THE PETITION.

I SHOULD like to know the certainty of it, said I▪ putting the petition into my pocket.—It contained an account of an unfortunate tradesman reduced to want, with a wife and three small children.—He asked not charity for himself, but them.—I should like to know the certainty of it, said I—there are so many feigned tales of distress, and the world is so full of duplicity, that in following the dictates of humanity, we often encourage idleness—Could I but be satisfied of the authenticity of this man's story, I would do something for him.

Will your honour please to send an answer?—said the child, that brought the petition.

I had forgot her—by the unaffected innocence of her countenance, she could scarcely have seen nine years.—Meekness smiled in her sweet eyes—what a lovely flower, said I—'tis a pity the chilling breath of sorrow should visit thee too rudely—I gave her half a guinea, and bid her tell her father to come to me the next morning.

THE WISH.

How happy should I be, if some good fairy, as in days of yore, would give me the power of visiting, unseen, the receptacles of the miserable, and the ha­bitations of vice and luxury.—What a satisfaction I should feel in rewarding and supporting merit; or withdrawing the veil, and discovering the hideous aspect of hypocrisy. Besides, says self-love, I should then have an opportunity of discovering the senti­ments of the world concerning myself. I should find my real friends, and detect my enemies.—If half my fortune could procure such a power, I would freely give it.

Search your heart, replies a soft voice, and see if it is not an unwarrantable curiosity, ra­ther than a real wish to do good, that now inspires you.

It is strange, said I; I hear a voice, but see no person near me; surely I do not dream!

Be not surprised, continued my invisible compa­nion, I am your guardian genius, and have it in my power to comply with your wishes, provided they are corrected by reason.—Look on that table, and you will see a ring, which, when on your finger, will render you invisible; and, as long as humanity, honor, or friendship, leads you to use it, it will con­tribute to your happiness; but whenever you en­deavour to make it subservient to any unworthy purpose, it will lead you into innumerable diffi­culties.

[Page 15] I thanked the kind genius, instantly seized the treasure, put it on my finger, and, eager to try the experiment, walked out.

THE STREET.

I'LL bet you ten to one, said a noted gambler to another;—they were walking arm in arm—I'll bet you ten to one I am married before this day fort­night.—You are a lucky dog, Cogdie, replied his companion, to obtain so lovely a woman as Melissa, and twenty thousand pounds into the bargain.

D—n the woman, said the wretch, it is money I want: by Heavens I have not five guineas left in the world, and am twice as many hundred in debt. If I do not succeed in this matrimonial scheme, I shall go to limbo.—There's an old prying cat of a maid­en aunt stands devilishly in the way, or I could easily dupe the old dad.—As to Melissa herself, she's such a mere simpleton in the ways of the world, that it requires but a small share of art to make her believe almost any thing.

By this time they had reached the house of the intended victim, when finding my ring had the de­sired effect, I entered the house with her betrayer. His companion wished him good morning, and I, without hesitation, followed him up stairs.

THE DRAWING-ROOM.

A VENERABLE old man was sitting on a sopha; the hoary ornaments of his head inspired the mind [Page 16] with awe, while the benignity of his countenance encouraged and invited friendship.—Beside him, reading Thomson's Seasons, sat his daughter, love­ly and blooming as Aurora, when with rosy fingers, on a sweet May morn, she unbars the gates of light.—As Cogdie approached, her features were enliven­ed with a glow that plainly told me her heart was not her own; and the cordiality with which her fa­ther received him, evinced the integrity of his own heart, as he suspected not the integrity of another. After the usual compliments, the little party being seated, Cogdie informed the old gentleman that he had been prevented the honor of dining with him that day by a tradesman, to whom he owed about thirty pounds, which, as he had not lately received remittances from his father, he found it inconveni­ent just then to pay; that the man would take no denial, but had threatened to arrest him. I must be obliged to borrow this paltry sum, continued he, till I can write again to my father.—You shall not be distressed for such a trifle, said the old gentleman, I will lend it you.

He left the room to get the money, when the un­feeling Cogdie made use of that opportunity to per­suade the heedless unsuspecting Melissa to elope.

Thou art worse than a midnight ruffian, said I—thou art stealing the peace of a man who is at this moment contributing to thine. They had just time to appoint the day, hour, and place of rendezvous, when Melissa's father returned with the money.—I had heard enough, and quitted the room as the old gentleman entered.

THE REFLECTION.

THAT a man who has a wife and numerous fa­mily of children, and sees them plunged in the deep­est distress, should rob to keep them from starving, is not a matter of surprise—and while stern Justice holds the balance, angel-like pity gently turns the scale. But that a man in full health and vigour, with strength and abilities to support himself, who has no weeping wife or famished children to urge him to the deed, should cozen and defraud his best friend, debauch the morals of an innocent girl, and plunge her into ruin, only to obtain a larger share of sordid ore, is to me unaccountable. It is an act that makes humanity shrink back aghast: Justice, with frowns, unsheaths her sword, and pity weeps but for the of­fender's crimes.

I will rescue Melissa, said I—she may hereafter thank me. The thought filled my mind with un­usual complacency.—I enjoyed in idea the satisfac­tion and gratitude of her father, when he beheld his darling rescued from the jaws of destruction.

It was a fine evening in the month of June; so removing the ring from my finger, I stepped into a fruiterer's, purchased a bottle of strawberries, walk­ed into the Park, and seated myself in one of the chairs.—My mind was at that moment a sort of va­cuum, my thoughts unemployed, when casting my eyes upon the paper that covered the strawberries, I perceived it was part of a fairy tale, but wrote in an uncommon poetic style.

THE FRAGMENT.

I turned the paper, but there was no more—There are times when the mind is affected by mere trifles; such now was my case—I was vexed at not finding the conclusion of the story, and determined to go back to the fruiterer's, and inquire if they had the remainder.—A few moments brought me to the place.

THE FRUITERER's.

A CROWD was assembled before the door. For­getting what I came for, friend, said I—addressing [Page 21] myself to the master of the shop, can you tell me the cause of this bustle?—It is a very extraordinary one, Sir, he replied.—A boy about ten years old, going to a shop hard by to purchase something for his mo­ther, was recollected by a tradesman to whom his father owed a considerable sum of money, and who had just before employed a bailiff to arrest him.—The man inquired of the child where his father lived, and upon his refusing to tell, offered him money, and promised him a great many fine things, but finding that plan equally ineffectual, he proceeded to threats. Upon which, the boy burst into tears, and seating himself upon some steps opposite, declared he would stay there all night, rather than give them an opportunity of sending his father to jail.

The boy has the spirit of a Roman, said I.—How many a man will feel the blush of conscious guilt upon his cheek, when he shall be told of this; for, Oh! shame to humanity and manhood, how many would sell their country through avarice, or betray it through fear.—While this magnanimous boy re­fuses a bribe, though poverty might induce him to take it, and dares brave the threats of an inhuman wretch, rather than betray his father, though his childhood might excuse even cowardice.—I will go and speak to the creditor, said I—perhaps I may persuade him to drop his design of arresting the poor man, and then I will follow the boy home.

THE CREDITOR.

PRAY, Sir, how much does this boy's father owe you?

Eighteen pounds, replied the man.

And are you really distressed for the money?

No; thank my prudence for that; I have taken care of the main chance, and not like Heartfree, loved others more than myself.

I fear you have not loved them so well, my friend.

Why no, to be sure! I follow the first law of na­ture, self-preservation.

And why not follow the first rule of Christianity, to do as you would be done by?

Why look ye, Sir; I always pay my debts punctu­ally, and I expect others should pay me as punctually.

Certainly.—But suppose a man who has an honest heart, should, by unavoidable misfortunes, be ren­dered unable to discharge his debts; is it not better to trust to his honor, rather than by confining him, put it entirely out of his power to pay you at all?

Trust to his honor—eh! you know but little of this world, to talk at that rate: why this very Heart­free was ruined by trusting to a person's honor. An old officer lodged in his house for many years, bor­rowed money of him, run in his debt for linen for his whole family, and when I have talked to Heart­free about the impropriety of his conduct in not ask­ing for payment, he would answer—I am sure he will pay me whenever he has it in his power—but before it was in his power, he died, leaving four children without the least support. The eldest was [Page 23] about twenty; a fine young girl to be sure, but she had been brought up in idleness. She could em­broider, draw, dance, sing, and play upon the spin­net; but that would not keep her; so I advised Heartfree to try and get her a place to wait on a la­dy. To put the two young girls out apprentice, and take the boy to go of errands, clean shoes, knives, &c. in his own kitchen; but he, forsooth, said no; the children of a man who had spent his days in the service of his country, should never want an asylum while he had a house; nor the innocent orphans want a friend, while he lived: so he mar­ried the eldest, and put her sisters to school, where, luckily, they both died.—The boy he sent to the East-Indies about seven years ago, after spending an enormous sum on his education.—His wife bred very fast, and was quite the fine lady; so what with ex­travagance, and a few losses, from being one of the first linen-drapers in the city, he has become a bank­rupt, and, as I suppose, has not bread to eat.

And for his humanity, said I—you would reward him with a prison; rob his wife and children of their only comfort, the presence of their father and their friend—and of what use will it be to you?

I don't know that it will be of much use to me, he replied; but it will teach Heartfree to remember himself before others, another time.

The remembrance of what he has done for others, said I, so far from sitting painful on his mind, will smooth the thorny pillow of distress, and make even a prison pleasant; he shall sleep soundly on a bed of straw, and dream of those whose sorrows he has lightened, while you shall feel scorpions on a bed of [Page 24] down: nor shall the sweet restorer of tired nature visit you, unless it be to fright you with some dread­ful vision of prisons and starving wretches.

I turned from him with honest indignation, and calling to the fruiterer, gave him the money to dis­charge the debt.—I would not trust myself to speak to the man again, who could so shamefully trample on the laws of humanity.—The poor boy was weep­ing, his face hid with his hands. Go home, child, said I—your father's debt is paid. He staid not to thank me; but the pleasure that sparkled in his eye, the agility with which he sprang from his seat, and flew towards his home, conveyed a greater pleasure to my heart, than the most eloquent effusions of gra­titude.—I was willing to be a witness of his relating the story to his parents; so putting on my ring. I followed him unseen.

THE FAMILY.

As I ascended a narrow winding stair-case, I per­ceived in a small room, the door of which was part­ly open, an elegantly-formed woman, sitting on the side of a wretched bed, on which lay a man, the picture of famine. On her knee sat a lovely infant, who with her little hand was wiping off the tears that trickled down her mother's cheeks.—The little boy, breathless with impatience, rushed into the room—Papa—Mamma—'tis paid—you shall not go to prison—I would not tell where you lived; in­deed he was very angry; but that good gentle­man—

[Page 25] My dear boy, cried the fond mother, why do you talk so incoherently? Who has frightened my child? What is the matter with you?

He endeavoured to tell his story with propriety.—It was in vain, joy had entirely unconnected his ideas; but he made himself understood.

Oh! thou sensualist, couldst thou but in imagina­tion taste the luxury of my feelings at this moment, thou wouldst henceforth forego the gratification of thy grosser appetites, to feast thy mind with the highest of human pleasures.

I saw the honest fruiterer enter with some sup­plies which I had judged might be necessary for peo­ple in their condition. He repeated every circum­stance, only concealing my name.

I was preparing to leave the room, when a child entered, whom I instantly knew to be my little pe­titioner—I will see thee again to-morrow, said I—but will now seek my lovely Emma, and engage her in thy behalf.

THE RESOLUTION.

IT was more than I could conveniently afford, said I—when I found how much money I had expended. Twenty pounds is a good sum, but it will cost me much more before I have placed Heartfree in a situa­tion more suitable to his merit—but no matter, I will discharge one of my servants: why should I keep two footmen, when a man of greater worth is in want of even the common necessaries of life?— [Page 26] my dear Emma will, I am sure, agree to this propo­sal.—My phaeton and horses, too, I will dispose of; one carriage is enough; what business have I with superfluities? the money this requires will be much better employed in relieving the unfortunate. I will be generous, but I will not be imprudent—my Emma, and her dear little Harriet, shall not suffer for my benevolence.

I had reached my own mansion; a smile of chear­fulness, that ever graced my Emma's face, bade me welcome.

I communicated my proposal, and related Heart­free's case.—She smiled assent, and the smile was rendered doubly enchanting, accompanied by the tear of sensibility.

Retiring, I passed through my Harriet's chamber—sweet are the slumbers of the innocent. I feast­ed my eyes upon her infant beauties, and retired to rest with a mind so serene, that I envied not the greatest monarch, and forgave even my bitterest enemies.

THE MORNING RAMBLE.

WHO will pretend to say that early rising does not afford us many pleasures, and contribute to our health?—how charming to see the beauteous orb of day, rising supremely bright, to enliven nature, and tinge with gold the lofty mountains' tops.—The country is the place to enjoy these beauties; but even near London we may find pleasant walks.—I had ascended a hill—how charming was the prospect— [Page 27] fields crowned with rising plenty; the peasants blithly singing as they labour.—These people seem happy, but they are not to be envied; they work hard for their bread, and if their rude, unpolished minds are callous and unfeeling in distress, they are likewise insensible to many of the pleasures that await them; the works of nature afford them no satisfaction, because they cannot contemplate their beauties; yet their minds are suited to their station; refinement would be no blessing to them, and the best security the peasant has for happiness, is igno­rance.

These were my reflections, as I rambled towards Hampstead.

Give me a draught of milk, my dear, said I, to a rosy damsel.—She blushed, curtsied aukwardly, and complied—she trembled as she presented it.

Were you ever in love? said I, as I took the milk.

Never but once, and please your honor.

And are you not in love now?

No.

No! and how happens that?

I am going to be married to-morrow.

And you don't think love necessary in matri­mony?

Father says I shall love my husband as soon as I am married.

And pray who was you in love with?

Colin; his cottage was close to ours; we were born on the same day, and when we were children we used to play together. If Colin had some fruit he would save a part for me; and when strange gen­tlemen or ladies gave him half-pence, he shared them [Page 28] with me: when we grew older, he would tend my sheep, watch my young lambs, and bring home my cows; and if I'd had a brother, your honor, he could not have been kinder, nor, I am sure, I could not have loved him better; so he axed father to let us be married; but Colin was but a shepherd's boy, and I was father's only child, so he said he could give me fifty pounds, and I might have a match bet­ter than Colin—so we kissed and parted—and to-morrow I am to be married to farmer Willson, who is old and lame, but he says I shall have a mort of fine things—tho', to tell the truth, I had rather wear my own linsey jacket, and be married to Colin.

And so you shall, my sweet simple rustic, said I—Her father was one of my tenants—I took out my pocket-book, wrote a line or two on my tablet, and bade her give it to her father.

What a curse this pride is, said I, as I directed my steps towards London—but that this haughty dame should stoop to inhabit a cottage, is wondrous strange—Why a peer of the realm could but have made his daughter miserable, to preserve the dig­nity of his house, but in the name of common sense, what has a peasant to do with pride of family?

THE INN YARD.

MY dear friend, you are heartily welcome to town, said a spruce-dressed citizen, as he helped his coun­try friend to alight from the Norfolk stage. Pray come home with me; I expect you will make my [Page 29] house your own while you stay in town; there is nothing in my power I will not do to make it agree­able to you. I have depended upon your company; my whole house is at your service.

This over-acted complaisance made me suspect his sincerity, or that he had some sinister point in view; so putting my ring on my finger, I followed them home.

THE DISCOVERY.

I AM greatly obliged to you, said the country gen­tleman, as he sat down to the breakfast table; the invitation you have given me is very acceptable; I have lost the estate I have been so long at law about, for want of sufficient evidence; and after I have paid the costs, I shall not have more than two hun­dred pounds left, with which I mean to purchase an annuity; therefore I shall make your house my home, till I can settle my affairs.

It may be some time before you can settle your bu­siness to your satisfaction, replied the citizen, his features contracting into cold civility; and I expect a gentleman to take my first floor in about a week; I am very sorry I cannot accommodate you longer.

My dear Mr. Woollet, cried the wife, hastily en­tering, I am vastly glad to see you.

Mr. Woollet has lost his lawsuit, my dear, said the husband.

The smile of welcome was instantly changed into a look of amazement—She had advanced to give him [Page 30] her hand, but on his attempting to salute her, she withdrew her cheek, exclaiming I am sorry for his disappointment—and began to make the tea.

He drank two dishes of tea, and then asked his friend to lend him two guineas.—He had it not in the house.—Trade was very precarious—again men­tioned his expected lodger, and recommended a mean room to his friend, at half a crown per week, in an obscure lane in the city.

Oh! self-interest, how dost thou deaden every vir­tue; lead to hypocrisy and vice, and make us what we should be ashamed to own, mean, avaricious, and unfeeling.—Would I change the feeling heart for all the interested views this world affords? Oh, no! give me sensibility to feel another's woe, and I shall then feel, as I ought, my own happiness.

