I advanced to the side over-against her: they were all too large. The beautiful Grisset measured them one by one across my hand- It would not alter the dimensionsShe begg'd I would try a single pair, which seemed to be the least- She held it open-my hand slipped into it at once- It will not do, said I, shaking my head a littleNo, said she, doing the same thing.

There are certain combined looks of simple subtletywhere whim, and sense, and seriousness, and nonsense, are so blended, that all the languages of Babel set loose together could not express them-they are communicated and caught so instantaneously, that you can scarce say which party is the infector. I leave it to your men of words to swell pages about it-it is enough in the present to say again, the gloves would not do; so folding our hands within our arms, we both loll'd upon the counter-it was narrow, and there was just room for the parcel to lay between us.

The beautiful Grisset look'd sometimes at the gloves, then side-ways to the window, then at the gloves-and then at me. I was not disposed to break silence- I follow'd her example: so I look'd at the gloves, then to the window, then at the gloves, and then at her-and so on alternately.

I found I lost considerably in every attack-she had a quick black eye, and shot through two such long and silken eye-lashes with such penetration, that she look'd into my very heart and reins- It may seem strange, but I could actually feel she did

It is no matter, said I, taking up a couple of the pairs next me, and putting them into my pocket.

I was sensible the beautiful Grisset had not ask'd above a single livre above the price I wish'd she had ask'd a livre more, and was puzzling my brains how to bring the matter about- Do you think, my dear Sir, said she, mis

taking my embarrassment, that I could ask a sous too much of a stranger-and of a stranger whose politeness, more than his want of gloves, has done me the honour to lay himself at my mercy?-M'en croyez capable? 2-Faith! not I, said I; and if you were, you are welcome- So counting the money into her hand, and with a lower bow than one generally makes to a shopkeeper's wife, I went out, and her lad with his parcel followed me. From The Sentimental Journey.

IN

HORACE WALPOLE (1717-1797)

N his Last Journals Walpole wrote, "Fortune, as usual, befriended me more than either my art or industry." He was most truly fortunate in that he was able to do what he pleased and to go where he pleased. As a member of an important family he was welcome in the best society of London and Paris. Although he was the son of one of England's famous prime ministers, he cared little for an active life in politics. He preferred to be a spectator of the life about him and to indulge his whims. Since he felt that the greatest sin was dullness, he was a man of wide and varied interests. He was essentially a collector not only of prints and antiques but also of anecdotes and gossip. In his letters and journals he recorded what he had heard and what he thought about people and events. His style was easy and well adapted to his correspondents. He was a great letter writer because he wrote as though he were chatting with his friends about the events of his day.

Walpole's prime interest was his estate, Strawberry Hill. Here he could display his collections, experiment in landscape gardening, and produce from his private printing press elegant limited editions of the books he fancied. It was a home to which he could always retire from London society or from his trips abroad. Walpole's aim in life was the pursuit of happiness. This goal he strove to attain by paying much attention to trifles and disregarding the serious. He turned his back upon what he did not like and sought the amusing. He was ever a dilettante, who abandoned a subject as soon as it lost his interest.

Walpole's numerous letters covering a period of more than sixty years touch every side of the social and political life of the time. They are a minute record of its littleness and intrigues, as well as of its accomplishments. His opinions, particularly of the writers of his day, are not always based on sound judgment, but they are valuable because they show the man. If he was artificial and cynical, so was the society in which he lived.

TO THE EARL OF STRATFORD 1

BERKELEY-SQUARE, Nov. 27, 1781.

Each fresh mark of your lordship's kindness and friendship calls on me for thanks and an answer: every other reason would enjoin me silence. I not only grow so old, but the symptoms of age increase so fast, that, as they advise me to keep out of the world, that retirement makes me less fit to be informing or entertaining. The philosophers who have sported on the verge of the tomb, or they who have affected to sport in the same situation, both tacitly implied that it was not out of their thoughts-and however dear what we are going to leave may be, all that is not particularly dear must cease to interest us much. If those reflections blend themselves with our gayest thoughts, must not their hue grow more dusty when public misfortunes and disgraces cast a general shade? The age, it is true, soon emerges out of every gloom, and wantons as before. But does not that levity imprint a still deeper melancholy on those who do think? Have any of our calamities corrected us? Are we not revelling on the brink of the precipice? Does administration grow more sage, or desire that we should grow more sober? Are these themes for letters, my dear lord? Can one repeat common news with indifference, while our shame is writing for future history by the pens of all our numerous enemies? When did England see two whole armies lay down their arms and surrender themselves prisoners? Can venal addresses efface such stigmas, that will be recorded in every country in Europe? Or will such disgraces have no consequences? Is not America lost to us? Shall we offer up more human victims to the demon of obstinacy-and shall we tax ourselves deeper to furnish out the sacrifice? These are thoughts I cannot stifle at the

moment that enforces them; and though I do not doubt but the same spirit of dissipation that has swallowed up all our principles, will reign again in three days with its wonted sovereignty, I had rather be silent than vent my indignation. Yet I cannot talk, for I cannot think, on any other subject. It was not six days ago, that in the height of four raging wars I saw in the papers an account of the opera and of the dresses of the company; and thence the town, and thence of course the whole nation, were informed that Mr. F― had very little powder in his hair. Would not one think that our newspapers were penned by boys just come from school for the information of their sisters and cousins? Had we had Gazettes and Morning Posts in those days, would they have been filled with such tittle-tattle after the battle of Agincourt, or in the more resembling weeks after the battle of Naseby? Did the French trifle equally even during the ridiculous war of the Fronde? If they were as impertinent then, at least they had wit in their levity. We are monkeys in conduct, and as clumsy as bears when we try to gambol. Oh! my lord! I have no patience with my country! and shall leave it without regret!-Can we be proud when all Europe scorns us? It was wont to envy us, sometimes to hate us, but never despised us before. James the First was contemptible, but he did not lose an America! His eldest grandson sold us, his younger lost us—but we kept ourselves.-Now we have run to meet the ruin-and it is coming!

I beg your lordship's pardon if I have said too much-but I do not believe I have. You have never sold yourself, and therefore, have not been accessory to our destruction. You must be happy now not to have a son, who would live to grovel in the dregs of England. Your lordship has long been so wise as to secede from the follies of your countrymen.