rry in another room, the Duke of Buckingham told the king that,
if the physicians would permit a little exercise immediately after a
delivery, the best way to recover Lady Muskerry was to renew the dance
as soon as ever her infant was replaced; this advice was approved, and
accordingly put in execution. The queen proposed, as soon as she
appeared, a second round of country-dances; and Lady Muskerry accepting
the offer, the remedy had its desired effect, and entirely removed every
remembrance of her late mishap.

Whilst these things were passing at the king's court, that of the Duke of
York took a journey on the other side of London; the pretence of this
journey was to visit the county whose name he bore; but love was the real
motive. The duchess, since her elevation, had conducted herself with
such prudence and circumspection, as could not be sufficiently admired:
such were her manners, and such the general estimation in which she was
held, that she appeared to have found out the secret of pleasing every
one; a secret yet more rare than the grandeur to which she had been
raised: but, after having gained universal esteem, she was desirous of
being more particularly beloved; or, more properly speaking, malicious
Cupid assaulted her heart, in spite of the discretion, prudence, and
reason, with which she had fortified it.

In vain had she said to herself a hundred times, that if the duke had
been so kind as to do her justice by falling in love with her, he had
done her too much honour by making her his wife; that with respect to his
inconstant disposition, which estranged him from her, she ought to bear
it with patience, until it pleased heaven to produce a change in his
conduct; that the frailties on his part, which might to her appear
injurious, would never justify in her the least deviation from her duty;
and, as resentment was still less allowable, she ought to endeavour to
regain him by a conduct entirely opposite to his own. In vain was it, as
we have said before, that she had long resisted Love and his emissaries
by the help of these maxims: how solid soever reason, and however
obstinate wisdom and virtue may be, there are yet certain attacks which
tire by their length, and, in the end, subdue both reason and virtue
itself.

The Duchess of York was one of the highest feeders in England: as this
was an unforbidden pleasure she indulged herself in it, as an
indemnification for other self-denials. It was really an edi