THE SURPRISE.

IT is vexatious, said Mr. Woollet, as he arose from breakfast, that I cannot stay here, as I have no ready money to procure a lodging.—No answer was made.

Can't I have a room on your second floor, Mrs. Saveall?

Really, Sir, they are all occupied.

I do not know what to do; I must beg you to lend me half a guinea till next week.

I cannot, upon my word, Sir.

Mr. Woollet summoned up a look of expressive anger and contempt, and fixing his eyes on his false friend, cried, He who can refuse half a guinea to [Page 31] my necessities, shall never share my prosperity.—Know, selfish man, I have gained my cause, and am, at this moment, master of two thousand pounds per annum. Then turning from them, hastily left the house.

I stood for a moment to view their confusion; they spoke not a word, but giving each other the keenest looks of reproach, separated in sullen si­lence.

At that instant, Heartfree shot across my mind, I quitted the house, and removing the ring from my finger, walked home.

THE BREAKFAST.

SHE was listening with attention to Heartfree, who was relating the story of last night. She knew it before, but still it was pleasing, for it was in praise of the man she loved.—Harriet had made an acquaintance with my little petitioner; was dis­playing her toys, and teaching her to dress her doll.

I have made you wait, my Emma, said I—Heart­free rose from his seat, bowed, and cast down his eyes, while his cheeks were dyed with crimson—it was a blush neither expressive of guilt nor shame—it was a blush occasioned only by the pain a noble heart feels when in a state of despondence. I took no notice of it, but began a conversation on indif­ferent subjects—his confusion gradually decreased, and in less than half an hour was quite dissipated.

[Page 32] I settled a plan for his future subsistence—he left me in haste to carry the joyful tidings to his wife—he was beyond expression happy, nor was I a jot behind him in that particular.—My Harriet could not part with her little play-fellow.—She shall live with you, Harriet, said I;—so she shall, papa, and ride in my coach, and wear my fine things—won't you, Lucy?

She looked up at me with a countenance I shall never forget.

And shall I never see mamma, then? and must she still live in that dark room?

I was willing to try her.—You shall stay here, Lucy, said I, but you must not see your mamma, nor can I help her living in that little dark room.

She surveyed the apartment she was in, as though making a comparison.

It is a fine place, said she; but if my mamma cannot take a part of these fine things, I had rather go home again.

Oh! exclaimed Emma, who can say that Heart­free is poor; fate has indeed robbed him of his wealth, but heaven in return has given him an in­valuable treasure in his children.

THE LESSON.

IT was about two years after, when my Emma, Harriet, Lucy, and myself, were on a visit to Heart­free.—His brother had returned from India with a fortune equal to their most sanguine wishes.—In rural retirement, about twenty miles from London, [Page 33] they lived in complete happiness, having been taught the value of present blessings, by past scenes of sor­row.

It was a night when the contending elements seemed to threaten the earth with dissolution; the forked lightening rived the sturdy oaks; the burst­ing and almost incessant peals of thunder made all nature tremble. The whirlwind raged, the gleam­ing meteors shewed the distant foaming sea, its proud unsettled waves that seemed to wage war with the black impending sky.—It was a night of horror. It was a night to make a man remember on what a slender thread his life depends. The vast universe is but an atom that with one blast from the Creative Power might vanish into air, and leave no trace of planets, earth, or sea, but all again be universal chaos.

It ceased. The moon broke from behind a jetty cloud, tinged round with silver—the wind passed gently over the trees and herbage, whose leaves had caught the late descending shower, and glittered in the moon beams.

The tempest was dreadful, said I, but it has clear­ed the air of all noxious vapours; and how beauti­ful appears the face of nature, heightened by the remembrance of the late scene of horror!—Just so it is with life; none can enjoy the pleasures of pros­perity so well as those who have felt the pangs of adversity.

Our ears were invaded by a groan; it came from the road; we followed the sound, and found a man lying on the ground, bleeding, and almost naked.— [Page 34] We bore him to the house, his wounds were dres­sed, and it was judged rest would be his best re­storer.

In the morning he was unable to rise. I pro­posed to Heartfree to visit him; we entered the room, put back the curtains, and discovered the features of the inhuman Creditor.—We paused.—He endeavoured to turn his face from us, and wav­ing his hand for us to leave him, cried emphatical­ly, Heartfree! thou art revenged.

I should like to know, said Heartfree, when his wounded guest was able to leave his apartment, by what accident you came in that dangerous situation.

I will inform you, he replied:—About three weeks since, my house was consumed by fire, and with it all my property—my wife and children were saved, but they were saved from the flames to pe­rish by famine.

His heart was full.—Heartfree passed his hand a­cross his eyes.—The man continued,—Some chari­table people made a collection of near fifty pounds, and advised me to go into the country, and purchase a little place, where my wife and children might be supported by industry.—To save expences I tra­velled on foot, and in a late tempest stopt at an ale house till it should be over. On coming away, two men offered to accompany me; but before I had proceeded far, they stopped and demanded my mo­ney; seeing they had no fire-arms, I endeavoured to defend myself, but they were too powerful; I received a wound in my side, and soon grew insen­sible; the rest you know.—I return you many thanks [Page 35] for the unmerited favours I have received; but I must now go back to my poor family, and either starve in obscurity, or go to the parish.

You shall do neither, exclaimed Heartfree, look­ing at his own children as he spoke.

Heartfree was a husband and a father in the just sense of the words.—He was troubled with a short memory, and had entirely forgot that he had ever been harshly treated by the person before him.

You shall do neither, said he, taking out his pocket book, and endeavouring to disperse the drops of humanity that started in his eye: here, giving him a note, here is a trifle; I do not at present want; when you can spare it, repay me; till then you are welcome.

The man could not take it—astonishment had ren­dered him motionless.

Heartfree put it on the table, and calling to a servant to get a horse ready for his guest to return to town, wished him a pleasant ride, and left the room.

THE ELOPEMENT.

I FEAR this step will greatly distress my poor fa­ther, said Melissa to her woman, as they entered the Park.

They had left the carriage at Spring Gardens, with orders if they did not return in two hours, to go home.

[Page 36] Mrs. Tiffany was artful; she knew her lady's partiality for Cogdie, and she painted the matri­monial state, founded on love, in the most glowing colours.

Melissa for a moment forgot her father, but the idea soon returned.

I hope he will not be very wretched, said she.

You will soon return, answered Mrs. Tiffany.

But I marry without consulting him.

And is not your fortune your own, Madam; and in a case of this nature, young ladies can certainly tell what will contribute to their own happiness, better than their old fathers can judge for them.

But he will be very angry, Tiffany—I will not go—I will return, fall at his feet, and confess my error—I am sure he will refuse me nothing that is really necessary to my happiness.

Dear madam, how can you talk so—what will poor Mr. Cogdie think? he will certainly go dis­tracted.

Melissa stopped.

And then your aunt Sarah, she will never let you have Mr. Cogdie, if she can prevent it.

No matter; I will not go.

Well, Madam, just as you please; Mr. Cogdie will think you meant to make a fool of him, and will marry Miss Sparkle, who is so fond of him.

Melissa sighed—and went forward.

A chaise and four was waiting for her at Hyde▪ Park corner; I had a horse there ready also.—By means of my ring I had followed them through the [Page 37] Park unseen—I now took it off, and mounting my horse, followed the chaise full speed, in which were Cogdie, Melissa, and her woman.

GRETNA GREEN.

I HAVE often heard of this place, said I, but I never thought I should be one that took a trip to it on an hymeneal expedition;—but I must not lose sight of Melissa; so putting on my ring, I followed them into the house.

THE INN.

How happy your condescension makes me, said Cogdie, as he seated himself by Melissa—but I shall not be entirely devoid of fear till I can call you mine▪ and as the parson is not in the way, suppose, my dear girl, you sign this paper, to certify that you came with me voluntarily, in case I should be called to an account for running away with an Heiress.

May I not read the paper, said Melissa.

It is of no great consequence, my love, whether you sign it or not, only in such cases there are some­times difficulties ensue after the ceremony is over. I may be tried and cast.

Give me the paper, I will sign it.

[Page 38] I trembled with anxiety.—She had taken up the pen to sign the conveyance of her whole fortune in­to his hands.

I will see him—exclaimed a voice, not the gent­lest in the world—I have a warrant to apprehend him.

Cogdie turned pale as ashes.—The pen dropped from Melissa's hand.—

An officer of justice entered.

Mr. Cogdie, said he, you must go with me. I arrest you for a fraud committed five years ago.

And who has employed you? who forged this tale to injure me in the opinion of this lady?

I had taken off my ring, and stepping forward at that moment, cried, 'tis I, you villain. Is it not enough that you have ruined an innocent girl who was under my protection; left her and her helpless infant to shame and want, and by base and fraudu­lent methods taken from me near a thousand pounds, but you must add to the catalogue of your crimes the ruin of this amiable lady, and break the heart of her worthy father.

Melissa shrieked, and fainted; I caught her as she fell, and bore her in my arms to another apart­ment.—Cogdie departed with the officers of justice, muttering curses as he went.

O! where am I, cried Melissa, as she opened her eyes, and where is my dear father? Safe, I hope, replied I; and when you choose, I will order a chaise, and we will return to him.

[Page 39] When you please, Sir; but I fear he will never see me, never forgive me; I dare not go to him.

I will make your peace with him, said I.—Me­lissa burst into tears, and was silent.

We cannot depart without some refreshment, thought I; so going into the kitchen to order some­thing, I met Mrs. Tiffany on the stairs. Woman, said I, what wages does your lady owe you?

Six months, Sir; but I hope my lady will not part with me in this strange place.

You had no business to advise her to come to this strange place—there is your money, and three gui­neas to pay your expenses to town, your lady never desires to see you again.—Now by the astonishment of her countenance, and a sort of leer that she gave as she tripped down stairs, I guessed I had paid her more than was her due.

HONESTY.

THIS woman has certainly got more than she had a right to, said I, standing with my right hand on the top of the lower balustrade, and holding my purse, which I had not yet tied up, in my left—The world talks much about honesty, but I cannot comprehend where it is to be found.—The trader will stand behind his counter, and ask you three shillings per yard for cloth more than it is worth, and if you are inexperienced, as it frequently hap­pens in such cases, you pay him without hesitation—he knows he has imposed upon you, yet he will [Page 40] lay his hand upon his heart, and declare he is an honest man.—The Courtier—Oh! quoth reflection, pray don't mention a courtier and honesty in the same breath.—The women—how can you talk of their honesty, when you have so flagrant a proof to the contrary before you.—The Clergy—worse and worse; does not the beneficed clergyman quietly pocket his hundreds, or thousands, while the poor curate is starving on thirty pounds per annum, and will not the rector preach you an eloquent sermon on charity, and the curate spend his breath in re­commending abstinence.—Is this honesty?

It may be called so, said I.

The lawyer and physician—Oh, there is no ho­nesty there, I assure you; the one steals your for­tune, and the other your life—but this is all in the way of business.

Then, pray where may we find this said honesty?

It was a sort of question I knew not how to an­swer—at that instant faithful Caesar came and licked my hand.—You are right, said I, patting his head. If any thing like honesty or fidelity is to be found in the world, it is in your species.

Shall we go, Sir, said Melissa, as she came down stairs.

With all my heart, said I, putting up my purse, and offering her my hand.—The chaise was at the door, and I was actually stepping into it, without once recollecting that I had not spent a single half­penny for the good of the house.

THE RECITAL.

IT is all like a dream, said Melissa, as the chaise drove off; a sort of confused, disagreeable dream, from which I shall be glad to awake—but pray, Sir, if it be not troublesome, will you tell me the mean­ing of some words which you dropped concerning Cogdie? what woman has he ruined, and whom has he defrauded?

I will tell you, Madam, said I—she was all atten­tion.

Five years since, a friend of mine died, and left a lovely orphan daughter to my care.—Olivia was young and inexperienced in the ways of the world.—I was gay and fond of company—the house of a young gentleman of fortune is not a fit sanctuary for innocence and beauty. I loved Olivia like a sister—I would have revenged an insult offered her at the expense of my life, but she required the tender so­licitude of a mother, the sedate mature advice of a father.—Her heart was the seat of sensibility, she was formed for domestic love and felicity—having no paternal ties, no filial affection to warm her gen­tle breast—there was an aching void in her heart, which only love could fill.—Cogdie visited at my house—he was much older than Olivia, she was on­ly sixteen.—He was attentive to her childish plea­sures; her favourite dog was caressed—he would feed her goldfinch, talk to her parrot, and bring her nosegays.—I was not of a suspicious temper, [Page 42] but placed an implicit confidence in Cogdie, who, by a thousand arts, had ingratiated himself into my favour. It was not long before I observed Olivia grew pale and thin; she had lost her chearfulness, and I frequently found her in tears. Imagining she might be solitary for want of a female companion, I proposed her going into the country to an old lady, a friend of mine, who had a daughter but three years older than herself—she consented, and two days after was appointed for her departure. When the appointed morning came▪ she was not to be found. I sent to all her acquaintance in vain.—I cannot describe my distress—I told my affliction to Cogdie; he consoled me, and flattered me with hopes I might yet find her—I was happy to think I had such a friend. Three weeks passed on, and I never heard of my Olivia.—Cogdie had frequently mentioned his being sometimes employed by a ca­pital merchant at Hamburgh, with whom I was ac­quainted when abroad—He came to me one morn­ing, and shewed a letter, in which he was de­sired to send the merchant a ring, the most valuable that could be procured.—I wonder, said Cogdie, why he has not sent me the money to purchase this ring; he knows my circumstances are not the most affluent. He seemed distressed at not being able to get so valuable a ring on credit.—I sent him to my jeweller; the ring was ordered, and it came to near eight hundred and fifty pounds—he took it away in haste one morning, as he said, to send it to Ham­burgh; and I never saw him again, till a few days [Page 43] since, when I was informed he was one of the most noted gamblers about town. I had given up all thoughts of ever finding Olivia, when going out one evening—

THE TRAVELLER.

THE roads are very heavy indeed, said I, break­ing the thread of my story, and fixing my eyes on an old man, who was travelling through the dirt—There had just fallen a heavy shower of rain, and the sun was now shining with scorching rays upon his head; he was dressed in a gray coat, and a bun­dle hung to the end of a stick that was across his shoulder.—My heart is always interested by the present object.—This man, said I, is no more able to walk than I am; and four horses can certainly drag three people—I bade the postilion stop.—And what are you about to do? said Prudence—Offer that poor man a seat in the chaise, said Benevolence—ah! but you know nothing of him; he may be a thief, cried Suspicion—or a very poor mechanic, and by no means fit to ride in a chaise with a gen­tleman, urged Pride—but he is a fellow-creature, and seems very weary, said Humanity.—I staid not another moment for consideration.

And have you never heard of Olivia since? said Melissa, when we were settled in our seats.—I know not how it was, but I could not proceed with my story—there was something in the appearance [Page 44] of the old man, that awakened my curiosity—he was a figure not striking; but examine it minutely, and you would find it interesting. A few gray hairs were scattered over his forehead; his face seemed to have some traces of sorrow and disappointment; his features were grave, but withal tempered with such meek resignation and composure, that I con­templated them till I had forgot Olivia, Melissa, and almost myself.

THE CONJECTURE.

THERE is such a natural curiosity implanted in the mind of man, that we cannot be half an hour in company with a stranger, before in our own ima­gination we form many conjectures concerning his situation in life—what sort of a disposition he has—whether he is married or single—and fifty such par­ticulars, which are of no real consequence to us.—I had not been seated with this old man above ten minutes, when I had settled in my own mind that he was a parson, that he had lost his wife, and that he was going to town in order to look out for some employment to settle his children in.—Thou hast lost thy partner, thought I, looking at him with compassion, she who has heightened the pleasure of thy youth, shared with thee the sweets and bitters of life, and was thy companion in old age.—The bower that she planted so many years since; the woodbines that she trimmed and guided with [Page 45] her hands, now shoot wild and neglected, and that bower which to thee was once a paradise, is now desolate and gloomy, deprived of her presence.—What a saucy baggage is this Madam Fancy, said I, recollecting myself; she has given me a pain at my heart by telling me a tale which, perhaps, has no foundation.—

Do not complain of Fancy, said my fellow-tra­veller, for how many a heavy hour she often helps to dissipate, when she soars upon the pinions of hope, and builds fine airy fabrics, extricates us out of difficulties, and leads us to the summit of our wishes; and we are for the moment as happy as tho' in the real possession of them; and what tho' she sometimes does forsake us, and all the prospects vanish into air, yet soon she returns again, and a­gain is welcomed—we listen to her siren tale with pleasure, and so wear life away. How often in [...]ancy have I rushed into battle, and with this arm sent hundreds to eternity—how often has fancy led me to my sovereign's feet, to receive the reward of my past services.

