The ditch, happily, was almost dry, or she must have suffered still more seriously; yet so forlorn, so miserable a figure I never before saw. Her head-dress had fallen off; her linen was torn; her négligée had not a pin left in it; her petticoats she was obliged to hold on; and her shoes were perpetually slipping off. She was covered with dirt, weeds, and filth, and her face was really horrible, for the pomatum and powder from her head, and the dust from the road, were quite pasted on her skin by her tears, which, with her rouge, made so frightful a mixture that she hardly looked human.

The servants were ready to die with laughter the moment they saw her; but not all my remonstrances could prevail on her to get into the carriage till she had most vehemently reproached them both for not rescuing her. The footman, fixing his eyes on the ground, as if fearful of again trusting himself to look at her, protested that the robbers avowed they would shoot him if he moved an inch, and that one of them had stayed to watch the chariot, while the other carried her off; adding that the reason of their behaving so barbarously was to revenge our having secured our purses. Notwithstanding her anger, she gave immediate credit to what he said, and really imagined that her want of money had irritated the pretended robbers to treat her with such cruelty. I determined therefore to be carefully on my guard not to betray the imposition, which could now answer no other purpose than occasioning an irreparable breach between her and the captain.

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 returning, produced a great quantity of hair in such a nasty condition that I was amazed she would take it; and the man, as he delivered it to her, found it impossible to keep his countenance; which she no sooner observed than all her stormy passions were again raised. 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.

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,

'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.

An attempt had just been made [August 1786] 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 coun

tenance 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 door at St James's, and he had just alighted from it, when a decently dressed woman, who had been waiting for him some time, approached him with a petition. It was rolled up, and had the usual superscription-'For the King's Most Excellent Majesty.' She presented it with her right hand; and, at the same moment that the king bent forward to take it, she drew from it, with her left hand, a knife, with which she aimed straight at his heart! The fortunate awkwardness of taking the instrument with the left hand made her design perceived before it could be executed; the king started back, scarce believing the testimony of his own eyes; and the woman made a second thrust, which just touched his waistcoat before he had time to prevent her; and at that moment one of the attendants, seeing her horrible intent, wrenched the knife from her hand.

Has she cut my waistcoat?' cried he, in telling it. 'Look for I have had no time to examine.'

Thank Heaven, however, the poor wretch had not gone quite so far. Though nothing,' added the king in giving his relation, 'could have been sooner done, for there was nothing for her to go through but a thin linen and fat.'

While the guards and his own people now surrounded the king, the assassin was seized by the populace, who were tearing her away, no doubt to fall the instant sacrifice of her murtherous purpose, when the king, the only calm and moderate person then present, called aloud to the mob: The poor creature is mad! Do not hurt her! She has not hurt me.' He then came forward, and shewed himself to all the people, declaring he was perfectly safe and unhurt; and then gave positive orders that the woman should be taken care of, and went into the palace, and had his levee.

There is something in the whole of this behaviour upon this occasion that strikes me as proof indisputable of a true and noble courage: for in a moment so extraordinary —an attack, in this country, unheard of before-to settle so instantly that it was the effect of insanity, to feel no apprehension of private plot or latent conspiracy-to stay out, fearlessly, among his people, and so benevolently to see himself to the safety of one who had raised her arm against his life-these little traits, all impulsive, and therefore to be trusted, have given me an impression of respect and reverence that I can never forget, and never think of but with fresh admiration.

If that love of prerogative, so falsely assigned, were true, what an opportunity was here offered to exert it! Had he instantly taken refuge in his palace, ordered out all his guards, stopped every avenue to St James's, and issued his commands that every individual present at this scene should be secured and examined, who would have dared murmur, or even blame such measures? The insanity of the woman has now fully been proved; but that noble confidence which gave that instant excuse for her was then all his own.

An Irish Gentleman.

I must now have the honour to present to you a new acquaintance, who this day dined here-Mr B-y, an Irish gentleman, late a commissary in Germany. He is between sixty and seventy, but means to pass for about thirty; gallant, complaisant, obsequious, and humble to the fair sex, for whom he has an awful reverence; but when not immediately addressing them, swaggering, blustering, puffing, and domineering. These are his two apparent characters; but the real man is worthy, moral, religious, though conceited and parading.

