the generous part he had taken, told him that Clementina should ask his pardon. He begged that, for the sake of their own weight with her on the same subject, she might not know that they had heard what had passed. I believe that's best, chevalier, answered the Marchioness; and I am apt to think, that the poor girl will be more ready than perhaps one would wish, to make up with you, were she to find you offended with her in earnest; as you have reason to be, as a disinterested man. You see, chevalier, I know to whom I am speaking; but both my lord and self hope to see her of another mind; and that she will soon be Countess of Belvedere. My lord's heart is in this alliance; so is that of my son Giacomo. I come, now, madam, to your third command; which is to give you The conference which Sir Charles was put up on holding with the unhappy Clementina, on her being first seized with melancholy. [Mr Grandison still not presuming on any particular favour from Clementina.] THE young lady was walking in one alley of the garden; Mr Grandison, and the Marquis and Marchioness, in another. She was attend ed by her woman, who walked behind her; and with whom she was displeased for endeavouring to divert her; but who, however, seemed to be talking on, though without being answered. The dear creature! said the Marquis, tears in his eyes-See her there, now walking slow, now with quicker steps, as if she would shake off her Camilla. She hates the poor woman for her love to her; but who is it that she sees with pleasure? Did I think that I should ever behold the pride of my heart, with the pain that I now feel for her? Yet she is lovely in my eye, in all she does, in all she says-But, my dear Grandison, we cannot now make her speak more than yes or no. We cannot engage her in a conversation, no, not on the subject of her newly-acquired language. See if you can, on any subject. Ay, chevalier, said the Marchioness, do you try to engage her. We have told her, that we will not talk of marriage to her at all, till she is herself inclined to receive proposals. Her weeping eyes thank us for our indulgence. She prays for us with lifted-up hands. She curtseys her thanks, if she stands before us; she bows, in acknowledged gratitude for our goodness to her, if she sits; but she cares not to speak. She is not easy while we are talking to her. See! she is stepping into the Greek temple; her poor woman, unanswered, talking to her. She has not seen us. By that winding walk we can, unseen, place ourselves in the myrtle-grove, and hear what passes. The Marchioness, as we walked, hinted, that in their last visit to the General at Naples, there was a Count Marulli, a young nobleman of merit, but a soldier of fortune, who would have clandestinely obtained the attention of their Clementina. They knew nothing of it till last night, she said; when herself and Camilla, puzzling to what to attribute the sudden melancholy turn of her daughter, and Camilla mentioning what was unlikely, as well as likely; told her, that the Count would have bribed her to deliver a letter to the young lady; but that she repulsed him with indignation; he besought her then to take no notice of his offer, to the General, on whom all his fortunes depended. She did not, for that reason, to anybody; but, a few days since, she heard her young lady (talking of the gentlemen she had seen at Naples) mention the young Count favourably—Now it is impossible there can be anything in it, said the Marchioness; but do you, however, chevalier, lead to the subject of love, but at a distance; nor name Marulli, because she will think you have been talking with Camilla. The dear girl has pride; she would not endure you, if she thought you imagined her to be in love, especially with a man of inferior degree, or dependent fortunes. But on your prudence we wholly rely; mention it, or not, as matters fall in. There can be no room for this surmise, my dear, said the Marquis, and yet Marulli was lately in Bologna; but Clementina's spirit will not permit her to encourage a clandestine address. By this time we had got to the myrtle-grove, behind the temple, and overheard them talk, as follows: Cam. And why, why, must I leave you, madam?-From infancy you know how I have loved you. You used to love to hold converse with your Camilla. How have I offended you? I will not enter this temple till you give me leave; but, indeed, indeed, I must not, I cannot, leave you. Clem. Officious love!-Can there be a greater torment than an officious, prating love!