of society. Accordingly, their delineations, though perhaps less vigorous than those afforded by the other sex, are distinguished for the most part by greater fidelity and consistency, a more refined and happy discrimination, and, we must also add, a more correct estimate of right and wrong. In works which come from a female pen, we are seldom offended by those moral monstrosities, those fantastic perversions of principle, which are too often to be met with in the fictions which have been written by men. Women are less stilted in their style; they are more content to describe naturally what they have observed, without attempting the introduction of those extraneous ornaments which are sometimes sought at the expense of truth. They are less ambitious, and are therefore more just; they are far more exempt from that prevailing literary vice of the present day, exaggeration, and have not taken their stand among the feverish followers of what may be called the intense style of writing; a style much praised by those who inquire only if a work is calculated to make a strong impression, and omit entirely the more important question, whether that impression be founded on truth or on delusion.' romance, as in the drama, a wide and legitimate life, and those varieties which chequer the surface field for native talent and exertion. The highly wrought tenderness and pathos of Richardson, and the models of real life, wit, and humour in Fielding, Smollett, and Sterne, had no successors. But the fictions of Mackenzie, Dr Moore, Miss Burney, and Cumberland are all superior to the ordinary run of novels, and stand at the head of the second class. These writers, however, exercised but little influence on the national taste: they supported the dignity and respectability of the novel, but did not extend its dominion; and accordingly we find that there was a long dull period in which this delightful species of com- | position had sunk into general contempt. There was no lack of novels, but they were of a very inferior and even debased description. In place of natural incident, character, and dialogue, we had affected and ridiculous sentimentalism-plots utterly absurd or pernicious-and stories of love and honour so maudlin in conception and drivelling in execution, that it is surprising they could ever have been tolerated even by the most defective moral sense or taste. The circulating libraries in town and country swarmed with these worthless productions-known, from their place of publication, by the misnomer of the Minerva Press' novels-but their perusal was in a great measure confined to young people of both sexes of imperfect education, or to half-idle inquisitive persons, whose avidity for excitement was not restrained by delicacy or judgment. In many cases, even in the humblest walks of life, this love of novel-reading amounted to a passion as strong and uncontrollable as that of dram-drinking; and, fed upon such garbage as we have described, it was scarcely less injurious; for it dwarfed the intellectual faculties, and unfitted its votaries equally for the study or relish of sound literature, and for the proper performance and enjoyment of the actual duties of the world. The enthusiastic novel-reader got bewildered and entangled among love-plots and high-flown adventures, in which success was often awarded to profligacy, and among scenes of pretended existence, exhibited in the masquerade attire of a distempered fancy. Instead, therefore, of Truth severe by fairy Fiction dressed, we had Falsehood decked out in frippery and nonsense, and courting applause from its very extravagance. At length Miss Edgeworth came forward with her moral lessons and satirical portraits, daily advancing in her powers, as in her desire to increase the virtues, prudence, and substantial happiness of life; Mrs Opie told her pathetic and graceful domestic tales; and Miss Austen exhibited her exquisite delineations of everyday English society and character. There are some things,' says a writer in the Edinburgh Review (1830), which women do better than men, and of these, perhaps, novel-writing is one. Naturally endowed with greater delicacy of taste and feeling, with a moral | sense not blunted and debased by those contaminations to which men are exposed, leading lives rather of observation than of action, with leisure to attend to the minutiae of conduct and more subtle developments of character, they are peculiarly qualified for the task of exhibiting faithfully and pleasingly the various phases of domestic To crown all, Sir Walter Scott commenced in 1814 his brilliant gallery of portraits, which completely exterminated the monstrosities of the Minerva Press, and inconceivably extended the circle of novel-readers. Fictitious composition was now again in the ascendant, and never, in its palmiest days of chivalrous romance or modern fashion, did it command more devoted admiration, or shine with greater lustre. FRANCES BURNEY (MADAME D'ARBLAY). FRANCES BURNEY, authoress of Evelina and Cecilia, was the wonder and delight of the genera tion of novel-readers succeeding that of Fielding and Smollett, and