a few days after he had left the town in which he had condemned her to die.

March 10, 179-.

The last dying Words, Speech, and Confession, birth, parentage, and education, life, character, and behaviour, of Agnes Primrose, who was executed this morning between the hours of ten and twelve, pursuant to the sentence passed upon her by the Honourable Justice Norwynne.

'Agnes Primrose was born of honest parents, in the village of Anfield, in the county of [William

started at the name of the village and county]; ‘but being led astray by the arts and flattery of seducing man, she fell from the paths of virtue, and took to bad company, which instilled into her young heart all their evil ways, and at length brought her to this untimely end. So she hopes her death will be a warning to all young persons of her own sex, how they listen to the praises and courtship of young men, especially of those who are their betters; for they only court to deceive. But the said Agnes freely forgives all persons who have done her injury or given her sorrow, from the young man who first won her heart, to the jury who found her guilty, and the judge who condemned her to death.

'And she acknowledges the justice of her sentence, not only in respect of her crime for which she suffers, but in regard to many other heinous sins of which she has been guilty, more especially that of once attempting to commit a murder upon her own helpless child; for which guilt she now considers the vengeance of God has overtaken her, to which she is patiently resigned, and departs in peace and charity with all the world, praying the Lord to have mercy on her parting soul.'

POSTSCRIPT TO THE CONFESSION.

'So great was this unhappy woman's terror of death and the awful judgment that was to follow, that when sentence was pronounced upon her she fell into a swoon, from that into convulsions, from which she never entirely recovered, but was delirious to the time of her execution, except that short interval in which she made her confession to the clergyman who attended her. She has left one child, a youth almost sixteen, who has never forsaken his mother during all the time of her imprisonment, but waited on her with true filial duty; and no sooner was her final sentence passed than he began to droop, and now lies dangerously ill near the prison from which she is released by death. During the loss of her senses, the said Agnes Primrose raved continually of her child; and, asking for pen, ink, and paper, wrote an incoherent petition to the judge, recommending the youth to his protection and mercy; but notwithstanding this insanity, she behaved with composure and resignation when the fatal morning arrived in which she was to be launched into eternity. She prayed devoutly during the last hour, and seemed to have her whole mind fixed on the world to which she was going. A crowd of spectators followed her to the fatal spot, most of whom returned weeping at the recollection of the fervency with which she prayed, and the impression which her dreadful state seemed to make upon her.'

No sooner had the name of Anfield' struck William than a thousand reflections and remembrances flushed on his mind to give him full conviction who it was he had judged and sentenced. He recollected the sad

remains of Agnes, such as he once had known her; and now he wondered how his thoughts could have been absent from an object so pitiable, so worthy of his attention, as not to give him even suspicion who she was, either from her name or from her person, during the whole trial. But wonder, astonishment, horror, and every other sensation was absorbed by-remorse, It wounded, it stabbed, it rent his hard heart as it would do a tender one: it havocked on his firm inflexible mind as it would on a weak and pliant brain! Spirit of Agnes! look down, and behold all your wrongs revenged! William feels-remorse.

There is a cumbrous Life of Mrs Inchbald (1833) compiled by Boaden from a journal she had kept for fifty years, and from her letters to friends; and a Memoir by W. Bell Scott prefixed to a new edition of A Simple Story (1880).

Fanny Burney (Madame D'Arblay).

