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the enemy, drive them before them, regain the 'ground they had lost, retrieve the whole affair, pursue the enemy close, trample them under foot or ride over them, entirely disable them, put all • that resist to the sword; and, after having sustain'ed continual discharges of cannon and small shot, ⚫ and gained an entire and complete victory, cause a • retreat to be sounded, and lie on the field of bat❝tle, while the air resounds with the flourishes of • trumpets.'
The above description is contained in an edition of Mr. Boyer's learned and useful work, now become exceedingly scarce. It is there given in French and English; but I choose to publish the translation only, as I mean it for the sole use of our British commanders, from whose practice, at the time of its first publication, (about the beginning of this century,) the description was probably taken. Perhaps, in some late campaigns, our generals had consulted other Dictionaries, containing a much less animated and decisive definition of a battle, than that which I have transcribed from the ingenious Mr. Boyer.
N° 108. SATURDAY, MAY 20, 1780.
Ab, vices! gilded by the rich and gay.
If we examine impartially that estimate of pleasure, which the higher ranks of society are apt to form, we shall probably be surprised to find how little there is in it either of natural feeling or real satisfaction. Many a fashionable voluptuary, who has not totally blunted his taste or his judgment, will own, in the intervals of recollection, how often he has suffered from the insipidity or the pain of his enjoyments and that, if it were not for the fear of being laughed at, it were sometimes worth while, even on the score of pleasure, to be virtuous. Sir Edward to whom I had the pleasure of being introduced at Florence, was a character much beyond that which distinguishes the generality of English travellers of fortune. His story was known to some of his countrymen who then resided in Italy; from one of whom, who could now and then talk of something besides pictures and operas, I had a particular recital of it.
He had been first abroad at an early period of life, soon after the death of his father had left him master of a very large estate, which he had the good fortune to inherit, and all the inclination natural to youth to enjoy. Though always sumptuous, however, and sometimes profuse, he was observed never to be ridiculous in his expences; and, though he was. now and then talked of as a man of pleasure and dis
sipation, he always left behind more instances of beneficence than of irregularity. For that respect and esteem in which his character, amidst all his little errors, was generally held, he was supposed a good deal indebted to the society of a gentleman, who had been his companion at the university, and now attended him rather as a friend than a tutor. This gentleman was, unfortunately, seized at Marseilles with a lingering disorder, for which he was under the necessity of taking a sea-voyage, leaving Sir Edward to prosecute the remaining part of his intended tour alone.
Descending into one of the vallies of Piedmont, where, notwithstanding the ruggedness of the road, Sir Edward, with a prejudice natural to his country, preferred the conveyance of an English hunter to that of an Italian mule, his horse unluckily made a false step, and fell with his rider to the ground, from which Sir Edward was lifted by his servants with scarce any signs of life. They conveyed him on a litter to the nearest house, which happened to be the dwelling of a peasant rather above the common rank, before whose door some of his neighbours were assembled at a scene of rural merriment, when the train of Sir Edward brought up their master in the condition I have described. The compassion natural to his situation was excited in all; but the owner of the mansion, whose name was Venoni, was particularly moved with it. He applied himself immediately to the care of the stranger, and, with the assistance of his daughter, who had left the dance she was engaged in, with great marks of agitation, soon restored Sir Edward to sense and life. Venoni possessed some little skill in surgery, and his daughter_produced a book of receipts in medicine. Sir Edward, after being blooded, was put to bed, and tended with every possible care by his
host and his family. A considerable degree of fever was the consequence of his accident: but after some days it abated; and in little more than a week he was able to join in the society of Venoni and his daughter.
He could not help expressing some surprise at the appearance of refinement in the conversation of the latter, much beyond what her situation seemed likely to confer. Her father accounted for it. She had received her education in the house of a lady, who happened to pass through the valley, and to take shelter in Venoni's cottage (for his house was but a better sort of cottage) the night of her birth. When her mother died,' said he, the Signora,
• whose name, at her desire, we had given the child, took her home to her own house; there she was 'taught many things, of which there is no need here; yet she is not so proud of her learning as to wish to leave her father in his old age; and I hope
soon to have her settled near me for life.'
But Sir Edward had now an opportunity of knowing Louisa better than from the description of her father. Music and painting, in both of which arts she was a tolerable proficient, Sir Edward had studied with success. Louisa felt a sort of pleasure from her drawings, which they had never given her before, when they were praised by Sir Edward; and the family-concerts of Venoni were very different from what they had formerly been, when once his guest was so far recovered as to be able to join in them. The flute of Venoni excelled all the other music of the valley; his daughter's lute was much beyond it; Sir Edward's violin was finer than either. But his conversation with Louisa-it was that of a superior order of beings!-science, taste, sentiment! -it was long since Louisa had heard these sounds; amidst the ignorance of the valley, it was luxury
to hear them; from Sir Edward, who was one of the most engaging figures I ever saw, they were doubly delightful. In his countenance, there was always an expression animated and interesting; his sickness had overcome somewhat of the first, but greatly added to the power of the lat
Louisa's was no less captivating-and Sir Edward had not seen it so long without emotion. During his illness he thought this emotion but gratitude; and, when it first grew warmer, he checked it; from the thought of her situation, and of the debt he owed her. But the struggle was too ineffectual to overcome; and, of consequence, increased his passion. There was but one way in which the pride of Sir Edward allowed of its being gratified. He sometimes thought of this as a base and unworthy one; but he was the fool of words which he had often despised, the slave of manners he had often condemned. He at last compromised matters with himself; he resolved, if he could, to think no more of Louisa; at any rate, to think no more of the ties of gratitude, or the restraints of virtue.
Louisa, who trusted to both, now communicated to Sir Edward an important secret. It was at the close of a piece of music which they had been playing in the absence of her father. She took her lute, and touched a little wild melancholy air, which she had composed to the memory of her mother. 'That,' said she, nobody ever heard except my father; I play it sometimes when I am alone, and in low spirits.
I don't know how I came to think of it now; yet I have some reason to be sad.' Sir Edward pressed to know the cause; after some hesitation she told it all. Her father had fixed on the son of a neighbour, rich in possessions, but rude in manners, for her husband. Against this