He is as fond of quotations as my poor Lady Smatter,' and, like her, knows little beyond a song, and always blunders about the author of that. His language greatly resembles Rose Fuller's, who, as Mrs Thrale well says, when as old, will be much such another personage. His whole conversation consists in little French phrases, picked up during his residence abroad, and in anecdotes and story-telling, which are sure to be re-told daily and daily in the same words.

Having given you this general sketch, I will endeavour to illustrate it by some specimens ; but you must excuse their being unconnected, and only such as I can readily recollect.

Speaking of the ball in the evening, to which we were all going, Ah, madam!' said he to Mrs Thrale, 'there was a time when-tol-de-rol, tol-de-rol [rising, and dancing and singing], tol-de-rol!-I could dance with the best of them; but, now a man, forty and upwards, as my Lord Ligonier used to say-but-tol-de-rol !— there was a time!'

'Ay, so there was, Mr B- -y,' said Mrs Thrale, and I think you and I together made a very venerable appearance!'

'Ah! madam, I remember once, at Bath, I was called out to dance with one of the finest young ladies I ever saw. I was just preparing to do my best, when a gentleman of my acquaintance was so cruel as to whisper me "B-y! the eyes of all Europe are upon you!" for that was the phrase of the times. "B -y!" says he, "the eyes of all Europe are upon you ! I vow, ma'am, enough to make a man tremble! -tol-de-rol, tol-de-rol! [dancing]-the eyes of all Europe are upon you!--I declare, ma'am, enough to put a man out of countenance !'

Dr Delap, who came here some time after, was speaking of Horace.

'Ah! madam,' cried Mr By, 'this Latin-things of that kind-v -we waste our youth, ma'am, in these vain studies. For my part, I wish I had spent mine in studying French and Spanish-more useful, ma'am. But, bless me, ma'am, what time have I had for that kind of thing? Travelling here, over the ocean, hills and dales, ma'am-reading the great book of the world-poor ignorant mortals, ma'am-no time to do anything!'

'Ay, Mr B-y,' said Mrs Thrale, 'I remember how you downed Beauclerk and Hamilton, the wits, once at our house, when they talked of ghosts!'

Ah! ma'am, give me a brace of pistols, and I warrant I'll manage a ghost for you! Not but Providence may please to send little spirits-guardian angels, ma'am-to watch us: that I can't speak about. It would be presumptuous, ma'am—for what can a poor, ignorant mortal know?'

'Ay, so you told Beauclerk and Hamilton.'

'Oh, yes, ma'am. Poor human beings can't account for anything-and call themselves esprits forts. I vow 'tis presumption, ma'am! Esprits forts, indeed! they can see no farther than their noses, poor, ignorant mortals! Here's an admiral, and here's a prince, and here's a general, and here's a dipper-and poor Smoker, the bather, ma'am ! What's all this strutting about, and that kind of thing? and then they can't account for a blade of grass !'

After this, Dr Johnson being mentioned,

'Ay,' said he, 'I'm sorry he did not come down with you. I liked him better than those others: not much of a fine gentleman, indeed, but a clever fellow-a deal of knowledge-got a deuced good understanding!'

Dr Delap rather abruptly asked my Christian name: Mrs Thrale answered, and Mr B—y tenderly repeated:

'Fanny! a prodigious pretty name, and a pretty lady that bears it. Fanny! Ah! how beautiful is that song of Swift's

"When Fanny, blooming fair,

First caught my ravish'd sight,
Struck with her mien and air

'Her face and air,' interrupted Mrs Thrale, 'for "mien and air" we hold to be much the same thing.'

'Right, ma'am, right! You, ma'am-why, ma'amyou know everything; but, as to me--to be sure, I began with studying the old Greek and Latin, ma'am: but, then, travelling, ma'am!-going through Germany, and then France, and Spain, ma'am! and dipping at Brighthelmstone, over hills and dales, reading the great book of the world! Ay, a little poetry now and then, to be sure, I have picked up.

"My Phoebe and I,
O'er hills, and o'er dales, and o'er valleys will fly,
And love shall be by!"
But, as you say, ma'am !—

"Struck with her face and air,

I felt a strange delight!"

How pretty that is: how progressive from the first sight of her! Ah! Swift was a fine man!'

'Why, sir, I don't think it's printed in his works!' said Dr Delap.

'No!' said Mrs Thrale, 'because 'tis Chesterfield's!' 'Ay, right, right, ma'am ! so it is.'

