Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 011.djvu/52

lication. I rushed to my writing-desk, tore my neat manuscript from its concealment, and with the unpitying resolution of a Brutus or a Manlius, consigned my undeserving offspring to the flames. I watched the devouring element. In a few moments all was reduced to ashes. I swore over the mouldering remains "that I would henceforth be rhyme-proof till my last breath;" and as no muse or nymph appeared to crush my "infant-aith," I have persevered in my resolution. I then sat down to ruminate upon my engagement with Martha Anne—her poetical name had expired, Fiordelisa was no more. Engaged to her I was by a thousand tender vows, and her heart, I felt well assured, was firmly, irrevocably mine. I had promised that as soon as I came of age I would endeavour to procure my father's consent to our union; and how often had I talked of the "leaden pinions" upon which the intervening months would move! Now, however, I began to discover that a pretty simpleton could not long retain my affections; I remembered that

I became suddenly alive to all the discomforts of an ill-assorted unions

It may be remembered that Mr. Edgeworth in his Memoirs tells us that he attached himself inconsiderately, and like me discovered his delusion; that he opened his mind to his affianced, offered her his hand if she chose to accept it, married her, and made her a bad husband. The honour of such a proceeding is universally allowed; nothing can be more honourable than to make a woman miserable for ever as your wife, instead of miserable for a few months by your inconstancy. To consign a woman to neglect and tears rather than be pointed at as an inconstant, may be honourable, but it is not humane; it is saying, I will be kind only to be cruel, I will purchase the approbation of the world by the sacrifice of my own happiness and that of my unfortunate wife.

I mused for half an hour on the awkwardness of my situation, and then, claiming the "high privilege of youthful time," put aside every uncomfortable reflection, hurried into the drawing-room to talk and flirt, and play chess, and sing duets with Mrs. G., and determined to leave my fate to fortune. She proved a kinder mistress than I either expected or deserved. In my next letter to Martha Anne, I called her by her real name, and announced my resolution not to publish my poems. When I returned to Oxford, she had just eloped with a youth of eighteen; and I am ashamed to say that my pride was much hurt by her dereliction. A fortnight or three weeks elapsed before I was properly grateful for my escape.

I now took to study, and resolved never to be in love in term-time. To make up, however, for so severe a deprivation, I generally lost heart four times every long vacation, and twice every shorter one. My father heard of my approaching marriage in every direction, but was comforted when he found that no two people assigned me to the same bride. I proved the truth of Addison's assertion, that "there is no end of affection taken in at the eyes only," and, unwarned by former escapes, continued to dress every pretty woman I met, in a thousand imaginary perfections. I was only saved by fortunate chances, from offering my hand to three simpletons, and as many viragoes; and as I