she has maintained her popularity better than most secondary writers of fiction. Her name was in 1842 revived by the publication of her Diary and Letters, containing some clever sketches of society and manners, notices of the court of George III., and anecdotes of Johnson, Burke, Reynolds, &c. Miss Burney was the second daughter of Dr Burney, author of the History of Music. She was born at Lynn-Regis, in the county of Norfolk, on the 13th of June 1752. Her father was organist in Lynn, but in 1760 he removed to London-where he had previously resided-and numbered among his familiar friends and visitors David Garrick, Sir Robert Strange the engraver, the poets Mason and Armstrong, Barry the painter, and other persons distinguished in art and literature. Such society must have had a highly beneficial effect on his family, and accordingly we find they all distinguished themselves: one son rose to be an admiral; the second son, Charles Burney, became a celebrated Greek scholar; both the daughters were novelists.* Fanny was long held to be a sort of *Rear-admiral James Burney accompanied Captain Cook in two of his voyages, and was author of a History of Voyages of Discovery, 5 vols. quarto, and an Account of the Russian Eastern Voyages. He died in 1820.-Dr Charles Burney wrote several critical works on the Greek classics, was a prebendary of Lincoln, and one of the king's chaplains. After his death, in 1817, the valuable library of this great scholar was purchased by government for the British Museum. prodigy. At eight years of age she did not even dying scene, where the lady is brought from know her letters, but she was shrewd and observ-behind a hedge to expire before the audience, and ant. At fifteen she had written several tales, was is afterwards carried once more to the back of a great reader, and even a critic. Her authorship the hedge, the house was convulsed with laughter! was continued in secret, her sister only being Her next effort was her novel of Camilla, which aware of the circumstance. In this way, it is said, she published by subscription, and realised by it she composed Evelina; but it was not published no less than three thousand guineas. In 1802, till January 1778, when 'little Fanny' was in her Madame D'Arblay accompanied her husband to twenty-sixth year; and the wonderful precocity of Paris. The count joined the army of Napoleon; 'Miss in her teens' may be dismissed as some- and his wife was forced to remain in France till what more than doubtful. The work was offered 1812, when she returned, and purchased, from the to Dodsley the publisher, but rejected, as the proceeds of her novel, a small but handsome worthy bibliopole 'declined looking at anything villa, named Camilla Cottage. Her success in anonymous.' Another bookseller, named Lowndes, prose fiction urged her to another trial, and in agreed to publish it, and gave £20 for the manu- 1814 she produced The Wanderer, a tedious tale script. Evelina, or a Young Lady's Entrance into in five volumes, which had no other merit than the World, soon became the talk of the town. Dr that of bringing the authoress the large sum of Burney, in the fulness of his heart, told Mrs Thrale £1500. The only other literary labour of Madame that 'our Fanny' was the author; and Dr Johnson D'Arblay was a Memoir of her father, Dr Burney, protested to Mrs Thrale that there were passages published in 1832. Her husband and her sonin it which might do honour to Richardson! Miss the Rev. A. D'Arblay of Camden Town Chapel, Burney was invited to Streatham, the country near London-both predeceased her, the former residence of the Thrales, and there she met John- in 1818, and the latter in 1837. Three years son and his illustrious band of friends, of whom after this last melancholy bereavement, Madame we have ample notices in the Diary. Wherever D'Arblay herself paid the debt of nature, dying at she went, to London, Bath, or Tunbridge, Evelina | Bath, in January 1840, at the great age of eightywas the theme of praise, and Miss Burney the eight. Her Diary and Letters, edited by her happiest of authors. In 1782 appeared her second niece, were published in 1842 in five volumes. If work, Cecilia, which is more highly finished than judiciously condensed, this work would have been Evelina, but less rich in comic characters and both entertaining and valuable; but at least one dialogue. Miss Burney having gone to reside for half of it is filled with unimportant details and a short time with Mrs Delany, a venerable lady, private gossip, and the self-admiring weakness the friend of Swift, once connected with the court, of the authoress shines out in almost every page. and who now lived on a pension from their The early novels of Miss Burney form the most Majesties at Windsor, was introduced to the king pleasing memorials of her name and history. In and queen, and speedily became a favourite. The them we see her quick in discernment, lively result was, that in 1786 our authoress was in invention, and inimitable, in her own way, in appointed second keeper of the robes to Queen portraying the humours and oddities of English Charlotte, with