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covering that they are not sufficiently aware of her generosityor that they overact the farce of gratitude-or that they do not treat her with confidence-or that they wish to seduce her friends from her-or, lastly, that they mistake her sensibility and delicacy of affection for selfishness and bad temper. The character of Emilie herself is so gentle and affectionate, as scarcely to have afforded any food for Mrs. Somers's distemper; but then she has an ardent affection for her mother; and Madame la Comtesse, to say the truth, is abundantly provoking. That character is admirably drawn; and is perhaps the best delineation that is to be met with, in English, of a common-place Parisian fine lady. Without reflection or concern for any thing but her own accommodation, and the bienséances of her situation, she goes on, utterly regardless of Mrs. Somers's fine feelings or disturbed sensibility; and daily makes a thousand observations as to the superiority of French manners, and fashions, and furniture, without being the least aware that her hos tess construes them all into ungrateful complaints of her want of accommodation. When the ill humour excited by these proceedings becomes too apparent to be mistaken, she looks upon it not with pain and confusion, but with astonishment and curiosity. Mrs. Somers then appeared to her merely as an English ' oddity, or a lusus naturæ; and she alternately asked Emilie to account for those strange appearances, or shrugged up her 'shoulders, and submitted to the impossibility of a Frenchwoman ever comprehending such extravagances.' One little scene will show both these characters in their true light. Mrs. Somers came in to communicate to Emilie a magnanimous project she had formed of negotiating a marriage for her with her own son; and unluckily found a M. Brisac reading the newspaper to her and her mother.

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'M. de Brisac read, in what this lady called his unemphatic French tone, paragraph after paragraph, and column after column, whilst her anxiety to have him go, every moment increased. She moulded her son's letter into all manner of shapes, as she sat in penance. To complete her misfortunes, something in the paper put Madame de Coulanges in mind of former times; and she began a long history of the destruction of some fine old tapestry hangings in the Chateau de Coulanges, at the beginning of the revolution: this led to endless melancholy reflections; and at length tears began to flow from the fine eyes of the countess.

Just at this instant, a butterfly flew into the room, and passed by Madame de Coulanges, who was sitting near the open window"O! the beautiful butterfly!" cried she, starting up to catch it"Did you ever see such a charming creature! Catch it, M. de Brisac! Catch it, Emilie!-Catch it, Mrs. Somers!" With the tears yet upon her cheeks, Madame de Coulanges began the chase,

and M. de Brisac followed, beating the air with his perfumed handkerchief; and the butterfly fluttered round the table, at which Emilie was standing." Eh! M. de Brisac, catch it!-Catch it, Emilie!" repeated her mother-" Catch it, Mrs. Somers, for the love of heaven!”—“ For the love of heaven!" repeated Mrs. Somers, who, immovably grave, and sullenly indignant, kept aloof during this chase. "Ah! pour le coup, papillon, je te tiens!" cried La Comtesse, and with eager joy she covered it with a glass, as it lighted on the table. "Mademoiselle de Coulanges," cried Mrs. Somers, " I acknowledge, now, that I was wrong in my criticism of Caroline de Lichtfield-I blamed the author for representing Caroline, at fifteen, or just when she is going to be married, as running after butterflies-I said, that, at that age, it was too frivolous-out of drawing-out of nature. But I should have said, only, that it was out of English nature. -I stand corrected

'Madame de Coulanges and M. de Brisac again interchanged looks, which expressed" Est il possible!”—And La Comtesse then, with an unusual degree of deliberation and dignity in her manner, walked out of the room;'-and speedily sent for Emilie to follow her. She found her mother in no humour to receive any apology, even if it had been offered: nothing could have hurt Madame de Coulanges more, than the imputation of being frivolous.

"Frivole!-Frivole!-moi frivole!" she repeated, as soon as Emilie entered the room. "My dear Emilie! I would not live with this Mrs. Somers, for the rest of my days, were she to offer me Pitt's diamond, or the whole mines of Golconda!- -Bon Dieu!-neither money nor diamonds, after all, can pay for the want of kindness and politeness!" Vol. V. p. 144-148.

