conquest; you ought not to be proud of yours. You will not, when you know her better. I have had singular opportunity of being acquainted with her character. I never judged of characters, of women's especially, by report. Had the Barone della Porretta been the first for whom this lady spread her blandishments, a man so amiable as he is, might the more assuredly have depended on the love she professes for him. She has two admirers, men of violence, who, unknown to each other, have equal reason to look upon her as their own. You propose not to marry her. I am silent on this subject. Would to Heaven you were married to a woman of virtue! Why will you not oblige all your friends? Thus liable as you are- -But neither do I expostulate. Well do I know the vehemency with which you are wont to pursue a new adventure. Yet I had hoped-But again I restrain myself. Only let me add, that the man who shall boast of his success with this lady may have more to apprehend from the competition in which he will find himself engaged, than he can be aware of. Be prudent, my Jeronymo, in this pursuit, for your own sake. The heart that dictates this advice is wholly yours; but, alas! it boasts no farther interest in that of its Jeronymo. With infinite regret I subscribe to the latter part of the sentence the once better-regarded name of GRANDISON. AND what was the consequence? The unhappy youth, by the instigation of the revengeful woman, defied his friend, in her behalf. Mr Grandison, with a noble disdain, appealed to Jeronymo's cooler deliberation; and told him that he never would meet as a foe, the man he had ever been desirous to consider as his friend. You know, my lord, said he, that I am under a disadvantage in having once been obliged to assert myself, in a country where I have no natural connections; and where you, Jeronymo, have many. If we meet again, I do assure you it must be by accident; and if that happens, we shall then find it time enough to discuss the occasion of our present misunderstanding. Their next meeting was indeed by accident. It was in the Cremonese; when Mr Grandison saved his life. AND now, madam, let me give you, in answer to your second inquiry, The particulars of the conference which Sir Charles was put upon holding with Clementina, in favour of the Count of Belvedere ; and which her father and mother, unknown to either of them, overheard. You must suppose them seated; a Milton's Paradise Lost before them; and that, at this time, Mr Grandison did not presume that the young lady had any particular regard for him. Clem. You have taught the prelate, and you have taught the soldier, to be in love with your Milton, sir; but I shall never admire him, I doubt. Don't you reckon the language hard and crabbed? Gr. I did not propose him to you, madam; your brother chose him. We should not have made the proficiency we have, had I not began with you by easier authors. But you have heard me often call him a sublime poet, and your ambition (it is a laudable one) leads you to make him your own too soon. Has not your tutor taken the liberty to chide you for your impatience; for your desire of being everything at once? Clem. You have; and I own my fault-But to have done, for the present, with Milton; what shall I do to acquit myself of the addresses of this Count of Belvedere? Gr. Why would you acquit yourself of the Count's addresses? Clem. He is not the man I can like; I have told my papa as much, and he is angry with me. Gr. I think, madam, your papa may be a little displeased with you; though he loves you too tenderly to be angry with you. You reject the Count, without assigning a reason. Clem. Is it not reason enough, that I don't like him? Gr. Give me leave to say, that the Count is a handsome man. He is young, gallant, sensible; of a family ancient and noble; a grace to it. He is learned, good-natured; he adores you Clem. And so let him, if he will; I never can like him. Gr. Dear lady! you must not be capricious. You will give the most indulgent parents in the world apprehension that you have cast your thoughts on some other object. Young ladies, except in a case of prepossession, do not often reject a person who has so many great and good qualities as shine in this gentleman; and where equality of degree, and a father's and mother's high approbation, add to his merit. Clem. I suppose you have been spoken to, to talk with me on this subject-It is a subject I don't like. Gr. You began it, madam. Clem. I did so; because it is uppermost with me. I am grieved at my heart, that I cannot see the Count with my father's eyes; my father deserves from me every instance of duty, and love, and veneration; but I cannot think of the Count of Belvedere for a husband. Gr. One reason, madam? One objection? Clem. He is a man that is not to my mind; a fawning, cringing man, I think-And a spirit that can fawn, and cringe, and kneel, will be a tyrant in power. Gr. Dear madam, to whom is he this obsequious man, but to you-Is there a man in the world that behaves with a more proper dignity to every one else? Nay, to you, the lover shines out in him, but the man is not forgot. Is the tenderness shewn in a well-placed love, the veneration paid to a deservedly loving object, any derogation to the manly character? Far from it; and shall you think the less of your lover for being the most ardent, and I have no knowledge of the man, if he is not the most sincere, of men? Clem. An excellent advocate !