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paternal great-grandfather was the learned and most exemplary Bishop Cumberland, author of the treatise De Legibus Natura ; and that his maternal grandfather was the celebrated Dr. Richard Bentley. Of the last of these distinguished persons he has given, from the distinct recollection of his childhood, a much more amiable and engaging representation than has hitherto been made public. Instead of the haughty and morose critic and controversialist, we here learn, with pleasure that he was as remarkable for mildness an kind affections in private life, as for profound erudition and sagacity as an author. Mr. Cumberland has collected a number of little anecdotes that seem to be quite conclusive upon this head; but we rather insert the following general testimony:
“I had a sister somewhat older than myself. Had there been any of that sternness in my grandfather, which is so falsely imputed to him, it may well be supposed we should have been awed into silence in his presence, to which we were admitted every day. Nothing can be further from the truth; he was the unwearied patron and promoter of all our childish sports and sallies; at all times ready to detach . from any topic of conversation to take an interest and bear his part in our amusements. The eager curiosity natural to our age, and the questions it gave birth to, so teasing to many parents, he, on the contrary, attended to and encouraged, as the claims of infant reason, never to be evaded or abused; strongly recommending, that to all such inquiries answers should be given according to the strictest truth, and information dealt to us in the clearest terms, as a sacred duty never to be departed from. I have broken in upon him many a time in his hours of study, when he would put his book aside, ring his hand-bell for his servant, and be led to his shelves to take down a picture-book for my amusement! I do not say that his good-nature always gained its object, as the pictures which his books generally sup . me with were anatomical drawings of dissected bodies, very little calculated to communicate delight; but he had nothing better to produce; and surely such an effort on his part, however unsuccessful, was no feature of a cynic; a cynic ‘should be made of sterner stuff.'
“Once, and only once, Irecollect his giving me a gentle rebuke for making a most outrageous noise in the room over his library, and disturbing him in his studies: I had no apprehension of anger from him, and confidently answered that I could not hel it, as I had been at battledore and shuttlecock ".. Master Gooch, the Bishop of Ely's son. “And I have been at this spoo with his father,' he replied; “But thine has been the more amusing game; so there's no harm done.’”
He also mentions, that when his adversary Collins had fallen into poverty in his latter days, Bentley, apprehending that he was in some measure responsible for his loss of repution, contrived to administer to his necessities in a way not less creditable to his delicacy than to his liberality.
The youngest daughter of this illustrious scholar, the Phoebe of Byron's pastoral, and herself a woman of extraordinary accomplishments, was the mother of Mr. Cumberland. His father, who appears also to have been a man of the most blameless and amiable dispositions, and to have united, in a very exemplary way, the characters of a clergyman and agentlemen, was Rector of Stanwick in North
amptonshire at the birth of his son. He want to school, first at Bury St. Edmunds, and af.erwards at Westminster. But the most valuable rt of his early education was that for which ; was indebted to the taste-and intelligence of his mother. We insert with pleasure the following amiable paragraph:—
“It was in these intervals from school that my mother began to form both my taste and my ear for poetry, by employing me every evening to read to her, of which art she was a very able mistress. Our readings were, with very few exceptions, confined to the chosen plays of Shakespeare, whom she both admired and understood in the true spirit and sense of the author. With all her father's critical acumen, she could trace, and teach me to unravel, all the meanders of his metaphor, and point out where it illuminated, or where it only loaded and obscured the meaning. These were happy hours and interesting lectures to me; whilst my beloved father, ever placid and complacent, sate beside us, and took part in our amusement; his voice was never heard but in the tone of approbation; his countenance never marked but with the natural traces of his indelible and hereditary benevolence.”