—If you loved me, you would wish to oblige me. Cam. I will oblige you, my dear young lady, in everything I can▬▬ Clem. Then leave me, Camilla. I am best when I am alone; I am cheerfullest when I am alone. You haunt me, Camilla; like a ghost, you haunt me, Camilla. Indeed you are but the ghost of my once obliging Camilla. Cam. My dearest young lady, let me beseech you— Clem. Ay, now you come with your beseeches again; but if you love me, Camilla, leave me. Am I not to be trusted with myself? Were I a vile young creature, suspected to be running away with some base-born man, you could not be more watchful of my steps. Camilla would have entered into farther talk with her; but she absolutely forbade her. Talk till doomsday, I will not say one word more to you, Camilla. I will be silent. I will stop my ears. They were both silent. Camilla seemed to weep. as they are not often entitled to boast of judgment, (for imagination and judgment seldom go together,) they may, perhaps, give the cause, and then break out into satire upon the ef fects. Now, my dear chevalier, whispered the Mar- Don't I see before me, in the orange-grove, quis, put yourself in her sight; engage her into my father and mother?-I do. I have not talk about England, or anything; you will have kneeled to them to-day.-Don't go, chevalier. an hour good before dinner. I hope she will be. She hastened towards them. They stopt. She cheerful at table; she must be present; our guests will inquire after her. Reports have gone out, as if her head were hurt. I am afraid, my lord, that this is an unseasonable moment. She seems to be out of humour; and pardon me if I say, that Camilla, good woman as she is, and well-meaning, had better give way to her young lady's humour, at such times. Then, said the Marchioness, will her malady get head; then will it become habit. But my lord and I will remain where we are, for a few minutes, and do you try to engage her in conversation. I would have her be cheerful before the Patriarch, however; he will expect to see her. She is as much his delight as she is ours. I took a little turn; and, entering the walk which led to the temple, appeared in her sight; and bowed, on seeing her sitting in it. Her woman stood silent, with her handkerchief at her eyes, at the entrance. I quickened my steps, as if I would not break into her retirement, and passed by; but, by means of the winding walk, could hear what she said. She arose; and, stepping forward, looking after me, He is gone, said she. Learn, Camilla, of the Chevalier Grandison Shall I call him back, madam? No.-Yes.-No. Let him go. I will walk. You may now leave me, Camilla; there is some body in the garden who will watch me; or, you may stay, Camilla; I don't care which; only don't talk to me when I wish to be silent. She went into an alley which crossed that in which I was, but took the walk that led from me. When we came to the centre of both, and were very near each other, I bowed; she curtseyed; but not seeming to encourage my nearer approach, I made a motion, as if I would take another walk. She stopt. Learn of the Chevalier Grandison, Camilla, repeated she. May I presume, madam? Do I not in vade Camilla is a little officious to-day; Camilla has teazed me. Are the poets of your country as severe upon women's tongues, as the poets of ours? Poets, madam, of all countries, boast the same inspiration; poets write, as other men speak, to their feeling. So, sir!-You make a pretty compliment to us poor women. Poets have finer imaginations, madam, than other men; they therefore feel quicker; but VOL. VIII. bent her knee to each, and received their tender blessings. They led her towards me. You seemed engaged in talk with the chevalier, my dear, said the Marquis. Your mamma and I were walking in. We leave you.―They did. The best of parents! said she. O that I were a more worthy child!-Have you not seen them, sir, before, to-day? I have, madam. They think you the worthiest of daughters; but they lament your thoughtful turn. They are very good. I am grieved to give them trouble. Have they expressed their concern to you, sir?-I will not be so petulant as I was once before, provided you keep clear of the same subject. You are the confidant of us all; and your noble and disinterested behaviour deservedly endears you to everybody. They have been, this very morning, lamenting the melancholy turn you seem to have taken. With tears, madam, they have been lamenting it. Camilla, you may draw near: you will hear your own cause supported. The rather draw near, and hear all the chevalier seems to be going to say; because it may save you, and me too, a great deal of trouble. Madam, I have done, said I. But you must not have done. If you are com missioned, sir, by my father and mother, I am, I ought to be, prepared to hear all you have to say. Camilla came up. My dearest young lady, said I, what can I say? My wishes for your happiness may make me appear importunate: but what hope have I of obtaining your confidence, when your mother fails? What, sir, is aimed at? What is sought to be obtained? I am not very well: I used to be a very sprightly creature: I used to talk, to sing, to dance, to play; to visit, to receive visits and I don't like to do any of these things now. I love to be alone: I am contented with my own company. Other company is, at times, irksome to me; and I can't help it. But whence this sudden turn, madam, in a lady so young, so blooming? Your father, mother, brothers, cannot account for it; and this disturbs them. I see it does, and am sorry for it. No other favourite diversion takes place in your mind. You are a young lady of exemplary piety. You cannot pay a greater ob U servance than you always paid, to the duties of religion. You, sir, an Englishman, a heretic, give me leave to call you; for are you not so?