The author of Evelina and Cecilia was the wonder and delight of the generation of novelreaders after that of Fielding and Smollett. Frances Burney was the second daughter of Charles Burney, Mus. Doc. (1726–1814), author of the History of Music, who seems to have been of Scottish origin, the grandson of James MacBurney, a land-steward in Shropshire, whose son dropped the Mac, and was ultimately a dancing master. Fanny was born at Lynn-Regis, 13th June 1752. Her father was then organist in Lynn, but in 1760 he returned to London; among his familiar friends and visitors were David Garrick, Sir Robert Strange the engraver, the poets Mason and Armstrong, and Barry the painter. One is not surprised to learn that all Burney's children distinguished themselves: the eldest, Rear-Admiral James Burney (1750-1821), accompanied Captain Cook in two of his voyages, and was author of a History of Voyages of Discovery and an Account of the Russian Eastern Voyages; the second, Dr Charles Burney (1757-1817), wrote critical works on the Greek classics, was a prebendary of Lincoln, and one of the king's chaplains; and Sarah, the youngest daughter, was also a novelist. Fanny was long held to be a sort of prodigy. At eight she did not even know her letters, but was shrewd and observant; at fifteen she had written several stories, plays, and poems, and was a great reader, even a critic. Her authorship was continued in secret, her sister only being admitted to her confidence. Thus she sketched out the plot of Evelina; but it was not published till January 1778, when 'little Fanny' was in her twenty-sixth year. When it was offered to Dodsley, the worthy publisher 'declined looking at anything anonymous' Another bookseller, named Lowndes, gave £20 for the manuscript; and Evelina, or a Young Lady's Entrance into the World, soon became the talk of the town. Dr Burney, in the fullness of his heart, told Mrs Thrale that 'our Fanny' was the author; and Dr Johnson, whom Fanny had met first on 20th March 1777, protested to Mrs Thrale that there were passages in it which might do honour to Richardson. Miss Burney was invited by the

Thrales to Streatham, and there she met the illustrious band of friends of whom we have ample notices in the Diary. Wherever she went, to London, Brighton, Bath, or Tunbridge, Evelina was the theme of praise, and Miss Burney the happiest of authors. In 1782 appeared her Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress, for whose first edition of two thousand copies she received £250. It is more highly finished-and laboured-than Evelina, but less rich in amusing characters and dialogue. In 1785 Miss Burney went on a visit to Mrs Delany, a venerable lady, the friend of Swift, once connected with the court, who now lived on a pension at Windsor; here she was introduced to the king and queen, and speedily became a favourite. The result was that in 1786 she was appointed second keeper of the robes to Queen Charlotte, with a salary of £200 a year, a footman, apartments in the palace, and a coach between her and her colleague. The post was but splendid slavery. I was averse to the union,' said Miss Burney, and I endeavoured to escape it; but my friends interfered-they prevailed-and the knot is tied.' The queen was a considerate mistress; but the etiquette and formality of the court, and the unremitting attention its irksome duties required, rendered the position peculiarly disagreeable to one who had been so long flattered and courted by the brilliant society of her day. Her colleague, Mrs Schwellenberg, a coarse-minded, jealous, disagreeable German favourite, was also a perpetual source of annoyance; and poor Fanny at court was worse off than her heroine Cecilia was in choosing among her guardians. Her first official duty was to mix the queen's snuff, and keep her box always replenished; then she was admitted to the great business of the toilet, helping Her Majesty off and on with her dresses, and being in strict attendance from six or seven in the morning till twelve at night! At length in July 1791 she was permitted to retire with a pension of £100 a year; and in 1793 she married a French émigré, General D'Arblay, whom she had met when staying with a married sister near Dorking. Resuming her pen, in 1795 she produced a tragedy, Edwin and Elgitha, which was brought out at Drury Lane; it had at least one novelty-there were three bishops among the dramatis persona. Mrs Siddons played the heroine; but in the dying scene, where the lady is brought from behind a hedge to expire before the audience, and is afterwards carried once more to the back of the hedge, the house was convulsed with laughter. Her next effort was her novel of Camilla (1796), which she published by subscription, and realised by it no less than three thousand guineas; out of the proceeds she built Camilla Cottage, Mickleham, near Dorking. In 1802 Madame D'Arblay joined her husband in Paris. Napoleon gave him a small civil appointment, and Madame D'Arblay lived at Passy till, in 1812, she returned with their son to England. Her success in prose fiction urged her