The effect of these readings was, that the young author, at twelve years of age, produced a sort of drama, called “Shakespeare in the Shades,” composed almost entirely of passages from that great writer, strung together and assorted with no despicable ingenuity. But it is more to the purpose to observe that, at this early period of his life, he first saw Garrick, in the character of Lothario; and has left this animated account of the impression which the scene made upon his mind:—
“I have the spectacle even now, as it were, before my eyes. Quin presented himself, upon the rising of the curtain, in a green velvet coat, embroidered down the seams, an enormous full-bottomed periwig, rolled stockings, and high heeled square-toed shoes: With very little variation of cadence, and in deep full tone, accompanied by a sawing kind of action, which had more of the senate than of the stage in it, he rolled out his heroics with an air of dignified indifference, that seemed to disdain the o that were bestowed upon him. Mrs. Cibber, in a key high pitched, but sweet withal, sung, or rather recitatived, Rowe's harmonious strains, something in the manner of the Improvisatori: It was so extremely wanting in contrast, that, though it did not wound the ear, it wearied it: when she had once recited two or three speeches, I could anticipate the manner of every succeeding one. It was like a long old legendary ballad of innumerable stanzas, every one of which is sung to the same tune, eternally chiming in the ear without variation or relief. Mrs. Pritchard was an actress of a different cast, had more nature, and of course more change of tone, and variety both of action and expression. In my opinion, the comparison was decidedly in her favour. But when, after long and eager expectation, I first beheld little Garrick, then young and light, and alive in every muscle and in every feature, come bounding on the stage, and pointing at the wittol Altamont and heavyo Horatio—heavens, what a transition —it seemed as if a whole century had been stepped over in the transition of a single scene: Old thin were done away; and a new order at once brought forward, bright and luminous, and clearly destined to dispel the barbarisms and bigotry of a tasteless age, too long attached to the prejudices of custom, and superstitiously devoted to the illusions of imposing declamation. This heaven-born actor was fnen straggling to emancípale his audience from ihe slavery they were resigned to; and though at times he succeeded in throwing in some glening of newborn light upon them, yet in general they seemed to love darknemi better than light; and in the dialogue of alierca'ioii between Horatio and Lothario, bestowed far the greater ihow of handi upon the master of the old school limn upon ihe founder of the new. 1 thank my stars, my feelings in those moments led me right ; they were those of nature, and therefore could not err."
Some years after this, Mr. Cumberland's father exchanged his living of Stamvick for that of Fulham, in order that his son might have the benefit of his society, while obliged to reside in the vicinity of the metropolis. The celebrated Bubb Dodington resided at this time in the neighbouring parish of Hammersmith; and Mr. Cumberland, who soon became a frequent guest at his table, has prewnttHl his readers with the following spirited full length portrait of that very remarkable and preposterous personage.
"Our splendid host was excelled by no man in dning the honours of his house and table; to (he ladies he had all the courtly and profound devotion ol a Spaniard, with the ease and gaiety of a Frenchman towards ihn men. His mansion was magnificent; massy, and stretching out to a great extent of front, wil h an enormous portico of Doric columns, ascended bv a stately flight of steps. There were turrets, and wings too, that went I know not whither, though now levelled with the ground, or gone to more ignoble usée: Vonbruïh, who constructed this superb edifice, seemed to have had the plan of Blenheim in his thoughts, and (he interior was as proud and splendid as the exterior was bold and imposing. All this was exactly in unison wiih the laste of ¡is magnificent owner; who had gilt and (urnishcd the apartments with a profusion ol finery, that kept no terms with simplicity, and not always with elegance or harmony of style. Whatever Mr. Dodington's revenue then was, he had the happy art of managing it with such economy, ihat I believe