You are a soldier, then, said I,—every feature was animated with the remembrance of former cam­paigns, as he replied in the affirmative.

Then by my soul, said I, Madam Fancy is an ar­rant cheat, for she had represented you as a parson.

THE SOLDIER.

I HAVE spent the best part of my life said the old man, in the service of my country.—At [...] of age I retired, with no other fortune than a Lieu­tenant's half-pay—it was but scanty, it was but sufficient for the wants of Narcissa, my wife, and self.—I would tell you that my child was lovely, Sir, but I am old, and a father; both those parti­culars would lead you to doubt my veracity. Our mansion was small, but it was the mansion of con­tent. Last summer an old lady came to lodge in our neighbourhood; she took great notice of Nar­cissa during her residence in the country, and at her departure, requested me▪ to let my child come the ensuing spring to pass a few weeks in town; with reluctance I consented, for I thought the fair blos­som of innocence would be subject to contamination if I entrusted her in the metropolis without a pro­per protector.

You was right, said I—at that instant recollecting poor Olivia, and fearing I might again lose the thread of my story, I instantly gratified Melissa's cu­riosity, by relating the remainder.

THE RECITAL CONTINUED.

GOING out one evening, I heard a voice which I thought I knew, imploring charity. I sent my ser­vant to bring her to me; she came weeping and sob­bing [Page 47] aloud.—She just entered the door, and sunk in­sensible at my feet.—It was poor Olivia—I raised her, I pressed her in my arms, and by the tenderest caresses called her back to life. When she found herself in my arms, she could hardly trust her senses, but sliding from my embrace upon her knees, took both my hands in hers, and cried will you forgive me.—I assured her she was pardoned; soothed her, and begged to know why she had left my pro­tection—she unfolded a tale of horror—Cogdie had ruined her. She found herself pregnant, and pressed him to marry her; he said I would not consent to their union, and when out of tenderness I wished to remove her into the country, she thought it was only to take her from him.—Conscious of her own unhappy situation, she flew to her betrayer—he for a while behaved with a tolerable degree of tenderness; but he soon threw off the disguise, and turned her out of doors, at the same time inform­ing her that I had taken an oath never to see or as­sist her.

Heavens! what barbarity, exclaimed Melissa.—Melissa pitied Olivia, but she felt for herself—it might have been her situation.—She desired me to proceed.

I took the fair mourner, said I, into the country, where, in about six weeks, she was delivered of a boy.—I told her unfortunate tale to Mrs. Sidley and her daughter; they pitied her, they determined she should not be lost. I visited Olivia in her retreat; my visits were long and frequent; when I was ab­sent [Page 48] from Sidley Cot, I was pensive and unhappy; my former pleasures lost the power of amusing—in short, I at last discovered that the lovely Emma Sid­ley had taken possession of my heart; I sought her hand—I gained it, and brought my charming prize triumphant up to town.

Olivia has spent these last five years in superin­tending the care of her boy; she passes for a widow, and her charms have gained her many admirers, but she declines them all; and declares she looks upon herself as the wife of Cogdie. Chance discovered to me his vile design on you. Pardon me, dear lady, if I thought the method I have made use of, the only one that I could impress your mind with terror, at the precipice you have escaped, and guard you in future against forming clandestine connections with our sex.

THE OMISSION.

AND what have you done with the old lieutenant? said my Emma, when I had given her an account of our journey.

I set him down somewhere in the Strand, said I.

I hope you found some opportunity to increase his little store, without hurting his feelings, said she.

I was ashamed to own my omission; and yet where is the shame? said I, as I sat with my hand upon my Emma's knee, reading the sweet lines writ­ten by benevolence on her lovely countenance.—Where is the shame that I was guilty of an omission [Page 49] through forgetfulness? it was not a wilful sin a­gainst charity—I will go seek him, said I, and re­pair my fault.

You will first go to my father, I hope, said Me­lissa.

I took my hat, and stood full two minutes unde­termined which to do first—they were both actions of benevolence.

Had it been thy case, bright pattern of humanity, said I, opening a volume of Sterne, that lay on the table before me, just at the corporal's relating the story of Le Fevre to Captain Shandy—had it been thy case, thou wouldst have given the preference to the old soldier; but I am a father, and will act as my feelings direct.

THE RECONCILIATION.

IT is of no purpose, said I to the servant, to de­ny your master; I am sure he is at home, and I will see him—pray tell him I have particular busi­ness with him.—I had left Melissa at my house—after waiting half an hour, I was admitted up stairs—Melissa's father was sitting in a pensive posture, his looks dejected, and his dress disordered.—On the other side of the room sat a woman, the picture of envy and ill-nature.

You will pardon me, Sir, for this intrusion—I came from—

[Page 50] My daughter, eagerly exclaimed the old gentle­man—and where is she, Sir?—will she come home again? Oh, lead me to her, that I may lock her in my arms, and with tears of joy wash away the re­membrance of her error.

I suppose Miss is married, cried Mrs. Sarah.—She did not make such an excursion, and with such company, for nothing.

Really, Madam, said I, she is not married; she has taken a little excursion, it is true, but she is now at my house, impatiently waiting for a summons to throw herself at her father's feet, and implore his forgiveness.—The old gentleman called for his hat.

Why surely you will not forgive her, brother▪ said the churlish aunt.

Not forgive her! exclaimed the father—I tell you, sister, she shall be forgiven, taken again to my bo­som, again share my confidence; nor be driven by my unkindness, and the cold contempt of her own sex, to that vice which I know her soul would shrink from as from death.

Mrs. Sarah muttered something about virtue and propriety, and left the room.

There were three reasons why Mrs. Sarah was so inveterate against her niece; the first was, she was old, very sallow, rather inclined to be crooked, and had a voice something resembling the cawing of a rook; it was therefore a great mortification to have a niece so young and lovely.

[Page 51] In the second place, she had formed some design on Cogdie's heart herself—no woman can bear a rival in love or dress.

The third, and most potent reason was, she had never been a parent, therefore could not tell the pangs, the yearnings, the fond solicitudes that by turns agitated the heart of Melissa's father.

Come, let us go, my friend, said he, let us go and bring the dear fugitive home.

As we were going, I gave him an account of our expedition.

I cannot bear to see him, exclaimed Melissa, hiding her face as we entered—He would not suffer her to kneel, but embracing her cordially, cried, Come home, my child, come home, and let us forget all that is past▪ I never will reproach you.

He was right in making this promise, for nothing is so liable to drive a woman to a second error, as her being subject to continual reproach for the first.

I wonder, thought I, as they departed, if there is a greater blessing on this side eternity, than the power of conferring benefits.—The man who has it in his power to make others happy, has a large share of happiness allotted to himself.—I would not part with my ring, said I, for half the universe; without it, I had been unable to deliver this charm­ing girl from the hands of her betrayer.

THE PRINTING OFFICE.

AND can that young creature be an author? said I—she was standing at the door of the printing office, waiting for admission.—I had rambled out that morning in search of adventures—my ring was on, I entered the office with the young author.

I have brought you my manuscript, Mr. C—ke, said she; the story is founded on fact, and, I hope, will be so lucky as to please those who shall hereafter peruse it.

Is it original, Miss?

Entirely so.

Lord bless me! that was quite unnecessary.

Why, Sir, how could I think of offering to the public a story which has appeared in print before?

Nothing more common, I assure you.

He was a thin, pale looking man, dressed in a shabby green coat—he never looked in her face the whole time he was speaking; but standing half side­ways towards her, fixed his eyes askance upon the ground.—I never like a man that is ashamed to look me in the face, it argues a consciousness of not having always acted with integrity.

Nothing can be more common, Miss, continued he, than for an author to get a quantity of old ma­gazines, the older the better, and having picked and called those stories the most adapted for his pur­pose, he places them in a little regular order, writes a line here and there, and so offers them to the pub­lic as an entire new work.

[Page 53] See here, now, I have published this work on my own account; these few first pages are original, but I assure you the scissars did the rest. I have entitled it The Moralist, and sell these two volumes at seven shillings and six-pence.

I should rather call that compiling, said the young author.

Why so it is, in fact—but I assure you there are few people who have genius sufficient to write a book, or, even if they had, would take the trouble to do it.—A fentimental novel will hardly pay you for time and paper.—A story full of intrigue, wrote with levity, and tending to convey loose ideas, would sell very well.

It is a subject unfit for a female pen, said the young lady.

Why you need not put your name to it.

It is a subject unfit for any pen, retorted she, a deep vermilion dying her cheeks, and fire flashing from her eyes—she stopped, and checked her rising passion—I think, Sir, she continued, with more composure, the person who would write a book that might tend to corrupt the morals of youth, and fill their docile minds with ideas pernicious and destruc­tive to their happiness, deserves a greater punish­ment than the robber who steals your purse, or the murderer that takes your life.

Mr. C—ke stared—it was a vacant stare—he wondered, no doubt, how an author could study any thing but her own emolument—I was pleased with her sentiments—if your writings are equal to what [Page 54] you have just uttered, said I, they will be worth pe­rusing; but some can talk better than they write; perhaps it is her case. Her works never fell in my way, so I cannot judge.—

You mean to publish by subscription, said Mr. C—Ke—She replied in the affirmative—

And how do you mean to get subscribers?

—By shewing my propofals, and simply request­ing them to encourage my undertaking.

Oh! God bless me, he replied, still looking ask­ance, for he never changed his position, or raised his eyes from the ground, except it was to look at his elbow, and contemplate his thread-bare sleeve—It will never do to go that way to work—you must have a tale of distress to tell, or you will never pro­cure one subscriber—

I am not very much distressed, said she; and if I was, why should I blazon it to the world?

It is no matter whether you are really distressed or not, said C—ke; but you must tell a tale to ex­cite pity, or you will never gain a single shilling towards printing your books—I have sold eight hundred copies of the Moralist by these means—no­body gives themselves the trouble to enquire whe­ther my story be false or true; it excites pity for the moment—they send me a subscription—my purpose is answered, and 'tis a question whether they ever think of me or my story again—

She seemed tired of the conversation—so laying down her manuscript, and desiring him to put it in hand immediately, she bade him good morning—

[Page 55] What impositions there are in the world! said I, as I went out of the office: This very account will make me always refuse to subscribe to a book that is recommended by a tale of distress.

THE FUNERAL.

Two coaches with white plumes; in the first was the coffin of an infant, at the door of an elegant house stood several domestics weeping—A young wo­man who had stood at a distance, watched the coaches till they were out of sight, and then burst into tears—

I removed my ring from my finger, and inquired the cause of her grief.

He is gone, Sir, said she, pointing to the road the coaches had taken; he is gone, and I shall ne­ver see him again; he was the sweetest child—I once lived with him, I loved him with unspeakable ten­derness, listened with pleasure to his prattle, and when he was ill, attended him with anxious, unre­mitting care; he was the delight of his parents, he was the joy of my heart.

You do wrong to lament, said, I; he is gone to a more happy place; he is taken away before he had offended his Maker, to share in pleasures unspeaka­ble and unceasing; then why should you make your­self wretched? It is like regretting that he was not suffered to remain in a world subject to all sorts of disappointments and misfortunes; he is now an an­gel in the mansions of the blessed; why should you then mourn his absence from you?

[Page 56] Have you children, Sir? said she, with unaffected simplicity—The question struck me forcibly. I thus asked my own heart—had Harriet been taken from me; could I have reasoned thus calmly; the very supposition gave me an unspeakable pang; it told me that reason had little power over the heart torn by the loss of what it prized more than life.—I turned to the young woman—she was gone a few paces from me—she sighed, profoundly pronounced the name of Henry, wiped off her tears, raised her swollen eyes to Heaven, and cried—Thy will be done.

I was ashamed of my former reasoning; that one sentence convinced me, that Christianity was a bet­ter comforter in affliction than the most boasted rules of philosophy.

THE HAPPY PAIR.

IT was a neat little house, by the side of the fields—a pretty looking woman, drest by simplicity, Na­ture's handmaid, was laying the table cloth, and trimming up her little parlour; her looks were chearful and serene, and with a voice pleasing, though wild and untutored, she sung the following little stanzas:

Just as she had finished, a genteel young man en­tered the gate; she ran eagerly to meet him.—

My dear Charles, she cried, you are late to­night.

It was near ten o'clock—I had taken the ad­vantage of my ring, and followed them into the house.—

I am weary, Betsey, said he, leaning his head upon her shoulder.

—I am sorry for it, my love; but come, eat your supper, and you shall then repose on my bosom, and hush all your cares to rest—

Their frugal meal was sallad and bread and butter.

If to be content is to be happy, my dear, said she, how superlatively happy am I—I have no wish be­yond what our little income will afford me; my home is to me a palace, thy love my estate. I envy not the rich dames who shine in costly array; I please my Charles in my plain, simple attire; I wish to please no other.—

Thou dear reward of all my toils! cried Charles, embracing her, how can I have a wish ungratified, while possessed of thee—I never desired wealth, but for thy sake, and thy chearful, contented disposition makes even wealth unnecessary.

[Page 58] It is by no means necessary to happiness, said I, as I left the house—Charles and Betsey seem per­fectly happy and content with only a bare compe­tence—I ask but a competence, cries the luxuri­ous or avaricious wretch; the very exclamation convinces us, that a trifle is adequate to the wants of the humble, frugal mind, while thousands cannot supply the inordinate desires of the prodigal, or satisfy the grasping disposition of the miser.

THE DRUNKARD.

IT was a confused noise of singing, fwearing, and a crash of breaking glasses.—Perhaps, said I, this is a private mad house; for surely I am not near Bed­lam. The moon shone bright, I cast my eyes up towards the house, and perceived the sign of the Angel—Good Heavens! thought I, this is a public house; and how ridiculous to place an angel at the door of the habitation of drunkenness and de­bauchery.

Of all the crimes to which human nature is ad­dicted, drunkenness is the most pernicious; it is the master key that leads to all other vice.—Behold that young man; he is an apprentice—in a fit of intoxi­cation he commenced an acquaintance with a lewd woman; he has not money to answer her extrava­gancies—he robs his master—he is detected—his distracted parents pay the sum he has taken—they exhort him with streaming eyes, to avoid such ex­cesses in future—He leaves them with a promise [Page 59] of amendment—Returning to his master's house, he again is entrapped in his darling vice, and again returns to his abandoned companion—behold him now just entering her mansion—he has taken a con­siderable sum from his master's till—the officers of justice are close behind—he intreats her to secrete him—she refuses—she delivers him up; denies her acquaintance with him—he is dragged to prison.—See him now, loaded with irons, in a dismal dun­geon; he has received the sentence of death—His parents enter; they are speechless with sorrow—he remembers their former kindness—he sees their pre­sent anguish; his folly, his guilt appear in their proper colours—he would comfort them, but is un­able—the messenger of death calls—another mo­ment, he asks but one moment, and that is denied—his mother—

But stop; the scene grows too deep; I must draw a veil before it.

THE BUCKS.

AND these men call themselves rational beings—they had interrupted my meditations by breaking the lamps and beating the watchmen who had en­deavoured to prevent them. Among them was a young man of quality—Oh, shame, said I, that those whose exalted station makes their actions conspicu­ous in the eyes of the world, should set examples so very detrimental to society.

[Page 60] D—n me, says he, let us go and get drunk, and then roar catches through the street, and disturb the sober, sleeping drones, in spite of all the watchmen and constables in the kingdom—Come along, my boys; and if we do go to the round-house, let us go jovially.

How very humiliating it is to human nature to see mankind so far degrade themselves, and commit such follies as render them scarcely a degree supe­rior to the brute creation—nay, I do not know but the poor ass, who carries the loaded panier, or the ox who drags the plough, are more useful to society than such a man: these poor animals render their owners all the service in their power, in return for their food, while the buck spends his nights in riot and debauchery; his days in sleep; and, in return for the vast blessings showered around him, instead of making himself serviceable to the community of which he is a member, he breaks the laws, disturbs the peace, squanders his substance on the infamous and profligate, and dies without having performed one action that might make his loss regretted.

You thoughtless, dissipated rakes, that haunt this town, behold this comparison, and if you are men, blush at your own inferiority.

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR.

THE clock struck twelve.—

This is the hour, said I, when Morpheus, with his drowsing poppies, has sealed the eyes of the in­nocent and happy—but Morpheus is a courtier; he [Page 61] never visits the couch of affliction, or listens to the request of the unhappy.—Now the lover, true to the appointed hour, to elude the guardian's watch­ful eye, steals softly to the window of his fair en­slaver, who anxiously had counted the lazy, lagging minutes, and listened to the passing breeze that moved the flowers or whispered through the wood; caught at each sound, and thought it was her love. Now the fair mourner seeks her widowed bed, and hangs over her sleeping infant, till busy fancy recalls to her mind the father's features—the tear of regret which trickles from her eye, falls on the infant's cheek—He wakes, he smiles, and charms away her sorrows.—So, from the lowering sky, when the soft shower gently descends on the half blown rose, its fragrance is increased, its leaves expanded, and all its beauties are revealed to view.