to another trial, and in 1814 she produced The Wanderer, or Female Difficulties, a tedious tale in five volumes, which had no other merit than that of also bringing the authoress the large sum of £3000. The only other literary labour of Madame D'Arblay was a stilted Memoir of her father, Dr Burney, published in 1832. Her husband and her sonthe Rev. Alexander D'Arblay of Camden Town Chapel-both predeceased her, the former in 1818, and the latter in 1837. Three years after her bereavement, Madame D'Arblay herself died at Bath, 6th January 1840, at the great age of eighty-seven. Her Diary and Letters, edited by her niece, was published in 1842-46 in seven

volumes. It might with great advantage have been judiciously condensed; with its clever sketches of society and court manners, and its anecdotes of Johnson, Burke, Reynolds, and the rest, it is in any case exceptionally entertaining and valuable; but at least half of it is filled with unimportant details and private gossip, and the self-admiring weakness of the authoress shines out in almost every page. Miss Burney's early novels have left the most pleasing memorials of her name and history. In them we see her quick in discernment, lively in invention, and in her own way inimitable at portraying the humours and oddities of English society. Her good sense and correct feeling are more noticeable than her passion. Her lovescenes are prosaic enough; but in 'shewing up' a party of 'vulgarly genteel' persons, painting the characters in a drawing-room, or catching the follies and absurdities that float on the surface of fashionable society, she has rarely been equalled. She deals with the palpable and familiar; and

though society has changed since the time of Evelina, and the glory of Ranelagh and Marylebone Gardens has departed, there is enough of life in her personages and point in her lessons to interest, amuse, and instruct-her sarcasm, drollery, and rich humour must always be relished. The first extract is from Evelina, the others are all from the Diary.

A Game of Highway Robbery.

When we had been out near two hours, and expected every moment to stop at the place of our destination, I observed that Lady Howard's servant, who attended us on horseback, rode on forward till he was out of sight, and soon after returning, came up to the chariot window, and delivering a note to Madame Duval, said he had met a boy who was just coming with it to Howard Grove, from the clerk of Mr Tyrell.

While she was reading it, he rode round to the other window, and making a sign for secrecy, put into my hand a slip of paper, on which was written, 'Whatever happens, be not alarmed, for you are safe, though you endanger all mankind!'

I really imagined that Sir Clement must be the author of this note, which prepared me to expect some disagreeable adventure: but I had no time to ponder upon it, for Madame Duval had no sooner read her own letter, than, in an angry tone of voice, she exclaimed: 'Why, now, what a thing is this; here we're come all this way for nothing!'

She then gave me the note, which informed her that she need not trouble herself to go to Mr Tyrell's, as the prisoner had had the address to escape. I congratulated her upon this fortunate incident; but she was so much concerned at having rode so far in vain that she seemed less pleased than provoked. However, she ordered the man to make what haste he could home, as she hoped at least to return before the captain should suspect what had passed.

The carriage turned about, and we journeyed so quietly for near an hour that I began to flatter myself we should be suffered to proceed to Howard Grove without further molestation, when, suddenly, the footman called out: John, are we going right?'

"Why, I ain't sure,' said the coachman; but I'm afraid we turned wrong.'

'What do you mean by that, sirrah?' said Madame Duval. Why, if you lose your way, we shall be all in the dark.'

'I think we should turn to the left,' said the foot

jaunt for nothing, I suppose we shan't get home to-night.'

'Let's go back to the public-house,' said the footman, and ask for a guide.'

'No, no,' said the other; if we stay here a few minutes, somebody or other will pass by; and the horses are almost knocked up already.'

'Well, I protest,' cried Madame Duval, 'I'd give a guinea to see them sots horsewhipped. As sure as I'm alive, they're drunk. Ten to one but they'll overturn us next.'