a salary of £200 a year, a footman, society. Her good sense and correct feeling are apartments in the palace, and a coach between more remarkable than her passion. Her loveher and her colleague. The situation was only a scenes are prosaic enough; but in 'shewing up' sort of splendid slavery. I was averse to the a party of 'vulgarly genteel' persons, painting the union,' said Miss Burney, 'and I endeavoured to characters in a drawing-room, or catching the escape it; but my friends interfered-they pre- follies and absurdities that float on the surface vailed-and the knot is tied.' The queen appears of fashionable society, she had then rarely been to have been a kind and considerate mistress; equalled. She deals with the palpable and but the stiff etiquette and formality of the court, familiar; and though society has changed since and the unremitting attention which its irksome the time of Evelina, and the glory of Ranelagh duties required, rendered the situation peculiarly and Marylebone Gardens has departed, there is disagreeable to one who had been so long flat- enough of real life in her personages, and real tered and courted by the brilliant society of her morality in her lessons, to interest, amuse, and day. Her colleague, Mrs Schwellenberg, a coarse- instruct. Her sarcasm, drollery, and broad minded, jealous, disagreeable German favourite, humour must always be relished. was also a perpetual source of annoyance to her; and poor Fanny at court was worse off than her heroine Cecilia was in choosing among her guardians. Her first official duty was to mix the queen's snuff, and keep her box always replenished; after which she was promoted to the great business of the toilet, helping Her Majesty off and on with her dresses, and being in strict attendance from six or seven in the morning till twelve at night! From this grinding and intolerable destiny, Miss Burney was emancipated by her marriage, in 1793, with a French refugee officer, the Count D'Arblay. She then resumed her pen, and in 1795 produced a tragedy, entitled Edwin and Elgitha, which was brought out at Drury Lane, and possessed at least one novelty-there were three bishops among the dramatis persona. Mrs Siddons personated the heroine; but in the A Game of Highway Robbery.-From 'Evelina.' When we had been out near two hours, and expected every moment to stop at the place of our destination, I observed that Lady Howard's servant, who attended us on horseback, rode on forward till he was out of sight, and soon after returning, came up to the chariot window, and delivering a note to Madame Duval, said he had met a boy who was just coming with it to Howard Grove, from the clerk of Mr Tyrell. window, and making a sign for secrecy, put into my While she was reading it, he rode round to the other hand a slip of paper, on which was written, Whatever happens, be not alarmed, for you are safe, though you endanger all mankind!' I readily imagined that Sir Clement must be the author of this note, which prepared me to expect some disagreeable adventure: but I had no time to ponder 239 upon it, for Madame Duval had no sooner read her own letter, than, in an angry tone of voice, she exclaimed: 'Why, now, what a thing is this; here we're come all this way for nothing!' She then gave me the note, which informed her that she need not trouble herself to go to Mr Tyrell's, as the prisoner had had the address to escape. I congratulated her upon this fortunate incident; but she was so much concerned at having rode so far in vain, that she seemed less pleased than provoked. However, she ordered the man to make what haste he could home, as she hoped at least to return before the captain should suspect what had passed. The carriage turned about, and we journeyed so quietly for near an hour that I began to flatter myself we should be suffered to proceed to Howard Grove without further molestation, when, suddenly, the footman called out: 'John, are we going right?' 'Why, I ain't sure,' said the coachman; but I'm afraid we turned wrong.' 'What do you mean by that, sirrah?' said Madame Duval. Why, if you lose your way, we shall be all in the dark.' 'I think we should turn to the left,' said the footman. 'To the left!' answered the other. 'No, no; I'm pretty sure we should turn to the right.' ་ You had better make some inquiry,' said I. 'Ma foi,' cried Madame Duval, we're in a fine hole here; they neither of them know no more than the post. However, I'll tell my lady, as sure as you're born, so you'd better find the way.' 'Let's try this road,' said the footman. 'No,' said the coachman; that's the road to Canterbury; we had best go straight on.' 'Why, that's the direct London road,' returned the footman, and will lead us twenty miles about.' 'Pardie!' cried Madame Duval; 'why, they won't go one way nor t'other; and, now we're come all this jaunt for nothing, I suppose we shan't get home tonight.' 'Let's go back to the public-house,' said the footman, 'and ask for a guide.' 'No, no,' said the other; if we stay here a few minutes, somebody or other will pass by; and the horses are almost knocked up already.' 