At this lonely hour the ruffian takes his knife, and rushes on the unguarded victim of his bar­barity.

Thou foolish wretch, think not the sable curtain of the night can hide thy actions from the eye of justice.

This is the hour when the guilty mortal, though in a lofty room, stretched on a bed of down, and covered by a gilded canopy, though, perhaps, on India's distant shore he perpetrated the horrid deed; imbrued his hands in innocent blood to grasp a glit­tering toy, starts frantic from his pillow—he sees the murdered Indian, his gaping wounds, his mangled carcase; he hears his wife and children calling a­loud [Page 62] for vengeance on the murderer; the cold sweat bedews his limbs, his joints tremble, his faculties are lost, he groans, and in his thoughts, curses the day when he was first taught the use of gold or the advantages of power.

This is the hour—

In which, cries reflection, your Emma is wonder­ing why you tarry so long from her; and, anxious for your safety, paints to her sickening imagination a thousand dangers which exist not but in her ideas.

—I quickened my pace

—She met me at the door

—I caught her in my arms

A tear had fallen upon her cheek, another stood glittering in her eye—the first was a tear of suspense, the last of joy. I kissed them both away, and was angry with myself for having given her gentle bosom a moment's pain.

THE LOUNGER.

HEIGHO! cried he, stretching and yawning; how shall I pass this day?

It was nine o'clock; he was just up, and had re­paired to the coffee house for his breakfast. He took the news paper, read two or three advertisements; but soon threw it aside, and seemed wholly occupied in picking his nails and whistling. I will follow you through this day, said I, and immediately put on my ring. He left the coffee-house, and sauntered an hour in the Park, then strolled from one ac­quaintance's [Page 63] house to another, till he received an invitation to dinner—That universal topic, the wea­ther, being discussed, and the play for the night mentioned, he had not another word to say, but sat stupidly silent, unless, indeed, he ventured to say yes or no to any question asked by the lady of the house.

He once complained of the heaviness of time—she recommended drawing—that required too much study—reading—he could not bear a book, it stupi­fied him—music—he should never have patience to learn he liked nothing but the flute, and that would throw him into a consumption—

I am surprised, said the lady, you like none of these; give me leave to recommend you a few books that I am sure will help to wear away the time—Bridon's Tour you will find instructive and amusing—Goldsmith's Animated Nature is the same—Sterne is a pleasing author; and there is a vast fund of a­musement in—

You have mentioned books enow already, said he (interrupting her) to last me my life. I never read any thing except it be a ballad, or the last dying speech of people that were hanged.

Very entertaining and instructive subjects, cried the lady.

He dined, and then sauntered to a public house, drank a pint of rum and water, went to the play when it was half over, and came away again with­out understanding a single sentence he had heard—went again to the public house, squandered away two or three shillings more in drinking, only be­cause [Page 64] he had nothing else to do, and went to bed as he arose, with a mind entirely vacant, unoccupied by thought or reflection—This is the life of a loung­er, said I—If the lives of mortals are recorded in the book of fate, what a blank will this man's life appear!—Yet I am certain he goes to bed every jot as weary as the poor labourer who toils for his daily bread—Is it the fault of education or disposition? said I.

Reason answered, it must be native indolence, or he would otherwise engage in some pleasing study, that might at once employ and amuse him—

It is a matter of doubt with me, whether such a man deserves most our pity or contempt.

A TALE OF SCANDAL.

AND so you are writing—and do you intend to publish your works?

Perhaps I may, said I—

What is your subject, pray?

Rambles, excursions, characters, and tales.

And do you think the world will attend to your rambles, excursions, characters, and tales?

I will write sentimental rambles, juvenile excur­sions, original characters, and tales of scandal, and then my books will be universally read.

The last article may make them rise into some re­pute, said he.

Dost thou know the origin of scandal? said I.

No—

Then I will tell thee—

[Page 65] She is of spurious birth; begot of envy on that blear-eyed monster, Mistrust; she was nursed by Self-love, and tutored by Hypocrisy—She is hideous­ly deformed, has a thousand ears, and lists to every tale—Her eyes magnify the smallest objects into mountains; and as her tongue has not the power to vent her malicious tales so fast as her vile heart con­ceives them, she makes up the rest in nods, winks, shrugs of the shoulders, lifting the eyes, and shaking the head—She in general wears a mask, and dresses in a pleasing garb, which makes her so well re­ceived in all companies.

Why this is a tale of scandal indeed, said he.

And the only one I shall ever write, said I—for if in this vast globe full of interesting scenes to ex­cite our wonder, and engage our attention, if, I say, in such a place, a man cannot use his pen with­out stabbing the character of his neighbour, he must have had a very narrow education, be pos­sessed of a bad heart, and blessed with little or no understanding.

THE VILLAGE WEDDING.

I NEVER see the simple inhabitants of a village engaged in a scene of mirth, but I long to mingle with them—I wish to see, feel, and taste, every thing with the same sensations they do.

They were seated round a large table, under the shade of some spreading oaks—I will partake of their [Page 66] diversions, said I, without disturbing them; so I put on my ring, and mixed among the groupe.

A nut-brown maid, dressed in pure white, the em­blem of her own innocence, presided at the head of the board—I looked at her with scrutinizing eye, and perceived it was my pretty milk-maid—She had that day given her hand to Colin, and the chearful company had assembled to keep the wed­ding.

Their repast finished, a lad with a pipe and ta­bor, and another with a fiddle, struck up a lively air, when Colin and his Rose led off the dance, with step so light, a countenance so serene, and an air so blythe, that I wished myself an humble villager, and my Emma a nut-brown maid.

And why cannot all the world live thus? What need of titles, equipage, state, pomp, and non­sense? Nature never designed it so.

Nor did nature design us to wear cloaths—

The idea was ludicrous—it irritated my risible muscles—what aukward beings would these tight country damsels appear, if they were dancing a­bout in a state of nature! A petticoat is a pretty ornament, said I—and so is an apron—The dancers had tucked their aprons up one side—it gave them a look of ease and negligence.

It is a strange, said I, that among all the caprices of fashion, the apron has never been totally abo­lished, but has continued to be worn by all ranks and degrees of women, from our grandmother Eve, down to these dancing damsels.

[Page 67] It had never struck me before that the apron was an ornament of such antiquity.

They danced till silver Cynthia lighted up the horizon, and then all with one consent sat down to supper.

That past, the jocund tale, the song, the laugh, went round, and all was gay festivity and mirth.

In the course of the evening, Colin had twined a branch of myrtle with woodbine, and placed it on his Rose's bosom—He could not have judged better; the woodbine was an emblem of her sweetness, the myrtle of her love and constancy.

Farewel, blest pair! may your portion of life be pure, and unmixed with gall; may your happiness be as permanent as your innocence and truth are conspicuous.

THE RESCUE.

I HAD been at the play.

A young creature, in the box adjoining that I sat in, had attracted my notice the whole even­ing; her fixed attention during the performance, shewed she was almost a stranger to those kind of diversions.

The various passions that agitated her features at the interesting parts of the drama, seemed the work­ings of pure nature—I did not like her companions; they were by no means suitable guardians for her youth and charms.

[Page 68] The one was a young man of fortune, a professed libertine.

The other an old, fat woman, whose looks and gestures bespoke her employment.

I thought I could read in the open countenance of the young lady, an unconsciousness of guilt, and a full confidence in the company and protection of her companions—I was determined to be convinced whether my conjectures were well founded.

When they left the play-house, I put on my ring, and followed them; they were set down at the door of an elegant house; the rooms within were superb, the furniture grand, and the servants numerous—Super was served up—they urged the young lady to drink several glasses of wine—

She complied with reluctance.

I will go and order the coach, said the old wo­man, and left the room.

The libertine took the opportunity, which was intentionally given, and had nearly executed his horrid purpose, when taking off my ring, and snatch­ing up a knife that lay on the table—Villain, said I, forbear your attempts, or this instant puts a pe­riod to your life—Heaven is too watchful over the virtuous, to suffer it to fall a prey to such lust and barbarity.

If I was clever at designing, I would give you a sketch of this scene.

The libertine, at the sound of my voice, I relin­quished his prey, and fixing his eyes on me in file at [Page 69] astonishment, while every feature expressed terror and dismay.

Half starting from his seat, he exclaimed, in a voice scarcely articulate,

Who are you?

The poor girl sat leaning her head against the elbow of the sopha, pale and ready to sink—like a timid hart, who for a moment having outstretched the speed of the fleet hounds, trembling looks a­round, and stops and pants for breath—again her pursuers appear in sight—again she would fly, but fear deprives her of the power; tears of anguish chase each other down her cheeks, and she sits in an agony of despair, awaiting the approaching ruin which she is unable to escape.

I took her by the hand, bid her fear nothing, and led her triumphant from the house of infamy.

THE ACTRESS.

I WILL take a peep behind the scenes, said I, one evening, as I passed the Hay-market Theatre; so, putting on my ring, I entered.

You surprise me, Madam—not come into the house about his business the nights that you perform? (said a man, addressing himself to Miss—) pray, in what has he molested you?

He met me on the stairs, Sir, and it is very dis­tressing to be jostled by such low creatures. I will have the house cleared of such people.

[Page 70] It is a very extraordinary demand, Madam—he is full as necessary in his station as you are in yours—I fancy, the heroine of a comedy would make but a poor appearance with her hair uncurled and unpowdered; nor would you much admire an hero with a beard of ten or twelve days growth.

I don't understand this insolence, replied she; it is what I am not used to.

Pray, what is all this fuss about? cried a lame gentleman—

Nothing in the world, Sir, but Miss—and the barber.

It is very ridiculous, said I, talking of the cir­cumstance a few days after, that a woman, whose bread depends upon the smiles of the public, and who, every night that she performs, exerts her ta­lents to please taylors, hair-dressers, tinners, nay, even chimney-sweepers, when they can raise a shil­ling to purchase a seat among the Gods. It is the height of folly for such a woman to complain of her feelings being hurt by meeting a barber on her dressing-room stairs.

Call it by its right name, said a person that stood by me, it is pride.

Pride was not made for man, nor woman neither, I'll be sworn; it spoils the finest set of features in the world, and is more pernicious to a pretty face than paint to a lovely complexion;—it sits but aukwardly on a dutchess—and the Queen never uses it.

What Queen? said he—

[Page 71] Why the British Queen, to be sure, said I—

But then you make no distinction, said he, be­tween the conscious dignity of a queen, and the pert supercilious airs of a favourite actress: if the world were guided by the bright example set from the British throne, pride would be entirely abo­lished.

That would be a heavenly thing, said I; for the annihilation of pride is like the dissolution of the body, it unfetters the soul, and leaves it free and unconfined to soar above the stars.

I have frequently been engaged in disputes con­cerning women of this profession—it puts me be­yond all patience to hear people advance an opinion so very contracted and illiberal, as that of supposing no woman can be virtuous who is on the stage—I know many at this time who are ornaments not on­ly to their profession, but to the sex in general: even the lady I have just mentioned, is generous, humane and prudent, pride is her only fault—Charming woman! I have often said, when I was enchanted with her performance of some amiable character—conquer but that one foible, and our ad­miration will rise into veneration.—I am confident a woman may, if she is so inclined, be as virtuous as Lucrece behind the scenes of a theatre. Virtue begets respect wherever she appears; on the contra­ry, a woman of loose inclination, though she is immured in a convent, will find opportunities of doing evil.—It is a great pity so many women be­longing to the stage are thus inclined; but why [Page 72] should we, on account of those that are bad, con­demn a Siddons, Brunton, Kemble, or Pope?—Why should a woman, if she is a good wife, daughter, or mother, be less respected because she has genius to contribute to our amusement, by bringing be­fore our eyes heroines we have so often read of, and exhibiting characters we so greatly admire?—for my part, I never judge of a person from their profession or situation in life; it is from their actions I form an idea of their disposition; and as I think genius and merit deserve as much esteem when we meet with them in an humble mansion as when they inherit palaces, so are virtue and prudence as valuable an acquisition in an actress, as in the daughter of a peer, and alike to be esteemed and respected.

THE RENCOUNTER.

IT is astonishing to me, how people can complain for want of amusement. I am never a moment without something to amuse, instruct, or interest me—I never walk abroad, but I am attentive to every little incident that happens: a solitary, slow pace, the folded arms, or down-cast eye, will ex­cite my compassion, and a joyous serene aspect will exhilirate my spirits—even in a wilderness, where never human step marked the green turf, or swept the dew drops from the waving grass, even there I would find company, conversation, and amuse­ment.

[Page 75] To a thinking mind, the book of nature is ever open for our perusal; and a soul warmed by sensi­bility and gratitude, reads the divine pages with pleasure, and contemplates the great source of all with wonder, reverence, and love.

As I wandered along, encouraging these pleasing reflections, I saw an old man buying some stale bread and meat at the window of a mean eating­house; he stood with his back towards me; his coat was dirty and torn; his whole appearance was ex­pressive of the most object poverty.—Friend, said I, going up to him, perhaps this trifle may procure you a better meal, putting half a guinea into his hand.

It always gives my heart a pang, when I see age and distress combined—age, of itself, always brings anguish enough.—How very insupportable, then, must it be, when there are no comforts, no little indulgencies, to compensate for the those days of una­voidable pain.

As I presented my little donation, I looked in the old man's face—I thought I had seen the features, but could not recollect where.

Humanity is not entirely banished from the world, said he, turning part from me to conceal his emo­tion.

I immediately knew his voice—it was the old lieutenant.—Good God! said I, stopping him as he was going from me, what has reduced you to this distressed situation?

[Page 74] Misfortune, said he.

And did not you know where I lived?

I was ashamed to beg, said he—a sudden glow passing over his languid features—and I thought, Sir, you would be ashamed to own an acquaintance with poverty.

You shall go home with me, said I, calling an hackney-coach—let those take shame to themselves who deny a part of their wealth to merit in distress. I am proud to acknowledge myself the friend of a man of worth, though he should be in the lowest situation. And why, said I, as we drove towards home, why should a man be ashamed of his misfor­tunes? why should poverty call a blush upon the cheek of merit, we did not mark out our own for­tunes.

But then the world, the world, Sir, will always scoff and spurn the man humbled by the griping hand of penury: nor is there an object that in general meets with more contempt from the rich and pow­erful, than those who have seen better days, but are reduced by unavoidable misfortunes to a dependence on their smiles.

Strange infatuation! to set themselves, in the pride of their hearts, above their fellow creatures; and for what, truly? because a little more yellow dirt has fallen to their share. I believe there are but few who know the true value of riches, and fewer still reflect that they are only stewards of the wealth which the bounty of their Creator has committed to their care; and at last, when we all come to give [Page 75] an account of our stewardship, the man who from a truly compassionate nature has wiped the tear from the eyes of orphans, softened the fetters of the captive, or cheared the widow, will receive a greater reward than the ostentatious wretch, who, having spent his whole life in amassing treasure, on his death-bed, when he can no longer enjoy it, leaves, it for the endowment of an hospital. Such a man is not charitable from his feelings for others, but an inordinate desire he has to have his own me­mory held in veneration.

THE REPROOF.

AND do you think there are such characters in the world, said the old lieutenant?

I fear there are too many, friend, said I.

I know not how it was, said he, but I never sus­pected mankind of half the vices and follies I have found in this skort month that I have been in Lon­don; and even now I do not think their errors pro­ceed half so much from the badness of their hearts as their heads. I own, continued he, it is our duty to render every service in our power to our fellow creatures, but why should one, because he has a just sense of his duty, and discharges it faithfully, despise, another because he has not the same feel­ings. I felt a consciousness of having, in commend­ing benevolence, sounded my own praise— [...] my turn to be ashamed.—I felt abashed, and [...], [Page 76] as it were, into nothing.—Oh, man! what a poor weak creature thou art, when even in the moment of discharging thy duty, thy own heart, easily led astray, will vaunt and boast its own superiority.—The most benevolent action in the world loses its intrinsic merit, when the man who performs it says to himself, I am better than my neigh­bour; I am not hard hearted, nor proud, nor ava­ricious.

No, cries humility, but you are vain-glorious.

I was quite disconcerted, and could not forgive myself.

THE MEETING.

I HAD ordered my servant to supply Mr. Nelson (for that was the name of the old lieutenant) with every thing necessary for him to appear in at din­ner, and then went to seek my Emma.—I found her in the garden—the young lady I had rescued last night, was busy in platting a little lock of hair, and placing it in a fanciful manner to the bottom of a picture which hung and round her neck. When she had finished, she glanced her eye towards us, and thinking she was not observed, pressed it seve­ral times to her lips. I thought I saw a tear in her eye, but the chaste look, the religious fervour with which she gazed upon the portrait, convinced me it was a tear whose source might be acknowledged without a blush.