—Do you talk of piety, of religion? We will not enter into this subject, madam: what I meant Yes, sir, I know what you meant-And I will own, that I am, at times, a very melancholy, strange creature. I know not whence the alteration; but so it is; and I am a greater trouble to myself, than I can be to anybody else. But, madam, there must be some causeAnd for you to answer the best and most indulgent of mothers with sighs and tears only; yet no obstinacy, no sullenness, no petulance, appearing; all the same sweetness, gentleness, observance, that she ever rejoiced to find in her Clementina, still shining out in her mind. She cannot urge her silent daughter; her tenderness will not permit her to urge her; and how can you, my sister, (allow of my claim, madam,) how can you still silently withdraw from such a mother? How can you, at other times, suffer her to withdraw, her heart full, her eyes running over, unable to stay, yet hardly knowing how to go, because of the ineffectual report she must make to your sorrowing father; yet, the cause of this very great alteration, (which they dread is growing into habit, at a time of life when you were to crown all their hopes,) a secret fast locked up in your own heart? She wept, and turned from me, and leaned upon the arm of her Camilla; and then quitting her arm, and joining me,-How you paint my obstinacy, and my mamma's goodness! I only wish-with all my soul I wish-that I was added to the dust of my ancestors. I who was their comfort, I see, now, must be their torment. Fie, fie, my sister! Blame me not: I am by no means satisfied with myself. What a miserable being must she be, who is at variance with herself! I do not hope, madam, that you should place so much confidence in your fourth brother, as to open your mind to him: all I beg is, that you will relieve the anxious, the apprehensive heart of the best of mothers; and, by so doing, enable her to relieve the equally anxious heart of the best of fathers. She paused, stood still, turned away her face, and wept; as if half overcome. Let your faithful Camilla, madam, be commissioned to acquaint your mamma But hold, sir! (seeming to recollect herself,) not so fast-Open my mind-What! whether I have anything to reveal, or not?-Insinuating You had almost persuaded me to think I had a secret that lay heavy at my heart: and man! when I began to look for it, to oblige you, I could not find it. Pray, sir-She stopt. And, pray, madam, (taking her hand,) do not think of receding thus You are too free, sir. Yet she withdrew not her hand. For a brother, madam? Too free for a brother? And I quitted it. Well, and what farther would my brother? Only to implore, to beseech you, to reveal to your mamma, to your excellent, your indulgent Stop, sir, I beseech you-What! whether I have anything to reveal, or not?-Pray, sir, tell me, invent for me, a secret that is fit for me to own; and then, perhaps, if it will save the trouble of inquiries, I may make, at least, my four brothers easy. I am pleased, however, madam, with your agreeable raillery. Continue but in this temper, and the secret is revealed: inquiry will be at an end. Camilla, here, is continually teazing me with her persuasions to be in love, as she calls it. That is the silly thing, in our sex, which gives importance to yours: a young creature cannot be grave, cannot indulge a contemplative humour, but she must be in love. I should hate myself, were I to put it in the power of any man breathing to give me uneasiness. I hope, sir, I hope, that you, my brother, have not so poor, so low, so mean a thought of me. It is neither poor, nor low; it is not mean, to be in love, madam. What! not with an improper object? What have I said? You want to-But what I have now said, was to introduce what I am going to tell you; that I saw your insinuation, and what it tended to, when you read to me those lines of your Shakespeare; which, in your heart, I suppose, you had the goodness, or what shall I call it? to apply to me. Let me see if I can repeat them to you in their original English. With the accent of her country, she very prettily repeated those lines: She never told her love; But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud, Now, chevalier, if you had any design in your pointing to these very pretty lines, I will only say, you are mistaken; and so are all those who affront and afflict me, with attributing my malady to so great a weakness. I meant not at the time, madam- See, Camilla! interrupting me with quickness, the chevalier is convinced!