he made, more display at less cost than any man in the kingdom bul himself could have done. Ilia town-house in Pail-Mall, and this villa at Hammersmith, were such establishments as few nobles m the nation were possessed of. In eilher of these he was not lo be approached but through a suit of apartments, and rarely seated but under painted ceilings and gill entablatures. Tn his villa you were conducted through two rows of antique marble «tallies, ranged in a gallery Hoored with the rarest marble*, and enriched wiih columns of granile and lapis lazuli; his saloon was hung with the finest Gobelin tapestry, and he slept in a bed encanopied with peacock's feathers in the style of Mrs. Montague. When he passed from Pnll-Mall to La Trappe it was always in a coach, which I coulil not but suspect had been his ambassadorial équipage al Madrid, drawn by six fat unwieldy black horses, íhort-docked, and of colossal digniiy. Neither was he less characteristic in apparel than in equipage; he had a wardrobe loaded with rich nnd flaring suils. each in itself a load lo the wearer, and of these I have no doubl but many were coeval wiih his embassy above mentioned, and every birth-day had added to ihe stork. In doing tins be so contrived as never Ю put bis old dresses out of countenance, by any variations in the fashion of the new; in the mean time, his hulk and corpulency gave full display to a vast expanse and prolusion of brocade and embroidery, and this, when set off with an enormous tie-periwig and deep-laced ruffles, gave the picture of an aneienl courtier in his gala habit, or Quin in his stage dress. Nevertheless, il must he confessed ihi< siyle, though oui of date, was noi oui of character, but harmonised so well with the per
son of the wearer, that I remember when he made his first speech in ihe House of Peers as Lord Melcombe, alt ihe flashes of his wil, all ihe studied phrases and well-turned periods of his rhetoric lost their effect, simply because the orator had laid aside his magisterial tie, and put on a modern baw-wig, which was as much out of costume upon the broad expanse of his shoulders, as a cue would have been upon the robes of the Lord ChiefJustice,"
The following, with all our former impressions of his hero's absurdity, rather surpassed our expectations.
"Of pictures he seemed lo take his estimate only by their cost; in fact, he was not possessed ol any. But I recollect his saying to me one day in his gieat saloon at Eastbury, that it he had halt' a score pictures of q thousand pounds a-piece, he would gladly decorate his walls wiih them; in place of which I am sorry to say he had stuck up immense ¡¡alelíes of ffiU leather, thaped inlo bugle horn*, up'in hangings ot rich crimson velvet \ and round his state h< d he displayed a carpciing of gold mid silver embroidery, which too glaringly betrayed its derivation from coat, waistcoat, ana breeches, by ihe testimony of pockets, buttonholes, and loops, with other equally incontrovertible witnesses, subpojnaed from ihe tailor's shopboard! When he paid his court at St. James' lo the present queen upon lier nuptials, he approached to kiss her hand, decked in an embroidered suit of silk, wiih lilac waistcoat, and breeches, the latter of which, in the act of kneeling down, forgot their duty and broke loo«e from their moorings in a very indecorous and iincourtly manner."
"During my stay at Eastbury, we were visited by the hue Mr. Henry Fox and Mr. Alderman Beckford; ihe solid good sense of the former, and the dashing loquacity of the latter, formed a striking contrast between ihe characters of these gentlemen. To Mr Fox our host paid all that cuurtlv homage, which he so well knew how to time, and where to apply; to Beckford he did not observe l he same anémions, but in the happiest flow of his raillery and wit combated this intrepid talker with admirable effect. It was atf interlude truly comic and amusing.—Beckford loud, voluble, self-sufficient, and galled by bile which he could not parry, and probably did not expect, laid himself more and more open in the vehemence of his argument; Dodingion lolling in his chair in perfect apaihy and self-command, dozing, and even snoring at intervals, in his lethargic way, broke out every now and then inlo such gleams and flashes of wit and irony, as bvnhe contrast of his phlegm with the other's impetuosity, made his humour irresistible, and sel the table in a roar. He was here upon his very strongeat ground."