After much debating, they at length agreed to go on till we came to some inn, or met with a passenger who could direct us. We soon arrived at a small farm-house, and the footman alighted and went into it. In a few minutes he returned, and told us we might proceed, for that he had procured a direction. But,' added he, 'it seems there are some thieves hereabouts. and so the best way will be for you to leave your watches and purses with the farmer, whom I know very well, and who is an honest man, and a tenant of my lady's.' Thieves!' cried Madame Duval, looking aghast; 'the Lord help us! I've no doubt but we shall be all murdered!'

The farmer came to us, and we gave him all we were worth, and the servants followed our example. We then proceeded; and Madame Duval's anger so entirely subsided that, in the mildest manner imaginable, she entreated them to make haste, and promised to tell their lady how diligent and obliging they had been. She perpetually stopped them to ask if they appre hended any danger, and was at length so much overpowered by her fears that she made the footman fasten his horse to the back of the carriage and then come and seat himself within it. My endeavours to encourage her were fruitless; she sat in the middle, held the man by the arm, and protested that if he did but save her life, she would make his fortune. Her uneasiness gave me much concern, and it was with the utmost difficulty I forbore to acquaint her that she was imposed upon; but the mutual fear of the captain's resentment to me, and of her own to him, neither of which would have any moderation, deterred me. As to the footman, he was evidently in torture from restraining his laughter, and I observed that he was frequently obliged to make most horrid grimaces from pretended fear, in order to conceal his risibility.

Very soon after, 'The robbers are coming!' cried the coachman.

The footman opened the door, and jumped out of the chariot.

Madame Duval gave a loud scream.

I could no longer preserve my silence. For Heaven's sake, my dear madam,' said I, 'don't be alarmed; you are in no danger; you are quite safe; there is nothing but '-

Here the chariot was stopped by two men in masks, who at each side put in their hands, as if for our purses. Madame Duval sank to the bottom of the chariot, and implored their mercy. I shrieked involuntarily, although prepared for the attack: one of them held me fast, while the other tore poor Madame Duval out of the carriage, in spite of her cries, threats, and

resistance.

I was really frightened, and trembled exceedingly.

'My angel!' cried the man who held me, 'you cannot surely be alarmed. Do you not know me? I shall hold myself in eternal abhorrence if I have really terrified you.' 'Indeed, Sir Clement, you have,' cried I; but, for Heaven's sake, where is Madame Duval?-why is she forced away?'

'She is perfectly safe; the captain has her in charge; but suffer me now, my adored Miss Anville, to take the only opportunity that is allowed me to speak upon another, a much dearer, much sweeter subject.'

And then he hastily came into the chariot, and seated himself next to me. I would fain have disengaged myself from him, but he would not let me. 'Deny

me not, most charming of women,' cried he-' deny me not this only moment lent me to pour forth my soul into your gentle ears, to tell you how much I suffer from your absence, how much I dread your displeasure, and how cruelly I am affected by your coldness!'

'Oh sir, this is no time for such language; pray, leave me; pray, go to the relief of Madame Duval ; I cannot bear that she should be treated with such indignity.'

'And will you-can you command my absence? When may I speak to you, if not now?—does the captain suffer me to breathe a moment out of his sight?—and are not a thousand impertinent people for ever at your elbow?'

'Indeed, Sir Clement, you must change your style, or I will not hear you. The impertinent people you mean are among my best friends, and you would not, if you really wished me well, speak of them so disrespectfully.'

'Wish you well! O Miss Anville, point but out to me how, in what manner, I may convince you of the fervour of my passion-tell me but what services you will accept from me, and you shall find my life, my fortune, my whole soul at your devotion.'

'I want nothing, sir, that you can offer. I beg you not to talk to me so-so strangely. Pray, leave me ; and pray, assure yourself you cannot take any method so successless to shew any regard for me as entering into schemes so frightful to Madame Duval, and so disagreeable to myself.'

'The scheme was the captain's; I even opposed it; though I own I could not refuse myself the so-longwished for happiness of speaking to you once more without so many of your friends to watch me. And I had flattered myself that the note I charged the footman to give you would have prevented the alarm you have received.'