[Page 77] She had dropped the picture, and, resting one arm upon a pedestal, seemed attentively watching Harriet and Lucy, who had dressed a little favourite dog in their dolls cloaths, and was teaching it to dance a minuet.—The scene was picturesque; and I know not how long I might have contemplated it with silent satisfaction, had I not observed Mr. Nelson coming towards me with eager step and anxious eye.

Tell me, who is that? said he, pointing to the young lady—but that I think 'tis impossible, I should say 'tis my Narcissa.

At the sound of his voice the young lady looked up, and advancing a few steps, stood in an attitude of wonder and astonishment, till he pronounced the name of Narcissa; when springing like lightning to him, she threw her arms round his neck, and cried, Yes, yes, I am your child.

It would be doing injustice to the rest of the scene, were I to attempt to describe it—words a could not speak the feelings of their hearts—It was a meeting between a fond father and an affection­ate child—and I leave it to such to judge of their happiness.

THE REQUEST.

WHEN we had dined, and the cloth was removed—Tell me, my dear Sir, said Narcissa, by what [Page 78] lucky accident you came acquainted with this gen­tleman, and what brought you at this time to Lon­don?

How can you ask me that, my child? replied the old-man; did you think your mother and myself could sit quietly down when you had been absent from us near a month, and we had never had a single line from you?

I wrote twice a week, said Narcissa, wiping her eyes—she could not bear to hear her mother had been distressed.

The old man continued—

I was too much interested in the safety of my dear girl to be at ease under such disagreeable appear­ances; so leaving your mother what money I could spare, I sat out to walk to London, but was pre­vented by this gentleman.—On my arrival in town I went to the place where the old lady resided, and was told by her servant that you were gone out of town to pass a few weeks—I walked to the place whither I was directed, but could find no such per­son—My little stock was almost exhausted—I went again to the lady's house, and was treated by her servant with insolence.

Narcissa laid her hand on his shoulder, and gave him a look that I am sure would have healed every wound the servant's insolence had given his heart, though they had been a thousand.

Oh! filial love, fair daughter of gratitude, sister to piety, thou first favourite of Heaven, to whom long life and prosperous days are promised, how [Page 79] doth thy angel's face and soothing hand make the paternal evening of life clear and unclouded!—But I am wandering from my story.

I was now, continued Mr. Nelson, reduced to my last shilling, and being a week in arrears for my lodging, was forced to sell my coat, and be content with an old ragged surtout—I wrote to the lady two days since, but received no answer, and was almost driven to despair—when chance again threw me in the way of this gentleman—But how am I to account for your being here, my child?—what was the cause of your neglect and silence?—I think, Narcissa, if you had known my anxiety, you would have relieved it by either coming or writing to me.

NARCISSA.

THE person to whose care you entrusted me, said Narcissa, was a vile woman; and it is only by a miracle I can have escaped her snare—I never knew you was in town—I have been whirled about from one folly to another, and have been witness to such scenes of shame as made me shudder; but I was told it was usual for people of quality to lead a life of riot, which my vile preceptress term­ed pleasure.—A young nobleman paid me particu­lar attention, talked much of love and settlements, and grandeur, but never mentioned marriage—I was ever on my guard; nor, indeed, was my heart [Page 80] prepossessed in his favour—His person was not un­pleasing, but his manner was disgusting, his mo­rals corrupt, and his conversation unchaste—I had frequently entreated leave to return to the country; frequently wrote to you, my dear father, desiring to be commanded home—But last night, last night—

She then proceeded to give him an account of what has been already related to the reader—When she mentioned the villain's attempt upon her honor, her father looked down to the side where his sword used to hang—then at his hand—then at his child—then at his hand again—

It is not so withered, said he, but it might send a sword to his heart—It is not so much unnerved, said he, rising, and placing himself in an attitude of defence, but it might make a villain tremble.

He is beneath your anger, said Narcissa, taking his hand and kissing it—this hand, said she, that so often has fought for the honor of your country, shall never be sullied with the blood of a coward; for who but a coward would ruin a poor, defenceless woman.

WOMAN.

WHO but a coward indeed, cried I, for who can look at a woman in all her native loveliness, help­less, unarmed, and devoid of the least defence against the numerous dangers that await her, who that [Page 81] sees her sweet looks, that seem to speak in nature's pure language—behold I am at your mercy, you are my protector, I am weak and defenceless, it is you must guard me—who but a barbarian, after having seen woman in this light, would attempt to injure or insult her? Yet do I blush while I confess it, instead of remembering our duty towards the lovely sex, man, who was designed by Heaven as their friend, is become their seducer; and the fairer the flower, the more eager are they to blast it—like the scaley snake, who tries to draw to its devouring jaws the harmless bird that thoughtless hops from spray to spray; he twines about, shews all his gilded scales, basks in the sun, rears up his crested head, and courts the little songster to his snare—It ventures first to gaze at a distance on him, then, by degrees, draws nearer to admire, till, fas­cinated by his subtile arts, it drops into his jaws, and meets destruction.

Oh! how my heart has often bled to see so many lovely women, who were intended by nature to be the pleasing bond of society, the source of virtuous pleasures, reduced to the sad alternative of perish­ing for want, or living on the wages of prostitution.—But oh! woman, when thou canst so far forget what is due to thy own sex, as to be accessary to the ruin of the innocent, my heart swells with indignation—thou art then like the fallen angel, who, when in heaven, was the first among the bright ethereal bodies, but falling, becomes the lowest; and envious of those joys which he can ne­ver [Page 82] taste, exerts his arts, his malice, and deceit, to draw down others to the same dark abyss which he himself is plunged in.

THE EAST-INDIAN.

HE had frequently begged of me—and when I relieved him, returned a look of gratitude—I always feel myself interested for those poor crea­tures who are brought from their native country, and exposed to all the horrors of famine in a place with whose customs and language they are entire­ly unacquainted—I say, within myself, what a poor miserable wretch should I be, if I were left in their country, without money or friends—We can never feel, properly, the woes of another, un­less we place ourselves, for a few moments, in their situation.

This man was generally near my habitation, and I often felt something like curiosity to know his his­tory—He appeared to me superior to the common rank of beggars—I will ask him, said I, one day; perhaps it may lie in my power to make his life a little more tolerable—I sent for him to my study, and having proffered my service, inquired into his former fortunes—Christian, said he, I am a man who hold your race in utter abhorrence—I have been injured, vilely injured, by them, in return for kindness and friendship—I have my his­tory [Page 83] by me, written in my own language: if you can translate it, I will bring it you; and you will then see how little I ought to depend on the word or promise of a Christian.

EAST INDIAN CONTINUED.

POOR fellow! said I, looking at him with an eye of compassion as he went out of the apartment—Poor fellow! thou hast been hardly used by one man who called himself a Christian, and it makes thee suspect the whole race—But, surely, said I, it is not a man's barely professing Christianity, that makes him worthy that character; a man must behave with humanity, not only to his fellow-crea­tures, but to the animal creation, before he can be ranked with propriety among that exalted class of mortals.

The man who with unmerciful hand scourges his slave, does he then remember that the person he is chastising is endowed with the same sense of feeling as himself, and is as sensible of pain, hunger, thirst, cold, aye, and all the social blessings of life? has filial, conjugal, and paternal affection?—then why, because he is a slave, should you bestow on him painful stripes, when yourself would shrink to re­ceive but the smallest of them?—Does the name of Slave,—

[Page 88] Slave! said I, rising as I spoke, while the san­guine tide that plays about my heart, rushed unbid­den to my cheeks—

Why did I blush, why did I tremble, as I pro­nounced the word slave?—It was because I was ashamed of the appellation—It is a word that should never be used between man and man—The negro on the burning sands of Africa, was born as free as him who draws his first breath in Britain—and shall a Christian, a man whose mind is enlightened by education and religion, for a little sordid pelf, sell the freedom of this poor negro, only because he differs from him in complexion?—What right has an European to sell an African? do they leave their native land, and seek our coast, by arts entice our countrymen away, and make them slaves?—

THE SLAVE.

I WALKED out, and endeavoured to dissipate the disagreeable reflection; but the idea of slavery pur­sued me still.

Unhappy man, said I, as busy fancy drew out the sad scene.

She held up to my mind's eye, a man born to a good inheritance, and surrounded with all the comforts, all the blessings, he desired—but he was a negro.

He was sitting in his little hut, his jetty compa­nion by his side; one infant at her breast, two o­thers [Page 89] prattling at her knee; she looked, she felt happy. Her husband, her children, were with her; serenity played on every countenance; content had fixed her habitation in their dwelling—Some Eu­ropeans enter—they deck his beloved children with baubles—they tie beads round the arms of his wife—and ornament her jetty looks with glittering toys—He is charmed with their courtesy—He walks with them to the sea side, and takes his boy, his eldest darling, with him—they invite them on board the vessel—Poor soul! unsuspecting their treachery, he goes, and bids adieu to liberty for ever—His wife, taking advantage of his absence, trims up their hut—lays her dear babes to sleep—and then prepares a supper for her love, composed of whole­some roots and fruit—She wonders why he stays—She leaves her home, and walks towards the sea; she sees him embark—her child goes too—the sail­ors spread the sails—the vessel moves—she shrieks—but there my heart was wrung so keenly, I could go no farther.

I left the wife, and followed the poor negro—he had no comfort but the idea that he should be with his child; that he should have it in his power to ease him if heavy tasks were imposed, to guard him from dangers, and teach him to be resigned and contented.—They arrive at Barbadoes—they are exposed to sale, and allotted to different masters.

Alas! poor man, tears and intreaties are vain, you are in the hands of the sons of Mammon.

[Page 90] Fancy still led me forward—I saw him when age and infirmities came on without one comfort, with­out one friend, on a miserable bed, sickness and sad remembrance his only companions—he is weary of life—he offers up a prayer for his still dear compa­nion, for his children, his hapless enslaved child—He dies—and is thrown into the grave without a prayer to consecrate the ground, without one tear of affection or regret being shed upon his bier.

Had not that poor negro a soul?

Yes—and in futurity it shall appear white and spotless at the throne of Grace, to confound the man who called himself a Christian, and yet betrayed a fellow-creature into bondage.

It would give me a great deal of pleasure, said I, to have the history of the East Indian—but when I have got it, how shall I translate it?—I know no­thing of the language; but, perhaps I may be able to procure a person to translate it for me.

How do you do? my good friend, said a man, rather shabbily dressed.—Now I make it a rule ne­ver to turn my back on a man because he had rather wear a thread-bare coat, than run in debt with his taylor; so I turned about to present my hand to the person who addressed me with such cordiality, and perceived in him the features of an old school-fellow.

THE CLERGYMAN.

I FEAR, said I, as we went forward—I fear you have not been successful in gaining any permanent settlement—pray how have you disposed of yourself these last seven years?

I have, he replied, been strangely tossed about, beheld various scenes, tried many different plans, and been unsuccessful in them all.

When I left Oxford, I was recommended by a friend of my father's to be preceptor to the only son of a man of large fortune—he was a sprightly, sen­sible lad, but extremely capricious in his humour, which was owing to his parent's never allowing him to be contradicted. For a month or six weeks we went on very well; my young gentleman was fond of learning, took every thing with surprising facility, and gave me little or no trouble in obliging him to attend his book—but the unbounded ap­plause he received from his parents, the caresses and indulgencies they were continually heaping on him, and the praise every casual guest was obliged to bestow on this darling of the family, soon made him think he was as learned as any of the seven wise men of Greece, and therefore had no farther need of a preceptor.

When I found he grew careless and neglectful, I thought a little correction might be necessary; but, on trying the experiment, was called by the over-fond mother, an inhuman monster; and the [Page 92] father thought his boy had a genius too bright to require such rough methods of proceeding. In short, Sir, having no power over the child, he soon lost what little learning he had at first attain­ed; and I was dismissed with the character of having ruined the boy's genious by ill-timed and unmerci­ful correction.

As I had taken orders, I lived for some time by occasionally reading prayers, or preaching for a vicar who was very old and infirm, but having a large family, could not well afford to pay a con­stant curate.—In the course of this time I became acquainted with a young lady, possessed of every virtue that might render her a desirable compani­on; add to this, she had two hundred pounds in her own possession, and lived with an uncle, who, besides an affluent fortune, had an excellent living in his gift—the old incumbent of which was in a very declining state of health—had Maria been poor I should have loved her; but I should never have thought of marrying her in the circumstances I then was, as I knew it must involve us both in misery. She was all gentleness; and while she thought the sentiment she felt for me was only pity for my pre­carious, disagreeable situation, it by degrees ri­pened into a tender and lasting affection.—Her uncle had ever studied her happiness, and thinking it would soon be in his power to settle us both in an easy, desirable living, he encouraged my preten­sions, and in a few months made me the husband of Maria.

[Page 93] It would be needless to mention the happiness I enjoyed for eight months with this amiable wo­man; suffice it to say, I envied not the wealthiest or most opulent man in Europe. But our happiness was too great to be permanent—her uncle had ever been a man of sound constitution, and though then in the sixtieth year of his age, gave no signs of in­firmity or decay: but, alas! who can depend on so frail a thing as life?—One morning, having waited breakfast till near ten o'clock, surprised at the old gentleman's lying so long, as he was in general an early riser, I tapped at his chamber door, but received no answer. I opened it, and went in, and found he had taken his final leave of this world. I felt myself extremely shocked; but fearing for Maria, who, at that time was pregnant, I composed myself, and going down, told her that her uncle being rather indisposed, desired not to be disturbed.

On pretence of going for an apothecary, I went and informed and intimate friend of Maria's with the melancholy affair. We determined she should call and take Maria out, and by various methods keep her from home all day; when in the evening we would, by degrees, acquaint her with the sad tidings—But all these precautions were vain.—During my absence, one of servants had en­tered the room, which, in my agitated state of mind, I had forgot to lock, and instantly alarm­ed her mistress. At my return, I found my poor Maria in an agony of grief, which, however, was [Page 94] happily of no ill consequence to herself or the in­fant.

When my uncle was buried, we examined his papers, and no will being found, a distant male relation took possession of the whole estate. I re­moved with my wife from the house; still flatter­ing myself, when the old incumbent died, I should have the living; but I was mistaken. In a few months the old man paid the debt of nature, and the living was disposed of to another person.

Our disappointment was very great—but the two hundred pounds Maria possessed, hindered us from being immediately exposed to want, but that sum was gradually decreasing—beside a child, which was born soon after my uncle's decease, Maria promised to make me father of another. At any other time, this would have given me great plea­sure—but the unsettled state of my affairs, made me regret that this poor little infant was coming into a world to inherit nothing but penury.

About this time I was recommended to Lord Ernoff, whose eldest son was going abroad, and wanted a governor; however painful it might be to part with Maria, yet the promise of a handsome salary led me to accept the proposal.

I left the dear woman, and set out to make the tour of Europe with my young Lord.—I had been absent from my native country three years, and found myself highly in favour with the young gentleman abroad, and his father at home—who, to recompense my fidelity to his [Page 95] son, was continually heaping favours on Maria and the children.

We were at Madrid, when my Lord commenced an intrigue with a woman of rank and reputation.—It was in vain I represented to him the dan­gerous consequences that might ensue from such an illicit amour.—The more I remonstrated, the more obstinate he appeared▪ and unfortunately soon suc­ceeded in ruining the object of his dishonourable pursuit.

Having obtained every favour from the easy, thoughtless Leonilla, he was preparing to leave Madrid.—She was informed of his design (and the revenge of a Spanish woman, when injured, being always adequate to the love they once bore their seducer) she hired bravoes to dispatch this young nobleman the night preceding that appointed for our departure.

We had dined out—and the evening being fine, preferred walking home, rather than going in a carriage.

I perceived two men watch and follow us through every street, till coming to one that was dark and unfrequented, one of the men came up and attempt­ed to stab my Lord—I drew my sword, and aim­ing at the villain's heart threw myself before the young nobleman, and received the poignard of the second assassin in my own bosom.

This little scuffle having made some noise, peo­ple soon gathered round, when the ruffians finding themselves disappointed in their aims, made off.—My Lord, thinking a longer stay at Madrid would [Page 96] be dangerous, left me to the care of a surgeon and nurse, and departed next morning for saris, from whence he proposed returning to England.

THE MOURNER.

MY friend was proceeding in his narrative, when our attention was engaged by the appearance of a woman habited like a pilgrim, but in deep mourn­ing—such an appearance being uncommon in Eng­land, it naturally excited our curiosity.

We were in Kensington Gardens.—

The mourner's stature was above the lower size, and there was a certain dignity about her which spoke her of no common rank—her features had once been lovely; and even now, though pale and marked with grief, there was a something in them that engaged the affections, and insensibly drew the heart towards her.—She seated herself upon the ground, and resting her elbow on the root of a tree—her head reclining pensively on her hand—she plucked up some wild daisies that grew round her—it amused her for the moment, but recollecting herself, she cried—

They will soon die, and I have killed them.

