ternal fidelity, or bewailing
the cruelty of some tyrannical fair one. The interviews, and
declarations, and parting scenes of tender lovers, also bear the marks
of having been frequently read, and are scored and marked with notes
of admiration, and have initials written on the margins; most of which
annotations have the day of the month and year annexed to them.
Several of the windows, too, have scraps of poetry engraved on them
with diamonds, taken from the writings of the fair Mrs. Philips, the
once celebrated Orinda. Some of these seem to have been inscribed by
lovers; and others, in a delicate and unsteady hand, and a little
inaccurate in the spelling, have evidently been written by the young
ladies themselves, or by female friends, who have been on visits to
the Hall. Mrs. Philips seems to have been their favourite author, and
they have distributed the names of her heroes and heroines among their
circle of intimacy. Sometimes, in a male hand, the verse bewails the
cruelty of beauty, and the sufferings of constant love; while in a
female hand it prudishly confines itself to lamenting the parting of
female friends. The bow-window of my bed-room, which has, doubtless,
been inhabited by one of these beauties, has several of these
inscriptions. I have one at this moment before my eyes, called
"Camilla parting with Leonora:"

"How perish'd is the joy that's past,
The present how unsteady!
What comfort can be great and last,
When this is gone already;"

And close by it is another, written, perhaps, by some adventurous
lover, who had stolen into the lady's chamber during her absence:

"THEODOSIUS TO CAMILLA.

I'd rather in your favour live,
Than in a lasting name;
And much a greater rate would give
For happiness than fame.

THEODOSIUS. 1700."

When I look at these faint records of gallantry and tenderness; when I
contemplate the fading portraits of these beautiful girls, and think,
too, that they have long since bloomed, reigned, grown old, died, and
passed away, and with them all their graces, their triumphs, their
rivalries, their admirers; the whole empire of love and pleasure in
which they ruled--"all dead, all buried, all forgotten," I find a
cloud of melancholy stealing over the present gayeties around me. I
was gazing, in a musing mood, this very morning, at the portrait of
the lady whose husband was killed abroad, when the fair Julia entered
the gallery, leaning on the arm of