 Book 1, Chapter 1 of Cecilia. Peace to the spirits of my honored parents, respected be their remains, and immortalized their virtues. May time, while it mortars their frail relics to dust, commit to tradition the record of their goodness, and, O, may their orphan descendant be influenced through life by the remembrance of their purity, and be solaced in death, that by her it was unsolied. Such was the secret prayer with which the only survivor of the Beverly family quitted the abode of her youth and residence of her forefathers, while tears of recollecting sorrow filled her eyes and obstructed the last view of her native town which had excited them. Cecilia, this fair traveller, had lately entered into the one-and-twentieth year of her age. Her ancestors had been rich farmers in the country of Suffolk, though her father, in whom a spirit of elegance had supplanted the rapacity of wealth, had spent his time as a private country gentleman satisfied without increasing his store to live upon what he inherited from the labours of his predecessors. She had lost him in her early youth, and her mother had not long survived him. They had bequeathed to her ten thousand pounds, and consigned her to the care of the dean of her uncle. With this gentleman in whom by various contingencies the accumulated possessions of a rising and prosperous family were centred, she had passed the last four years of her life, and a few weeks only had yet elapsed since his death, which, by depriving her of her last relation, made her the heiress to an estate of three thousand pounds per annum, with no other restriction than that of annexing her name if she married to the disposal of her hand and her riches. But though thus largely indebted to fortune, to nature she had yet greater obligations. Her form was elegant, her heart was liberal, her countenance announced the intelligence of her mind, her complexion varied with every emotion of her soul and her eyes, the heralds of her speech now beamed with understanding and now glistened with sensibility. For the short period of her minority, the management of her fortune and the care of her person had by the dean been entrusted to three guardians, among whom her own choice was to settle her residence, but her mind saddened by the loss of all her natural friends, coveted to regain its serenity in the quietness of the country, and in the bosom of an aged and maternal counselor whom she loved as her mother and to whom she had been known from her childhood. The deanery indeed she was obliged to relinquish, a long, repining expectant being eager by entering it to bequeath to another the anxiety and suspense he had suffered himself, though probably without much impatience to shorten their duration in favor of the next successor. But the house of Mrs. Charlton, her benevolent friend, was open for her reception, and the alleviating tenderness of her conversation took from her all wish of changing it. Here she had dwelt since the internment of her uncle, and here from the affectionate gratitude of her disposition she had perhaps been content to dwell till her own had not her guardians interfered to remove her. Reluctantly she complied, she quitted her early companions, the friends she most revered, and the spot which contained the relics of all she had lived to lament, and accompanied by one of her guardians and attended by two servants she began her journey from Burry to London. Mr. Harrell, this gentleman, though in the prime of his life, though gay, fashionable and splendid, had been appointed by her uncle to be one of her trustees, a choice which had for object the peculiar gratification of his niece, whose most favorite young friend Mr. Harrell had married, and in whose house he therefore knew she would most wish to live. Whatever good-nature, good-dictate, or politeness suggest to dispel her melancholy, Mr. Harrell failed not to urge, and Cecilia, in whose disposition sweetness was tempered with dignity and gentleness with fortitude, suffered not his kind offices to seem ineffectual. She kissed her hand at the last glimpse of a friendly hill afforded of her native town, and made an effort to forget the regret with which she lost sight of it. She revived her spirits by plans of future happiness, dwelt upon the delight with which she should meet her young friend, and, by accepting his consolation, amply rewarded his trouble. Her serenity, however, had yet another, though milder, trial to undergo, since another friend was yet to be met, and another farewell was yet to be taken. At the distance of seven miles from Burry resided Mr. Moncton, the richest and most powerful man in the neighborhood at whose house Cecilia and her guardian were invited to breakfast in their journey. Mr. Moncton, who was the younger son of a noble family, was a man of parts, information, and sagacity. To great native strength of mind he added a penetrating knowledge of the world, and to faculties the most skillful of investigating the character of every other, a dissimulation the most profound in concealing his own. In the bloom of his youth, impatient for wealth and ambitious of power, he had tied himself to a rich dowager of quality whose age, though sixty-seven, was but among the smaller species of her evil properties, her disposition being far more repulsive than her wrinkles. An inequality of years so considerable had led him to expect that the fortune he had thus acquired would speedily be released from the burden with which it was at present encumbered. But his expectations proved as vain as they were mercenary, and his lady was not more the dupe of his protestations than he was himself of his own purposes. Ten years he had been married to her, yet her health was good and her faculties were unimpaired. Eagerly he had watched for her dissolution, yet his eagerness had injured no health but his own. So short-sighted is selfish cunning, that in aiming no further than at the gratification of the present moment, it obscures the evils of the future, while it impedes the perception of integrity and honor. His ardor, however, to attain the blessed period of returning liberty, deprived him neither of spirit nor inclination for immediate enjoyment. He knew the world too well to incur its censure by ill-treating the woman to whom he was indebted for the rank he held in it. He saw her, indeed, but seldom, yet he had the decency alike in avoiding as in meeting her, to show no abatement of civility and good-breeding. But having thus sacrificed to ambition all possibility of happiness and domestic life, he turned his thoughts to those other methods of procuring it, which he had so dearly purchased the power of a saying. The resources of pleasure to the possessors of wealth are only to be cut off by the satiety of which they are productive, a satiety which the vigorous mind of Mr. Moncton had not yet suffered him to experience. His time, therefore, was either devoted to the expensive amusements of the metropolis or spent in the country among the gayest of its diversions. The little knowledge of fashionable manners and of the characters of the times of which Cecilia was yet mistress, she had gathered at the house of this gentleman, with whom the dean her uncle had been intimately connected. For as he preserved to the world the same appearance of decency he supported to his wife, he was everywhere well received and being but partially known, was extremely respected, the world with its wanted facility repaying his circumspect attention to its laws by silencing the voice of censure, guarding his character from impeachment and his name from reproach. Cecilia had been known to him half her life. She had been caressed in his house as a beautiful child, and her presence was now solicited there as an amiable acquaintance. Her visits, indeed, had by no means been frequent, as the ill-humour of Lady Margaret Moncton had rendered them painful to her. Yet the opportunities they had afforded her of mixing with people of fashion had served to prepare her for the new scenes in which she was soon to be a performer. Mr. Moncton, in return, had always been a welcome guest at the deanery. His conversation was to Cecilia a never-failing source of information, as his knowledge of life and manners enabled him to start those subjects of which she was most ignorant. And her mind, copious for the admission and intelligent for the arrangement of knowledge, received all new ideas with avidity. Pleasure given in society, like money lent and usury, returns with interest to those who dispense it, and the discourse of Mr. Moncton conferred not a greater favour upon Cecilia than her attention to it repaid. And thus the speaker and the hearer, being mutually gratified, they had always met with complacency and commonly parted with regret. This reciprocation of pleasure had, however, produced different effects upon their minds. The ideas of Cecilia were enlarged, while the reflections of Mr. Moncton were embittered. He saw her an object to all the advantages of that wealth he had so highly prized, added youth, beauty, and intelligence, though much her senior he was by no means of an age to render his addressing her an impropriety, and the entertainment she received from his conversation persuaded him that her good opinion might with ease be improved into a regard the most partial. He regretted their venal rapacity with which he had sacrificed himself to a woman he abhorred, and his wishes for her final decay became daily more fervent. He knew that the acquaintance of Cecilia was confined to a circle of which he was himself the principal ornament, that she had rejected all of the proposals of marriage which had hitherto been made to her, and, as he had seduously watched her from her earliest years, he had reason to believe that her heart had escaped any dangerous impression. This being her situation, he had looked upon her as his future property. As such, he had indulged his admiration, and as such he had already appropriated her estate, though he had not more vigilantly inspected into her sentiments than he had guarded his own from a similar scrutiny. The death of the dean her uncle had indeed much alarmed him. He grieved at her leaving Suffolk where he considered himself the first man alike in parts and in consequence, and he dreaded her residing in London where he foresaw that numerous rivals equal to himself in talents and in riches would speedily surround her. She was too youthful and sanguine, not shackled by present ties, but at liberty to solicit her immediate acceptance. Beauty and independence rarely found together would attract a crowd of suitors at once brilliant and assiduous. And the house of Mr. Harrell was imminent for its elegance and gaiety, but yet, undaunted by danger and confiding in his own powers, he determined to pursue the project he had formed, not fearing by address and perseverance to ensure its success. Cecilia, Memoirs of an Eris by Fanny Burney. Book 1, Chapter 2 Mr. Moncton had at this time a party of company assembled at his house for the purpose of spending the Christmas holidays. He waited with anxiety the arrival of Cecilia and flew to hand her from the chase before Mr. Harrell could alight. He observed the melancholy of her countenance and was much pleased to find that her London journey had so little power to charm her. He conducted her to the breakfast parlor where Lady Margaret and his friends expected her. Lady Margaret received her with a coldness that bordered upon incivility, irascible by nature and jealous by situation, the appearance of beauty alarmed and of cheerfulness disgusted her. She regarded with watchful suspicion whoever was