Now, if I had heard all this before I wrote my play, would you not have thought I had borrowed the hint of myWitlings' from Mr B-y?

'I am glad, Mr Thrale,' continued this hero, 'you have got your fireplace altered. Why, ma'am, there used to be such a wind, there was no sitting here. Admirable dinners-excellent company-très bon fare -and, all the time, "Signor Vento" coming down the

as he almost lives here, it is fitting I let you know something of him.

The Diary and Letters (7 vols. 1842-46) was twice reprinted in 1890-91; the Early Diary, edited by Annie Raine Ellis, appeared in 1890. See Macaulay's famous Essay, and the editions of Evelina and Cecilia (1893) by Mr Brimley Johnson; Fanny Burney and her Friends (selections from the Diary, edited by Seeley, 1889); Mrs Walford, Twelve English Authoresses (1892).

Charlotte Smith (1749–1806), the elder daughter of Mr Nicholas Turner of Stoke House in Surrey, was early remarkable for a playful humour shown in conversation and in prose and verse composition. Having lost her mother at three, she was brought up carelessly though expensively by an aunt, and introduced into society at a very early age. After her father's second marriage, the aunt sought hurriedly to establish Charlotte in life, and in 1765 she was married to Benjamin Smith, son and partner of a rich West India merchant-the husband being twentyone years, the wife fifteen. Smith was careless and extravagant, and his father, dying in 1776, left a will so complicated that lawsuits and embarrassments were the portion of this illstarred pair for all their after-lives. Smith was ultimately forced to sell the greater part of his property, after being for seven months in prison in 1782, when his wife shared his confinement. In 1788, after an unhappy union of twenty-three years, Mrs Smith separated from her husband, and applied herself to her literary occupations with cheerful assiduity, supplying to her eight children the duties of both parents. She had already published Elegiac Sonnets (1784), and translated Prévost's exquisite Manon Lescaut; and now in eight months she completed her novel Emmeline, or The Orphan of the Castle, to which in 1790 succeeded Ethelinde, and in 1792 Celestina. Having adopted the doctrines of the French Revolution, she embodied them in Desmond, a romance which arrayed against her many of her friends and readers. But she regained the public favour by the Old Manor House (1793), the best of her novels. Part of it was written at Eartham, the residence of Hayley, during Cowper's visit to that poetical retreat. 'It was delightful,' says Hayley, to hear her read what she had just written, for she read, as she wrote, with simplicity and grace.' Cowper was also astonished at the rapidity and excellence of her composition. Mrs Smith, whose poetry is mostly pathetic in tone, continued her literary labours amidst private and family distress, and wrote a valuable little compendium for children, Conversations, in which she was aided by her sister, Mrs Catharine Ann

Dorset, known for The Peacock at Home' (1807) and other poems.

On the Departure of the Nightingale. Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird who sings of pity best : For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow and to love!

English Scenery.

Haunts of my youth! Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet! Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes, To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb, There seeking shelter from the noonday sun: And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, To look beneath upon the hollow way, While heavily upward moved the labouring wain, And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind, To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone The grating wheel.

Advancing higher still,

The prospect widens, and the village church
But little o'er the lowly roofs around
Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane ;
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring;
When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.
For even those orchards round the Norman farms,
Which, as their owners marked the promised fruit,
Console them, for the vineyards of the south
Surpass not these.

Where woods of ash and beech,
And partial copses fringe the green hill-foot,
The upland shepherd rears his modest home;
There wanders by a little nameless stream
That from the hill wells forth, bright now, and clear,
Or after rain with chalky mixture gray,
But still refreshing in its shallow course
The cottage garden; most for use designed,
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine
Mantles the little casement; yet the brier
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;
And pansies rayed, and freaked, and mottled pinks,
Grow among balm and rosemary and rue;
There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow
Almost uncultured; some with dark-green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson; while, in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.
With fond regret I recollect e'en now

In spring and summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleased,
An early worshipper at nature's shrine,

I loved her rudest scenes-warrens, and heaths,
And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes,
Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine.
(From Beachy Head.)