-I am sure you have been spoken to-Have you not? Tell me truly? Perhaps by the Count of Belvedere? Gr. I should not think, and, of consequence, not speak, so highly as I do, of the Count, if he were capable of asking any man, your father and brothers excepted, to plead his cause with you. Clem. I can't bear to be chidden, chevalier. Now you are going to be angry with me too. But has not my mamma spoken to you?-Tell me? Gr. Dear lady, consider, if she had, what you owe to a mother, who deserving, for her tenderness to her child, the utmost observance and duty, would condescend to put her authority into mediation. And yet let me declare, that no person breathing should make me say what I do not think, whether in favour or disfavour of any man. Clem. That is no answer. I owe implicit, yes I will say implicit, duty to my mamma, for her indulgence to me; but what you have said is no direct answer. Gr. For the honour of that indulgence, madam, I own to you, that your mamma and my lord too, have wished that their Clementina could or would give one substantial reason why she cannot like the Count of Belvedere; that they might prepare themselves to acquiesce with it, and the Count be induced to submit to his evil destiny. Clem. And they have wished this to you, sir? And you have taken upon you to answer their wishes-I protest, you are a man of prodigious consequence with us all; and by your readiness to take up the cause of a man you have so lately known, you seem to know it too well. Gr. I am sorry I have incurred your displeasure, madam. Clem. You have. I never was more angry with you, than I now am. Gr. I hope you never were angry with me before. I never gave you reason. And if I have now, I beg your pardon. Clem. I am a very weak creature: I believe I am wrong; but I never knew what it was to give offence to anybody till within these few months. I love my father, I love my mother, beyond my own life; and to think that now, when I wish most for the continuance of their goodness to me, I am in danger of forfeiting it! I can't bear it!-Do you forgive me, however. I believe I have been too petulant to you. Your behaviour is noble, frank, disinterested. It has been a happiness that we have known you. You are everybody's friend. But yet I think it is a little officious in you to plead so very warmly for a man of whom you know so little; and when I told you, more than once, I could not like him. Gr. Honoured as I am, by your whole family, with the appellation of a fourth son, a fourth brother; was I, dear madam, to blame to act up to the character? I know my own heart; and if I have consequence given me, I will act so as to deserve it; at least, my own heart shall give it to me. Clem. Well, sir, you may be right: I am sure you mean to be right. But as it would be a diminution of the Count's dignity, to apply to you for a supposed interest in you, which he cannot have, it would be much more so, to have you interfere, where a father, mother, and other brothers, [You see, sir, I allow your claim of fourth brotherhood,] are supposed to have less weight; so no more of the Count of Belvedere, I beseech you, from your mouth. Gr. One word more, only-Don't let the goodness of your father and mother be construed to the disadvantage of the parental character in them. They have not been positive. They have given their wishes, rather than their commands. Their tenderness for you, in a point so very tender, has made them unable to tell their own wishes to you, for fear they should not meet with yours; yet would be, perhaps, glad to hear one solid objection to their proposalAnd why? That they might admit of it-Impute, therefore, to my officiousness, what you please; and yet I would not wish to disoblige or offend you; but let their indulgence (they never will use their authority) have its full merit with you. Clem. Your servant, sir. I never yet had a slight notion of their indulgence; and I hope I never shall. If you will go, go; but, sir, next time I am favoured with your lectures, it shall be upon languages, if you please; and not upon lovers. I withdrew, profoundly bowing. But surely, thought I, the lovely Clementina is capricious. THUS far my patron.-Let me add, that the Marchioness, having acquainted Mr Grandison, that her lord and she had heard every word that had passed, expressed her displeasure at her daughter's petulance; and, thanking him in her lord's name, as well as for herself, for 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 upon 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 attended 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 any body; 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. Now, my dear chevalier, whispered the Marquis, put yourself in her sight; engage her into talk about England, or anything; you will have an hour good before dinner. I hope she will be 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 somebody 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 invade 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. 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 effects. Don't I see before me, in the orange-grove, my father and mother?-I do. I have not kneeled to them to-day-Don't go, chevalier. She hastened towards them. They stopt. She 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 wor-> thiest 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- |