—Pray let me have no more of your affronting questions and conjectures on this subject. I tell you, Camilla, I would not be in love for the world and all its glory. But, madam, if you will be pleased to assign one cause, to your mamma, for the melancholy turn your lively temper has taken, you will free yourself from a suspicion that gives you pain, as well as displeasure. Perhaps you are grieved that you cannot comply with your father's viewsPerhaps Assign one cause, again interrupted she-Assign one cause!-Why, sir-I am not well-I am not pleased with myself-as I told you. If it were anything that lay upon your mind, your conscience, madam; your confessor Would not make me easy. He is a good, but [turning aside and speaking low a severe man. Camilla hears not what I say. [She had dropped behind. He is more afraid of me, in some cases, than he need to be. And why? Because you have almost persuaded me to think charitably of people of different persuasions, by your noble charity for all mankind: which I think, heretic as you are, (forgive me, sir,) carries an appearance of true Christian goodness in it: though Protestants, it seems, will persecute one another; but you would not be one of those, except you are one man in Italy, another in England. Your mother, madam, will ask, if you have honoured me with any part of your confidence. Her communicative goodness makes her think everybody should be as unreserved as herself. Your father is so good as to allow you to explain yourself to me, when he wishes that I could prevail upon you to open your mind to me in the character of a fourth brother. My lord the Bishop Yes, yes, sir, interrupted she, all our family worships you almost. I have myself a very great regard for you, as the fourth brother who has been the deliverer and preserver of my third. But, sir, who can prevail upon you, in anything you are determined upon ?-Had I anything upon my heart, I would not tell it to one, who, brought up in error, shuts his eyes against conviction, in an article in which his everlasting good is concerned. Let me call you a Catholic, sir, and I will not keep a thought of my heart from you. You shall indeed be my brother; and I shall free one of the holiest of men from his apprehensions on my conversing with so determined a heretic, as he thinks you. Then shall you, as my brother, command those secrets, if any I have, from that heart in which you think them locked up. Why then, madam, will you not declare them to your mamma, to your confessor, to my lord Bishop? Did I not say, If any I have? And is your reverend confessor uneasy at the favour of the family to me?-How causeless! Have I ever, madam, talked with you on the subject of religion? Well, but, sir, are you so obstinately determined in your errors, that there is no hope of convincing you? I really look upon you, as my papa and mamma first bid me do, as my fourth brother: I should be glad that all my brothers were of one religion. Will you allow Father Marescotti and Father Geraldino to enter into a conference with you on this subject? And if they can answer all your objections, will you act according to your convictions? I will not, by any means, madam, enter upon this subject. I have long intended, sir, to propose this matter to you. You have often intimated as much, madam, though not so directly as now; but the religion of my country is the religion of my choice. I have a great deal to say for it. It will not be heard with patience by such strict professors as either of those you have named. Were I to be questioned on this subject before the Pope, and the whole sacred college, I would not prevaricate: but good manners will make me shew respect to the religion of the country I happen to be in, were it the Mahometan, or even the Pagan; and to venerate the good men of it: but I never will enter into debate upon the subject, as a traveller, a sojourner; that is a rule with me. Well, sir, you are an obstinate man; that's all I will say. I pity you; with all my soul I pity you: you have great and good qualities. As I have sat at table with you, and heard you converse on subjects that every one has in silence admired you for, I have often thought to myself, Surely this man was not designed for perdition!-But, begone, chevalier; leave me. You are an obstinate man. Yours is the worst of obstinacy; for you will not give yourself a chance for conviction. We have so far departed from the subject we began upon, that it is proper to obey you, madam; I only beg that my sister Not so far departed from it, perhaps, as you imagine, interrupted she; and turned a blushing cheek from me-But what do you beg of your sister? That she will rejoice the most indulgent of parents, and the most affectionate of brothers, with a cheerful aspect at table, especially before the Patriarch. Do not, madam, in silence——— You find, sir, I have been talkative enough with you.-Shall we go through your Shakespeare's Hamlet to-night?-Farewell, chevalier. I will try to be cheerful at table. But, if I am not, let not your eye reproach me.