'Well, I protest,' cried Madame Duval, 'I'd give a guinea to see them sots horsewhipped. As sure as I'm alive, they're drunk. Ten to one but they 'll overturn us next.' After much debating, they at length agreed to go on till we came to some inn, or met with a passenger who could direct us. We soon arrived at a small farmhouse, and the footman alighted and went into it. In a few minutes he returned, and told us we might proceed, for that he had procured a direction. 'But,' added he, 'it seems there are some thieves hereabouts, and so the best way will be for you to leave your watches and purses with the farmer, whom I know very well, and who is an honest man, and a tenant of my lady's.' Thieves!' cried Madame Duval, looking aghast; 'the Lord help us! I've no doubt but we shall be all murdered!' The farmer came to us, and we gave him all we were worth, and the servants followed our example. We then proceeded; and Madame Duval's anger so entirely subsided, that, in the mildest manner imaginable, she entreated them to make haste, and promised to tell their lady how diligent and obliging they had been. She perpetually stopped them to ask if they apprehended any danger, and was at length so much overpowered by her fears, that she made the footman fasten his horse to the back of the carriage, and then come and seat himself within it. My endeavours to encourage her were fruitless; she sat in the middle, held the man by the arm, and protested that if he did but save her life, she would make his fortune. Her uneasiness gave me much concern, and it was with the utmost difficulty I forbore to acquaint her that she was imposed upon; but the mutual fear of the captain's resentment to me, and of her own to him, neither of which would have any moderation, deterred me. As to the footman, he was evidently in torture from restraining his laughter, and I observed that he was frequently obliged to make most horrid grimaces from pretended fear, in order to conceal his risibility. Very soon after, 'The robbers are coming!' cried the coachman. The footman opened the door, and jumped out of the chariot. Madame Duval gave a loud scream. I could no longer preserve my silence. 'For Heaven's sake, my dear madam,' said I, 'don't be alarmed; you are in no danger; you are quite safe; there is nothing but' Here the chariot was stopped by two men in masks, who at each side put in their hands, as if for our purses. Madame Duval sank to the bottom of the chariot, and implored their mercy. I shrieked involuntarily, although prepared for the attack: one of them held me fast, while the other tore poor Madame Duval out of the carriage, in spite of her cries, threats, and resistance. I was really frightened, and trembled exceedingly. 'My angel!' cried the man who held me, 'you cannot surely be alarmed. Do you not know me? I shall hold myself in eternal abhorrence if I have really terrified you.' 'Indeed, Sir Clement, you have,' cried I; 'but, for Heaven's sake, where is Madame Duval ?-why is she forced away?' 'She is perfectly safe; the captain has her in charge; but suffer me now, my adored Miss Anville, to take the only opportunity that is allowed me to speak upon another, a much dearer, much sweeter subject.' And then he hastily came into the chariot, and seated himself next to me. I would fain have disengaged myself from him, but he would not let me. Deny me not, most charming of women,' cried he-'deny me not this only moment lent me to pour forth my soul into your gentle ears, to tell you how much I suffer from your absence, how much I dread your displeasure, and how cruelly I am affected by your coldness!' 'O sir, this is no time for such language; pray, leave me; pray, go to the relief of Madame Duval ; I cannot bear that she should be treated with such indignity.' And will you-can you command my absence? When may I speak to you, if not now?-does the captain suffer me to breathe a moment out of his sight ?—and are not a thousand impertinent people for ever at your elbow?' 'Indeed, Sir Clement, you must change your style, or I will not hear you. The impertinent people you mean are among my best friends, and you would not, if you really wished me well, speak of them so disrespectfully.' "Wish you well! O Miss Anville, point but out to me how, in what manner, I may convince you of the fervour of my passion-tell me but what services you will accept from me, and you shall find my life, my fortune, my whole soul at your devotion.' 'I want nothing, sir, that you can offer. I beg you not to talk to me so-so strangely. Pray, leave me; and pray, assure yourself you cannot take any method so successless to shew any regard for me as entering into schemes so frightful to Madame Duval, and so disagreeable to myself.' 'The scheme was the captain's; I even opposed it; though I own I could not refuse myself the so-longwished-for happiness of speaking to you once more without so many of-your friends to watch me. And I had flattered myself that the note I charged the NOVELISTS. ENGLISH LITERATURE. footman to give you would have prevented the alarm you have received.' 