"He wrote small poems with great pains, and elaborate letters with much terseness of style, and some quaintness of expression: I have seen him refer lo a volume of his own verses in manuscript, but he was very shy, and I never had the perusal of u. l was ral her better acquainted with his Diary, which since his death has been published; and I well remember ihe temporary disgust he seemed to take, when upon his asking what I would do with il should he bequeath it to my discretion, I instantly replied, thai I would destroy il. There was a third, which I more coveted a sight of than of eilher of the above, as it contained a miscellaneous collection of anecdotes, repartees, good sayins«, and humorous incidents, of which he was part author and pan compiler, and out of which he wae in the habit of refreshing his memory, when he prepared himself to expect certain men of wit and pleasantry, eilher at his own house or elsewhere. Upon this practice, which he did not affect to conceal, he observed to me one dny, tliat it was a com pliment he paid lo society, when he su1.tinned :o
“He spoke well, but not, often, in the Irish House of Commons. He had a striking countenance, a graceful carriage, great self-possession and personal courage; He was not easily put out of his way by any of those unaccommodating repugnances that men of weaker nerves, or more tender consciences, might have stumbled at, or been checked by ; he could mask the passions that were natural to him, and assume those that did not belong to him : he was indefatigable, meditative, mysterious: his opinions were the result of long labour and much reflection, but he had the art of setting them forth as if they were the starts of ready genius and a quick perception: He had as much seemin steadiness as a partisan could stand in need of, an all the real flexibility that could suit his purpose, or advance his interest. He would fain have retained his connection with Edmund Burke, and associated him to his politics, for he well knew the value of his talents; but in that object he was soon disappointed: the genius of Burke was of too high a caste to endure debasement.”—pp. 169, 170.
In Dublin Mr. Cumberland was introduced to a new and a more miscellaneous society than he had hitherto been used to, and has presented his readers with striking sketches of Dr. Pococke and Primate Stone. We are more amused, however, with the following picture of George Faulkner.
“Description must fall short in the attempt to convey any sketch of that eccentric being to those who have not read him in the notes of Jephson, or seen him in the mimickry of Foote, who, in his portraits of Faulkner, found the only sitter whom his extravagant pencil could not caricature; for he had a solemn intrepidity of egotism, and a daring contempt of absurdity, that fairly outfaced imitation, and, like Garrick’s Ode on Shakespeare, which Johnson said “defied criticism,” so did George, in the original spirit of his own perfect buffoonery, defy caricature. He never deigned to join in the laugh he had raised, nor seemed to have a feeling of the ridicule he had provoked. At the same time that he was preeminently, and by preference, the butt and buffoon of the company, he could find openings and opportunities for hits of retaliation, which were such left-handed thrusts as few could parry : nobody could foresee where they would fall; nobody, of course, was fore-armed : and as there was, in his calculation, but one supereminent character in the kingdom of Ireland, and he the printer of the Dublin Journal, rank was no shield against George's arrows, which flew where he listed, and hit or missed as chance directed,—he cared not about consequences. He gave good meat and excellent claret in abundance. I sat at his table once from dinner till two in the morning, whilst George swallowed immense potations, with one solitary sodden strawberry at the bottom of the
lass, which he said was recommended to him by his doctor for its cooling properties' He never lost
his recollection or equilibrium the whole time, and was in excellent foolery. It was a singular coinci. dence, that there was a person in company who had received his reprieve at the gallows, and the very judge who had passed sentence of death upon him: But this did not in the least disturb the harmony of the society, nor embarrass any human creature present.”—pp. 174, 175.
At this period of his story he introduces several sketches and characters of his literary friends; which are executed, for the most part, with great force and vivacity. Of Garrick he says—
“Nature had done so much for him, that he could not help being an actor; she gave him a frame of so manageable a proportion, and from its flexibility so perfectly under command, that, by its aptitude and elasticity, he could draw it out to fit any sizes of character that tragedy could offer to him, and contract it to any scale of ridiculous diminution, that his Abel Drugger, Scrubb, or Fribble, could require of him to sink it to. His eye, in the meantime, was so penetrating, so speaking; his brow so movable, and all his features so plastic, and so accommodating, that wherever his mind impelled them, they would go; and before his tongue could give the text, his countenance would express the spirit and the passion of the part he was encharged with.”—pp. 245, 246.
The following picture of Soame Jenyns is excellent.
