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186 ANNUAL REGISTER sinuating, and has "her winning ways." A wretched levity of thought, delivered at random in an incoherent style, passes current for sentiment; and so alertly has this mental jargon played its part, that our young ladies begin to throw out Steele and Addison to make room for H—— and De Vergy. An ingenious author of this age has given us in a few lines the following admirable receipt to make a modern novel: Take a subject that's grave, with a moral that's good, Throw in all the temptations that virtue withstood; And pray let your hero be handsome and young, Taste, wit, and fine sentiment flow from his tongue; And his delicate feelings be sure to improve With passion, with tender soft rapture, and love. Add some incidents too, which I like above measure. Such as those I have read, are esteemed as a treasure In a book that's entitled—The Woman of Pleasure; Mix well, and you'll find 'twill a novel produce Fit for modest young ladies—to keep it for use. To do justice to the bard, he has chalked out the outlines very gracefully, and justly described the ingredients for making this literary pill operate against morality. But, lest any reader should mistake the author's meaning, here follows a letter, worked up to the very humour of the times, and stamped with the true current mark and signature of 1772. It is fraught with style, manner, and sentiment; and the next worthy gentlemen, who gives a three guinea novel in two volumes, is welcome to insert it in his work. LETTER XVI. Lady Juliana Glanville to Miss Henrietta Wentworth. Heigho! Wentworth! who would have thought it?—What a foolish thing is a fond fluttering heart! How often have you told me what a metal mine was made of!—Hard as it was, O'Brien's eyes have melted it—The dear youth saw and conquered—Your friend is no longer free—O the dear enchanting scenes around Glanville castle, that once delighted my innocent hours—Ye lowering forests—myrtle shades—crystal streams—and cooing turtles—ye have no more charms for me—none—unless O'Brien be there. Rocks from your caves repeat the plaintive strains, And let the mournful tale be echo'd o'er the plains. —And so, my dear, I'll tell you how it was—I went last night to the Grove assembly, in company with the Miss Seymours and that fright Bluffton.—By the bye, my dear, is not that fellow a dreadful creature;—huge and horrid—how I hate him!—So, my dear, as I was saying, we all went together—I dressed in my white sattin and silver, and my hair pinned up with my new Barbelot's brilliant—a-propos—how do you like my last suit of Brussels?—And, just as we were going to cross the style, whom should I see peeping in on the other side For the YEAR 1772. 187 [[2 Columns]] side of the hedge, but—O'Brien! lovely and enchanting as he was when I saw him last winter at Carlisle-house!—I instantly feigned illness, and turned up the lane to return; when O'Brien, with an angel's swiftness, flew over the hedge—and we both dissolved in tears.— O! sweet sensibility! why was my heart formed with more than woman's softness! why was O'Brien formed with more than manly grace!—It was in a bower composed of honeysuckles and jessamine that we reclined—The dear youth spoke a thousand tender things with his eyes, and I answered him with sighs and with blushes—Seated in a deep embowering shade —lips trembling— hearts beating—locked in each other's arms—what a dangerous situation! and the discourse on love! ——— And Oh! his charming tongue Was but too well acquainted with my weakness! He talked of love, and all my melting heart Dissolv'd within my breast. Do you know, Wentworth, that I was violently inclined to play the fool? We found ourselves lavishing encomiums on disinterested love and a cottage. His description was animated to the last degree. My attention was engrossed. He held my hand, tenderly pressed between his, while I listened to his soothing tale. His eyes were still more eloquent than his bewitching tongue. I was almost a lost woman; when, fortunately for me, the idea of squalling brats, and matrimonial bitters, darted across my thoughts. Up I sprang. A fine day for a walk, cried I; and away I tripped. I had nothing for it but flight. He followed me, dejected,—his arms folded. He looked amazingly handsome. But prudence kept her seat in my breast: prudence, you know, is the foil of love. We strolled towards the house, without any other conversation, except expressive sighs on his side—half-stifled ones and stolen glances on mine. I flew to the harpsichord to rouse my spirits. He drew a chair near me; and, leaning on the instrument, fixed his languishing eyes on my face. My fingers involuntarily touched soft plaintive notes. Instead of a sprightly air, out came a ditty, as melancholy as 'The babes in the wood.' He perceived my swimming eyes—he perceived my confusion; and, snatching the moment of love, he threw himself on his knees, looking moving, and swore that, While youthful splendor lighten'd in my eyes, Clear as the smiling glory of the skies, More white than flax my my curling tresses flow'd, My dimpled cheeks with rosy beauty glow'd. Enchanting lines! are not they, Wentworth?—Well! and what followed?—you ask me.—Ay, there's the rub—but positively you shan't know till my next letter.—Heigh-ho! Adieu, Henrietta—and tell me how your affair with the baronet goes on—Adieu, my dear, and remember your sighing, and almost ruined cousin, JULIANA GLANVILLE. What