'Perhaps never, sir, if you torment me thus.' 'Never! O Miss Anville, how cruel, how piercing to my soul is that icy word! Indeed, I cannot endure such displeasure.'

'Then, sir, you must not provoke it. Pray, leave me directly.'

'I will, madam; but let me at least make a merit of my obedience-allow me to hope that you will in future be less averse to trusting yourself for a few moments alone with me.'

I was surprised at the freedom of this request; but

while I hesitated how to answer it, the other mask came up to the chariot door, and in a voice almost stifled with laughter, said: 'I've done for her! The old buck is safe; but we must sheer off directly, or we shall be all aground.'

Sir Clement instantly left me, mounted his horse, and rode off. The captain, having given some directions to his servants, followed him.

I was both uneasy and impatient to know the fate of Madame Duval, and immediately got out of the chariot to seek her. I desired the footman to shew me which way she was gone; he pointed with his finger, by way of answer, and I saw that he dared not trust his voice to make any other. I walked on at a very quick pace, and soon, to my great consternation, perceived the poor lady seated upright in a ditch. I flew to her, with unfeigned concern at her situation. She was sobbing, nay, almost roaring, and in the utmost agony of rage and terror. As soon as she saw me she redoubled her cries, but her voice was so broken, I could not understand a word she said. I was so much shocked that it was with difficulty I forbore exclaiming against the cruelty of the captain for thus wantonly ill-treating her, and I could not forgive myself for having passively suffered the deception. I used my utmost endeavours to comfort her, assuring her of our present safety, and begging her to rise and return to the chariot.

Almost bursting with passion, she pointed to her feet, and with frightful violence she actually beat the ground with her hands.

I then saw that her feet were tied together with a strong rope, which was fastened to the upper branch of a tree, even with a hedge which ran along the ditch where she sat. I endeavoured to untie the knot, but soon found it was infinitely beyond my strength. I was therefore obliged to apply to the footman; but being very unwilling to add to his mirth by the sight of Madame Duval's situation, I desired him to lend me a knife. I returned with it, and cut the rope. Her feet were soon disentangled, and then, though with great difficulty, I assisted her to rise. But what was my astonishment, when, the moment she was up, she hit me a violent slap on the face! I retreated from her with precipitation and dread, and she then loaded me with reproaches, which, though almost unintelligible, convinced me that she imagined I had voluntarily deserted her; but she seemed not to have the slightest suspicion that she had not been attacked by real robbers.

I was so much surprised and confounded at the blow that for some time I suffered her to rave without making any answer; but her extreme agitation and real suffering soon dispelled my anger, which all turned into compassion. I then told her that I had been forcibly detained from following her, and assured her of my real sorrow at her ill-usage.

She began to be somewhat appeased, and I again entreated her to return to the carriage, or give me leave to order that it should draw up to the place where we stood. She made no answer, till I told her that the longer we remained still, the greater would be the danger of her ride home. Struck with this hint, she suddenly, and with hasty steps, moved forward.

Her dress was in such disorder that I was quite sorry to have her figure exposed to the servants, who all of them, in imitation of their master, hold her in derision; however, the disgrace was unavoidable.

The ditch, happily, was almost dry, or she must have suffered still more seriously; yet so forlorn, so miserable a figure I never before saw. Her head-dress had fallen off; her linen was torn; her négligée had not a pin left in it; her petticoats she was obliged to hold on; and her shoes were perpetually slipping off. She was covered with dirt, weeds, and filth, and her face was really horrible, for the pomatum and powder from her head, and the dust from the road, were quite pasted on her skin by her tears, which, with her rouge, made so frightful a mixture that she hardly looked human.

