had become of his father's ſoul, ſince without his generoſity it had never reſted in church ground. A collec⯑tion of mendicants was waiting at the door to receive Vaurien's weekly ſtipend. This man, thought Johnſon, muſt be what he ſeems, and my national preju⯑dices have injured him.

CHAPTER XXXII.
A vicious and great Man, capable even of Virtue.

THUS were affairs ſituated at the time Vaurien's Newtonian ſyſtem was pub⯑liſhed. Charles in priſon was as melan⯑choly as Jeremiah, forming lamentations on modern friendſhips; and this Pythias conceived himſelf betrayed by one Da⯑mon, and deſerted by another. Vaurien perceived that the compaſs of his fate was cloſing the circle it deſcribed, and that the commemoration of Newton's ſame ſeemed to be left entirely to the planetary ſyſtem he had formed, and that he, who had inſcribed his works on the face of heaven muſt regard with a ſmile the earthly celebrations of mortality. [309] Some friends of Lord Belfield had in⯑formed his Lordſhip, that he had en⯑tertained a dangerous adventurer; that among the privileges of nobility was not accounted that of an exemption from impeachment; and, beſides, they aſſured his Lordſhip, that his phyſicians were of opinion that a change of climate was abſolutely neceſſary for his health. His Lordſhip, indeed, was of the ſame opi⯑nion, not in reſpect to his health, which he affirmed was vigorous, but to his af⯑fairs, which he acknowledged were diſor⯑dered; and the voice of a creditor is as awe⯑ful as that of a phyſician; they both con⯑vince the patient that he can expect no quiet unleſs he ſlies from their regular attendance.

Vaurien had now fixed the bias in the ſenſitive heart of Emily, and he was anti⯑cipating the moment of her fall. He had conſulted with Lady Belfield, and the [310] boudoir of her ladyſhip had been ſelcted as the altar on which the virgin victim was to bleed.

The great events of great men are go⯑verned by the ſame capricious influence which directs the little events of little men. The web of fate is woven by the hand of fortune, and ſhe, induſtrious yet indiſcriminate ſpinſter, takes the ca⯑ſual ball from her baſket, and careleſs works, now with threads of gold, and now with damaged yarn. She weaves on our fate, but makes no diſtinction of per⯑ſonages. The hero frequently envies the bandit; for often the latter has found his exiſtence to be a triumph over innocence, while the former has periſhed in the act of his injuſtice. Every thing in this world ſeems good or ill fortune, and the events of fortune are ſuſpended on the ſlighteſt accidents; a plank immerges the [311] conſpirator into ſeas, ſtormy and profound as his deſigns, in the hour of exultation, and a pebble is ſlung into the head of the giant in the hour of confidence.

Lord Belfield was bitterly reproaching Vaurien for his abortive and vaſt deſigns. He had at length diſcovered that he was a fertile tree, luxuriant in leaves, but void of fruit; and complained much in the ſtyle which a ruined lover of alchymy would formerly have employed to ſome beggarly gold-maker, who had promiſed to roof and floor his apartments in the Mexican faſhion, before the Spaniards ar⯑rived; but after the multifarious induſ⯑try of years, lo! a furnace had burſt with a terrible exploſion, or at the very criſis, the aurum potabile in the crucible was whiſked down by a cat's tail. Great or little cauſes, Vaurien averred, had hi⯑therto fruſtrated his comprehenſive ſyſ⯑tem. While they were computing, like [312] two Subtiles, what is evidence and what is only equivalent to evidence, intelligence was brought, that Meſſrs. Dragon and Rant were arreſted for high-treaſon; a quarter of an hour afterwards Monſieur Vaurien received a note of epigrammatic conciſeneſs from Mr. Dundas, without a ſcotticiſm or a vulgariſm. It there ap⯑peared, that this hoſpitable country diſ⯑miſſed the Gaul, and in twenty-four hours were the ſeas to receive Vaurien. A breathleſs friend ruſhed in, to intreat his Lordſhip to ſet off inſtantly on his tour through Europe. "Your government (obſerved Vaurien) are adopting Subtile's ſyſtem of puniſhment; it makes us all travellers. I have long been one. To me the chances and the changes of for⯑tune have by cuſtom an uniformity in their varieties. My chimerical head has conſidered Europe as the inheritance of every ſublime politician in theſe periods [313] of revolution; but I fear that my ſhadow will ever be reflected on the earth of my neighbours, and never on my own."

