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those that she will make, will be less fit for me. I should have duties to fulfil which would take me from her; or else I should be asked, what very pressing care made me neglect them, and kept me for ever in her house; was I better clad, I might pass for her valet-de-chambre. But, what! a wretched man, overwhelmed with misfortunes, who has scarce a shoe to his foot, without clothes, without money, without resource, who only asks his dear friends to leave him miserable and free, how should such an one be requisite to Madame d'Epinay, surrounded as she is by all the comforts of life, and who has ten people in her suite! O Fortune! vile and despicable Fortune, if, in thy bosom, thy favourites cannot do without the poor, I am happier than those who possess thee, for I can do without them.

being of the least use to her. Could I support a post-chaise? Could I even hope to take so long a journey, in so hasty a manner, without meeting with some accident? Must I make the drivers stop every minute to let me get out, or shall I accelerate my torments, and my last hour, to be under perpetual restraint? Let Diderot ensure my health and my life for as much as he pleases, my situation is well known, and the most celebrated surgeons in Paris can attest it; and be assured, that, with all I suffer, I am as weary of my life as many others are. Madame d'Epinay could then only look forward to what would be always unpleasant, to a melancholy spectacle, and to, perhaps, many misfortunes on the road. She is not to learn that in such a case I would sooner retire to die by myself under a hedge, than to cause the least expence, or retain one servant more, on my account; and for myself, I know her heart too well to be ignorant of what would be her suffer-I know in how many senses the word friendings, if she was to leave me in such a situa- ship may be taken! It is a fine word, tion. I could, indeed, follow the carriage which often causes servitude to succeed to on foot, according to Diderot's wishes; a salary; but friendship is at an end as but the mud, the rain, and the snow, would soon as slavery begins. I should be albe great hindrances to me at this season of ways fond of serving my friend, provided the year. Though I ran ever so fast, how he was as poor as myself; if he is richer, could I travel twenty-five leagues a-day? let us both be free, or let him serve me And if I let the chaise get forward, of himself, for his bread is already gained, and what use could I be to the person within he has the more time to give to pleasure. it? When I arrive at Geneva, I should have to pass my days shut up with Madame d'Epinay; but, whatever might be my zeal in seeking to amuse her, it is impossible but that such a way of living, so confined, and so contrary to my disposition, must finish by depriving me entirely of health, or, at least, to plunge me into that melancholy I could no longer conquer.

At any rate, one sick person is by no means fit to be a nurse to another; and he who does not accept any care of him while he suffers, is dispensed from returning any at the expence of his health. When we are alone, and contented, Madame d'Epinay does not speak, neither do I; but what should I be, if I was both melancholy and under restraint? I do not see much amusement for her in that case. If she is a stranger at Geneva, I should be yet more so, but with money we are welcome any where; not so is the poor. The acquaintances that I have there are not fit for her; No. 112.-Vol. XVIII.

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It is said, it is because that she wants her friend.

she regards me, Oh! how well

I have but two words more to say about myself. If duty calls me to follow Madame d'Epinay, have not I those duties which are more imperious to keep me at home; and is Madame d'Epinay the only person on earth to whom I am indebted? Be assured, that I shall be no sooner set off on this journey, thau Diderot, who finds it so wrong for me to remain here, will think much worse of me for going, and he will be in the right. He follows, he will say, a rich woman, well accompanied, who has not the least want of him, and to whom, after all, he owes but little, and leaves those persons to misery and neglect, who have passed their lives in his service, and who would be rendered wretched by his departure. If I allowed Madame d'Epinay to defray my expences, Diderot would immediately make me feel a fresh obligation, that would fetter me for the remainder of my days. If ever I dared to call one moment my own; see that ingrate, they would

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body with whom I live, judge me after their own situation, never after mine, and expect, that a man who has nothing, should live as if he had six thousand livres a year, and leisure besides.