The thought seemed to give her exquisite pain.—She dropped the daisies on the ground, and burst into tears.

I will not look at them, said she, rising, and bending her steps another way.

[Page 97] Alas! poor soul, said I, it is not these flowers you would fly from, it is yourself and your own painful reflections.

That is very true, said she (turning towards me, and laying her hand on my arm) I would fain for­get that I was the murderer of an innocent man—I am trying to expiate my fault by fasting and hard penance. I have come a pilgrimage of many hun­dred miles on foot, nor rested my weary limbs, but when necessity obliged me to cross the sea.—If I could find the woman I have made a window, and the children I have rendered orphans, I would do something to make their lives happy, and then return home, and devote myself to the Blessed Virgin.

Alas, continued she, still resting on my arm, and laying her other hand on her heart—alas, you know not what a sad thing it is to be an orphan. I once had a father—had he lived—but, poor man, he had been to the wars; and when he returned, he met my mother's corpse just going to the grave.—He wept not—he never once complained, but following in silence, saw her interred—then laid himself down on the cold turf that covered her, and never rose again.

Here she seemed quite lost—and leaving me ab­ruptly, walked to a retired part of the garden.

I never felt my pity so strongly excited as at this moment.—The whole tenor of the mourner's dis­course and actions discovered the disorder of her [Page 98] mind. She seemed to have experienced a variety of misfortunes which had banished fair reason from her throne. Poor girl, said I, how severely must your heart have been wrung before you were drove to this miserable situation!

But come, said I, turning to my friend, finish your recital.—He attempted to speak, but was forced to stop—something rose in his throat—I felt the same in mine—but what that was, I will leave to the imagination of every reader of sensibi­lity.

THE COURTIER.

MY Lord's departing from Madrid without me, continued my friend, occasioned a report to be spread that I had died of my wounds, and indeed never was a man nearer the confines of the grave than I was—but by the care and attention of the people that were about me, I was in six weeks able to go into the country, where I remained above two months in a languid, weak state, during which time I received not one line from my Lord—as soon as I found myself able to bear the fatigue of travelling, I set forward for England, where I ar­rived about ten months since, and found my dear Maria in a situation truly deplorable—The old Earl was dead, and the son daily expected from Paris, where he had made a longer stay than he at first in­tended—Maria had been six months without re­ceiving [Page 99] any money on my account, as my Lord had wrote to his father's steward, informing him that I chose to be left at Madrid—I endeavoured to get employ; and, after many fruitless attempts, at last got a curacy of thirty pounds a year, which is but trifling to support a wife and two children—I have frequently wrote to my Lord, who has been at his seat in Essex ever since his arrival in England; but either has been prevented from answering my let­ters by a multiplicity of business, or he does not choose to be troubled with an indigent friend—Yet I cannot bring myself to think it possible for a hu­man being to be so ungrateful as to turn a deaf ear to the complaint of a man who once saved his life, at the hazard of his own—He arrived in town three days since; and this day, at two o'clock, I propose waiting on him, and requesting his as­sistance.

We will take an hackney-coach, and I will set you down at his door, said I.

When we arrived within ten yards of the house, I stopped the coach, and getting out, wished my friend a good morning, and turned down a street, only to put on my ring—when quickening my pace, I was at the Earl's door as soon as he was.

A servant appeared, whose insolent carriage be­spoke the character of his Lord.

You may always judge of a man's general de­meanor and disposition by the behaviour of his ser­vant, the lower class of mankind always aping the manners of their superiors.

[Page 100] After some hesitation, and a few leering, saucy looks at the rusty garb of my friend, he left him standing in the hall, and went up to my Lord.

Having waited full a quarter of an hour, he again made his appearance at the top of the stairs, and reaching his body partly over the ballustrades, called out, You may come up.

I followed him into the chamber of the young Earl—He was sitting in an easy chair, dressed in a long robe de chambre, a dish of chocolate in one hand and the news-paper in the other;—his back was partly toward the door;—and on my friend's being announced, he neither turned his head nor raised his eyes from the paper—

I have taken the earliest opportunity to wait on your Lordship, said my friend, bowing.

Oh, Mr. Teachum, said my Lord, I am glad to see you—Set Mr. Teachum a chair—said he to the servant—and when did you arrive in England, Mr. Teachum?

I had the honour of informing your Lordship by letter, he replied, about six months since, and of the mistake that was made concerning my salary, which was stopped from the time your Lordship left Madrid.

Why, Teachum, said my Lord, lifting up his eyes, for the first time, from the paper, and look­ing at my friend with a sort of surprise, I thought from that time you was free from my service.

Very true, my Lord; but the wound I received in your Lordship's service confined me to my apart­ment [Page 101] for a long time; and the attendance I received was very expensive—I had nothing to depend on but your Lordship's bounty.

Well, I will see and recompense you for your sa­lary's being stopped—

Pray, how have you lived since your return to England?

But poorly, my Lord; I have but thirty pounds a year.

My Lord again looked up; but it was a look of disbelief.

And how many children have you?

Two, my Lord; a boy and a girl.

Well, I will see and do something for the boy—and let me think—yes, there's the living at Wilt­ham, about three hundred a year—that will just suit you—call on me again in a day or two; I shall always be glad to see you.

So saying, he got up, and without farther cere­mony, walked into the next room—my friend de­parted, and I followed my Lord—He pulled the bell—John, said he to the servant that entered, I desire you will tell the porter never to admit that shabby parson again; I don't like to be teazed with visits from such mean-looking people.

Mr. Bauble waits below, said the servant.

Desire Mr. Bauble to walk up—and when Miss L'Estrange comes, let me know.

The jeweller entered, and in a few moments af­ter, Miss L'Estrange, whose levity of carriage, stu­died [Page 102] negligence, and confident stare, at once spoke her profession.

A number of jewels were displayed; and this Lord, who had not a guinea to spare for the poor man who saved his life, lavished four hundred pounds on jewels for an infamous strumpet.

And is such a man, said I, as I left the house, is such a man as this a peer of the realm? can he, who ought to ornament the nation, thus shamefully dis­grace it!—Of all the crimes a man can commit, in­gratitude is the blackest: It argues a depravity of heart, a mind stupid and insensible; it sets a man below the brute creation—the animal world in ge­neral are grateful, affectionate and faithful—But man—man, whose boasted reason makes him lord over those who act merely from instinct, loses his superiority by folly and ingratitude—I am certain that the man who is unmindful of a benefit conferred on him by a brother mortal, is totally destitute of gratitude toward the great source of his life, health and prosperity.

THE VISIT.

I WILL go and see Teachum, said I, one day, after having recounted his story to my Emma—She would accompany me—

Their habitation was small, but every thing a­bout was neat to excess; there was nothing to be seen that spoke distress; the children were clean; Maria herself, though her attire was plain, ap­peared [Page 103] the model of elegance—she was hearing her children their lesson; they stood before her, reading each alternately a verse from the sacred writings.

Teachum was leaning over the back of her chair, gazing at his children, with eyes expressive of as much pleasure, and far more serenity, than the miser who contemplates his hoarded treasure—

We are come to spend an hour with you, said I, leading my Emma into the room.

Maria was embarrassed; but she was too polite to make unnecessary excuses concerning her dress or apartment—I always think such apologies are a sort of reproof for an untimely visit.

Have you seen my Lord lately? said I.

He is never at home, replied Teachum.

I am sorry for it, said I; and believe me, my friend, I think your attendance on him is entirely unnecessary, and your hopes from that quarter fruit­less—I have taken the liberty of calling, to offer you any service that is in my power, and to beg you will look upon me as your friend. I shall hope to see you often at my house.

And I hope, said Emma, that Mrs. Teachum and my little friends here will always accompany you.

I have been sadly perplexed for these few days, said I, changing the conversation—I have got a ma­nuscript in my possession written in the Eastern lan­guage; I am certain it contains some extraordinary incidents, but cannot get at the particulars, being [Page 104] almost entirely unacquainted with the characters it is wrote in.

It is lucky, said Teachum, that you have men­tioned it to me; I ever took great pleasure in stu­dying the Eastern languages, and am a great ad­mirer of their style; it is simple and elegant, and though we may translate it with tolerable correct­ness, we can never entirely preserve its native pu­rity—If you will put the manuscript into my hands I will use my endeavours to translate it. I have many leisure hours, in which I amuse myself with my pen.

I was highly pleased with the idea of having the adventures of the poor Indian in my native lan­guage, and desired Teachum to call on me next day; when, fearful of paining them by a longer visit, we reluctantly took our leave.

Emma, at parting, put something into the hand of the girl; and seeing I observed her, she took my hand when we were seated in the carriage—it was but a trifle, my love, said she; and I had saved it from my own private expences.

Had she just been giving away half my fortune, the look, the manner in which she pronounced these words, would have instantly obtained for­giveness.

THE METHODIST.

EMMA intended to call on several of her acquain­tance.—I hate visits of ceremony—so alighting from the carriage, I strolled into the fields.

[Page 105] An itinerant preacher was mounted above a lis­tening multitude, bawling out the virtues and ex­cellencies of charity, and strongly recommending brotherly love among the elect—all his cry was faith and charity; at the same time he declared every one to be in a state of perdition that differed from his sect in their opinion concerning religious matters. I never was partial to people of this per­suasion; not that I condemn the whole class—no, far be it from me to censure a large body of people, because some of the members are hypocrites.—I have known many people, who profess Methodism, humane, charitable, and just; but they were peo­ple of enlarged ideas, and liberal education—the solemn gait—sanctified air—upcast eyes—and tongue ever ready with scripture phrases and quotations, are by no means the signs of genuine piety.—A cheerful, contented disposition—a heart grateful for every blessing, and resigned to the all-wise dispen­sations of Providence—and a hand ready to bestow on others part of the blessings we enjoy ourselves;—these are the results of pure religion—these are the acceptable sacrifices in the sight of our Creator.

When the preacher had finished his oration, he descended from the tub on which he had stood; and with his hat in his hand, walked round to his numerous congregation, every one warm with the impression made by his discourse, readily contribu­ted something towards the support of a man who was so eloquent in recommending them to seek the right way to eternal happiness.

[Page 106] The collection that was made must have amply repaid him for the time and breath he had spent in exhorting them to charity.

I should like to know, said I, whether this man practises the virtue himself, he so strongly recom­mends to others.

I put on my ring, and followed him home.

His habitation was at Chelsea—at his door he was met by a woman decently dressed, but deject­ed in her countenance—her eyes were swollen with tears.

Well, said the man, pushing rudely by her, is he gone?

He is gone, she replied—gone for ever.

What, is he dead?

Yes.

And in my house—why was he not removed to the work-house?

Alas, Sir, replied the woman, the parish officers came to take him away; and the exertions he made to rise and dress himself, being too much for his weak frame, he expired as they were putting him into the chair.

And who will pay for the funeral?

The parish will.

And do you think he shall go out of this house till I am paid my rent?—No, no, as he has died here, he shall stay till every farthing owing me is dis­charged.—Have you got any money now?

Not one halfpenny, or a morsel of bread for my poor children—But I will sell my bed—it is the last [Page 107] thing I have left, and we will henceforth sleep on straw.

You shall sell nothing—touch nothing till I am paid.—What, do you think I am to lose a whole year's rent?

Have you no compassion on a poor widow and six fatherless children? said the woman.

I do not know what business such poor folks have to get children, he replied. Go, go along woman; I am going to dinner, and cannot be troubled with your whining and complaints.

I took off my ring and following the poor wo­man up stairs, gave her something to quiet the ap­prehensions her inhuman landlord's discourse had in­spired.

As I passed from the staircase to the street door, I heard this teacher of charity pouring forth a long grace over his meat.

Hypocritical wretch! said I, dost thou think this lip service is acceptable to God?—Mistaken man, thou art mocking the Lord of the universe.—Go, divide your meal with the widow and the fatherless—it is the best way of shewing your gratitude to him who gave it to you.

Such men as this, said I, as I left the house, are a great deal more prejudicial to society than the professed libertine. When we see a man neglect all religious duties—break through all ties, moral and divine, we naturally turn from him with horror and detestation.—But, when a man, under the clock of piety and virtue, who professes a just sense of reli­gion, [Page 108] is discovered to be hard-hearted—oppressive—avaricious—selfish—in short, living in the private practice of every vice he publicly declaims against; is it not enough to make the generality of the world conclude that religion is no more than a spe­cious mask put on to deceive mankind?

Religion, in her own native simplicity, is truly lovely—she attracts admiration—charms the soul by her precepts—and passing with us through life, blunts the points of those arrows of affliction which it is the lot of every mortal to experience.

But, hypocrisy too often puts on her pleasing garb; and, when discovered, leads mankind to think the angel-face of piety hides the foul fiend beneath.

THE STUDY.

MR. TEACHUM was in my study full half an hour before I came down.—Well, my friend, said I, as I entered, don't you think I have got a fine parcel of writings?—Here in this drawer, pointing to one that was partly open, I keep all my heroic po­etry—here is another for plays—another for odes, sonnets, pastorals, &c.—What a charming prize these would be to some garreted author; he might sell all this waste paper for at least two-pence a pound—it would then turn to some account, for it might serve to wrap penny-worths of tobacco—light pipes, fires, &c. or, in short, be applied to [Page 109] any other use the possessor might want waste paper for

What an humiliating idea! said my friend, smil­ing.

Not at all, said I; in following the dictates of imagination, and employing my pen, I please, I a­muse myself—but if my writings are not so lucky as to please and amuse others, why should I be mor­tified?—Every man has a peculiar taste; and be­tween you and I, my friend, every man has a pe­culiar hobby-horse, on which he frequently mounts, and rides away post haste, without once consider­ing who he may discompose, overturn, or offend in the wild career.

I know one man, who, though possessed of a very moderate fortune, and who has had but a confined education, is so fond of aping the insolent carriage of a lord, that he is continually distressing his com­panions by affected grimaces, and studied gestures—then he speaks in such a pompous style, and as­sumes such an air of consequence, that while he thinks he is received with admiration, every man of sense must laugh at his folly.

Another is fond of displaying his profound learn­ing in the different sciences—at one time he is a professor of music—at another time he studies lo­gic; and when by chance you mention either of those sciences, he will run on at least two hours without either taking breath, or giving you an op­portunity to edge in a single word.

[Page 110] These are their hobby-horses—writing is mine. I would not give up the pleasure of writing for any pecuniary gratification that could be offer­ed.

That is, said my friend, because you stand in need of no pecuniary favours; but ask the poor au­thor, who, in an airy apartment three stories from the ground, sits invoking the coy muses to assist him in writing something to gain him a few guineas that might serve to satisfy his butcher, baker, &c.—ask him, my good friend, if he will give up the pleasure of writing, to enjoy a settled salary of six­ty pounds a year.

He might readily promise to do so, said I; but take my word for it, the very first time pen, ink, paper, and an opportunity fell in his way, he would write an eulogium on the man who had thus gene­rously raised him from distress.

Oh, ye sweet tuneful sisters, may ye never for­sake my mansion; but when on the wing to visit your favourites—Burney, Moore and Inchbald—stop for a moment, and dart a single ray of your sacred fire upon the humblest of your votaries—in a sad hour it will enliven me—in a lonely hour amuse—and when happiness deigns to be my companion, it will increase every pleasure.

But come, said I to Teachum, here is the story I wish you to translate.—I am going out for a few hours, and shall hope to see it in fair English cha­racters when come back.—You shall see part of it at least, said he. So I left him; and mounting [Page 111] my horse, which was at the door, rode into Hyde Park.

THE FRACAS.

ON my entering the Park, I saw at a distance, a multiplicity of people, some running one way, some another, and all in the utmost confusion.—I rode up to the place, and the first thing that pre­sented itself to my view, was Miss L'Estrange in a fit, and a few paces from her, a young man laying on the ground, bleeding. By his side knelt the fair mourner whom I had seen in Kensington Gardens—she was endeavouring to staunch the blood that is­sued from his side, with her handkerchief—it seem­ed a scene of confusion, for no one was paying the least attention to this wounded man, but this un­happy woman.

I called my servant, and giving him my horse, raised the young man from the ground, and present­ly perceived it was Lord Ernoff, whom Teachum had attended abroad.

I assisted the fair mourner to bind up his wound with our handkerchiefs, and a servant at that mo­ment arriving with a surgeon and a litter, we lifted him on it, and proceeded to the nearest house—the surgeon thinking the sooner his wound was dressed the better.

The mourner followed pensively—often crossing herself, sighing, and weeping bitterly—no one at­tempted [Page 112] to obstruct her entrance into the house with us.

The wound was dressed, and the surgeon pro­nounced it not dangerous, provided a fever could be prevented.