The servants were ready to die with laughter the moment they saw her; but not all my remonstrances could prevail on her to get into the carriage till she had most vehemently reproached them both for not rescuing her. The footman, fixing his eyes on the ground, as if fearful of again trusting himself to look at her, protested that the robbers avowed they would shoot him if he moved an inch, and that one of them had stayed to watch the chariot, while the other carried her off; adding that the reason of their behaving so barbarously was to revenge our having secured our purses. Notwithstanding her anger, she gave immediate credit to what he said, and really imagined that her want of money had irritated the pretended robbers to treat her with such cruelty. I determined therefore to be carefully on my guard not to betray the imposition, which could now answer no other purpose than occasioning an irreparable breach between her and the captain.

Just as we were seated in the chariot, she discovered the loss which her head had sustained, and called out: 'My God! what is become of my hair? Why, the villain has stole all my curls!'

She then ordered the man to run and see if he could

find any of them in the ditch. He went, and presently returning, produced a great quantity of hair in such a nasty condition that I was amazed she would take it; and the man, as he delivered it to her, found it impossible to keep his countenance; which she no sooner observed than all her stormy passions were again raised. She flung the battered curls in his face, saying: 'Sirrah, what do you grin for? I wish you'd been served so yourself, and you wouldn't have found it no such joke; you are the impudentest fellow ever I see, and if I find you dare grin at me any more, I shall make no ceremony of boxing your ears.'

Satisfied with the threat, the man hastily retired, and we drove on.

Fanny tells George III. how she came to write 'Evelina.'

The king went up to the table, and looked at a book of prints, from Claude Lorraine, which had been brought down for Miss Dewes; but Mrs Delany, by mistake, told him they were for me. He turned over a leaf or two,

and then said:

'Pray, does Miss Burney draw too?' The too was pronounced very civilly.

'I believe not, sir,' answered Mrs Delany; at least she does not tell.'

'Oh,' cried he, laughing, that's nothing; she is not apt to tell; she never does tell, you know. Her father told me that himself. He told me the whole history of her Evelina. And I shall never forget his face when he spoke of his feelings at first taking up the book; he looked quite frightened, just as if he was

Then coming up close to me, he said: 'But what! what! how was it?'

'Sir?' cried I, not well understanding him.

'How came you-how happened it-what-what?' 'I-I only wrote, sir, for my own amusement-only in some odd idle hours.'

'But your publishing-your printing-how was that?" 'That was only, sir-only because '

I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long story, and growing terribly confused at the questions; besides, to say the truth, his own what! what?' so reminded me of those vile Probationary Odes [by Wolcot] that, in the midst of all my flutter, I was really hardly able to keep my countenance.

The what! was then repeated, with so earnest a look, that, forced to say something, I stammeringly answered: 'I thought, sir, it would look very well in print.'

I do really flatter myself this is the silliest speech I ever made. I am quite provoked with myself for it: but a fear of laughing made me eager to utter anything. and by no means conscious, till I had spoken, of what I was saying.

He laughed very heartily himself-well he might-and walked away to enjoy it, crying out: Very fair indeed; that's being very fair and honest.'

Then returning to me again, he said: 'But your father -how came you not to shew him what you wrote?' 'I was too much ashamed of it, sir, seriously.' Literal truth that, I am sure.

And how did he find it out?'

'I don't know myself, sir. He never would tell me.' Literal truth again, my dear father, as you can testify. 'But how did you get it printed?'

'I sent it, sir, to a bookseller my father never employed, and that I never had seen myself, Mr Lowndes, in full hope that by that means he never would hear of it.'

But how could you manage that?' 'By means of a brother, sir.' 'Oh, you confided in a brother, then?' 'Yes, sir—that is, for the publication.'

'What entertainment you must have had from hearing people's conjectures before you were known! Do you remember any of them?'

'Yes, sir, many.'

'And what?'

'I heard that Mr Baretti laid a wager it was written by a man; for no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel.'

This diverted him extremely.

'But how was it,' he continued, 'you thought it most likely for your father to discover you?'

'Sometimes, sir, I have supposed I must have dropt some of the manuscripts; sometimes, that one of my sisters betrayed me.'

'Oh, your sister? What! not your brother?' 'No, sir, he could not, for '