The English lady develops her own character more minutely in the following letter, addressed to the only confidential friend the ingratitude of human nature had left her.

"For once, my dear friend, I am secure of your sympathizing in my indignation-my long suppressed, just, virtuous indignationyes, virtuous; for I do hold indignation to be a part of virtue: it is the natural, proper expression of a warm heart and a strong character against the cold-blooded vices of meanness and ingratitude. Would that those, to whom I allude, could feel it as a punishment!but no, this is not the sort of punishment they are formed to feel. Nothing but what comes home to their interests-their paltry interests! their pleasures-their selfish pleasures!-their amusements-their frivolous amusements! can touch souls of such a sort. To this half-formed race of worldlings, who are scarce endued with a moral sense, the generous expression of indignation always appears something incomprehensible-ridiculous; or, in their language, outré! inoui! With such beings, therefore, I always am-as much as my nature will allow me to be-upon my guard; I keep within, what they call, the bounds of politeness-their dear politeness! What a system of simagrée it is, after all! and bow can honest human nature bear to be penned up all its days by the Chinese paling

of ceremény, or that French filagree work, politesse? English human nature cannot endure this, as yet: and I am glad of it-heartily glad of it--Now to the point→→→

"You guess, that I am going to speak of the Coulanges. Yes, my dear friend, you were quite right, in advising me, when I first became acquainted with them, not to give way blindly to my enthusiasm-not to be too generous, or to expect too much gratitudeGratitude! why should I ever expect to meet with any? Where I have most deserved, most hoped for it, I have been always most disappointed. My life has been a life of sacrifices-thankless and fruitless sacrifices!-I cannot cure myself of this credulous folly-I did form high expectations of happiness, from the society and gratitude of this Madame and Mademoiselle de Coulanges; but the mother turns out to be a mere frivolous French comtesse, ignorant, vain, and positive-as all ignorant people are; full of national prejudices, which she supports in the most absurd and petulant manner.-Possessed with the insanity, common to all parisians, of thinking that Paris is the whole world, and that nothing can be good taste, or good sense, or good manners, but what is à-la-mode de Paris; through all her boasted politeness, you see, even by her mode of praising, that she has a most illiberal contempt for all, who are not parisians-She con. siders the rest of the world as barbarians-I could give you a thousand instances; but her conversation is really so frivolous, that it is not worth reciting. I bore with it, day after day, for several months, with a patience, for which, I am sure, you would have given me credit; and I let her go on eternally with absurd observations upon Shakespeare, and extravagant nonsense about Racine. To avoid disputing with her, I gave up every point-I acquiesced in all she said and only begged to have peace. Still she was not satisfied. You know there are tempers, which never can be contented, do what you will, to try to please them. Madame de Coulanges actually quarrelled with me for begging that we might have peace; and that we might talk upon subjects, where we should not be likely to disagree. This will seem to you incredible; but it is the nature of French caprice: and for this I ought to have been prepared.

The daughter has far too much, as the mother has too little sensibility-Emilie plagues me to death with her fine feelings, and her sentimentality, and all her French parade of affection, and superfluity of endearing expressions, which mean nothing, and disgust English ears: she is always fancying, that I am angry or displeased with her or with her mother; and then I am to have tears and explanations, and apologies: she has not a mind large enough to understand my character; and, if I were to explain to eternity, she would be as much in the dark as ever.-My little hastiness of temper she has not strength of mind sufficient to bear-I see she is dreadfully afraid of me, and more constrained in my company, than in that of any other person.-Not a visitor comes, however insignificant, but mademoiselle de Coulanges seems more at her ease, and converses more with them, than with me-she talks to me only

of gratitude and such stuff. She is one of those feeble persons, who, wanting confidence in themselves, are continually afraid that they shall not be grateful enough; and so they reproach and torment themselves, and refine and sentimentalize, till gratitude becomes burdensome, (as it always does to weak minds), and the very idea of a benefactor odious. Mademoiselle de Coulanges was originally unwilling to accept of any obligation from me; she knew her own character better than I did. I do not deny, that she has a heart; but she has no soul. I hope you understand and feel the difference." Vol. V. p. 80-89.