addressed by her husband and having marked his frequent attendance at the denary, she had singled out Cecilia for the object of her peculiar intipathy. While Cecilia, perceiving her aversion, though ignorant of its cause, took care to avoid all intercourse with her but what ceremony exacted, and pitted in secret the unfortunate lot of her friend. The company now present consisted of one lady and several gentlemen. Miss Bennet, the lady, was in every sense of the phrase the humble companion of Lady Margaret. She was low-born, meanly educated and narrow-minded, a stranger alike to innate merit or acquired accomplishments yet skillful in the art of flattery and an adept in every species of low cunning. With no other view in life than the attainment of affluence without labour, she was not more the slave of the mistress of the house than the tool of its master, receiving indignity without murmur and submitting to contempt as a thing of course. Among the gentlemen, the most conspicuous by means of his dress, was Mr. Aresby, a captain in the militia, a young man who having frequently heard the words Redcoat and gallantry put together, imagined the conjunction not merely customary but honourable, and therefore without even pretending to think of the service of his country, he considered a cockade as a badge of politeness, and wore it but to mark his devotion to the ladies, whom he held himself equipped to conquer and bound to adore. The next, who by forwardness the most officious took care to be noticed, was Mr. Maurice, a young lawyer who, though rising in his profession, owed his success neither to distinguished abilities nor to skill-supplying industry, but to the art of uniting suppleness to others with confidence in himself. To a reverence of rank, talents and fortune the most profound, he joined an assurance in his own merit, which no superiority could depress, and with a presumption which encouraged him to aim at all things, he blended a good humor that no mortification could lessen, and while by the pliability of his disposition he avoided making enemies, by his readiness to oblige he learned the surest way of making friends by becoming useful to them. There were also some neighbouring squires, and there was one old gentleman who, without seeming to notice any of the company, sat frowning in the corner. But the principal figure in the circle was Mr. Bellfield, a tall, thin, young man whose face was all animation and whose eyes sparkled with intelligence. He had been intended by his father for trade, but his spirit, soaring above the occupation for which he was designed, from repining led him to resist, and from resisting to rebel. He eloped from his friends and contrived to enter the army, but fond of the polite arts and eager for the acquirement of knowledge, he found not this way of life much better adapted to his inclination than from which he had escaped. He soon grew weary of it and reconciled to his father and entered at the temple. But here too volatile for serious study, and too gay for laborious application. He made little progress in the same quickness of parts and vigor of imagination which united with prudence or accompanied by judgment might have raised him to the head of his profession, being unhappily associated with fickleness and caprice, served to impede his improvement and obstruct his preferment. And now, with little business and that little neglected, a small fortune and that fortune daily becoming less, the admiration of the world but that admiration ending simply in civility. He lived in unsettled and unprofitable life, generally crest and universally sought, yet careless of his interests and thoughtless of the future, devoting his time to company, his income to dissipation, and his heart to the muses. I bring you, said Mr. Moncton as he attended Cecilia into the room, a subject of sorrow in a young lady who never gave disturbance to her friends but in quitting them. If sorrow, cried Mr. Belfield, darting upon her with his piercing eyes, wears in your part of the world a form such as this, who would wish to change it for a view of joy? She's divinely handsome indeed, cried the captain, affecting an involuntary exclamation. Long time, Cecilia, who was placed next to the lady of the house, quietly began her breakfast. Mr. Maurice, the young lawyer, with the most easy freedom, seating himself at her side, while Mr. Moncton was elsewhere arranging the rest of his guests in order to secure that place for himself. Mr. Maurice, without ceremony, attacked his fair neighbor. He talked of her journey and of the prospects of gaiety which it opened to her view, but by these finding her unmoved, he changed his theme and excavated upon the delights of the spot she was quitting, studious to recommend himself to her notice, and indifferent by what means. One moment he flippantly extolled the entertainments of the town, and the next rapturously described the charms of the country. A word, a look, sufficed to mark her approbation or dissent, which he no sooner discovered than he slighted into her opinion, with as much facility and satisfaction as if it had originally been his own. Mr. Moncton, suppressing his chagrin, waited some time and expectation that when his young man saw he was standing, he would yield to him his chair. But the remark was not made, and the resignation was not thought of. The captain, too, regarding the lady as his natural property for the morning, perceived with indignation by whom he was supplanted, while the company in general saw with much surprise the place they had severally foreborn to occupy from respect to their host, thus familiarly seized upon by the man who, in the whole room, had the least claim, either from age or rank, to consult nothing but his own inclination. Mr. Moncton, however, when he found that delicacy and good manners had no weight with his guest, thought it most expedient to allow them none with himself, and therefore, disguising his displeasure under an appearance of facetiousness, he called out, Come, Maurice, you that love Christmas sports, what say you to a game of move all? I like it of all things, answered Maurice, and, starting up from his chair, he skipped to another. So should I, too, cried Mr. Moncton, instantly taking his place, who are I to remove from any seat but this? Maurice, though he felt himself outwitted, was the first to laugh and seemed as happy in the change as Mr. Moncton himself. Mr. Moncton, now, addressing himself to Cecilia, said, We are going to lose you, and you seem concerned at leaving us, yet in a very few months you will forget, Burry, forget its inhabitants and forget its environs. If you think so, answered Cecilia, Must I not, thence, infer that Burry, its inhabitants and its environs, will, in a few months, forget me? I, I, so much the better, said Lady Margaret, muttering between her teeth, so much the better. I am sorry you think so, madame, cried Cecilia, coloring at her ill-breeding. You will find, said Mr. Moncton, affecting the same ignorance of her meaning that Cecilia really felt. As you mix with the world, you will find that Lady Margaret has but expressed what, by almost everybody, is thought. To neglect old friends and to court new acquaintance, though perhaps not yet avowedly delivered as a precept from parents to children, is nevertheless so universally recommended by example that those who act differently encourage general censure for affecting singularity. It is happy, then, for me, answered Cecilia, that neither my actions nor myself will be sufficiently known to attract public observation. You intend, then, madame, said Mr. Belfield, in defiance of these maxims of the world, to be guided by the light of your own understanding, and such, returned Mr. Moncton, at first setting out in life, is the intention of everyone. The closest reasoner is always refined in his sentiments, and always confident in his virtue. But when he mixes with the world, when he thinks less and acts more, he soon finds the necessity of accommodating himself to such customs as are already received, and of pursuing quietly the track that is already marked out. But not, exclaimed to Mr. Belfield, if he has the least grain of spirit, the beaten track will be the last that a man of parts will deign to tread, for common rules were narrow-designed, directors of a noble mind. A pernicious maxim, a most pernicious maxim, cried the old gentleman, who sat frowning in the corner of the room. Deviations from common rules, said Mr. Moncton, without taking any notice of this interruption. When they proceed from genius, are not merely pardonable, but admirable, and you, Mr. Belfield, have a peculiar right to plead their merits, but so little genius as there is in the world, you must surely grant that pleas of this sort are very rarely to be argued. And why rarely, cried Mr. Belfield, but because your general rules, your appropriated customs, your settled forms, are but so many absurd arrangements to impede not merely the progress of genius, but the use of understanding? If man dared act for himself, if neither worldly views, contracted prejudices, eternal precepts, nor compulsive examples, swayed his better reason and impelled his conduct, how noble indeed would it be, how infinite in faculties, in apprehension how like a God. All this, answered Mr. Moncton, is but the doctrine of a lively imagination that looks upon impossibilities simply as difficulties, and upon difficulties as mere invitations to victory. But experience teaches another lesson. Experience shows that the opposition of an individual to the community is always dangerous in the operation, and seldom successful in the event. Never indeed without an occurrence, strange as desirable, of fortunate circumstances with great abilities. And why is this, returned Mr. Belfield, but because the attempt is so seldom made. The pitiful prevalence of general conformity excerpts genius, and murders originality. Man is brought up, not as if he were the noblest work of God, but as a mere ductile machine of human formation. He is early taught that he must neither consult his understanding, nor pursue his inclinations lest unhappily for his commerce with the world. His understanding should be averse to fools, and provoke him to despise them, and his inclinations to the tyranny of perpetual restraint, and give him courage to abjure it. I am ready enough to allow, answered Mr. Moncton, that any eccentric genius such, for example, as yours, may murmur at the tediousness of complying with the customs of the world, and wish, unconfined, and at large, to range through life without any settled plan or prudential restriction, but would you, therefore, grant the same license to everyone? Would you wish to see the world peopled with the fires of order and contimmers of established forms, and not merely excuse the irregularities resulting from uncommon parts, but encourage those also to lead, who, without blundering, cannot even follow? I would have all men, replied Belfield. Their philosophers or idiots act for themselves. Everyone would then appear what he is. Enterprise would be encouraged, and imitation abolished. Genius would feel its superiority, and folly its insignificance. And then, and then only, should we cease to be surfied with that eternal sameness of manner and appearance which at present runs through all ranks of men? Such refined dull work, this, monomy, said the captain, in a whisper to Mori's. De Grasse starts a new game. With all my heart, answered he, and then, suddenly, jumping up, exclaimed, A hare, a hare, where, where, which way, all of the gentleman arose, and ran to different windows, except