say; she has been kind enough to bring him back to his own country, and then he quitted her. All that I could do to repay her, would augment the acknowledgment I owed to her-so fine a thing it is to be rich, to domineer over, and change into No one knows how to put himself in my seeming benefits, the fetters imposed on us. place, nor will be see that I am a being set If, as I ought to do, I pay a part of my ex- apart, who has no character, maxims, or pences, where am I to collect together so resources, like other people, and who ought much money? To whom can I sell the not to be judged by general rule. If any few goods and books that I possess? I can one would only pay attention to my poverno longer wrap myself up, during the win- ty, not to relieve it, for it is a state of ter, in an old morning gown. All my liberty, but to render it less insupportable. clothes are worn threadbare; there must It is thus that the philosopher Diderot, in be time allowed to mend them, or to buy his closet, beside a good fire, in a good others; but when people have ten changes nightgown well lined with fur, is desirous of garments, they do not think on these that I should perform twenty-five leagues things. During this journey, of which I a day, in winter, on foot, in the mud, to know not the end, I shall leave an estarun after a post-chaise, because, after all, blishment here, which I must maintain. to run and cover oneself with mud, is the If I leave these women at the hermitage, I employment of a poor creature. But, inmust, besides the gardener's wages, pay a deed, Madame d'Epinay, although she is man to take care of the house, for it would rich, does not deserve that J. J. Rousseau be inhuman to leave them alone in the should put such an affront upon her. And middle of a wood. If I take them to Paris, think not that the philosopher Diderot, let I must procure a lodging for them; and him say what he will, if he could not supwhat would become of the goods and papers port a chaise, would ever, in his life, run I should leave here? I, too, myself, must after that of any one; in the meantime, he have money in my pocket; for how are would, at least, be thus differently situatedone's expences defrayed in another's house, he would have good double stockings, where every thing goes on well, provided the strong shoes, and a good great coat; he masters are well served? One spends much would sup well the night before, and would more than at home, to be under restraint be well warmed before he set off, by which all day long, to want every thing one most means he would be better enabled to run, desires, to do nothing one wishes, and, at || than he who has not wherewithal to pay length, to find oneself very much obliged for his supper, his fur garments, nor his to those, in whose house our money has fire-wood. By my faith, if philosophy canbeen wasted. Add to this, the indolence not distinguish better, I do not see what it of an idle valetudinarian, accustomed to is good for. lose nothing, to find about him all he wishes for, every convenience, and whose fortune and silence equally invite to negligence. If the journey is long, and my money all spent, my shoes will wear out, my stockings will be full of holes, my linen will want washing, I shall want shaving, my wig must be put to rights, &c. &c. and it is dreadful to be pennyless: and if I must ask Madame d'Epinay for money in proportion to my wants, my determination is taken-let her keep her wealth; as for me, 1 had rather be a thief than a beggar.

I think I can see from whence proceeds those whimsical kind of duties, which people wish to impose upon me; it is because every

Weigh well my reasons, my dear friend, and tell me what I ought to do. I will fulfil my duty; but, in the state I am in, what more can be exacted of me? If you judge that I ought to go, acquaint Madame d'Epinay, then send me an express, and be assured, without hesitation, that I shall go to Paris the instant I receive your answer.

In regard to my sojournment at the hermitage, I feel that I ought no longer to remain there, even should I continue to pay the || gardener, because that is not sufficient payment; but I think I owe so much to Madame d'Epinay, that I ought not to quit the hermitage with an air of discontent, which would intimate a quarrel between us. I

resolved to go and seek some retreat, unknown to all those barbarous tyrants known by the name of friends.-First

confess I should find it unpleasant also to move at this season, the approaches of which I have cruelly felt; it would be better to put it off till the spring, when my departure || published in the Memoirs of Madame d'Epiwould seem more natural, and when I am

nay.

DISGUISE AND NO DISGUISE; A TALE.

CLEMENTINA D'ILLOIS, who had married the Baron d'Urbin when little more than seventeen years of age, was left a widow before she had completed her twentieth year. Although possessed of every endowment which nature has it in her power to bestow, and that education can refine, she formed a determination of renouncing that society to which she was an ornament, to go and live a retired life on an estate that had been settled on her by her marriage contract, in a remote part of the country. By what motives she was actuated for adopting such a line of conduct, her most intimate friends were unacquainted; neither could any one surmise. Her late husband, to the knowledge of all, had been too much a man of the world, either to enjoy, or to impart connubial felicity; but too complete a gentleman to render the marriage state altogether ob-quette. noxious to his lady. Yet, the young widow, I shall now inform my reader, that, prior to the general surprise, positively declared, to quitting Paris, Clementina had left her that, although ever ready to welcome visit-picture with her friend Caroline; and it ants of her own sex, never should her gates was at the sight of this likeness, and on open to receive any male intruder, her bro-hearing the encomiums lavished by his ther alone excepted. sister on the original, that our young soldier had become so extravagantly enamoured.