“He was the man who bore his part in all societies with the most even temper and undisturbed hilarity of all the good companions whom I ever knew. He came into your house at the very moment you had put upon your card; he dressed himself to do your party honour in all the colours of the jay; his lace indeed had long since lost its lustre, but his coat had faithfully retained its cut since the days when gentlemen embroidered figured velvets with short sleeves, boot cuffs, and buckram shirts. As nature had cast him in the exact mould of an ill made pair of stiff stays, he followed her so close in the fashion of his coat, that it was doubted if he did not wear them. Because he had a protuberant wen just under his poll, he wore a wig that did not cover above half his head. His eyes were protruded like the eyes of the lobster, who wears them at the end of his feelers, and yet there was room between one of these and his nose for anotherwen, that added nothing to his beauty; yet I heard this good man very innocently remark, when Gibbon published his history, that he wondered any body so ugly could write a book.
“Such was the exterior of a man, who was the charm of the circle, and gave a zest to every company he came into: His pleasantry was of a sort peculiar to himself; it harmonised with everything; it was like the bread to your dinner; you did not perhaps make it the whole, or principal part of your meal, but it was an admirable and wholesome auxiliary to your other viands. Soame Jenyns told you no long stories, engrossed not much of your attention, and was not angry with those that did. His thoughts were original, and were apt to have a very whimsical affinity to paradox in them: He wrote verses upon dancing, and prose upon the origin of evil; yet he was a very indifferent metaphysician, and a worse dancer: ill-nature and personality, with the single exception of his lines upon Johnson, I never heard fall from his lips: Those lines I have forgotten, though I believe I was the first person to whom he recited them; they were very bad, but he had been told that Johnson ridiculed his metaphysics, and some of us had just then been making extemporary epitaphs upon each other. Though his wit was harmless, yet the general cast of it was ironical; there was a terseness in his repartees, that had a play of words as well as uf thought; as, when speaking of the difference between laying out money upon land, or purchasing .nto ihe funds, he said ' One was principal without interest, and the other interest without principal.' Certain it is he had a brevity of expression, that never hung upon the ear, and you felt the point in the тегу moment that he made the push."
Of Goldsmith he says,
"Thai he was fantastically and whimsically vain, all the world knows; but there was no malice in his heari. He was tenacious to a ridiculous extreme of certain pretensions that did not, and by nature could not, belong to him, and at the same time he was inexcusably careless of the fame which he had powers to command. What foibles he had he took no pains to conceal; and the good qualities of his heart were too frequently obscured by the carelessness of his conduct,*nd the frivolity of his manners. Sir Joshua Reynolds was very aood to him, and would have drilled him into better trim and order for society, if he would have been amenable; for Reynolds was a perfect gentleman, had good sense, great propriety, with all the social attributes, and all the graces of hospitality, equal to any man.
"Distress drove Goldsmith upon undertakings neither congenial with his studies nor worthy of his talents. I remember him, when in his chambers in the Temple, he showed me the beginning of his Animated Nature; it was with a sigh, such аз genius dnws, when hard necessity diverts it from its bent to drudge for bread, end talk of birds and beasts and creeping things, which Pidcock's showman would have done as well. Poor fellow, he hardly knew an ass from a mule, nor a turkey from a goose, but when he saw it on the table."
"I have heard Dr. Johnson relate wilh infinite humour the circumstance of his rescuing Goldsmith from a ridiculous dilemma, by the purchase-money of his Vicar of Wakefield, which he sold on his behalf to Dodsley, and, as I think, tor the sum of ten pounds only. He had run up a debt with his landlady, for board and lodging, of some few pounds, and was at his wits end how to wipe off the score, and keep a roof over his hend, except by closing wilh a very staggering proposal on her part, and taking his creditor to wife, whose charms were тегу far from alluring, whilst her demands were extremely urgent. In this crisis of his fate he was
found by Johnson, in the act of meditating on th« melancholy alternative before him. Ни showed Johnson his manuscript of the Vicar of Wakefield, but seemed to be wiihout any plan, or even hope, of raising money upon the disposal of it; when Johnson cast his eye upon it, he discovered something i!i;ii gave him hope, and immediately took it to Dodsley, who paid down the price above-mentioned in ready money, and added an eventual condition upon its future sale. Johnson described the precautions he took in concealing the amount of the sum he had in hand, which he prudently administered to him by a guinea at a time. In the event he paid off the landlady's score, and redeemed the person of his friend from her embraces."—p. 273.