the master of the house, the object of whose pursuit was already near him. Mori's, with much-pretended earnestness, flew from window to window to trace footsteps upon the turf which he knew had not printed it. Yet, never inattentive to his own interest, when he perceived in the midst of the combustion he had raised, that Lady Margaret was incensed at the noise it produced, he artfully gave over his search, and seated himself in a chair next to her, eagerly offering to assist her with cakes, chocolates, or whatever the table afforded. He had, however, effectually broken up the conversation, and breakfast being over, Mr. Harrell ordered his chase, and Celia arose to take leave. And now, not without some difficulty, could Mr. Moncton disguise the uneasy fears which her departure occasioned him? Seeing her hand, I suppose, he said, you will not permit an old friend to visit you in town, lest the sight of him should prove a disagreeable memorial of the time you will soon regret having wasted in the country. Why will you say this, Mr. Moncton? cried Celia. I am sure you cannot think it. These profound studiers of mankind, Madame, said Belfield, are mighty starry champions for constancy or friendship. They wage war with all the expectations but of depravity, and grant no quarter even to the purest designs, where they think there will be any temptation to deviate from them. Temptation, Mr. Moncton, is very easy of resistance in theory. But if you reflect upon the great change of situation Miss Beverly will experience, upon the new scenes she will see, the new acquaintance she must take, and the new connections she may form, you will not wonder at the anxiety of a friend for her welfare. But I presume, cried Belfield with a laugh, Miss Beverly does not mean to convey her person to town and leave her understanding locked up with other natural curiosities in the country. Why, therefore, may not the same discernment regulate her adoption of new acquaintance and choice of new connections that guided her selection of the old ones? Do you suppose that because she is to take leave of you, she is to take leave of herself? Where fortune smiles upon youth and beauty, answered Mr. Moncton, do you think it has nothing that their fair possessor should make a sudden transition of situation from the quietness of a retired life in the country to the gaiety of a splendid town residence? Where fortune frowns upon youth and beauty, returned Belfield, they may not irrationally excite commiseration, but where nature and chance unite their forces to bless the same object, what room there may be for alarm or lamentation I confess I cannot divine. What, cried Mr. Moncton, with some emotion, are there not sharpers, fortune-hunters, sycophants, wretches of all sorts of denominations, who watch the approach of the rich and unwary, feed upon their inexperience, and prey upon their property? Come, come, cried Mr. Harrell, it is time I should hasten my fair ward away, if this is your method of describing the place she is going to live in. It is possible, cried the captain, advancing to Cecilia, that this lady has never yet tried the town, and then, lowering his voice and smiling languishly in her face, he added, can anything so divinely handsome have been a mirrored in the country? Ah, que le jante! Can you make it a principle to be so cruel? Cecilia, thinking such a compliment merited not any other notice than a slight bow, turned to Lady Margaret, and said, should your ladyship be in town this winter, may I expect the honour of hearing where I may wait upon you? I don't know whether I shall go or not, answered the old lady, with her usual ungraciousness. Cecilia would now have hastened away, but Mr. Moncton stopped her, again expressed his fears of the consequences of her journey. Be upon your guard, he cried, with all new acquaintance. Judge nobody from appearances, form no friendships rashly. Take time to look about you, and remember, you can make no alteration in your way of life without greater probability of fearing worse than chance of fearing better. Keep, therefore, as you are, and the more you see of others, the more you will rejoice that you neither resemble nor are connected with them. This from you, Mr. Moncton, cried Belfield, what has become of your conformity system? I thought all the world was to be alike, or only so much the worse for any variation. I spoke, said Mr. Moncton, of the world in general, not of this lady in particular, and who that knows, who that sees her, would not wish it were possible she might continue in every respect exactly and unalterably what she is at present. I find, said Cecilia, you are determined that flattery at least should I meet with it shall owe no pernicious effects to its novelty. Well, Miss Beverly cried Mr. Harrell, will you now venture to accompany me to town, or has Mr. Moncton frightened you from proceeding any farther? If replied Cecilia, I felt no more sorrow in quitting my friends than I feel in terror venturing to London, with how light a heart should I make the journey. Bravo, cried Belfield, I am happy to find the discourse of Mr. Moncton has not intimidated you, nor prevailed upon you to deplore your condition in having the accumulated misery of being young, fair, and affluent. Alas, poor thing, exclaimed the old gentleman who sat in the corner, fixing his eyes upon Cecilia with an expression of mingled grief and pity. Cecilia started, but no one else paid him any attention. The usual ceremonies of leave-taking now followed, and the captain, with most obsequious reverence, advanced to conduct Cecilia to the carriage. But in the midst of the dumb eloquence of his bousin smiles, Mr. Maurice, affecting not to perceive his design, skipped gaily between them and, without any previous formality, seized the hand of Cecilia himself, failing not, however, to temper the freedom of his action by a look of respect the most profound. The captain shrugged and retired, but Mr. Moncton enraged at his assurance, and determined it should nothing avail him. Exclaimed, why, how now, Maurice? Do you take away the privilege of my house? True, true, answered Maurice, you members of Parliament have an undoubted right to be tenacious in your privileges. Then, bowing with a look of veneration to Cecilia, he resigned her hand with an air of as much happiness as he had taken it. Mr. Moncton, in leading her to the chase, again begged permission to wait upon her in town. Mr. Harrell took the hint, and entreated him to consider his house as his own. In Cecilia, gratefully thanking him for his solicitude in her welfare, added, And I hope, sir, you will honor me with your counsel and admonitions with respect to my future conduct whenever you have the goodness to let me see you. This was precisely his wish. He begged, in return, that she would treat him with confidence, and then suffered the chase to drive off. End of Chapter 2. Recording by Nicky Sullivan, Chicago. Book 1, Chapter 3 of Cecilia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nicky Sullivan. Cecilia, Memoirs of an Heiress, by Fanny Burney, Book 1, Chapter 3. As soon as they lost sight of the house, Cecilia expressed her surprise at the behavior of the old gentleman who sat in the corner, whose general silence, seclusion from the company, and absence of mind had strongly excited her curiosity. Mr. Harrow could give her very little satisfaction. He told her that he had twice or thrice met him in public places, where everybody remarked the singularity of his manners and appearance, but he had never discoursed with anyone to whom he seemed known, and that he was much surprised as herself in seeing so strange a character at the house of Mr. Moncton. The conversation then turned upon the family they had just quitted, and Cecilia warmly declared the good opinion she had of Mr. Moncton, the obligations she owed to him for his interest which, from her childhood, he had always taken in her affairs, and her hopes of reaping much instruction from the friendship of a man who had so extensive a knowledge of the world. Mr. Harrow professed himself well satisfied that she should have such as a counselor, for though but little acquainted with him, he knew he was a man of fortune and fashion, and well esteemed in the world. They mutually compassionate his unhappy situation in domestic life, and Cecilia innocently expressed her concern at the dislike Lady Margaret seemed to have taken of her. A dislike which Mr. Harrow naturally enough imputed to her youth and beauty, yet without suspecting any cause more cogent than a general jealousy of attractions, of which she herself had so long outlived the possession. As their journey drew near its conclusion, all uneasy and disagreeable sensations which in the bosom of Cecilia had accompanied its commencement gave way to the expectation of quick approaching happiness in again meeting her favorite young friend. Mrs. Harrow had in childhood been her playmate, and in her youth her school fellow. A similarity of disposition with respect to sweetness and temper had early rendered them dear to each other, though the resemblance extended no farther, Mrs. Harrow having no pretensions to the wit or understanding of her friend. But she was amiable and obliging, and therefore sufficiently deserving affection, though neither blazing with attractions which lay claim to admiration, nor endowed with those superior qualities which mingle respect in the love they inspire. From the time of her marriage, which was near three years, she had entirely quitted Sefo, and had had no intercourse with Cecilia but by letter. She was now just returned from Violet Bank, the name given by Mr. Harrow, to a villa about 12 miles from London, where with a large party of company she had spent the Christmas holidays. Their meeting was tender and affectionate. The sensibility of Cecilia's heart flowed from her eyes, and the gladness of Mrs. Harrow dimpled her cheeks. As soon as their mutual salutations, expressions of kindness, and general inquiries had been made, Mrs. Harrow begged to lead her to the drawing room, where, she added, you will see some of my friends who are impatient to be presented to you. I could have wished, said Cecilia, after so long an absence to have passed the first evening alone with you. They are all people who particularly desire to see you, she answered. And I had them by way of entertaining you, as I was afraid you would be out of spirits after leaving Burry, finding the kindness of her intentions, for bore any further expostulation, and quietly followed her to the drawing room. But as the door was open, she was struck with amazement upon finding that the apartment, which was spacious, lighted with brilliancy, and decorated with magnificence, was more than half filled with company, every one of which was dressed with gaiety and profusion. Cecilia, who from the word friends expected to see a small and private party, selected for the purposes of social converse, started involuntarily at the site before her, and had hardly courage to proceed. Mrs. Harrell, however, took her hand and introduced her to the whole company, who were all severally named to her, a ceremonial which, though not merely agreeable, but even necessary to those who live in the gay world in order to obviate distressing mistakes or unfortunate implications in discourse, would, by Cecilia, have been willingly dispensed with, since to her their names were as new as their persons, and since knowing nothing of their histories, parties or connections, she could to nothing allude. It therefore served to heighten her color and increase her embarrassment. A native dignity of