Lord Ernoff had fainted through loss of blood; and during the time of his wound being dressed, re­mained in a state of insensibility.

It was judged proper that he should be immedi­ately put to bed; but, when the servant attempted to move him, the mourner came to me, and en­treated that she might not be separated from him—for, indeed Sir, said she, I heartily forgive him—I do not wish his death now, though once I sought to have assassinated him; but I have since been taught that we should forgive those who injured us. Alas! if it were not for the reflection that I am not at enmity with any mortal breathing, how should I have hope to obtain pardon of my Creator for the heinous crime I have committed whilst in pursuit of my revenge?

I thought from these few words that this hapless mourner could be no other than poor Leonilla.—I entreated the people of the house to let her re­main with the wounded nobleman; and attended her up to his chamber, where he was in bed, and just recovering his senses.

She approached the bed, and sitting down on the side, took one of his hands—kissed it, and pressed it to her bosom.

[Page 113] He lifted his languid eyes, and fixed them on her face—at first they spoke amazement and terror—but at last grief.

Where am I? said he—am I passing the bounds of mortality; and art thou, blest shade, suffered to conduct me through the gloomy vale?—I know why you look so mournful—you died of a broken heart—but I shall be punished for my crimes.

Compose yourself, my Lord, said the mourner—you are in no danger, I hope you may yet live many years, and be happy.

Do you talk of happiness, said he; and do you wish me happy?

I do! I do! So Heaven hear my prayers.

But, tell me, said he, how came you here?—am I not in England?

She was going to answer—when I interposed and begged they would both be silent, and consider of what dangerous consequences a violent exertion of spirits might be to the young gentleman. She pro­mised obedience, drew the curtains round the bed, and sat down in an easy chair that stood at the head. A nurse entering, I took that opportunity to go and enquire what had been the cause of this unhappy affair.

The servant who attended Miss L'Estrange and his Lordship in their ride that morning, gave me the following account:

That a strange gentleman rode up to Miss L'Es­trange, and accosting her in a very haughty man­ner, inquired why she had left him at Paris, and [Page 114] what she had done with a miniature picture which she had taken from his cabinet the morning before she left him; the lady pretended not to know him, and complained to my lord that she was insulted; upon which, high words ensued between the stran­ger and Lord Ernoff, when the former, having a pair of pistols ready in his pocket, offered one to my Lord, who being naturally of a warm disposi­tion, took it, and before any interposition could be made, they both fired; my Lord's pistol took no effect, but the stranger's wounded him in the manner you have seen. At the discharge of the pistols, Miss L'Estrange fainted; but I believe it was more for fear of the life of the gentleman, than my Lord's. I ran as fast as I could for a sur­geon.—

The servant was proceeding in his story, when he was called away.

Having gained this intelligence, I determined to go immediately to Miss L'Estrange, who was now become an inmate of Lord Ernoff's house, and see in what manner she behaved, and whether the ser­vant's suspicions were well founded.

I repaired immediately to his Lordship's house—inquired for the lady, but was denied admittance—a chariot and four was at the door—I feared some foul play; and thinking there was no time to be lost, I watched my opportunity, and putitng on my ring, went into the house, and up to the lady's apartment. I found her sitting on a sopha, with a large quantity of jewels, &c. on a table before her; she was bus [...] in packing them up, but often [Page 115] turned, and addressed some endearing expressions to an officer who sat beside her, entreating him ne­ver to forsake her again, and telling him what riches she had heaped together since she had lived with Lord Ernoff.

I examined the features of the pretended officer, and in spite of a large black patch which he had over one eye, and his eye-brows and complexion being stained, I soon discovered it to be the villain Cogdie, who had escaped from the officers of justice as they were conveying him from Gretna Green to London.

I learned from the conversation that passed be­tween Cogdie and Miss L'Estrange, that she was in reality his lawful wife; but being of a loose dis­position, had broken the matrimonial bonds some years since, and visited most of the capitals of Eu­rope with a young nobleman, whose fortune she had ruined, and finding him no longer able to support her extravagance, she had left Paris with Lord Ernoff, with whom she had lived for this twelve­month past.

I found, also, that chance had thrown Cogdie in her way; and that he, seeing her in so prosperous a situation, and being himself at a very low ebb of fortune, had persuaded her that his passion for her was stronger than ever, and endeavoured to prevail with her to rob the Earl, and decamp with him.—But L'Estrange was a woman whose avarice was not so easily gratified: she, by feigning the most passionate tenderness for the Earl, had worked up­on his temper till she persuaded him to make a will [Page 116] greatly in her favour; and then the insult, &c. which happened in the Park, was planned and exe­cuted by Cogdie. He had marked the pistols; the one he gave to Lord Ernoff was charged only with powder, but that which he retained himself was loaded with ball.

I was greatly at a loss how to act, as I fear­ed to leave the house to procure proper persons to secure Cogdie, lest in the mean time he should escape.

L'Estrange told him he ought to prepare for flight; and giving him several bank notes, some jewels, and other valuables, stepped into another room and brought out a gown, petticoats, &c. for him to put on.—I was quite undetermined in what manner to prevent his departure, when L'Estrange recollected there was some more money in a bu­reau in Lord Ernoff's apartment, which was in a distant part of the house; I followed, and seeing her safe in the closet, in which there was no bell, and only a small high window, and that secured with bars: I pulled to the door, locked and bolted it; I then returned in haste to the apart­ment where Cogdie was, and seeing him totally absorbed in the pleasure of contemplating his treasure, fastened both the doors, without being observed.

Having succeeded thus far, I left the house with precipitation, and procured proper people to appre­hend them; I returned within half an hour, and de­manded entrance. Though I had been absent so [Page 117] short a time, five minutes longer had been too late; Cogdie and L'Estrange had by their cries alarmed the servant; for each fearing the other intended in­formation against themselves, were in the utmost consternation; and violent were their cries for li­berty—the servants had burst open the doors, and Cogdie was on the stairs in order to depart when I entered.

I committed them both to the charge of the con­stable; having first eased them of the weighty con­cern of having so much money and jewels to take off. I waited on them to the house of a neigh­bouring justice, made my accusation in proper form, and being certain that apartments in a strong, well-built mansion, would be prepared for their reception till further enquiry should be made concerning the affair, I left them, and returned to the wounded Nobleman; and, from thence, home.

THE REPARATION.

I THOUGHT you were lost, my love, said Em­ma, as I entered the parlour about eleven o'clock, and found her seated at supper with Teachum and his Maria.—In my hurry and confusion in the morning, though I had sent my servant home, I had not sent any message by him: I was therefore not surprised at my Emma's exclamation. The adventures of the day had so entirely taken up my [Page 118] mind, that the East-Indian had not once intruded; and even when my friend mentioned having al­most completed the translation, I felt no sort of cu­riosity to see it.—We will take a walk to-morrow, said I to Teachum; I have seen Lord Ernoff to­day, and, if you like, I will take you to visit him early.

We were at the house where he was before ten o'clock.

As we entered the room without noise, we saw the fair Leonilla in the highest act of devotion; his Lordship was sitting in the bed, supported by pil­lows, his eyes fixed with a mixture of love and ve­neration on her face, we were unwilling to disturb them, so drew back behind the curtains. When she had finished her morning orisons—Oh, my dear Lord, said she, what a relief do you give my almost bursting heart, by informing me that your governor is not dead. How severe has the reflec­tion always been, that my rashness had sent a de­serving man out of the world; a man who had ho­nour, courage, affection, sufficient to make him va­lue his own life as nothing when the life of his lord was in danger. It is that cruel idea, and the re­membrance of my dear father and mother, that at times deprives me of my reason; but I will be thankful to that good Providence that has taken this mighty load off my heart.

I hope you have provided for Mr. Teachum, said she, after a little pause.

[Page 119] It is a shame to own I have not, said my Lord; but I will endeavour to repair all my errors.

Mr. Teachum is come to see you, my Lord, said I, stepping forward.

Ernoff stretched out his hand, and taking hold of Teachum's, cried, this wound, my good Dr. Teach­um, is an excellent thing.

Indeed, my Lord, replied Teachum, I do not be­lieve any body but yourself thinks so, all your friends regret it.

I rejoice in it, said his Lordship, it makes me feelingly remember my own ingratitude.

Teachum walked to the other end of the room—he was too much of a Christian to rejoice in the pain of a fellow mortal, though it might be pro­ductive of good to himself. After our noble pa­tient's wound was again dressed, he requested Leonilla to inform him why she had left her native country.

She said, that when she found by the rumour then prevailing at Madrid, that Mr. Teachum was killed in defending his Lordship, it lay very heavy at her heart, and she grew melancholy and sickly.—I never went to sleep, said she, but I fancied the shade of the innocent man my rashness had murdered, was reproaching me. I thought my mind would be easier after confession, and went to my holy father, confessed my first deviation from duty, my grief, anger, revenge, and all its fatal consequences.—The good father rebuked the spirit of revenge that still was harboured in my bosom, [Page 120] and taught me that penitence, fasting, and tears, were the only methods to gain the pardon of the Creator for my heinous offences—but, alas! Sir, I could not pray—my mind was in a state of hor­ror, not to be described—remorse, love, and rage, by turns tormented my soul; but Heaven, offended at my obstinacy and folly, visited me with a dreadful judgment.—I had a favourite dog which you had given me; on this poor inoffensive animal did I vent the various changes of my temper, one moment caressing it, the next using it with the utmost barbarity. My dear mother had never sus­pected my dishonour; she wondered at the altera­tion so visible in my health and disposition; and frequently chid me for my unkindness to this poor little animal. I fear I used it very ill; but, indeed I hardly know what I did, my mind was so disor­dered.

My dog ran mad, and bit my dear mother; all medical assistance was tried without effect—she ex­pired in the greatest agony. My father who was on a campaign against the Turks at the time this happened, unfortunately returned the day before my mother was buried—he was unprepared for the stroke he saw my mother' corpse—he saw me de­prived of my senses.

[...] delirium I told him how I had dishonored [...]—It was too much; he was not equal to the mighty load of sorrow, but sunk under it.

Since that, I have wandered about, over barren hills and desert plains, seeking content, but she [Page 121] fled from me as I pursued her. I thought she might dwell with charity; so I divided my portion with the fatherless and the widow; but alas! I could never find her—she is buried in the grave with my dear parents!

I saw that the recital of her misfortunes had oc­casioned a return of her unhappy malady; so taking her by her hand, I led her into another apart­ment, and persuaded her to take some repose.

About six weeks after, I had the pleasure of be­stowing her in marriage on the repentant Lord Er­nolf. Teachum performed the ceremony; and his Lord gave him as a marriage portion, the promised living of Wiltham.

Leonilla never after relapsed into her former dis­ordered state of mind. She entreated that Cogdie and his companions might be forgiven. Her Lord complied with her request; and she gave them a sum of money, to prevent poverty being an incentive to future vice. But they were too far immerged in all manner of deceit to think of amendment, and soon returned to their old prac­tices.

I cannot help here relating a circumstance that happened many years after.—The son which Olivia brought into the world, the fruit of her unfortu­nate attachment to Cogdie, as he advanced in [...], shewed no signs of any of his father's vices [...] disposition, except a propensity to gaming— [...] propensity he once indulged at a public gaming [Page 122] house, where an old man having won from him a considerable sum of money, which the young spark imagining was not won by fair play; high words arose, and a challenge was given.

They met, fired, and the old man was wounded.—The son of Olivia, though hasty in his temper, was generous, humane, and forgiving; he wished not to take the life even of the man who had wrong­ed him.

He had him carried to his lodgings; and finding him in a poor situation, he sent for a surgeon, and supplied him with all the necessaries and comforts of life at his own expence.

A servant in the family who observed the fre­quent visits of Olivia's son to this mean, obscure lodging, told it as a secret to Olivia's maid, who directly told it to her mistress.

Olivia was then at my house; she had often wish­ed an union might take place between her son and Lucy Heartfree, my fair petitioner. The idea of a secret mistress immediately alarmed her.—She de­sired me to go with her to the place the servant had mentioned.

I complied.

When we entered the room, the first object that struck our sight was her son helping a woman to [...] infirm, sickly old man from a chair to the bed; he was, to all appearance, near his end.

The old man no sooner saw us than he breathed a dreadful groan, and fell back in his chair. Oli­via was greatly agitated—she applied her salts to [Page 123] his nose.—He recovered—he gazed feebly on her. It is Olivia, said he.—She started.—Do you not know me, Olivia? have you forgot the wretched Cogdie?

Gracious Heaven! cried Olivia, catching hold of her son's hand, it is your father.

My father! said the youth; then I am a parri­cide.

Not so, my son, answered Cogdie; you have on­ly revenged your mother's injuries.—But, will you forgive me.

May heaven forgive you as freely, said Oli­via.

Her son knelt, and craved forgiveness of his dy­ing father.

It is enough said Cogdie. I forgive, and I hope to be forgiven.—His head sunk on Olivia's shoulder—he groaned and expired.

THE CHILDREN.

I THINK you have never read Mr. Teachum's translation, said Emma, one evening, as I was sit­ting by her, listening to the innocent prattle of Harriet and her little companion—I had some months before committed them to the care of Mrs.—, of Hammersmith.

Though I had always heard the highest character of this lady and her school, yet my dear Harriet, who at this time was at home for the holidays [Page 124] raised it in my opinion—Lucy, said she, let us play at school—you shall be Mrs.—, and I will be a scholar.

You may always judge by the play of children what company, regulations, and conversation, they are used to.

Come here, Miss Harriet, said Lucy; I hope you are very well this morning, and quite pre­pared to say your task; you know I shall take no excuse.

Come, Ladies, it is eight o'clock, and not all dressed yet!—Oh fye! Miss, your face and hands are not washed!—how indelicate that is!—well, now we are all ready—so you must kneel down and say your prayers.

Do you always say your prayers at school, Har­riet? said I.

Oh, yes, Papa; Mrs.—not only makes us say our prayers, but she says her own prayers with us.

Do you love Mrs.—, my dear?

Yes, indeed, Papa—I don't know any body but what does love her, she is so good to us all.

I was so pleased with the account the children gave of this amiable woman, that by means of my ring I frequently visited her unseen—there was al­ways the same decent regularity observed through the whole house.

She had a relation lived with her—I would men­tion some acts of humanity which I have seen this relation perform, but I fear to hurt her delicacy— [Page 125] Yet there is one which will never be erased from my mind. It was the kindness she shewed to a poor young woman who was distressed, calumnia­ted, and beset with dangers—Yet she knew not the full force of her benevolence; but I, who visited, unseen, the object of her humanity, know, that she drew her from an horrid precipice, from whence she must have soon plunged into the gulf of infamy.

Oh! thou gentle pattern of benevolence and piety, judge not the poor young woman from appearances—could'st thou but see her heart, thou would'st there read gratitude to thee, written in indelible characters—and when she prays for thee whose bounty she has received, she hum­bly asks of Heaven the power to return it.—But I am always running from the subject I begin with.

My Emma had requested me to read Teach­um's translation of the Eastern tale; so dismiss­ing the children to the nursery, and stirring up the fire, for it was a cold evening in December, I stepped into my study and brought out the manu­script.

SADI AND ZELIA.

SADI, the son of Mahadan, the rich possessor of a fertile valley, watered by a beautiful river—who had slaves at his command, and was called by the [Page 126] sons of the East, Sadi the Happy.—Ah! what avails possessions and treasure?—and what is terrestial hap­piness to man?—It vanisheth like a dream—it de­parteth like the mist of the morning before the beams of the sun.

Sadi, the once rich and happy, is a slave, and wretched.—Go tell this to the daughters of joy—sound it in the ears of the sons of pleasure; for prosperity has hardened their hearts, and made them callous to the feelings of humanity.

Zelia was the fairest among the daughters of Ara­bia; she was tall, and straight as the pine tree; stately as the young cedar; her skin was like the ripe olive; her eyes, bright stars; her locks were like the polished ebony; and her teeth, fair rows of pearl; her lips were the colour of the ruby; and her breath like the breezes blowing from the spicy islands.

I built a bower for my Zelia; I adorned it with beautiful flowers, and planted sweet smelling shrubs around it.

With lofty trees, I fenced out the sun beams; and the birds dwelt in their branches.—In the re­cess was a silver stream; the osiers and wild flowers hung upon its banks, and the swans sported on its bosom.

I sought my love among the daughters of the plain—I wooed her in the shady places—I brought her to the bower I had planted—I culled for her the choicest fruits—I brought her silks from the looms of Persia—I platted her hair with fresh flowers—I [Page 127] put costly jewels in her ears—and with pearls made bracelets for her arms.

We were the happiest among the happy; in the morning we arose together, and worshipped the bright luminary of day.—We strayed over the fer­tile valleys—we sported with the young fawns; or retired from the heat, and reposed in the thick shade.

If I was in pain, she would sooth me.—I listened to her angel voice all day; and at night I reposed on her bosom.