The merit of the tale consists in these characters; for the story is neither very entertaining nor very probable. The scene of the butterfly drives the refugees from the house of their benefactress, just as she is plotting how to overwhelm them with her generosity, in forcing her only son to marry Emilie. The said Emilie refuses to rescue her mother from poor lodgings by marrying M. de Brisac, because she had given away her heart to a young stranger who had delivered them from their dungeon in France; a reconciliation, however, is at last effected; and by a striking coup de theatre, Emilie and her mother discover, at one and the same moment, that their deliverer is the son of Mrs. Somers, and that the fortunes of their house are restored. Every thing, of course, is now in a fair train for the catastrophe-but the mother has scruples about Mr. Somers's want of nobility.

'Some conversation passed between Lady Littleton and Mrs. Somers, about a dormant title, in the Somers' family, which might be revived; and this made a wonderful impression on the Countess. She yielded, as she did every thing else, with a good grace. History does not say, whether she did or did not console M. de Brisac; we are only informed, that, inmediately after her daughter's marriage, she returned to Paris, and gave a splendid ball at her Hotel de Coulanges. We are farther assured, that Mrs. Somers never quarrelled with Emilie, from the day of her marriage till the day of her death-But this is incredible.' Vol. V. p. 199.

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We come now to the last, the longest, and by far the most interesting of these tales. It is entitled, The Absentee;' and it is intended to expose the folly and misery of renouncing the respectable character of country ladies and gentlemen, to push through intolerable expense, and more intolerable scorn, into the outer circles of fashion in London. That the case may be sufficiently striking, Miss Edgeworth has taken her example in an Irish family, of large fortune, and considerable rank in the peerage; and has enriched her main story with a greater variety of collateral incidents and characters, than in any of her other productions.

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Lord and Lady Clonbrony are the absentees;—and they are so, because Lady Clonbrony is smitten with the ambition of making a figure in the fashionable circles of London;-where her very eagerness obstructs her success; and her inward shame, and affected contempt for her native country, only make her national accent, and all her other nationalities more remarkable. She has a niece, however, a Miss Grace Nugent, who is full of gentleness, and talent, and love for Ireland-and a son, Lord Colambre, who, though educated in England, has very much. of his cousin's propensities. The first part of the story represents the various mortifications and repulses which Lady Clonbrony encounters, in her grand attempt to be very fashionable in London-the embarrassments, and gradual declension into low company, of Lord Clonbrony-the plots to marry Lord Colambre to an heiress-and the growth of his attachment to Miss Nugent, who shares his regret for the ridicule which his mother is at so much expense to excite, and his wish to snatch her from a career at once so inglorious and so full of peril. Partly to avoid his mother's importunities about the heiress, and partly to escape from the fascinations of Miss Nugent, whose want of fortune and high sense of duty seem to forbid all hopes of their union, he sets out on a visit to Ireland; where the chief interest of the story begins. There are here many admirable delineations of Irish character, in both extremes of life; and a very natural development of all its most remarkable features. At first, his Lordship is very nearly entangled in the spells of Lady Dashfort and her daaghter; and is led by their arts to form rather an unfavourable opinion of his countrymen. An accidental circumstance, however, disclosing the artful and unprincipled character of these fair ladies, he breaks from his bondage, and travels incog. to his father's two estates of Colambre and Clonbrony; the one flourishing under the management of a conscientious and active agent; the other going to ruin under the dominion of an unprincipled oppressor. In both places, he sees a great deal of the native politeness, native wit, and kindheartedness of the lower Irish; and makes an acquaintance at the latter with one group of Catholic cottagers, more interesting, and more beautifully painted in the simple colouring of nature, than all the Arcadians of pastoral or romance. After detecting the frauds and villany of the tyrannical agent, he hurries back to London, to tell his story to his father; and arrives just in time to hinder him from being irretrievably entangled in his snares. He and Miss Nugent now make joint suit to Lady Clonbrony to retire for a while to Ireland, an application in which they are powerfully seconded by the terrors of an execution in the house; and at last enabled to succeed, by a solemn promise that

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