'Well, sir, you have now, I hope, said enough; and if you will not go yourself to seek for Madame Duval, at least suffer me to inquire what is become of her.' 'And when may I speak to you again?' 'No matter when ; don't know; perhaps ` 'Perhaps what, my angel?' 'Perhaps never, sir, if you torment me thus.' 'Never! O Miss Anville, how cruel, how piercing to my soul is that icy word! Indeed, I cannot endure such displeasure.' Then, sir, you must not provoke it. Pray, leave me directly.' 'I will, madam; but let me at least make a merit of my obedience-allow me to hope that you will in future be less averse to trusting yourself for a few moments alone with me.' I was surprised at the freedom of this request; but while I hesitated how to answer it, the other mask came up to the chariot door, and in a voice almost stifled with laughter, said: 'I've done for her! The old buck is safe; but we must sheer off directly, or we shall be all aground.' Sir Clement instantly left me, mounted his horse, and rode off. The captain, having given some directions to his servants, followed him. I was both uneasy and impatient to know the fate of Madame Duval, and immediately got out of the chariot to seek her. I desired the footman to shew me which way she was gone; he pointed with his finger, by way of answer, and I saw that he dared not trust his voice to make any other. I walked on at a very quick pace, and soon, to my great consternation, perceived the poor lady seated upright in a ditch. I flew to her, with unfeigned concern at her situation. She was sobbing, nay, almost roaring, and in the utmost agony of rage As soon as she saw me, she redoubled her and terror. cries, but her voice was so broken, I could not understand a word she said. I was so much shocked, that it was with difficulty I forbore exclaiming against the cruelty of the captain for thus wantonly ill-treating her, and I could not forgive myself for having passively suffered the deception. I used my utmost endeavours to comfort her, assuring her of our present safety, and begging her to rise and return to the chariot. Almost bursting with passion, she pointed to her feet, I then saw that her feet were tied together with a I was so much surprised and confounded at the She began to be somewhat appeased, and I again en treated her to return to the carriage, or give me leave to order that it should draw up to the place where we 68 longer we remained still, the greater would be the Her dress was in such disorder, that I was quite The ditch, happily, was almost dry, or she must have The servants were ready to die with laughter the Just as we were seated in the chariot, she discovered the loss which her head had sustained, and called out: 'My God! what is become of my hair? Why, the villain has stole all my curls!' She then ordered the man to run and see if he could find any of them in the ditch. He went, and presently nasty condition, that I was amazed she would take it; returning, produced a great quantity of hair in such a and the man, as he delivered it to her, found it imposobserved, than all her stormy passions were again raised. sible to keep his countenance; which she no sooner She flung the battered curls in his face, saying: 'Sirrah, what do you grin for? I wish you'd been served so yourself, and you wouldn't have found it no such joke; you are the impudentest fellow ever I see, and if I find you dare grin at me any more, I shall make no ceremony of boxing your ears.' Satisfied with the threat, the man hastily retired, and we drove on. stances attending the Composition of Evelina. 'Pray, does Miss Burney draw too?' 'I believe not, sir,' answered Mrs Delany; 'at least she does not tell.' 'Oh,' cried he, laughing, 'that 's nothing; she is not apt to tell; she never does tell, you know. Her father her Evelina. And I shall never forget his face when told me that himself. He told me the whole history of he spoke of his feelings at first taking up the book; he I never can forget his face while I live.' looked quite frightened, just as if he was doing it that moment. 241 Then coming up close to me, he said: 'But what! what! how was it?' 'Sir?' cried I, not well understanding him. 'How came you-how happened it-what-what?' 'I-I only wrote, sir, for my own amusement-only in some odd idle hours.' 'But your publishing-your printing-how was that?' 'That was only, sir-only because I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long story, and growing terribly confused at these questions; besides, to say the truth, his own 'what! what?' so reminded me of those vile Probationary Odes [by Wolcot], that, in the midst of all my flutter, I was really hardly able to keep my countenance. The what! was then repeated, with so earnest a look, that, forced to say something, I stammeringly answered: I thought, sir, it would look very well in print.' I do really flatter myself this is the silliest speech I ever made. I am quite provoked with myself for it; but a fear of laughing made me eager to utter anything, and by no means conscious, till I had spoken, of what I was saying. He laughed very heartily himself-well he might and walked away to enjoy it, crying out: Very fair indeed; that's being very fair and honest.' Then returning to me again, he said: 'But your father-how came you not to shew him what you wrote?' 