We will pronounce no general judgment on the literary merits of Mr. Cumberland; but our opinion of them certainly has not been raised by the perusal of these memoirs. There is no depth of thought, nor dignity of sentiment about him ;—he is too frisky for an old man, and too gossipping for an historian. His style is too negligent even for the most familiar composition; and though he has proved himself, upon other occasion?, to be1 a great master of good English, he has admitted a I number of phrases into this work, which, we are inclined to think, would scarcely pass current even in conversation. "I declare to truth"—" with the greatest pleasure in life" "she would lead off in her best manner," &c. are expressions which we should not expect to hear in the society to which Mr. Cumberland belongs :—" laid," for lay, is still more insufferable from the antagonist of Lowthand the descendant of Bentley ;—:: querulential:) strikes our ear as exotic;—"locate, location, and locality," for situation simply, seem als') to be bad; and "intuition" for observation sounds very pedantic, to say the least of it. Upon the whole, however, this volume is not the work of an ordinary writer ; and \ve should probably have been more indulgent to its faults, if the excellence of some of the anthor's former productions had not sent us to its perusal with expectations perhaps дотеwhat extravagant.
The Works of the Right Honourable Lady Mary Worthy Montagu. Including her Correspondence, Poems, and Essays. Published by permission, from her Original Papers. 5 vols. 8vo. London: 1803.
These volumes are so very entertaining that we ran them all through immediately upon their coming into our possession; and at the same time contain so little that is either difficult or profound, that we may venture to give some account of them to our readers without farther deliberation.
The only thin2 that disappointed us was the memoir of the writer's life, prefixed by the editor to her correspondence. In point of composition it is very tame and inelegant; and •ather excites than gratifies the curiosity of 'he reader, by the imperfect manner in which
the facts are narrated. As the letters themselves, however, are arranged in a chronological order, and commonly contain very distinct notices of the writer's situation at their dates, we shall be enabled, by our extracts from them, to give a pretty clear idea of her Ladyship's life and adventures, with very little assistance from the meagre narrative of Mr. Dallaway.
Lady Mary Pierrepoint, eldest daughter of the Duke of Kingston, was born in 1690; and gave, in her early youth, such indications of a studious disposition, that she was initiated into
the rudiments of the learned languages along with her brother. Her first years appear to have been spent in retirement; and yet the very first series of letters with which we are
resented, indicates a great deal of that talent
or ridicule, and power of observation, by which she afterwards became so famous, and so formidable. These letters (about a dozen in number) are addressed to Mrs. Wortley, the mother of her future husband; and, along with a good deal of girlish flattery and affectation display such a degree of easy humour an sound penetration, as is not often to be met with in a damsel of nineteen, even in this age of precocity. The following letter, in 1709, is written upon the misbehaviour of one of her female favourites.
“My knighterrantry is at an end; and I believe I shall henceforward think freeing of galley-slaves and knocking down windmills, more laudable undertakings than the defence of any woman’s reputation whatever. To say truth, I have never had any great esteem for the generality of the fair sex; and my only consolation for being of that gender, has been the assurance it gave me of never being married to any one among them ' But I own, at present, I am so much out of humour with the actions of Lady H* **, that I never was so heartily ashamed of my petticoats before. My only refuge is, the sincere hope that she is out of her senses; and taking herself for the Queen of Sheba, and Mr. Mildmay for King Solomon, I do not think it quite so ridiculous: But the men, you may well imagine, are not so charitable; and o agree in the kind reflection, that nothing hinders women from playing the fool, but not having it in their power.”
Vol. i. pp. 180, 181.
