The Heroine. Barrett Eaton Stannard

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      'Pray, Sir,' said she, to our fellow traveller, 'what is your opinion of novels? Ant they all love and nonsense, and the most unpossible lies possible?'

      'They are fictions, certainly,' said he.

      'Surely, Sir,' exclaimed I, 'you do not mean to call them fictions.'

      'Why no,' replied he, 'not absolute fictions.'

      'But,' cried the big lady, 'you don't pretend to call them true.'

      'Why no,' said he, 'not absolutely true.'

      'Then,' cried I, 'you are on both sides of the question at once.'

      He trod on my foot.

      'Ay, that you are,' said the big lady.

      He trod on her foot.

      'I am too much of a courtier,' said he, 'to differ from the ladies,' and he trod on both our feet.

      'A courtier!' cried I: 'I should rather have imagined you a musician.'

      'Pray why?' said he.

      'Because,' answered I, 'you are playing the pedal harp on this lady's foot and mine.'

      'I wished to produce harmony,' said he, with a submitting bow.

      'At least,' said I, 'novels must be much more true than histories, because historians often contradict each other, but novelists never do.'

      'Yet do not novelists contradict themselves?' said he.

      'Certainly,' replied I, 'and there lies the surest proof of their veracity. For as human actions are always contradicting themselves, so those books which faithfully relate them, must do the same.'

      'Admirable!' exclaimed he. 'And yet what proof have we that such personages as Schedoni, Vivaldi, Camilla, or Cecilia ever existed?'

      'And what proof have we,' cried I, 'that such personages as Alfred the Great, Henry the Fifth, Elfrida, or Mary Queen of Scots, ever existed? I wonder at a man of sense like you. Why, Sir, at this rate you might just as well question the truth of Guy Faux's attempt to blow up the Parliament-House, or of my having blown up a house last night.'

      'You blow up a house!' exclaimed the big lady with amazement.

      'Madam,' said I, modestly, 'I scorn ostentation, but on my word and honour, 'tis fact.'

      'Of course you did it accidentally,' said the gentleman.

      'You wrong me, Sir,' replied I; 'I did it by design.'

      'You will swing for it, however,' cried the big lady.

      'Swing for it!' said I; 'a heroine swing? Excellent! I presume, Madam, you are unacquainted with the common law of romance.'

      'Just,' said she, 'as you seem to be with the common law of England.'

      'I despise the common law of England,' cried I.

      'Then I fancy,' said she, 'it would not be much amiss if you were hanged.'

      'And I fancy,' retorted I, nodding at her big figure, 'it would not be much amiss if you were quartered.'

      Instantly she took out a prayer-book, and began muttering over it with the most violent piety and indignation.

      Meantime the gentleman coincided in every syllable that I said, praised my parts and knowledge, and discovered evident symptoms of a discriminating mind, and an amiable heart. That I am right in my good opinion of him is most certain; for he himself assured me that it would be quite impossible to deceive me, I am so penetrating. In short, I have set him down as the benevolent guardian, whom my memoirs will hereafter celebrate, for having saved me from destruction.

      Indeed he has already done so. For, when our journey was almost over, he told me, that my having set fire to the ruin might prove a most fatal affair; and whispered that the big lady would probably inform against me. On my pleading the prescriptive immunities of heroines, and asserting that the law could never lay its fangs on so ethereal a name as Cherubina, he solemnly swore to me, that he once knew a golden-haired, azure-eyed heroine, called Angelica Angela Angelina, who was hanged at the Old Bailey for stealing a broken lute out of a haunted chamber; and while my blood was running cold at the recital, he pressed me so cordially to take refuge in his house, that at length, I threw myself on the protection of the best of men.

      I now write from his mansion in Grosvenor Square, where we have just dined. His name is Betterton; he has no family, and is possessed of a splendid independence. Multitudes of liveried menials watch his nod; and he does me the honour to call me cousin. My chamber too is charming. The curtains hang quite in a new style, but I do not like the pattern of the drapery.

      To-morrow I mean to go shopping; and I may, at the same time, pick up some adventures on my way; for business must be minded.

Adieu.

      LETTER VII

      Soon after my last letter, I was summoned to supper. Betterton appeared much interested in my destiny, and I took good care to inspire him with a due sense of my forlorn and unprotected state. I told him that I had not a friend in the wide world, related to him my lamentable tale, and as a proof of my veracity shewed him the parchment, the picture, and the mole.

      To my great surprise, he said that he considered my high birth improbable; and then began advising me to descend from my romantic flights, as he called them, and to seek after happiness instead of misery.

      'In this town,' continued he, after a long preamble, 'your charms would be despotic, if unchained by legal constraints. But for ever distant from you be that cold and languid tie which erroneous policy invented. For you be the sacred community of souls, the mystic union, whose tie of bondage is the sway of passion, the wish, the licence, and impulse the law.'

      'Pretty expressions enough,' said I, 'only I cannot comprehend them.'

      'Charming girl!' cried he, while he conjured up a fiend of a smile, and drew a brilliant from his finger, 'accept this ring, and the signature of the hand that has worn it, securing to you five hundred a-year, while you remain under my protection.'

      'Ha, monster!' exclaimed I, 'and is this thy vile design?'

      So saying, I flung the ruffian from me, then rushed down stairs, opened the door, and quick as lightning darted along the streets.

      At last, panting for breath, I paused underneath a portico. It was now midnight. Not a wheel, not a hoof fatigued the pavement, or disturbed the slumbering mud of the metropolis. But soon steps and soft voices broke the silence, and a youth, encircling a maiden's waist with his arm, and modulating the most mellifluent phraseology, passed by me. Another couple succeeded, and another, and another. The town seemed swarming with heroes and heroines. 'Fortunate pairs!' ejaculated I, 'at length ye enjoy the reward of your incomparable constancy and virtue. Here, after a long separation, meeting by chance, and in extreme distress, ye pour forth the pure effusions of your souls. O blissful termination of unexampled miseries!'

      I now perceived, on the steps of a house, a fair and slender form, robed in white. She was sitting with her elbow in her lap, and her head leaning on one side, within her hand.

      'She seems a sister in misfortune,' said I; 'so, should she but have a Madona face, and a name ending in a, we will live, we will die together.'

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