mind, however, which had early taught her to distinguish modesty from bashfulness, enabled her in a short time to conquer her surprise and recover her composure. She entreated Mrs. Harrell to apologize for her appearance, and being seated between two young ladies, endeavored to seem reconciled to it herself. Nor was this very difficult, for while her dress, which she had not changed since her journey, joined to the novelty of her face attracted general observation, the report of her fortune, which had preceded her entrance, secured to her general respect. She soon found, too, that her company was not necessarily formidable, because full dressed, that familiarity could be united with magnificence, and that, though to her, everyone seemed attired to walk in a procession, or to grace a drawing-room. No formality was assumed, and no solemnity was affected. Everyone was without restraint, even rank obtained, but little distinction. Ease was the general plan, and entertainment the general pursuit. Cecilia, though new to London, which city the ill health of her uncle had hitherto prevented her seeing, was yet no stranger to company. She had passed her time in retirement, but not in obscurity. Since for some years past she had presided at the table of the dean, who was visited by the first people of the country in which he lived, and not withstanding his parties which were frequent though small and elegant, though private, had not prepared her for the splendor or the diversity of a London assembly. They yet, by initiating her in the practical rules of good breeding, had taught her to subdue the timid fears of total inexperience, and to repress the bashful feelings of shame-faced awkwardness, fears and feelings which rather call for compassion than admiration, and which, except in extreme youth, serve to degrade the modesty they indicate. She regarded, therefore, the two young ladies between whom she was seated, rather with a wish of addressing than a shyness of being attacked by them. But the elder, Miss LaRolez, was earnestly engaged in discourse with a gentleman, and the younger, Miss Leeson, totally discouraged her by the invariable silence and gravity with which from time to time she met her eyes. Uninterrupted, therefore, except by occasional speeches from Mr. or Mrs. Harrell, she spent the first part of the evening nearly in surveying the company, nor was the company dilatory in returning her notice. Since from time to time, since her entrance in the room, she had been the object of general regard. The ladies took an exact inventory of her dress and internally settled how differently they would have been attired if blessed with equal affluence. The men disputed among themselves whether or not she was painted, and one of them offering boldly that she was rouged well, and debate ensued, which ended in a bet, and the decision was mutually agreed to depend upon the color of her cheeks by the beginning of April, when, if unfaded by bad hours and continual dissipation, they were the same bright bloom which they were now glowing. Her champion acknowledged that his wager would be lost. In about a half an hour the gentleman with whom Miss LaRolez had been talking left the room. And then that young lady, turning suddenly to a Cecilia, exclaimed, How odd Mr. Meadows is! Did you know that he says he shan't be well enough to go to Lady Nyland's assembly? How ridiculous! As if that could hurt him. Cecilia, surprised at an attack so little ceremonious, let her civil but silent attention. You shall be there, shan't you? She added, No, ma'am, I have not the honor of being at all known to her ladyship. Oh, there's nothing in that, returned she, for Mrs. Harrow can acquaint her, you and here, and then, you know, she'll send you a ticket, and then you can go. A ticket, repeated Cecilia. This lady, Nyland, only admit her company with tickets. Oh Lord, cried Miss LaRolez, laughing immoderately. Don't you know what I mean? Why, a ticket is only a visiting card with a name upon it. But we all call them tickets now. Cecilia thanked her for the information, and then Miss LaRolez inquired how many miles she had traveled since morning. Seventy-three, answered Cecilia, which I hope will plead my apology for being so little-dressed. Oh, you're vastly well, returned the other. And for my part, I never think about dress, but only conceive what happened to me last year. Do you know I came to town the 20th of March? Was not that horrid provoking? Perhaps so, said Cecilia. But I am sure I cannot tell why. Not tell why, repeated Miss LaRolez. Why, don't you know that it was the very night of the grand private masquerade of Lord Darren's? I would not have missed it for the whole universe. I never traveled in such an agony in my life. We did not get to town till monstrously. And then, do you know I had neither a ticket nor a habit, only conceive what distress? Well, I sent to every creature I knew for a ticket, but they all said that there were none to be had. So I was just like a mad creature. But about ten or eleven o'clock, a young lady of my particular acquaintance, by the greatest good luck in the world, happened to be taken suddenly ill. So she sent me her ticket. Was that not delightful? For her, extremely, said Cecilia, laughing. Well, she continued. Then I was almost out of my wits with joy, and I went about and got one of the sweetest dresses you ever saw. If you call upon me some morning, I'll show it to you. Cecilia, not prepared for an invitation so abrupt, bowed without speaking, and Miss LaRolez, too happy in talking herself to be offended at the silence of another, continued her narration. Well, but now comes the vilest part of the business. Do you know, when everything else was ready, I could not get my hairdresser. I sent all over the town. He was nowhere to be found. I thought I should have died with vexation. I assure you, I cried so, that if I had not gone in a mask, I should have been ashamed to be seen. And so, after all this monstrous fatigue, I was forced to have my hair dressed by my own maid, quite in a common way. Was not it cruelly mortifying? Why yes, answered Cecilia. I should think it was almost sufficient to make you regret the illness of the young lady who set you her ticket. They were now interrupted by Mrs. Harrell, who advanced to them followed by a man of serious aspect in modest demeanor, and said, I am happy to see you both so well engaged, but my brother has been approaching me with presenting everybody to Miss Beverly but himself. I cannot hope, said Mr. Arnault, that I have any place in the recollection of Miss Beverly, but long as I have been absent from Suffolk, and unfortunate as I was in not seeing her during my last visit there, I am yet sure, even at this distance of time, grown informed as she is, I should instantly have known her. Amazing, cried an elderly gentleman, in a tone of irony who is standing near them, for the face is a very common one. I remember well, said Cecilia, that when you left Suffolk I thought I had lost my best friend. Is that possible? cried Mr. Arnault, with a look of so much delight. Yes indeed, and not without reason, for in all disputes you were my advocate, in all plays, my companion, in all difficulties, my assailant. Madam, cried the same gentleman, if you liked him because he was your advocate, companion, and assailant, pray like me too, for I am ready to become all three at once. You are very good, said Cecilia, laughing, but at present I find no want of any defender. That's a pity, he returned, for Mr. Arnault seems to me very willing to act the same parts all over again with you, but for that purpose he must return to the days of his childhood. Ah, would to heaven it were possible, cried Mr. Arnault, for they were the happiest of my life. After such a confession, said his companion, surely you will let him attempt to renew them, tis but taking a walk backwards, and though it is very early in life for Mr. Arnault to sigh for that retrograde motion, which, in the regular course of things, we shall all in our turn desire, yet was such a motive as recovering Miss Beverly for a playfellow who can wonder that he anticipates in youth the hopeless wishes of age. Here Miss LaRole's, who was one of that numerous tribe of young ladies to whom all conversation is irksome when they are not themselves engaged, quitted her place, of which Mr. Gosport, Celia's new acquaintance, immediately took possession. Is it utterly impossible, continued this gentleman, that I should assist in procuring Mr. Arnault such a renovation? Is there no subaltern part I can perform to facilitate the project, for I will either hide or seek with anybody in the parish, and for a cue in the corner there is none more celebrated? I have no doubt, sir, answered Celia, of your accomplishments, and I should not be a little entertained with the surprise of the company if you could persuade yourself to display them. And what, cried he, could the company do half so well as to arise also and join the sport? It would but interrupt some tale of scandal or some description of a toupee. Active wit, however despicable when compared with intellectual, is yet surely better than the insufficient click-clack of modish conversation, casting his eyes towards Miss LaRole's, or even the pensive dullness of affected silence, changing their directions towards Miss Leeson. Celia, though surprised at an attack upon the society her friend had selected, by one who was admitted to make a part of it, felt its justice too strongly to be offended at its severity. I have often wished, he continued, that when large parties are collected as here, without any possible reason why they should not as well be separated, something could be proposed in which each person might innocently take a share, for surely after the first half hour they can find little new to observe in the dress of their neighbors or to display in their own, and with whatever seeming gaiety they may contrive to fill up the middle and the end of the evening, by wire-drawing the comments afforded by the beginning, they are yet so miserably fatigued that if they have not four or five places to run to every night, they suffer nearly as much from weariness of their friends in company as they would do from weariness of themselves in solitude. Here by the general breaking up of the party, the conversation was interrupted, and Mr. Gosport was obliged to make his exit, not much to the regret of Celia, who was impatient to be alone with Mrs. Harrell. The rest of the evening, therefore, was spent much more to her satisfaction. It was devoted to friendship, to mutual inquiries, to congratulations, and endearing recollections. Though it was late when she retired, she retired with reluctance. CHAPTER IV Eager to renew a conversation which had afforded her so much pleasure, Celia, neither sensible of fatigue from her change of hours nor her journey, arose with delight, and as soon as she was dressed, hastened to the breakfast-apartment. She had not, however, been more impatient to enter than she soon became to quit it. For though not much surprise to find herself there before her friend, her ardour for waiting her arrival was somewhat chilled upon finding the fire but just lighted, the room cold and the servants still employed in putting it in order. At ten o'clock she made another attempt, the room was then better prepared for her reception, but it was still empty. She was retiring when the appearance of Mr. Arnott stopped her. He expressed his surprise at her early rising in a manner that marked the pleasure it gave him, and then returning to the conversation of the preceding evening, he expatiated with