Vaurien was collected and intrepid, and he would have been equally ſo had the letter of Dundas been his Majeſty's order, ſigned for his execution. Mithri⯑dates and Hannibal carried about them an antidote againſt poiſon; and had Vau⯑rien been now in modern Italy, he would have continued the precaution which theſe great men uſed in ancient Italy; but in theſe northern climates he knew we only poiſoned rats. What communicated this intrepidity to the Gaul, was a perſuaſion that he was born to ſuffer a public death. What is inevitable, to a ſuperior mind conveys no terror. Whether the philoſo⯑pher was to be hanged, guillotined, be⯑headed, broken on the wheel, or empaled, he knew not, the mode entirely depend⯑ing [314] on the cuſtoms of that country where he was to make his final exit.

"Eh, bien! (thought Vaurien, as he was filling his portmanteau) the liberty of theſe Britons is like a bottle of their Port, locked in a glaſs beaufet; they ſee it, and there it is—but only taſte it at the option of their maſter, who keeps the key at his own diſpoſal. Their liberty will not intoxicate their heads. Here the people ſubmit to the laws—damned fools!—the laws muſt be ſub⯑mitted to the people—there ſhould be NO LAWS at all, as Subtile ſays, and then, if there were no laws, every thing would be lawful.

"Diable! (he exclaimed, as he lifted his portmanteau) I carry nothing away from this opulent country. I play my cards ill. After all my ſhooting parties with that ſchool-boy of Naples, he would [315] have ſpoiled my hand-writing for the for⯑gery on the Treaſury. Spain I loſt by thoſe garlick-digeſting grandees, becauſe I deſired to curtail their names. I miſ⯑took the real number of my confederates when I looked over my papers; as they appeared in writing, I imagined every ſingle man to be at leaſt ſix. I thought I had an entire family when I diſcovered I had only a hot-brained boy. The Pruſſian idiot I had perſuaded, for I knew it would win him, that he was an inviſible, an illu⯑miné; I uſed to tread on his feet, and then entreat his pardon for my not being able to ſee him. All my party did the ſame; his Majeſty was buffetted about the whole day, which quite flattered his powers of inviſibility. The court of Berlin had been our's, but for the miniſter, who, while he received Engliſh money, perſiſted in aſ⯑ſuring his Majeſty that we were im⯑poſtors, and that his palpable obeſity was [316] not of ſo ſpiritual a kind, as ever to eſ⯑cape the eye. Rome had been mine, but for thoſe Cardinals who call them⯑ſelves nephews of the Pope; but I found that they were more accurate in calling him their holy father. The Ottoman and the Ruſſian empires are fair and open fields; but they are too diſtant for the moment. In America I have friends at work, who will burn the place if they do not ſucceed. There is no room for me. I do not chuſe to be a hermit amid a hundred thouſand acres. The Dutch are near—ſanguinary and unfeeling I knew the boors were; but little imagined that thoſe unwieldly porpoiſes, ſleeping in ſtag⯑nated water, ſhould ever leap out to frolic with uncouth airineſs to the national tune of the Marſeillois hymn.

"But, the poſſeſſion of Emily I have miſſed for a ſingle day! A kingdom I can always diſcover, but a child of love [317] and nature kingdoms may not preſent. Charles remains in priſon. From either I derive no further benefit, and I wiſh no being unhappy who impedes not my political views."—He now took his pen, and addreſſed the following letter to Emily.

Having ſealed this letter, the Gaul took his departure in a neutral veſſel for Hol⯑land, and ere he reached it's ſhores al⯑ready meditated a new government for [323] that ruined people; his ſpeculations re⯑ceived conſiderable enlargement from ſe⯑veral patriots, and two or three philoſo⯑phers, his compagnons de voiage, who with him were taking the benefit of the Alien Bill; patriots and philoſophers, whom the o'erpreſſed ſtomach of England had diſ⯑gorged with a violent, but a ſalutary effort.