Mathilda, had been brought up, from her infancy, in the country, by Madanie de Brie, a widowed aunt, to whose fortune she was

the intended heiress. The other sister, Caroline, had been the companion of Clementina's early days. Educated in the same || convent, their daily intercourse, and similarity of disposition, soon produced an intimacy, which, although dormant, as it were, for a while, was revived with equal eagerness and sincerity on both sides, when they were brought together again into the world.

It may be easily imagined, however, that, during the two winters which she had spent in the gay circles of the metropolis, Clementina had met with many admirers, who, in consequence of the demise of the Baron, proposed, in due time, to urge their suit: but, what will appear most extraordinary, and, to some, even incredible, the most ardent of all these wooers, proved to be the Chevalier de Rabar, lately returned from the West Indies with his regiment, || and who, never in his life, had seen the Baroness.

What a wide field opens here before me, for a dissertation on the causes of love! But, I shall leave it to a more philosophical pen, to proceed with my narration.

Caroline, although three years older than her friend, still remained unmarried; and, having intimated her intention to continue single, her friends had purchased for her a Brevet de Dame, which procured her admission into all such parties from whence unmarried ladies were excluded by eti

Much about this time, Madame de Brie was summoned to Paris; there to attend, in person, to a law-suit of considerable importance. The good lady availed herself of the circumstance, to introduce her favour. ite, Mathilda, to the fashionable circles and amusements which that metropolis abounds in, and to procure her the satisfaction of spending a short time with a brother and sister, from whom she had been separated for a number of years.

The Chevalier was no less a stranger to the beautiful rarities of the capital than Mathilda; but his unfortunate passion absorbed all his faculties; neither could mere This officer had two sisters: one of them, curiosity have prompted him to rise from

his pensive voluntary seclusion at home, had it not been for the intreaties of his sisters, who wanted a conductor. Caroline, to whom he had revealed his secret, was in hopes, that the bustle of the world, alone, might prove efficient to dissolve a love, that rested on so flighty a basis; her sorrow, therefore, kept pace with her disappointment, when she saw him constantly, on returning from their rambles, seek her private company, to converse of his beloved object. His natural sprightliness, which she, like many more, had mistaken for levity, gradually forsook him; and she, finally, had the mortification to find, that all such arguments as sisterly affection could dictate, or reason suggest, were equally unavailing as the vortex of dissipation, to restore him to his wonted spirits, and still less to his former tranquillity of mind and inward peace.

Had Clementina been in town, her friend might have ventured an open declaration in behalf of a tenderly cherished brother, regardless of a resolution, which, in her cooler moments, she deemed on a level of irrationality with his unparalleled amour; but to commit an intimation of the kind to paper, she declared, notwithstanding her partiality, was inadmissible. Nay, Caroline, for reasons best known to herself, had never once mentioned the Chevalier's name in her correspondence with the Baroness; whilst, on the other hand, she constantly spoke of Mathilda, of whom she would give such a whimsical description, that it was next to an impossibility she should not create a desire of seeing such an extraordinary character.

Meanwhile, Madame de Brie, having, unexpectedly, recovered some vouchers and documents that had been mislaid by a careless agent, and on the absence of which rested the claims of the plaintiff in her cause, an arbitration was proposed, and the difference amicably adjusted, without further trouble or delay, to the satisfaction of all parties concerned. She now, therefore, only thought of returning home, where Mathilda most earnestly pressed her brother to accompany them; whilst Caroline, with no inferior warmth and anxiety, endeavoured to dissuade him from undertaking the journey. The good aunt, though always inclined to meet every wish of her dear

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Mathilda, condescended, this once, to remain neuter, and left it to the young trio to settle the matter betwixt themselves, with a formal promise to abide by their decision, whatever might be the result. Thus authorized, the two sisters adjourned, with senatorial pomposity, into the drawingroom, where the Chevalier attended, indifferent as he was to the verdict about to be brought.