warmth and feeling upon the happiness of his boyish days remembered every circumstance belonging to the plays in which they had formerly been companions, and dwelt upon every incident with a minuteness of delight that showed his unwillingness to ever have done with the subject. This discourse detained her till they were joined by Mrs. Harrell, and then another, more gay and more general, succeeded to it. During their breakfast, Miss Lerolles was announced as a visitor to Cecilia, to whom she immediately advanced with the intimacy of an old acquaintance, taking her hand and assuring her that she could no longer defer the honour of waiting upon her. Miss Cecilia, much amazed at this warmth of civility from one to whom she was almost a stranger, received her compliment rather coldly, but Miss Lerolles, without consulting her looks or attending to her manner, proceeded to express the earnest desire she had long had to be known to her, to hope they should meet very often, to declare nothing could make her so happy, and to beg leave to recommend to her notice her own milliner. I assure you, she continued, she has all Paris at her disposal, the sweetest caps, the most beautiful trimmings, and her ribbons are quite divine. It is the most dangerous thing you can conceive to go near her. I never trust myself in her room, but I am sure to be ruined. If you please, I'll take you to her this morning. If her acquaintance is so ruinous, said Cecilia, I think I had better avoid it. Oh, impossible! There's no such thing as living without her. To be sure! She's shockingly dear, that I must own, but then who can wonder? She makes such sweet things, it is impossible to pay her too much for them. Mrs. Harrell, now joining in the recommendation, the party was agreed upon, and accompanied by Mr. Arnott, the ladies proceeded to the house of the milliner. Here the raptures of Miss LeRole's were again excited. She viewed the finery displayed with the light inexpressible, inquired who were the intended possessors, heard their names with envy, and sighed with all the bitterness of mortification that she was unable to order home almost everything she looked at. Having finished their business here, they proceeded to various other dress manufacturers, in whose praise Miss LeRole's was almost equally eloquent, and to appropriate whose goods she was almost equally earnest. And then, after attending this loquacious young lady to her father's house, Miss Harrell and Cecilia returned to their own. Cecilia rejoiced at the separation, and congratulated herself that the rest of the day might be spent alone with her friend. Why, no, said Mrs. Harrell, not absolutely alone, for I expect some company at night. Company again tonight? Nay, don't be frightened, for it will be a very small party, not more than fifteen or twenty in all. Is that so small a party? said Cecilia, smiling, and how short a time, since you, as well as I, have reckoned it a large one. Oh, you mean when I lived in the country? returned Mrs. Harrell. But what in the world could I know of parties or company then? Not much, indeed, said Cecilia, as my present ignorance shows. Then they parted to dress for dinner. The company of this evening were again all strangers to Cecilia, except Miss Leeson, who was seated next to her, and whose frigid looks again compelled her to observe the same silence she so resolutely practised herself. Yet not the less was her internal surprise that a lady who seemed determined neither to give nor receive any entertainment should repeatedly choose to show herself in company with no part of which she associated. Later or not, who contrived to occupy the seat on her other side, suffered not the silence with which her fair neighbour had infected her to spread any further. He talked, indeed, upon no new subject, and upon their old one, of their former sports and amusements, he had already exhausted all that was worth being mentioned, but he had not yet exhausted the pleasure he received from the theme. It seemed always fresh and always enchanting to him. It employed his thoughts, regaled his imagination, and enlivened his discourse. Cecilia, in vain, tried to change it for another. He quitted it only by compulsion and returned to it, with redoubled eagerness. When the company was retired, and Mr. Arnott only remained with the ladies, Cecilia, with no little surprise, inquired for Mr. Harrell, observing that she had not seen him the whole day. Oh! cried his lady. Don't think of wondering it that, for it happens continually. He dyes at home, indeed, in general, but otherwise I should see nothing of him at all. Indeed! Why, how does he fill up his time? That I am sure I cannot tell, for he never consults me about it, but I suppose in much the same way that other people do. Ah! Priscilla! cried Cecilia, with some earnestness. How little did I expect to see you so much, a fine lady! A fine lady, repeated Mrs. Harrell, why, what is it that I do? Don't I live exactly like everybody else that mixes at all with the world? You, Miss Beverly, said Mr. Arnott in a low voice, will, I hope, give to the world an example, not take one from it. Soon after they separated for the night. This morning Cecilia took care to fill up her time more advantageously than in wandering about the house in search of a companion she now expected not to find. She got together her books, arranged them to her fancy, and secured to herself for the future occupation of her leisure hours the exhaustless fund of entertainment which reading that richest, highest, and noblest source of intellectual enjoyment perpetually affords. While they were yet at breakfast, they were again visited by Miss LaRolles. I am come, cried she, eagerly, to run away with you both to my Lord Belgrade's sale. All the world will be there, and we shall go in with tickets, and you have no notion how it will be crowded. What is to be sold there? said Cecilia. Oh, everything you can conceive, house, stables, china, laces, horses, caps, everything in the world. And do you intend to buy anything? Lord, no, but one likes to see the people's things. Cecilia then begged they would excuse her attendance. Oh, by no means, cried Miss LaRolles, you must go. I assure you there will be a monstrous crowd as you ever saw in your life. I daresay we shall be half-squeezed to death. That, said Cecilia, is an inducement which you must not expect will have much weight with a poor rustic just out of the country. It must require all the polish of a long residence in the metropolis to make it attractive. Oh, but do go, for I assure you it will be the best sale we shall have this season. I can't imagine, Mrs. Harold, what poor lady Belgrade will do with herself. I heard the creditors have seized everything. I really believe the creditors are the cruelest set of people in the world. They have taken those beautiful buckles out of her shoes. Poor soul, I declare it will make my heart ache to see them put up. It's quite shocking upon my word. I wonder who will buy them. I assure you they were the prettiest fancy I ever saw. But come, if we don't go directly, there will be no getting in. Cecilia again desired to be excused, accompanying them, adding that she wished to spend the day at home. At home, my dear, cried Mrs. Harold, why, we have been engaged to Mrs. Mears this month, and she begged me to prevail with you to be of that party. I expect she'll call or send you a ticket every moment. How unlucky for me, said Cecilia, that you should happen to have so many engagements just at this time, I hope at least there will not be any for tomorrow. Oh, yes, tomorrow we will go to Mrs. Elton's. Again, tomorrow. And how long is this to last? Oh, Heaven knows. I'll show you my catalog. She then produced a book which contained a list of the engagement for more than three weeks. And as these, she said, are struck off, new ones are made, and so it is that we go on till after the birthday. When this list had been examined and commented upon by Miss LaRole's, and viewed and wondered at by Cecilia, it was restored to its place, and the two ladies went together to the auction, permitting Cecilia at her repeated request to return to her own apartment. She returned, however, neither satisfied with the behavior of her friend, nor pleased with her own situation, the sobriety of her education, as it had early instilled into her mind the pure dictates of religion, and strict principles of honor, had also taught her to regard continual dissipation as an introduction to vice, an unbounded extravagance as the harbinger of injustice, long accustomed to see Mrs. Harrell in the same retirement in which she had hitherto lived herself. When books were their first amusement, and the society of each other was their chief happiness, the change she now perceived in her mind and manners equally concerned and surprised her, she found her insensible to friendship and different to her husband, and negligent of all social felicity. Dress, company, parties of pleasure, and public places seemed not merely to occupy all her time, but to gratify all her wishes. Cecilia, in whose heart glowed the warmest affections in most genuine virtue, was cruelly depressed and mortified by this disappointment. Yet she had the good sense to determine against upbraiding her, well aware that if reproach has any power over indifference, it is only that of changing it into aversion. Mrs. Harrell, in truth, was innocent of heart, though dissipated in life. Married very young, she had made an immediate transition from living in a private family in a country town to becoming mistress of one of the most elegant houses in Portman Square, in the head of a splendid fortune, and a wife to a man whose own pursuits soon showed her the little value he himself set upon domestic happiness. Just in the fashionable round of company and aversions, her understanding, naturally weak, was easily dazed by the brilliancy of her situation, greedily, therefore, sucking in air impregnated with luxury and extravagance. She had soon no pleasure but to vie from some rival in elegance, and no ambition but to exceed some superior in expense. The dean of, in naming Mr. Harrell for one of the guardians of his niece, had no other view than that of indulging her wishes by allowing her to reside in the house of her friend. He had little personal knowledge of him, but was satisfied with the nomination, because acquainted with his family, fortune, and connections, all of which persuaded him to believe with the out-further inquiry that it was more peculiarly proper for his niece than any other he could make. In his choice of other two trustees, he had been more prudent. The first of these, the honourable Mr. Delville, was a man of high birth and character. The second, Mr. Briggs, had spent his whole life in business, in which he had already amassed an immense fortune, and had still no greater pleasure than that of increasing it. From the high honour, therefore, of Mr. Delville, he expected the most groupulous watchfulness that his niece should, in nothing, be injured, from the experience of Mr. Briggs in money-matters, and his diligence in transacting business, he hoped for the most vigilant observance of her fortune, which under his care should be turned to the best account. And thus, as far as he was able, he had equally consulted her pleasure, her security, and her pecuniary advantage. Mrs. Harrell returned home in time to dress for the rest of the day. When Cecilia was summoned for dinner, she found, besides her hostess and hostess, and Mr. Arnaut, a gentleman she had not before seen, but who, as soon as she entered the parlor, Mr. Harrell presented to