Barford Abbey, a Novel: In a Series of Letters

by Mrs. Gunning

But hold; I must descend from the clouds, to regale myself on a fine turtle at the Duke of R——d's. What an epicure! Talk of feasting my palate, when my eyes are to meet delicacies of a far more inviting nature!—There was a time I should have been envy'd such a repast:—that time is fled;—you are no longer a monopolizer of beauty;—can sing but of one,—talk but of one—dream but of one,—and, what is still more extraordinary, love but one.—

Give me a heart at large;—such confin'd notions are not for

MOLESWORTH.

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LETTER XV.

Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.

Barford Abbey.

I envy not the greatest monarch on earth!—She is return'd with my peace;—my joy;—my very soul.—Had you seen her restorative smiles! they spoke more than my pen can describe!—She bestow'd them on me, even before she ran to the arms of Sir James and Lady Powis.—Sweet condescension!—Her hand held out to meet mine, which, trembling, stopt half way.—What checks,—what restraint, did I inflict on myself!—Yes, that would have been the decisive moment, had I not perceiv'd the eyes of Argus planted before, behind, on every side of Sir James.—God! how he star'd.—I suppose my looks made some discovery.—Once more I must take thee up, uneasy dress of hypocrisy;—though it will be as hard to girt on, as the tight waistcoat on a lunatic.

Never has a day appear'd to me so long as this.—Full of expectation, full of impatience!—All stuff again.—No matter; it is not the groans of a sick man, that can convey his pain to another:—to feel greatly, you must have been afflicted with the same malady.