Mrs Radcliffe (1764-1823), once called the Salvator Rosa of British novelists, was born in London of respectable parentage, her maiden name being Ann Ward. In her twenty-third year she married William Radcliffe, graduate of Oxford and student of law, afterwards editor and proprietor of a weekly paper, the English Chronicle. Two years after her marriage, in 1789, Mrs Radcliffe published her first novel, The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne, the scene of which she laid in the Scottish Highlands during the remote and warlike times of the feudal barons. This work was immature the authoress had made no attempt to portray national manners or historical events; and the plot was wild and unnatural. Her next effort was more successful. The Sicilian Romance (1790) attracted attention by its romantic adventures and copious descriptions of scenery. 'Fielding, Richardson, Smollett, and even Walpole,' said Sir Walter Scott, though writing upon an imaginative subject, are decidedly prose authors. Mrs Radcliffe has a title to be considered as the first poetess of romantic fiction; that is, if actual rhythm shall not be deemed essential to poetry.' Actual rhythm was also at her command; the novelist scattered verses throughout her works, but they are less poetical than her prose. In 1791 appeared The Romance of the Forest, exhibiting her powers in full maturity. To her scenes of mystery and surprise she now added the delineation of passion, as instanced in the character of La Motte. Like the painter with whom she was compared, she loved to sport with the romantic and terrible-with mountain-forest and lake, the obscure solitude, cloud and storm, wild banditti, ruined castles, and all those half-discovered glimpses or visionary shadows of the supernatural which seem at times to cross our path and haunt and thrill the imagination. This faculty was more strongly shown in Mrs Radcliffe's next romance, The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), by far the most popular of her performances, as no doubt it was the best. In 1794 she made a journey through Holland and western Germany, returning down the Rhine, of which next year she published an account, adding to it observations made during a tour to the lakes of Lancashire, Westmorland, and Cumberland. In 1797 she made her last appearance in fiction. The Mysteries of Udolpho had been purchased by her publisher for what was then considered an enormous sum-£500;

but her new work brought her £800. It was entitled The Italian, and turned upon the tyranny of the Roman Inquisition. Mrs Radcliffe took up the popular notions on this subject without seeking after historical accuracy, and produced a work which, though very unequal in its execution, contains perhaps the most sensational of all her scenes and word-paintings. 'And it is a testimony to the power of her art,' says Professor Raleigh, 'that her fancy first conceived a type of character that subsequently passed from art into life. The man that Lord Byron tried to be was the invention of Mrs Radcliffe;' notably Schedoni in this story. The opening of the Italian is as follows:

English Travellers in a Neapolitan Church. Within the shade of the portico, a person with folded arms, and eyes directed towards the ground, was pacing behind the pillars the whole extent of the pavement, and was apparently so engaged by his own thoughts as not to observe that strangers were approaching. He turned, however, suddenly, as if startled by the sound of steps, and then, without further pausing, glided to a door that opened into the church, and disappeared.

There was something too extraordinary in the figure of this man, and too singular in his conduct, to pass unnoticed by the visitors. He was of a tall thin figure, bending forward from the shoulders; of a sallow complexion and harsh features, and had an eye which, as it looked up from the cloak that muffled the lower part of his countenance, seemed expressive of uncommon ferocity. The travellers, on entering the church, looked round for the stranger who had passed thither before them, but he was nowhere to be seen; and through all the shade of the long aisles only one other person appeared. This was a friar of the adjoining convent, who sometimes pointed out to strangers the objects in the church which were most worthy of attention, and who now, with this design, approached the party that had just entered. . .

When the party had viewed the different shrines, and whatever had been judged worthy of observation, and were returning through an obscure aisle towards the portico, they perceived the person who had appeared upon the steps passing towards a confessional on the left, and as he entered it, one of the party pointed him out to the friar, and inquired who he was. The friar, turning to look after him, did not immediately reply; but on the question being repeated, he inclined his head, as in a kind of obeisance, and calmly replied: 'He is an assassin.'

'An assassin!' exclaimed one of the Englishmen; ‘an assassin, and at liberty!'

An Italian gentleman who was of the party smiled at. the astonishment of his friend.

'He has sought sanctuary here,' replied the friar ; 'within these walls he may not be hurt.'

'Do your altars, then, protect a murderer?' said the Englishman.

'He could find shelter nowhere else,' answered the friar meekly. . . .

'But observe yonder confessional,' added the Italian, 'that beyond the pillars on the left of the aisle, below a painted window. Have you discovered it? The colours of the glass throw, instead of light, a shade over that