her, saying at the same time he was one of the most intimate of his friends. This gentleman, Mr. Robert Flawyer, was about thirty years of age. His face was neither remarkable for its beauty nor its ugliness, but sufficiently distinguished by its expression of invincible assurance. His person, too, neither striking for its grace nor its deformity, attracted notice from the insolence of its deportment. His manners, haughty and supercilious, marked the high opinion he cherished of his own importance, and his air and address at once bold and negligent, announced his happy perfection in the character at which he aimed, that of an accomplished man of the town. The moment Cecilia appeared, she became the object of his attention, though neither with the look of admiration due to her beauty, nor yet with that curiosity excited by her novelty, but with the scrutinizing observation of a man on the point of making a bargain, who views, with fault-seeking eyes, the property he means to cheapen. Cecilia, wholly unused to examination so little ceremonious, shrunk abashed from his regards, but his conversation was not less displeasing to her than his looks, his principal subjects, which were horse racing, losses at play, and disputes at gaming tables, could afford her but little amusement, because she could not understand them, and the episodes with which they were occasionally interspersed, consisting chiefly of comparative strictures upon celebrated beauties, hints of impending bankruptcies, and witticisms upon recent divorces, were yet more disagreeable to her, because more intelligible. Weary, therefore, with uninteresting anecdotes, and offended with injudicious subjects of pleasantry, she waited with impatience for the moment of retiring. But Mrs. Harrell, less eager, because better entertained, was in no haste to remove, and therefore she was compelled to remain quiet till they were both obliged to arise in order to fulfill their engagement with Mrs. Mears. As they went together to the house of that lady, in Mrs. Harrell's vis-a-vis Cecilia, not doubting but their opinions concerning the baronet would accord, instantly and openly declared her disapprobation of everything he had uttered, but Mrs. Harrell, far from confirming her expectations, only said, I am sorry you didn't like him, for he is almost always with us. Do you like him, then, yourself? Extremely, he is very entertaining and clever, and knows the world. How judiciously you praise him, cried Cecilia. And how long might you deliberate before you could add another word to his panageric? Mrs. Harrell, satisfied to commend without even attempting to vindicate him, was soon content to change the subject, and Cecilia, though much concerned that the husband of her friend had made so disgraceful an election of favorite, yet hoped that the lenity of Mrs. Harrell resulted from her desire to excuse his choice, not from her own approbation. End of Chapter 4. Recording by Nikki Sullivan, Chicago. Book 1, Chapter 5 of Cecilia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nikki Sullivan. Cecilia, Memoirs of an Eris by Fanny Burney. Book 1, Chapter 5. Mrs. Mears, whose character was of that common sort which renders delineation superfluous, received them with the customary forms of good breeding. Mrs. Harrell soon engaged herself at a card table, and Cecilia, who declined playing, was seated next to Miss Leeson, who arose to return the courtesy she made in invancing to her, but that passed did not again even look at her. Cecilia, though fond of conversation and formed for society, was too diffident to attempt speaking where so little encouraged. They both therefore continued silent till Sir Robert Flawyer, Mr. Harrell, and Mr. R. Knott entered the room together, and all at the same time advanced to a Cecilia. What, cried Mr. Harrell, don't you choose to play, Miss Beverly? I flatter myself, cried Mr. R. Knott, that Miss Beverly never plays at all, for then, in one thing, I shall have the honor to resemble her. Very seldom indeed, answered Cecilia, and consequently very ill. Oh, you must take a few lessons, said Mr. Harrell. Sir Robert Flawyer, I am sure, will be proud to instruct you. Sir Robert, who had placed himself opposite to her, and was staring her full in the face, made a slight inclination of his head, and said, certainly, I should be a very unpromising pupil, returned Cecilia, for I fear I should not only want diligence to improve, but desire. Oh, you will learn better things, said Mr. Harrell. We have had you yet, but three days amongst us. In three months we shall see the difference. I hope not, cried Mr. R. Knott. I earnestly hope there will be none. Mr. Harrell now joined the other party, and Mr. R. Knott, seeing no vacant seat near that of Cecilia, moved round to the back of her chair, where he patiently stood for the rest of the evening. But Sir Robert kept his post, and still, without troubling himself to speak, kept his eyes fixed upon the same object. Cecilia, offended by his boldness, took a thousand ways to avoid him, but her embarrassment, by giving greater play to her features, served only to keep awake an attention which might otherwise have wearied. She was almost tempted to move her chair round and face Mr. R. Knott, but though she wished to show her disapprobation of the baronette, she had not yet been reconciled by fashion to turning her back upon the company at large, for the indulgence of conversing with some particular person, a fashion to which unaccustomed observers seems rude and repulsive, but which, once adopted, carries with it imperceptibly its own recommendation. And ease, convenience, and freedom it promotes. Thus disagreeably stationed, she found but little assistance from the neighborhood of Mr. R. Knott, since even his own desire of conversing with her was swallowed up by an anxious and voluntary impulse to watch the looks and motions of Sir Robert. At length, quite tired of sitting as if merely an object to be gazed at, she determined to attempt entering into conversation with Miss Leeson. The difficulty, however, was not inconsiderable how to make the attack. She was unacquainted with her friends and connections, uninformed of her way of thinking or her way of life, ignorant of even the sound of her voice, and chilled by the coldness of her aspect, yet having no other alternative, she was more willing to encounter the forbidding looks of this lady than to continue silently unabashed under the scrutinizing eyes of Sir Robert. After much deliberation with what subject to begin, she remembered that Miss LaRole's had been present the first time they had met, and thought it probable that they might be acquainted with each other. Therefore, bending forward, she ventured to inquire if she had lately seen that young lady. Miss Leeson, in a voice alike inexpressive of satisfaction or displeasure, quitely answered, a no, ma'am. Cecilia, discouraged by this conciseness, was a few minutes silent, but the perseverance of Sir Robert's in staring at her, exciting her own in trying to avoid his eyes, she exerted herself so far as to add, does Mrs. Mears expect Miss LaRole's here this evening? Miss Leeson, without raising her head, gravely replied, I do not no, ma'am. LaRole was now to be done over again, and a new subject to be started, for she could suggest nothing further to ask concerning Miss LaRole's. Cecilia had seen little of life, but that little she had well marked. In her observation had taught her that among fashionable people public places seemed a never-failing source of conversation and entertainment. Upon this topic, therefore, she hoped for better success, and as to those who have spent more time in the country than in London, no place of amusement is so interesting as the theatre. She opened the subject, she so happily suggested, by an inquiry whether any new play had lately come out. Miss Leeson, with the same dryness, only answered, indeed I can't tell. Another pause now followed, and the spirits of Cecilia were considerably damped. But happening accidentally to recollect the name of Allmack, she presently revived and congratulating herself that she should now be able to speak of a place too fashionable for disdain, she asked her in a manner somewhat more assured, as she was a subscriber to his assemblies. Yes, ma'am. Do you go to them constantly? No, ma'am. Then they were both silent, and now, tired of finding the ill success of each particular inquiry, she thought a more general one might obtain an answer less laconic, and therefore begged she would inform her what was the most fashionable place of diversion in the present season. This question, however, cost Miss Leeson no more trouble than any which had preceded it, for she only replied, indeed I do not know. She yet now began to sicken of her attempt, and for some minutes, to give it up as hopeless. But afterwards, when she reflected how frivolous were the questions she had asked, she felt more inclined to pardon the answers she had received, and in a short time too fancy she had mistaken contempt for stupidity, and to grow less angry with Miss Leeson than ashamed of herself. This supposition excited her to make yet another trial of her talents for conversation, and therefore summoning all the courage in her power. She modestly apologized for the liberty she was taking, and then begged her permission to inquire whether there was anything new in the literary way that she thought was worth recommending. Miss Leeson now turned her eyes toward her, with a look that implied a doubt whether she had heard her right, and when the attentive attitude of Cecilia confirmed her question, surprised for a few instants took place of insensibility, and with rather more spirit than she had yet shown, she answered, Indeed I know nothing of the matter. Cecilia was now utterly disconcerted, and half angry with herself, and wholly provoked with her sullen neighbor, she resolved to let nothing in the future provoke her to a similar trial with so unpromising a subject. She had not, however, much longer to endure the examination of Sir Robert, who, being pretty well satisfied with staring, turned upon his heel, and was striding out of the room when he was stopped by Mr. Gospord, who for some time had been watching him. Mr. Gospord was a man of good parts and keen satire, minute in his observations and ironical in his expressions. So you don't play, Sir Robert, he cried. What, here? No, I am going to Brooks. But how do you like Harold's ward? You have taken a pretty good survey of her. Why, Faith, I don't know, but not much, I think. She's a devilish fine woman, too. She has no spirit, no life. Did you try her? Have you talked to her? Not I, truly. Nay, then how do you mean to judge of her? Oh, Faith, that's all over now. One never thinks of talking to the women by way of trying them. What other method, then, have you adopted? None. None? Why, then, how do you go on? Why, they talk to us. The women take all that trouble upon themselves now. And pray, how long may you have commenced Fade Macaroni, for this is a part of your character with which I was not acquainted? Oh, hang it, it is not from Taun, no, it is merely from laziness. Who the devil would fatigue himself with dancing attendance upon the woman, when keeping them at a distance makes them dance attendance upon us? Then stalking from him to Mr. Harold, he took him by the arm, and they left the room together. Mr. Gossport now advanced to Cecilia, and addressing her so as not to be heard by Miss Leeson. He said, I have been wishing to approach you some time, but the fear that you are already overpowered by the lequacity of your fair neighbor