In the course of this correspondence with the mother, Lady Mary appears to have conceived a very favourable opinion of the son; and the next series of letters contains her antenuptial correspondence with that gentleman, from 1710 to 1712. Though this correspondence has interested and entertained us as much at least as any thing in the book, we are afraid that it will afford but little gratification to the common admirers of love letters. Her Ladyship, though endowed with a very lively imagination, seems not to have been very susceptible of violent or tender emotions, and to have imbibed a very decided contempt for sentimental and romantic nonsense, at an age which is commonly more indulgent. There are no raptures nor ecstasies, therefore, in these letters; no flights of fondness, nor vows of constancy, nor upbraidings of capricious affection. To say the truth, her Ladyship acts a part in the correspondence that is not often allotted to a female performer. Mr. Wortley, though captivated by her beauty and her vivacity, seems evidently to have been a little alarmed at her love of distinction, her propensity to satire, and the apparent inconstancy of her attachments. Such a woman, he was afraid, and not very unreasonably, would make rather an uneasy and extravagant companion to a man of plain understanding and moderate fortune; and he had sense enough to foresee, and generosity enough to ol. to her, the risk to which their mutual happiness might be i. by a rash and indissoluble union. Ladv Mary, who probably saw her own char
acter in a different light, and was at any rate biassed by her inclinations, appears to have addressed a great number of letters to him upon this occasion; and to have been at considerable pains to relieve him of his scruples, and restore his confidence in the substantial excellences of her character. These letters, which are written with a great deal of female spirit and masculine sense, impress us with a very favourable notion of the talents and dissitions of the writer; and as they exhibit er in a point of view altogether different from any in which she has hitherto been presented to the public, we shall venture upon a pretty long extract.
“I will state the case to you as plainly as I can, and then ask yourself if you use me well. I have showed, in every action of my life, an esteem for }. that at least challenges a grateful regard. ... I have even trusted my reputation in your hands; for I have made no scruple of giving you, under my own hand, an assurance of my friendship. After all this, I exact nothing from you: If you find it inconvenient for your affairs to take so small a fortune, I desire you to sacrifice nothing to me: I pretend no tie upon your honour; but, in recompense for so clear and so disinterested a proceeding, must I ever receive injuries and ill usage? “Perhaps I have been indiscreet: I came you into the hurry of the world; a great innocence, an an undesigning gaiety, may possibly have been construed coquetry, and a desire of being followed, though never meant by me. I cannot answer for the observations that may be made on me. All who are malicious attack the careless and defenceless: I own myself to be both. I know not any thing I can say more to show my perfect desire of pleasing you, and making you easy, than to proffer to be confined with you in what manner you please... Would any woman but me renounce all the world for one? or would any man but you be insensible of such a proof of sincerity ?”—Vol. i. pp. 208–210. “One part of my character is not so good, nor t’ other so bad, as you fancy it. Should we ever live together, you would be disappointed both ways; you would find an easy equality of temper you do not expect, and a thousand faults you do not imagine. You think, if you married me, I should be passionately fond of you one month, and of somebody else the next. Neither would happen. I can esteem, I can be a friend; but I don't know whether 1 can love. Expect all that is complaisant and easy, but never what is fond, in me. ** If you can resolve to live with a companion that will have all the deference due to your superiority of good sense, and that your proposals can be agreeable to those on whom I depend, I have nothing to say against them. “As to travelling, 'tis what I should do with great pleasure, and could easily quit London upon your account; but a retirement in the country is not so disagreeable to me, as I know a few months would make it tiresome to you. Where people are tied for life, 'tis their mutual interest not to grow weary of one another. If I had the personal charms that I want, a face is too slight a foundation for happiness. You would be soon tired with seeing every day the same thing. Where you saw nothing else, you would have fin. to remark all the defects; which would increase in proportion as the novelty lessened, which is always a great charm. I should have the displeasure of seeing a coldness, which, though I could not reasonably blame you for, bei involuntary, yet it would render me uneasy; . the more, because I know a love may be revived, which absence, inconstancy, or even infidelity, has extinguished: But there is no returning from a dégoût given by satiety.”—Vol. i. pp. 212—214. “I begin to be tired of my humility; I have rar