-She took another walk. I was loath, my dear Dr Bartlett, to impute to myself the consequence with this amiable lady, which might but naturally be inferred from the turn which the conversation took; but I thought it no more than justice to the whole family, to hasten my departure: and when I hinted to Clementina, that I should soon take leave of them, I was rejoiced to find her unconcerned. THIS, my good Miss Byron, is what I find in my patron's letters relating to this conference. He takes notice, that the young lady behaved herself at table as she was wished to do. Mr Grandison was prevailed upon, by the entreaties of the whole family, to suspend his departure for a few days. The young lady's melancholy, to the inexpressible affliction of her friends, increased; yet she behaved with so much greatness of mind, that neither her mother, nor her Camilla, could persuade themselves that love was the cause. They sometimes imagined, that the earnestness with which they solicited the interest of the Count of Belvedere with her, had hurried and affected her delicate spirits; and therefore they were resolved to say little more on that subject till they should see her disposed to lend a more favourable ear to it: and the Count retired to his own palace at Parma, expecting and hoping for such a turn in his favour: for he declared, that it was impossible for him to think of any other woman for a wife. But Signor Jeronymo doubted not, all this time, of the cause; and, without letting any body into his opinion, not even Mr Grandison, for fear a disappointment should affect him, resolved to make use of every opportunity that should offer, in favour of the man he loved, from a principle of gratitude, that reigned with exemplary force in the breast of every one of this noble family; a principle which took the firmer root in their hearts, as the prudence, generosity, magnanimity, and other great and equally amiable qualities of Mr Grandison, appeared every day more and more conspicuous to them all. I will soon, madam, present you with farther extracts from the letters in my possession, in pursuance of the articles you have given me in writing. I am not a little proud of my task. CONTINUATION OF MISS BYRON'S LETTER. out of this story, and the short account of it given by Sir Charles in the library conference, that I shall soon pay my duty to all in Northamptonshire? I shall, indeed. Is it not strange, my dear, that a father and mother, and brothers, so jealous as Italians, in general, are said to be, of their women; and so proud as this Bologna family is represented to be of their rank; should all agree to give so fine a man, as this is, in mind, person, and address, such free access to their daughter, a young lady of eighteen? Teach her English!-Very discreet in the father and mother, surely! And to commission him to talk with the poor girl in favour of a man whom they wished her to marry !—Indeed, you will say, perhaps, that by the honourable expedient they fell upon, unknown to either tutor or pupil, of listening to all that was to pass in the conference, they found a method to prove his integrity; and that, finding it proof, they were justified to prudence in their future confidence. With all my heart, Lucy: if you will excuse these parents, you may. But, I say, that anybody, though not of Italy, might have thought such a tutor as this was dangerous to a young lady; and the more, for being a man of honour and family. In every case, the teacher is the obliger. He is called master, you know: and where there is a master, a servant is implied. Who is it that seeks not out for a married man, among the common tribe of tutors, whether professing music, dancing, languages, science, of any kind? But a tutor such a one as this Well, but I will leave them to pay the price of their indiscretion. I AM this moment come from the Doctor. I insinuated to him, as artfully as I could, some of the above observations. He reminded me, that the Marchioness herself had her education at Paris; and says, that the manners of the Italians are very much altered of late years, and that the French freedom begins to take place, among the people of condition, in a very visible manner, of the Italian reserve. The women of the family of Porretta, particularly, he says, because of their learning, freedom, and conversableness, have been called, by their enemies, French women. But you will see, that honour, and the laws of hospitality, were Mr Grandison's guard: and I believe a young flame may be easily kept under. Sir Charles Grandison, Lucy, is used to do only what he ought. Dr Bartlett once said, that the life of a good man was a continual warfare with his passions. You will see, in the second conference between Mr Grandison and the lady, upon the melancholy way she was in, how artfully, yet, CAN you not, Lucy, gather from the setting I must own, honourably, he reminds her of the [Begun p. 298.] |