makes me cautious of attempting to engage you. You mean, said Cecilia, to laugh at my lequacity, and indeed its ill success has rendered it sufficiently ridiculous. Are you then yet to learn, cried he, that there are certain young ladies who make it a rule never to speak but to their own cronies? Of this class is Miss Leeson, and until you get into her particular cadre, you may never expect to hear from her a word of two syllables, of Taun, Mrs., they are called, who now infest the town, and in two divisions the supercilious and the voluble. The supercilious, like Miss Leeson, are silent, scornful, languid, and affected, and disdain all converse but with those of their own set. The voluble, like Miss LeRoles, are flirting, communicative, restless, and familiar, and attack without the smallest ceremony every one they think worthy of their notice. But this they have in common, that at home they think of nothing but dress, abroad, of nothing but admiration, and that everywhere they hold in supreme contempt all but themselves. Probably, then, said Cecilia, I have passed to-night for one of your volubles. However, all the advantage has been with the supercilious, for I have suffered a total repulse. Are you sure, however, that you have not talked too well for her? Oh, a child of five years old ought to have been whipped for not talking better. But it is not capacity alone which you are to consult when you talk with misses of the town, where their understandings only to be considered. They would indeed be wonderfully easy of access. In order, therefore, to render their commerce somewhat difficult, they will only be pleased by an observance of their humours, which are evermost various and most exuberant, where the intellects are weakest and least cultivated. I have, however, a receipt which I have found infallible for engaging the intention of young ladies whosoever character or denomination. Oh, then, Christ Cecilia, pray favour me with it, for I have here an admirable opportunity to try its efficiency. I will give it to you, he answered, with full directions. When you meet a young lady who seems resolutely determined not to speak, and who, if compelled by a direct question to make some answer, dryly gives a brief affirmative, and coldly a laconic negative, a case in point, interrupted Cecilia. Well, thus circumstance'd, he continued, the remedy I have proposed consists of three topics of discourse. Pray what are they? Peace, public places, and love. Cecilia, half-surprised and half-diverted, waited a fuller explanation without giving any interruption. These three topics, he continued, are to answer three purposes, since they are no less than three causes from which the silence of young ladies may proceed, sorrow, affectation, and stupidity. Do you, then, cried Cecilia, give nothing at all to modesty? I give much to it, he answered, as an excuse, nay, almost as an equivalent for wit, but for that silent silence which resists all encouragement modesty is a mere pretense, not a cause. You must, however, be somewhat more explicit if you mean that I may benefit from your instructions. Well, then, he answered, I will briefly enumerate the three causes, with directions for the three methods of cure. To begin with sorrow, the taciturny which really results from that is attended with an incurable absence of mind, and a total unconsciousness of the observation which it incites. Upon this occasion, public places may sometimes be tried in vain, and even dress may fail. But love! Are you sure, then, said Cecilia? But sorrow, as but that one source? By no means, answered he, for perhaps Papa may have been angry, or Mama may have been cross, and Miliner may have sent a wrong pompom, or a chaperone to an assembly may have been taken ill. Bitter subjects of affliction indeed, are those all you allow us? Nay, but I speak of young ladies of fashion, and what of greater importance can befall them? If, therefore, the grief of the fair patient proceeds from Papa, Mama, or the chaperone, then the mention of public places, those endless incentives of displeasure between the old and the young, will draw forth her complaints, and her complaints will bring their own cure, for those who lament find speedy consolation. If the Miliner has occasioned the calamity, the discussion of dress will have the same effect. When both these medicines fail, love, as I said before, will be found infallible, for you will then have investigated every subject of uneasiness which a youthful female in high life can experience. They have greatly obliged you, cried Cecilia, bowing, for granting them motives of sorrow so honourable, and I thank you in the name of the whole sex. You, madam, said he returning her bow, are, I hope, an exception in the happiest way, that of having no sorrow at all. I come now to the silence of affectation, which is presently discernible by the roving of the eye round the room to see if it is heeded, by the sedulous care to avoid an accidental smile, and by the variety of disconsolate attitudes exhibited by the beholders. This species of silence has almost, without exception, is origin in that babyish vanity which is always gratified by exciting attention, without ever perceiving that it provokes contempt. In these cases, as nature is wholly out of the question, and the mind is guarded against its own feelings, dress and public places are almost certain of failing, but here again love is sure to vanquish. As soon as it is named, attention becomes involuntary, and in a short time a struggling semper decomposes the arrangement of the features, and then the business is presently over, for the young lady is either supporting some system or opposing some proposition, before she is well aware that she has been cheated out of her sad silence at all. So much, said Cecilia, for sorrow and for affectation. Lead next to stupidity, for that in all probability I shall most frequently encounter. That always must be heavy work, returned he. Yet the road is plain, though it is all a pill. Love here may be talked of without exciting any emotion, or provoking any reply, and dress may be dilated upon without producing any other effect than that of attracting a vacant stare. But public places are indubitably certain of success, dull and heavy characters incapable of animating from wit or from reason, because unable to keep pace with them, and void of all internal sources of entertainment, require the stimulation of show, glare, noise and bustle to interest or awaken them. Talk to them of such subjects and they will adore you, no matter whether you paint them with joy or horror. Let there be but action, and they are content. A battle has charms for them equal to a coronation, and a funeral amuses them as much as a wedding. I am much obliged to you, said Cecilia, smiling, for these instructions. Yet I must confess I know not how upon the present occasion to make use of them. Public places I have already tried, but tried in vain. Dress I dare not mention, as I have not yet learned its technical terms. Well, but, interrupted he, be not desperate. You have yet the third topic, honest aid. Oh, that! returned she, laughing. I leave to you. Pardon me! cried he. Love is a source of loquacity only with yourselves. When it is started by men, young ladies dwindle into mere listeners. Simpering listeners, I confess. But it is only with one another that you will discuss its merits. At this time they were interrupted by the approach of Miss Lerollis, who, tripping towards Cecilia, exclaimed, Lord, how glad I am to see you! So you would not go to the auction. Well, you had a prodigious loss, I assure you. All the wardrobe was sold, and all Lady Belgrade's trinkets. I never saw such a collection of sweet things in my life. I was ready to cry that I had not bid for half a hundred of them. I declare I was kept in agony the whole morning. I would not but have been there for the world, poor Lady Belgrade. You really can't conceive how I was shocked for her. In all her beautiful things sold for almost nothing, I assure you, if you had seen how they went you would have lost all patience. It's a thousand pitties you were not there. On the contrary, said Cecilia, I think I had a very fortunate escape, for the loss of patience without the acquisition of the trinkets would have been rather mortifying. Yes, said Mr. Gersport. But when you have lived some time longer in this commercial city, you will find the exchange of patience for mortification the most common and constant traffic among its inhabitants. Pray have you been here long, cried Miss LaRole's, for I have been to twenty places wondering I did not meet with you before. But whereabouts is Mrs. Mears? Oh, I see her now. I'm sure there's no mistaking her. I could know her by that old red gown, half a mile off. Did you ever see such a frightful thing in your life? And it's never off her back. I believe she sleeps in it. I am sure I have seen her in nothing else all winter. It quite tires one's eye. She's a monstrous, shocking dresser. But do you know, I have met with the most provoking thing in the world this evening. I declare it has made me quite sick. I was never in such a passion in my life. You can conceive nothing like it. Like what? cried Cecilia, laughing, your passion or your provocation. Why, I shall tell you what it was, and then you shall judge if it was not quite past endurance. You must know I commissioned a particular friend of mine, Miss Moffitt, to buy me a trimming when she went to Paris. Well, she sent it to me over a month ago by Mr. Meadows, and it's the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life. But I would not make it up, because there was not a creature in town. So I thought to bring it out quite new in about a week's time, for, you know, anything does till after Christmas. Well, to-night at Lady Jane Dranitz, who should I meet but Miss Moffitt? She had been in town some days, but so monstrously engaged I could never find her at home. Well I was quite delighted to see her, for you must know she's a prodigious favorite with me. So I ran up to her in a great hurry to shake hands, and what do you think was the first thing that struck my eyes? Why, just such a trimming as my own, upon a nasty odious gown and half dirty, can you conceive anything so distressing? I could have cried with pleasure. Why so? said Cecilia. If her trimming is dirty, yours will look the more delicate. Oh, Lord! But it's making it seem quite an old thing. Half the town will get something like it, and I quite ruined myself to buy it. I declare I don't think anything was ever half so mortifying. It distressed me so I could hardly speak to her. If she had stayed a month or two longer, I should not have minded it, but it was the cruelest thing in the world to come over just now. I wish the Custom House officers had kept all her clothes till summer. The wish is tender indeed, said Cecilia, for a particular friend. As mirrors now rising from the card-table, Miss LaRole's tripped away to pay her compliments to her. Here, at least, cried Cecilia. No receipt seems requisite for the cure of silence. I would have Miss LaRole's be the constant companion of Miss Leeson. They could not but agree admirably, since the supercilious young lady seems determined never to speak, and the voluble Miss LaRole's seems never to be silent. For each to borrow something of the other, how greatly would both be the better? The composition would still be a sorry one, answered Mr. Gosport, for I believe they are equally weak and equally ignorant. The only difference is that one, though silly, is quick. The other, though deliberate, is stupid. Upon a short acquaintance