to pride, no offence to morality.  Thus have I laid open to you my whole heart, confessed my perplexities, acknowledged my vain glory and exposed, with equal sincerity, the sources of my doubts and the motives of my decision.  But now, indeed, how to proceed I know not.  The difficulties which are yet to encounter I fear to enumerate, and the petition I have to urge I have scarce courage to mention.  My family, mistaking ambition for honour and rank for dignity, have long planned a splendid connection for me, to which, though my invariable repugnance has stopped any advances, their wishes and their views immoveably adhere.  I am but too certain they will now listen to no other.  I dread, therefore, to make a trial where I despair of success.  I know not how to risk a prayer with those who may silence me by a command.”

Take now a specimen of Madame D’Arblay’s later style.  This is the way in which she tells us that her father, on his journey back from the Continent, caught the rheumatism.

“He was assaulted, during his precipitated return, by the rudest fierceness of wintry elemental strife; through which, with bad accommodations and innumerable accidents, he became a prey to the merciless pangs of the acutest spasmodic rheumatism, which barely suffered him to reach his home ere, long and piteously, it confined him, a tortured prisoner, to his bed.  Such was the check that almost instantly curbed, though it could not subdue, the rising pleasure of his hopes of entering upon a new species of existence-that of an approved man of letters ; for it was on the bed of sickness, exchanging the light wines of France, Italy and Germany, for the black and loathsome potions of the Apothecaries’ hall, writhed by darting stitches and burning with fiery fever, that he felt the full force of that sublunary equipoise that seems evermore to hang suspended over the attainment of long-sought and uncommon felicity, just as it is ripening to burst forth with enjoyment!”

Here is a second passage from “Evelina.”

“Mrs. Selwyn is very kind and attentive to me.  She is extremely clever.  Her understanding, indeed, may be called masculine; but unfortunately her manners deserve the same epithet, for, in studying to acquire the knowledge of the other sex, she has lost all the softness of her own.  In regard to myself, however, as I have neither courage nor inclination to argue with her, I have never been personally hurt at her want of gentleness -a virtue which nevertheless seems so essential a part of the female character, that I find myselfmore awkward and less at ease with a woman who wants it than I do with a man.”

This is a good style of its kind, and the following passage from “Cecilia” is also in a good style, though not in a faultless one.  We say with confidence-either Sam Johnson or the devil.

“Even the imperious Mr. Delville was more supportable here than in London.  Secure in his own castle, he looked round him with a pride of power and possession which softened while it swelled him.  Hissuperiority was undisputed:  his will was without control.  He was not, as inthe the great capital of the kingdom, surrounded by competitors.  No rivalry disturbed his peace; no equality mortified his greatness.  All he saw were either vassals of his power, or guests bending to his pleasure.  He abated, there-