Without letting Sir Harry know I was acquainted with his story, I discovered every thing from him I wished; and had the pleasure of hearing of his present independent fortunes, which put it in his power to realize the truth of his professions to Miss Harris. I sent off a courier to her—she is now on her return to England.
But to return to my own affairs—I went to Italy, but could hear no tidings of the Duke de Salis; was only informed, that his son, after some irregularities inherent in youth, had made a very good figure in the army, but for some time past had not been heard of—Nor was it known to what place the duke had retired. To amuse my chagrin, I went one evening to masquerade at Venice, in the time of the carnival, and fell in chat with a very agreeable young gentleman and his sister. They politely hoped our acquaintance would not cease at the end of the ball, and solicited a continuance of it—with this I very cheerfully complied. I went—and am mortified to betray my weakness to you; but truth obliges me to confess, that notwithstanding the pre-engagement of my heart for the Countess de Sons, yet I could not resist the attractions of Mademoiselle de Querci: my passion for her commenced the first moment I saw her; and her charming behaviour hourly increased it. She was majestic in her appearance; and in her were combined all the qualities that can make desirable the woman I adore.
The more I saw her, the more was her empire confirmed over me; but still dubious of the Countess's fate, and conscious of my pre-engagement, honor kept me silent. I had every reason to flatter myself my address would have been acceptable, but my passion was subordinate to that sense of honor my former obligations subjected me to. It is hard to account for the motions of the human heart, or trace the little springs that give rise to its affections—numberless latent accidents contribute to raise or allay them, without our being sensible of their secret influence. Thus situated, I came to England at your request. The uncertainty of the Countess's fate renders me wretched, while, to confess the truth, Mademoiselle de Querci haunts my imagination. But your felicity alleviates my uneasiness—as your joys or sorrows must ever be reverberated on the heart of
Your ladyship's obliged
And affectionate nephew,
Munster.'
From Lady Eliza Finlay, to the Countess of Darnley.
London.
'My Dear Aunt,
This is a place I often wished to come to, but the peaceful satisfaction I have had in your company makes me in vain find it in your absence—everything I see, everything I hear, is so contrary to reason, that, without diverting one's self of that quality, it is impossible to be pleased with any thing, though the novelty may engage one's attention at first. All here appear to adopt the reigning ideas, and fashionable pursuits, with as much pleasure as I feel in conforming to the principles which your kind instructions and edifying example have implanted in my mind. They do not, however, appear to me to be happy, and, like comedians (who are not diverted with the amusement they occasion) regret being condemned to communicate a pleasure which they do not partake, and lament not having received, from a different education, other tastes, other talents, and other manners. I connect myself as little as possible with them; as in epidemic distempers we are only secure whilst we escape the touch of the contagious person; and with respect to wounds of the mind, they are like those of the body. These extravagancies I might, perhaps, some months ago have considered in a less serious manner, but the evident melancholy in which my brother is, shews me the vanity of everything in this world—So handsome in his person, so accomplished in his manners—possessing everything the world places a value on—and yet too apparently wretched. The Marquis of P——, Lord Sombre, and his other friends, endeavour in vain to rouse him out of his reveries.—You are possessed of such philosophy, that you may look upon this matter in another light; as for me, who have strong passions, and that inseparable companion of them, weak reason, I cannot help being seriously alarmed. My beloved brother has undoubtedly some secret cause of disquietude—he sighs at times as if his heart would break! This affects me very sensibly; I never was so unhappy in my life; besides, I have not my dear Aunt to give a friendly check to my extravagance of spirits, so am afraid of hazarding anything.—Every person looks formally at me. When your friend the Duchess of W—— introduced me to Lady Charlotte Sombre, she said she pleased herself with thinking what a harmony would arise between us; for in the character, said she, I drew of her to you, she only sat for yours. Lady Charlotte is very agreeable, lively, and entertaining. Lord Sombre, I fancy, is what you would esteem a superior character; he is noble, and has a soul; a thing questioned much in most of the gay youths whom we converse with. He appears to have fine feelings—I intend to be on my guard before him—a man of true taste and delicacy prefers the smile of the soul, to noisy mirth.
Lady Charlotte is addressed by Sir Alexander French—he told her, his love would be eternal! That is, said she, neither to have beginning nor end. Sir Alexander is a very great coxcomb, she therefore gives him no encouragement; and amused me with an account of him—her brother checked her, and said there is an ostentation in these kind of confidences, which he was mortified to observe in her—that at least she should respect a man she had rendered unhappy, and who had almost lost his reason on her account. She replied, it were indeed a trifling sacrifice, were it even so, as he had so little to part with, that it made the loss inconsiderable—love, said she, never makes such a bustle in hearts like his—his is a laughing, not a melancholy Cupid. She has the charms of an angel, and dresses with the greatest simplicity, regarding the colour and make of her cloaths, rather than the quality.
When Lady Charlotte shewed me the Arcadia of my mother's painting[29], all the tender passions were up in my soul: I requested to be left alone, and bursting into tears, I partly relieved the emotions of my heart—Lord Sombre surprised me in this situation—I was too much agitated at first to return him an answer to some obliging things he said, but at last made an apology for my weakness! His Lordship told me, the sensibility I testified confirmed him in the high ideas he entertained of my character. He then expatiated to me on a subject very agreeable, my mother's virtues. That the gentleman who educated him had been well acquainted with her—who said, that good sense and genius were united in her, and that by study, reflection, and application, she had improved her talents in the happiest manner—having acquired a superiority in thinking, speaking, writing, and acting—and in manners, her behaviour, language, and understanding, were inexpressibly charming.
The discourse of people here, my dear Aunt, appears to me malicious; their civilities feigned; their confidences false; and their friendships resemble a rose, which pricks the hand of him who smells it. Every animal seeks its food, digs itself a hole, or builds itself a nest—sleeps—and dies. It is a melancholy reflection that the greatest part of mankind do no more. The employment which distinguishes them most from other animals, is the care of cloathing themselves, and their enmity to each other—the first of these engages the attention of millions of the younger people in this great city—while the more aged employ themselves in the last. Although pride is observable in a peacock and a horse, passion, in a tiger, gluttony in a wolf, envy in a dog, laziness in a monkey, and treachery in a cat, yet one does not find, in any animal whatever, falseness to their own species.