'I was too much ashamed of it, sir, seriously.' Literal truth that, I am sure. 'And how did he find it out?' 'I don't know myself, sir. He never would tell me.' Literal truth again, my dear father, as you can testify. 'But how did you get it printed? 'I sent it, sir, to a bookseller my father never employed, and that I never had seen myself, Mr Lowndes, in full hope that by that means he never would hear of it.' 'But how could you manage that?' By means of a brother, sir.' 'Oh, you confided in a brother, then?' 'Yes, sir-that is, for the publication.' 'What entertainment you must have had from hearing people's conjectures before you were known! Do you remember any of them?' 'Yes, sir, many.' 'And what?' 'I heard that Mr Baretti laid a wager it was written by a man; for no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel.' This diverted him extremely. 'But how was it,' he continued, 'you thought it most likely for your father to discover you?' 'Sometimes, sir, I have supposed I must have dropt some of the manuscripts; sometimes, that one of my sisters betrayed me.' 'Oh, your sister? What! not your brother?' 'No, sir, he could not, for ' I was going on, but he laughed so much I could not be heard, exclaiming: Vastly well! I see you are of Mr Baretti's mind, and think your brother could keep your secret, and not your sister. Well, but,' cried he presently, how was it first known to you, you were betrayed?' 'By a letter, sir, from another sister. I was very ill, and in the country; and she wrote me word that my father had taken up a review, in which the book was mentioned, and had put his finger upon its name, and said: "Contrive to get that book for me. 'And when he got it,' cried the king, 'he told me he was afraid of looking at it, and never can I forget his face when he mentioned his first opening it. But you have not kept your pen unemployed all this time?' 'Indeed I have, sir.' 'But why?' 'I-I believe I have exhausted myself, sir.' A very civil little bow spoke him pleased with this answer, and he went again to the middle of the room, where he chiefly stood, and, addressing us in general, talked upon the different motives of writing, concluding with I believe there is no constraint to be put upon real genius; nothing but inclination can set it to work. Miss Burney, however, knows best.' And then hastily returning to me, he cried: What! what?' : 'No, sir, I-I-believe not, certainly,' quoth I very awkwardly, for I seemed taking a violent compliment only as my due; but I knew not how to put him off as I would another person. Margaret Nicholson's Attempt on the Life of George III., August 2, 1786. An attempt had just been made upon the life of the king! I was almost petrified with horror at the intelligence. If this king is not safe-good, pious, beneficent as he is-if his life is in danger from his own subjects, what is to guard the throne? and which way is a monarch to be secure! Mrs Goldsworthy had taken every possible precaution so to tell the matter to the Princess Elizabeth as least to alarm her, lest it might occasion a return of her spasms; but, fortunately, she cried so exceedingly that it was hoped the vent of her tears would save her from those terrible convulsions. Madame La Fite had heard of the attempt only, not the particulars; but I was afterwards informed of them in the most interesting manner, namely, how they were related to the queen. And as the newspapers will have told you all else, I shall only and briefly tell that. No information arrived here of the matter before His Majesty's return, at the usual hour in the afternoon, from the levee. The Spanish minister had hurried off instantly to Windsor, and was in waiting at Lady Charlotte Finch's, to be ready to assure Her Majesty of the king's safety, in case any report anticipated his return. The queen had the two eldest princesses, the Duchess of Ancaster, and Lady Charlotte Bertie with her when the king came in. He hastened up to her, with a countenance of striking vivacity, and said: 'Here I am! -safe and well, as you see-but I have very narrowly escaped being stabbed!' His own conscious safety, and the pleasure he felt in thus personally shewing it to the queen, made him not aware of the effect of so abrupt a communication. The queen was seized with a consternation that at first almost stupefied her, and, after a most painful silence, the first words she could articulate were, in looking round at the duchess and Lady Charlotte, who had both burst into tears, I envy you-I can't cry!' The two princesses were for a little while in the same state; but the tears of the duchess proved infectious, and they then wept even with violence. The king, with the gayest good-humour, did his utmost to comfort them; and then gave a relation of the affair, with a calmness and unconcern that, had any one but himself been his hero, would have been regarded as totally unfeeling. You may have heard it wrong; I will concisely tell it right. His carriage had just stopped at the garden |