Mathilda, who was allowed to speak first, delivered a very able speech, not withstanding, in imitation of some of her contemporaries, she quoted neither the Greeks nor the Romans; and the gentle smile, and sweet blushing look which accompanied the conclusion of every sentence, if not intended to sue for acquiescence, was calculated, at least, to defeat every attempt to a refutation. A graceful inclination of the head having announced that she had nothing more to say, Caroline began as follows:

"From the liberality which you have just evinced, my beloved Mathilda, in not ascribing to selfish motives my apparent opposition to your wish, I shall presume to claim your indulgence for a real offence; but, prior to my disclosing the nature of it, I must, in justice to myself, assure you, that I was prompted solely by the desire of rendering essential service to a brother, equally dear to us both. It being at my particular request that Adolphus has hitherto concealed from you the situation of his heart, I am under no apprehension of incurring his displeasure by informing you, that his tenderest affections are irrevocably fixed, on an object to whom he has not, as yet, been allowed to make it known. His happiness being thus at stake, you certainly will rejoice with me to hear that I have partly succeeded in removing the obstacles to an overture, which, I am confident, will be conducive to the completion of his wishes. My hopes," continued she, producing a paper, "are founded on this letter from my friend, the Baroness d'Urbin, to the perusal of which I beg you will listen with attention:

"MY DEAREST CAROLINE,-I intended inviting you to come and spend the vintage season with me at Marenil, but as my brother, who arrived last night, proposes to continue here for a couple of months, I should

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fear lest the acquaintance of an accomplish-me word that I may soon expect to see, ed young man might make you repent your under my roof, the Chevalier de Rabar." vow of celibacy; neither could I ever for- Before either had recovered from their give myself for exposing him to the pangs surprise, Caroline, after a pause, resumed of despised love,' for I am certain that if her discourse." The offence which I have he were to know you, Caroline, he would, been guilty of," said she, "is no less than he must love you. As an indemnification, taking great liberties with the character of however, both to him and to me, I have my sweet Mathilda, as the contents of my imagined, that you could easily prevail on friend's letter too clearly proves. The last your lovely amazon to be your substitute. || words it contains, however, require a parI truly long to see her, and, in her com- ticular explanation. It is you, Mathilda, pany, I should fear nought for the Count's whom my friend expects under the name of peace, as, at worst, if amidst the sports of our brother, but it is that very identical the field, and the other manly exercises to brother, under whose features and dispowhich, you tell me, she is so partial, he || sition, propensities, and acquirements beshould happen to see through her disguise, coming his sex, that I have depicted you, she is not bound, I hope, like yourself, to whom I shall introduce to her in your stead. remain single, and I feel not the least ob- My scheme having succeeded so far, I trust jection to let them take their chance. Who that sympathy which she appeals to will knows what may be the result? So much interfere in favour of both parties: for I has been said about the irresistible power confess that I am not a little concerned for of sympathy. At any rate, I solemnly en- Clementina's own welfare; and I verily gage to keep her secret, and to wait for the believe, that, in the end, she will be thankevent. I cannot account why, but, indeed, ful to me for the cheat." I anticipate a happy issue, if you only send

(To be concluded in our next.)

UNCOMMON INSTANCE OF PERSEVERANCE AND RESOLUTION.

A YOUNG man, a native of Noyon, in || Piccardy, whose name we purposely suppress through particular regard for the family he belonged to, had been sent to Paris, there to study the law, and in the interval boarded with a Procureur au Châtelet. Upon the demise of his father he inherited a very | handsome fortune, which he soon squandered away by dint of indulging in all the follies which that immense metropolis of France has long since been known to be the seat of. In the continual pursuit after pleasure and dissipation, our prodigal, within a short period, exhausted the pecuniary resources which the sale of his jewels and wardrobe had procured, so that unwilling henceforth to mix within the gay circles of his former fellow-revellers, he withdrew, with a few crowns only in his pocket, to an humble chambre garnie, in an obscure part of the city.

Here he sat in deep meditation, equally regretful of his past extravagance, and projecting the means of extricating himself from his present hopeless situation. The mean appearance he now cut would not

allow him to introduce himself to a respect. able family in the capacity of a tutor, and no lower would he stoop. At last, however, after racking his brains to find out a resource, he recollected that close to his native place there was a famous Chartreuse, where he might procure an asylum, at least, for a twelvemonth, and trusted that in the interim Providence might have something in store to procure a rescue. At any rate he made up his mind to become a novice in the convent of the Carthusian friars of Noyon.

Prior to his entering the convent, however, he thought himself bound to pay his respects to, and take a last farewell of his only remaining relative, an uncle, who had an estate on the skirts of the town. The good gentleman gave a hearty welcome to his nephew, to whom he even returned many thanks for his kind visit; but I leave you to judge of his utter surprise when the young man, with a sanctified look and tone of voice, imparted his intention of retiring from the world to atone for his past errors and bad conduct. The uncle en

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