that heaviness which leaves to others the whole weight of discourse and whole search of entertainment, is most fatiguing. But upon a longer intimacy, even that is less irksome and less offensive than the flippancy which hears nothing but itself. Mrs. LaRole arose now to depart, and Cecilia, not more tired of the beginning of the evening than entertained with its conclusion, was handed to the carriage by Mr. Arnault. CHAPTER VI The next morning during breakfast a servant acquainted Cecilia that a young gentleman was in the hall who begged to speak with her. She desired he might be admitted, and Mrs. LaRole, laughing, asked if she ought not to quit the room, while Mr. Arnault, with even more than his usual gravity, directed his eye towards the door to watch who should enter. Neither of them, however, received any satisfaction when it was opened, for the gentleman who made his appearance was unknown to both. But great was the amazement of Cecilia, though little her emotion when she saw Mr. Maurice. He came forward with an air of the most profound respect for the company in general, and obsequiously advanced to Cecilia, made an earnest inquiry into her health after her journey and hoped she had heard good news from her friends in the country. Mrs. Harrell, naturally concluding both from his visit and behavior, that he was an acquaintance of some intimacy, very civilly offered him a seat and some breakfast, which very frankly he accepted. But Mr. Arnault, who already felt the anxiety of a rising passion which was too full of veneration to be said wine, looked at him with uneasiness, and waited his departure with impatience. Cecilia began to imagine he had been commissioned to call upon her with some message from Mr. Moncton, for she knew not how to suppose that merely and accidentally having spent an hour or two in the same room with her would authorize a visiting acquaintance. Mr. Maurice, however, had a faculty the most happy of reconciling his pretensions to his inclination, and therefore she soon found that the pretense she had suggested appeared to him unnecessary. To lead, however, to the subject from which she expected his excuse, she inquired how long he had left Sopholk. "'But yesterday noon, ma'am,' he answered, or I should certainly have taken the liberty to wait upon you before.' Cecilia, who had only been perplexed herself to devise some reason why he came at all, now looked at him with a grave surprise, which would totally have abashed a man whose courage had been less, or whose expectations had been greater. But Mr. Maurice, though he had hazarded every danger upon the slightest chance of hope, knew too well the weakness of his claims to be confident of success, and had been too familiar with rebuffs to be much hurt by receiving them. He might possibly have something to gain, but he knew he had nothing to lose. "'I had the pleasure,' he continued. To leave all our friends well, except poor Lady Margaret, and she has had an attack of the asthma. Yet she would not have a physician, though Mr. Moncton would feign have persuaded her. However, I believe the old lady knows better things.' And he looked archly at Cecilia, but perceiving that the insinuation gave her nothing but disgust, he changed his tone and added, "'It is amazing how well they live together. Everybody would imagine the disparity in their years. Poor old lady, Mr. Moncton will really have a great loss of her when she dies.' "'A loss of her,' repeated Mrs. Harrell, "'I am sure she is an exceeding, ill-natured old woman. When I lived at Burry I was always frightened out of my wits at the sight of her.' "'Oh, I indeed, ma'am,' said Maurice. "'I must own her appearance is rather against her. I had myself a greater version to her at the first sight. But the house is cheerful, very cheerful. I like to spend a few days there now and then of all things. Miss Bennet, too, is agreeable enough, and—' "'Miss Bennet agreeable?' cried Mrs. Harrell. "'I think she is the most odious creature I ever knew in my life, a nasty, spiteful, old maid.' "'Oh, why indeed, ma'am, as you say,' answered Maurice. She is not very young, and as to her temper I confess I know very little about it, and Mr. Moncton is likely enough to try it, for he is pretty severe.' "'Mr. Moncton,' cried Cecilia, extremely provoked at hearing him censured by a man she thought highly honoured in being permitted to approach him, whenever I have been his guest, has merited from me nothing but praise and gratitude.' "'Oh!' cried Maurice, eagerly. There is not a more worthy man in the world. He has so much wit, so much politeness, I don't know a more charming man anywhere than my friend Mr. Moncton.' Cecilia now perceiving that the opinions of her new acquaintance were as pliant as his bowels, determined to pay him no further attention and hoped by sitting silent to force from him the business of his visit, if he had any, or if, as she now suspected, he had none, to weary him into a retreat. But this plan, though it would have succeeded with herself, failed with Mr. Maurice, who, to a stock of good humour that made him always ready to oblige others, added an equal portion of insensibility that hardened him against all indignity, finding therefore that Cecilia, to whom his visit was intended, seemed already satisfied with its length. He prudently forbore to torment her, but perceiving that the lady of the house was more accessible, he quickly made a transfer of his attention and addressed his discourse to her with as much pleasure as if his only view had been to visit her, and as much ease as if he had known her all his life. With Mrs. Harrell this conduct was not injudicious. She was pleased with his assiduity, amused with his vivacity, and sufficiently satisfied with his understanding. They conversed, therefore, upon pretty equal terms, and neither of them were yet tired when they were interrupted by Mr. Harrell, who came into the room to ask if they had seen or heard anything of Sir Robert Flawyer. No, answered Mrs. Harrell, nothing at all. I wish he was hanged, returned he, for he has kept me waiting this hour. He made me promise not to ride out till he called, and now he'll stay till the morning is over. Pray, where does he live, sir? cried Maurice, starting from his seat. In Cavendish Square, sir, answered Mr. Harrell, looking at him with much surprise. Not a word more, said Maurice, but scampered out of the room. Pray, who is this genius? cried Mr. Harrell, and what has he run away for? Upon my word I know nothing at all of him, cried Mrs. Harrell. He is a visitor of Miss Beverly's. And I, too, said Cecilia, might almost equally disclaim all knowledge of him, for though I once saw, I was never introduced to him. She then began a relation of her meeting him at Mr. Moncton's house, and had hardly concluded it before again, and quite out of breath he made his appearance. Sir Robert Flawyer, sir, he said to Mr. Harrell, will be here in two minutes. I hope, sir, said Mr. Harrell, you have not given yourself the trouble of going to him. No, sir, it has given me nothing but pleasure. A run these cold mornings is the thing I like best. Sir, you are extremely good, said Mr. Harrell. But I had not the least intention of your taking such a walk upon my account. He then begged him to be seated, to rest himself, and to take some refreshment, which civilities he received without scruple. But Miss Beverly, said Mr. Harrell, turning suddenly to Cecilia, you didn't tell me what you think of my friend. What friend, sir? Why, sir, Robert Flawyer, I observed he never quitted you a moment while he stayed at Mrs. Mears. His stay, however, was too short, said Cecilia, to allow me to form a fair opinion of him. But perhaps, cried Maurice, it was long enough to allow you to form a foul one. Cecilia could not forbear laughing to hear the truth thus accidentally blundered out. But Mr. Harrell, looking very little pleased, said, Surely you can find no fault with him. He is one of the most fashionable men I know. My finding fault with him then, said Cecilia, would only farther prove what I believe is already pretty evident, that I am yet a novice in the art of admiration. Later are not, animating at this speech. Glided behind her chair and said, I knew you could not like him. I knew it from the turn of your mind. I knew it even from your countenance. Soon after, sir Robert Flawyer arrived. You are a pretty fellow, aren't you? cried Mr. Harrell, to keep me waiting so long. I could not come a moment sooner. I hardly expected to get here at all, for my horse had been so confounded rusty I could not tell how to get him along. Do you come on horseback through the streets, sir Robert?" asked Mrs. Harrell. Sometimes, when I am lazy. But what the devil is the matter with him, I don't know. He has started at everything. I suspect there has been some foul play with him. Is he at the door, sir? cried Maurice. Yes, answered sir Robert. Then I'll tell you what's the matter with him in a minute. And away again ran Maurice. What time did you get off last night, Harrell? said sir Robert. Not very early. But you were too much engaged to miss me. By the way, lowering his voice, what do you think I lost? I can't tell indeed, but I know what I gained. I have not had such a run of luck this winter. They then went up to a window to carry on their inquiries more privately. At the words, What do you think I lost? Cecilia, half-starting, cast her eyes uneasily upon Mrs. Harrell, but perceived not the least change in her countenance. Mr. Arnot, however, seemed as little pleased as herself, and from a similar sensation looked anxiously at his sister. Maurice now returned, called out. He's had a fall, I assure you. Curse him, cried sir Robert. What shall I do now? He cost me the devil all of money, and I have not had him a twelve-month. Can you lend me a horse for this morning, Harrell? No, I have not one that will do for you. You must send to Atsley. Who can I send? John must take care of this. I'll go, sir, cried Maurice, if you'll give me the commission. By no means, sir, said sir Robert. I can't think of giving you such an office. It is the thing in the world I like best, answered he. I understand horses, and I had rather go to Atsley's than anywhere. The matter was now settled in a few minutes, and having received his directions and an invitation to dinner, Maurice danced off, with a heart yet lighter than his heels. Why Miss Beverly, said Mr. Harrell, this friend of yours is the most obliging gentleman I ever met with. There was no avoiding asking him to dinner. Remember, however, said Cecilia, who was involuntarily diverted at the successful officiousness of her new acquaintance, that if you receive him henceforth as your guest he obtains admission through his own merits, and not through my interest. That dinner, Maurice, who failed not to accept the invitation of Mr. Harrell, was the gayest and indeed the happiest man in the company, the effort he had made to fasten himself upon Cecilia as an acquaintance had not, it is true, from herself met with much encouragement. But he knew the chances were against him when he made the trial, and therefore the prospect of gaining admission into such a house as Mr. Harrell's was not only sufficient to make amends for what scarcely amounted to a disappointment, but a subject of serious comfort from the credit of the connection and of internal exaltation at his own management and address. In the evening the ladies, as usual, went to a private assembly and, as usual, were attended to it by Mr. Arnaud, the other gentleman, had engagements elsewhere. End of Chapter 6 Recording by Nikki Sullivan, Chicago