The curtain of night had fallen over us—the stars shot their beams through the Heavens—the voice of distress met our ears—the plaints of sorrow in­vaded our dwelling—we went forth from the bower—we saw a Christian overpowered by his adversary. The blood issued from his bosom—his face was the picture of terror.

We bore him to our peaceful bower—we pour­ed oil upon his wounds, and Zelia bound them up with her hands.—She watched him with the case of a sister—she gave him a part of our fruits, and brought him milk from the young camels.—He was grateful for the kindness we shewed—he swore by his God it should not be forgotten.—But, the word of a man is like unto the wind; it ma­keth a sound, passeth, and is no more remember­ed.

He left our bower once at early dawn—he tarri­ed till the close of evening.

[Page 128] Zelia had retired to rest—the moon beams play­ed upon her face—I contemplated her sleeping beauties.

The Christian I had saved, entered the bower—he brought with him a band of ruthless ruffians.—He seized upon my lovely Zelia—he listened not unto her cries—he put a chain upon her feet, and bound the hands which had healed his wounds.

They took our costly ornaments and pearls—they bound me with an heavy iron chain, and led us like two slaves towards the sea.—They put us on board a ship he had prepared—they spread the sails—the wind blew from the shore, and in the morn we saw the main before us.

They took the chains from off my hands and feet—they gave me food, but parted me from Ze­lia.

I heard her lift up a voice of terror—I heard her call on Sadi for assistance—I rushed into the room where they confined her—I saw her in the embraces of a villain—I snatched a poniard from his side—I bade him instantly forego his prey.

Zelia like lightning darted from his arms—she cried, Now, Sadi!—Sadi, follow me!—then, from the window sprang into the ocean.

I sent the poniard to the traitor's heart.—I felt its warm blood gush upon my hand; then hastily obeyed my charming Zelia.—I called her as I plunged into the sea—I sought my Zelia in the world of waters; but the spirits of blessed saints had seen her virtue—they caught the lovely vic­tim [Page 129] as she fell, and bore her on their wings to paradise.—I called for death to take a wretched life—I sought the friend of misery, but he fled from me.

Some other Christians saved me from the sea; they gave me food, and treated we with kindness—but the kindness of a Christian is like the song of the Syren, it soothes the senses, gains upon the heart; then, unsuspected leads to destruction.—They took me with them to the Western world—they sold the wretched Sadi for a slave.

My haughty spirit was not used to bondage.—I heard that England was the land of freedom—I hid myself on board an English ship, and sailed un­seen into the boundless main.—I left my hiding place, and sought the captain, and bowed my face toward the deck, before him.

He told me, I no more should be a slave—he brought me with him to this land of freedom.

But, here I found I also was deceived; for, here mankind are slaves to vice, to avarice, to luxury, and to folly.—The man who brought me from the Western world, demanded payment for my passage over. Alas! I had been rifled by the Christians.—I had nought to give but grateful thanks and prayers.—He who had said I should not be a slave, confined me in a loathsome prison house—this was my welcome to the land of freedom.

For seven long years I never felt the air, nor even saw the cheerful face of Heaven—but the angel of death that visits all the earth, then stopped the breath of my hard persecutor. I then was freed [Page 130] from out the loathsome prison, and for a moment I rejoiced in liberty; but soon I felt the gnawing pangs of hungar. I had no friend whose pity might relieve me—the spacious city was to me a desert, and I was starving in the land of plenty.—But, who can bear the griping hand of famine; who can sink under it and not complain? I laid me down upon the damp, cold ground—I groaned aloud, and tore my hair through anguish; but many passed by, nor once regarded me; and others scoffed and called me an imposter. I thought the end of all my woes was come—I ceased to groan, and waited death's approach; but pity had not wholly fled the world she dwells within the hearts of Christian women—one brought me something to allay my hunger; another put some money in my hand—One seem­ing almost as wretched as myself, looked at me, shook her head, and dropt some tears. I felt her kindness more than those before—the tear of pity healed my bleeding heart.

But, the woes of Sadi soon will have an end; soon shall I sleep, and be at rest for ever, for the sorrows of my heart overpower me, and pain and sickness how me to the earth.—The lamp of life is very near exhausted; and when each night I lay me down to rest, I think not to behold, another morning.

And what, alas! has wretched Sadi done, and, who reduced him to this state of misery? Go tell the tale to all the Eastern world—Go warn them to beware of trusting Christians; for Sadi saved one [Page 131] from the jaws of death, and thus was his humanity rewarded.

THE CONVERSATION.

THIS is a strange world, said I, laying down the manuscript, and addressing my dear Emma—

The world, my love, she replied, laying one hand on my shoulder, and with the other wiping away a drop which poor Sadi's story had excited—The world, my love, in itself, is a charming place—it is the people in it that makes it uncomfortable. Let us view it at first coming from the hands of the Creator; what beauty, what regularity and order! but no sooner was man created, than pride—avarice—envy—revenge—and a long train of e­vils—

Not forgetting female vanity and curiosity, said I, looking archly at her.—

Nay, my dear, said she, don't attribute all your evils to our sex; for I am certain, that had not Adam had a little curiosity in his own composition, he ne­ver could have been prevailed on to stray from his duty—but we are running from the subject, conti­nued she.

My remark was, that it is the vile disposition of many people in the world, not the world itself, that is so disagreeable to those who are possessed of humanity and feeling. What a delightful place it would be, said I, if harmony, peace, and love, universally reigned around us; if there was no in­gratitude, [Page 132] no revenge, no rapine, murder, theft, or perjury.

It would, said she; but it is not for us to say why are things thus? let us, my love, endeavour to perform our duty, and, as far as example will go, lead others to do the same; and let us be thankful that the world is not so full of allure­ments, as to prevent our preparing and hoping for a better: For my own part, continued she, passing her arm round my neck, while her lovely countenance beamed with gratitude and love, my cup overflows with blessings; I feel no sorrows, except it is when I reflect on the vices or sorrow of my fellow creatures; yet, I must not expect to pass this life exempt from woe.—Poor Sadi has had a life of misery, it is true, but shall we arraign the Power Omnipotent, and say, why was it so?

My dear Emma said I, I did not mean to com­plain of the dispensations of Providence, when I said it is a strange world; but does it not appear won­derful, that a man can so far forget a benefit, as to treat his benefactor with cruelty?

It is unaccountable, said she; and yet we hear of it in more instances than one—what a striking proof of ingratitude is related in Addison's pathetic story of Inkle and Yarico—

Oh, a propos, said I, you never gave me your opinion of the opera taken from that Story—

I was greatly pleased with it, she replied; I think the author shews [...] judgment in the manage­ment of his plot; for after having excited in our [Page 133] imagination a proper horror for the avarice and in­gratitude of Incle, by contrasting it with the blunt honesty of Trudge, he makes his hero repent, and, by unexpectedly bringing him to act with honour and humanity towards his kind preserv­er, leaves no impression on the mind of the au­dience, but an entire love and admiration of virtue.

I think the remark extremely just, said I, which Incle makes in the conclusion of the piece—that, his contracting ideas, and grasping disposition, was chiefly owing to his education.—

There is nothing, replied my Emma, which, in my opinion, should be so carefully inculcated in the mind of a child as humanity—there are many parents who, out of a mistaken fondness for their children, will suffer them, by way of amusement, to rob birds nests, catch butterflies, &c. and trans­fix them with pins, and a thousand other whims and fancies which are the height of cruelty; these things by degrees harden their hearts, and they can afterwards practise cruelty on their fellow creatures without repugnance.—I would always teach my children to be tender even to the smal­lest insect that has life; if, indeed, they are obnoxi­ous or poisonous, and self-preservation leads us to destroy them, let them be dispatched quick and with as little pain as possible.—Then opening a volume of our inimitable Shakespeare, she read the following passage in Measure for Measure:

Hail, humanity! fair daughter of Heaven, it is thou, bright angel, that can smooth the bed of pain, and blunt the sharpest arrow of distress: come, thou celestial guest! and dwell with me, and with thee bring thy sweet companion grati­tude.

Almighty Power! creator of the universe, said I, teach me to shew my gratitude to thee by practising humanity towards my fellow creatures.

THE REGISTER OFFICE.

I HOPE you will not disappoint me Madam, said a young woman to an old fat dame, who kept a Register Office for hiring of servants—I had enter­ed the house by means of my ring.

The young woman was something below the mid­dle size, her countenance was dejected, and she appeared not to be used to servitude.

You had better sit down and rest yourself, my dear, said the old woman.

I will, if you please, replied the other; for it is a long walk from Lambeth.

She entered a little parlour, and sat down; when I learnt from their conversation that the young wo­man, whom I shall henceforth call Mariana, was applying for a place as governess to one or two young ladies, and was promised by the woman [Page 135] who kept the office, that she should be recommended to Lady Allworth, who wanted a governess for her two daughters.

It is now six weeks, said Mariana, since I was first proposed to Lady Allworth, and I should be glad to know whether she will have me or no, for my circumstances are such as render it absolutely necessary that I should have some place in a short time—To-morrow, Mrs. L—y, I hope you will go with me.

The old woman promised faithfully to attend her, and at ten o'clock the next morning was appointed for her to call.

Then to-morrow I will see thee again, poor, gen­tle Mariana, said I.

I was by no means pleased with the woman who stept the office; for while Mariana was resting herself, two young men of fashion came into the room.

I blush to think, that their being young men of fashion, rendered me uneasy on the poor girl's ac­count.

There were some very intelligent looks passed be­tween them and the old woman; and immediately on their leaving the room, Mariana was invited to dine the ensuing day.

At ten the next day, Mariana again repaired to the office, and was again disappointed of waiting on Lady Allworth.

I know not what to do, said she, as she left the house; and a tear stole down her cheek—She had refused the invitation to dinner, and was proceeding [Page 136] with melancholy steps towards her home—I followed her.

When she entered the house, she was wet, cold, and hungry; but there was neither fire nor refresh­ment.

She sat down at the end of a long table, and lean­ed her head upon her hands, the tears flowed plen­teously down her pale face—she looked the picture of dumb despair.

I was thinking of some method to relieve her, when a short, fat old gentleman entered the room.

I read in your face, Mariana, said he, that you have had no success to-day.—

She shook her head, and asked his advice how to proceed.

I would advise you to go to Lady Allworth your­self—write a letter, send it up, and wait for an an­swer from her Ladyship.

Mariana wiped her eyes, wrote a letter, and then proceeded to measure back the weary steps she had trod before.

Poor girl! said I, as I followed her, I should like to know how you were reduced to this situation; but I will not leave you, till I see you are likely to get some settlement—Youth and innocence with­out friends or money, in such a place as London, must have a hard struggle to keep free from vice, and will find it impossible to keep free from cen­sure.

I wish Lady Allworth may be as much preposses­sed in your favour as I am—but perhaps she will not see you; and should she not, you shall not be lost for want of a friend.

[Page 137] I do verily believe, that during our walk from Lambeth to St. James's street, I was almost as much agitated as Mariana herself.

She tapped modestly at the door; but I could see it was humiliating to her.

A servant appeared, and she was instantly admit­ted—

Will you deliver this to Lady Allworth? said she, presenting the letter.

The servant looked at her with compassion—I thus translated his looks: this poor girl is come to entreat a favour of my Lady; I will not be the means of her not obtaining it; I wish the may meet with success.

Sir James Allworth, said I, is a benevolent man; he never suffers a petitioner to be treated with rude­ness or disrespect: I can read his humanity in the countenance of his domestic.

I had hardly time for the reflection before Maria­na was desired to walk up stairs—I perceived that she trembled as she ascended; but had her fears been ever so great, they must all have vanished at the sight of Lady Allworth.

THE DRESSING ROOM.

SHE was an elegant woman, though, arrived to an age when the bloom and sprightliness of youth is past; yet her face had a benignity about it that diffused itself over all her features, and seem­ed [Page 138] enlivened by a ray of celestial light; her fine black eyes were of that sort that would pierce the inmost recesses of a guilty soul, but withal, temper­ed with so much benevolence, that to the innocent they seemed to beam only with humanity and com­passion.—Her form was majestic, and in her man­ner was a mixture of dignity, ease, and sweet­ness.

Mariana's countenance brightened up when she saw this lovely woman—she curtsied, and a faint blush tinged her cheeks—

You are the person who wrote this letter? asked her Ladyship.

Yes, Madam.

Pray, who was it that pretended to recommend you to me?

Mariana informed her.

Good God! cried Lady Allworth; I know no­thing of the woman; I never applied to her for a servant in my life; and should never have thought of applying to an office for a governess.

Mariana turned pale, and with difficulty restrain­ed her tears.

But pray, continued her Ladyship, pray, Ma'am, inform me how you came to apply to an office:—have you no friends?

But one, Madam, and she is not in a line to re­commend me.

Poor girl! said Lady Allworth, softly—she thought the exclamation of pity too humiliating to be addressed to Mariana herself: it was an invo­luntary [Page 139] motion of the lips dictated by a feeling heart.

Pray, sit down, Madam continued her Ladyship, and, if it is not disagreeable, inform me how you came into such a place as London without friends: I feel myself interested in your behalf, and if it is in my power I will serve you.

Mariana sat down, and with a voice of timidity, accompanied with a look of gratitude, in a few words, acquainted Lady Allworth with her story.

My father, Madam, is an officer in the army; my mother dying while I was yet an infant, my father married a lady in America, who brought him an ample fortune—he took me over to America when only eight years old, and we remained there in the utmost harmony till the unhappy breach between Great Britain and her Colonies. My father refusing to join the Americans, his pro­perty was confiscated, and he returned with his family to England in a distressed situation.—We have been in England seven years; the family has been sickly and expensive—my poor father was involved in debt—I could not bear the idea of adding to his expences I left my home, which is in the country, and came to town to a distant relati­on, in hopes, by industry, to obtain a living; this relation I have undesignedly offended; as also some who were nearer allied—my efforts to live by in­dustry have failed, and I find myself under the ne­cessity of seeking a service—I had flattered myself with the hopes of being engaged in your Ladyship's [Page 140] family; but alas! I am disappointed in all my un­dertakings.

Has the woman who pretended to recommend, got any money from you? said her Ladyship.

Indeed, Madam, she has got all I had.

Lady Allworth drew forth her purse—Mariana arose to take her leave.

Stop a moment, said Lady Allworth—sit down again—you must want some refreshment.

A glass of wine and a biscuit was ordered.

Call on me again in a day or two, said her Lady­ship; I will try to do something for you; in the mean time accept of this trifle.

I could not see what she put into her hand; but I am sure it was the manner of the giver, not the gift itself, that sunk so deep into Mariana's heart: it was that which made her exclaim as she left the house—Dear Lady, when I forget my obligations to thee, may I cease to live.

Lady Allworth kept her word, and recommend­ed Mariana to a Lady in whose family she remained till ill health obliged her to quit it.

Ye fair daughters of Britain, whose charms are the theme of every tongue, the admiration of every eye, and whose praise is sounded to the most distant kingdoms, learn from the amiable behaviour of a Lady Allworth, how to attain those charms which neither time nor accident can diminish—the beau­ties of that Lady's person might have rendered her universally admired; but it is the goodness of her [Page 141] heart alone that could create universal love and ve­neration.

THE FASHIONABLE FRIEND.

As I passed a house in the close of the evening, the window shutters being open, I saw a woman sitting by a table, her cheek resting upon her left hand, and a pen in her right—she wrote—then paused—then wrote: it seemed to be a subject that required reflection. A genteel young woman knocked at the door—I had time on my hands, so being rather curious to be present at a female tete-a-tete, I put on my ring, and when the door was opened I entered with the visitor.

She was hardly seated, before, observing the writing apparatus, she says, So my dear Ellen, you are exercising your fertile genius—you are certain­ly a charming girl!—what would I not give to pos­sess such a talent—pray, may I see your perform­ance, or will you be so obliging as to read it to me?

Ellen took up the paper, threw it on the window, and said, it was only a sonnet not worth looking at—

Oh, you sad girl? how can you mortify me so? I am sure if the sonnet is the production of your own genius it must be delightful—pray do let me see it.

If it will give you any pleasure, said Ellen, I will read it to you;—but, I assure you, it is but a trifle—she took it up and read—

Oh, 'tis divine! exclaimed the visitor, whose name I found was Greenham;—pray, my dear El­len, favour me with a copy of it.

Ellen promised to comply with her request.

I wonder, said Mrs. Greenham, why you don't publish your works; it is a thousand pities such charming poems as you in general write, should be buried in oblivion.

I sometimes, said Ellen, think I will lay some of my little productions before the impartial public; but I am quite terrified at the idea of exposing my­self to the ridicule of my own sex, or the satire of the other.—

[Page 143] You are too humble, my sweet friend, cries Mrs. Greenham, there is not the least occasion for your fears—I am certain your works would be universal­ly read and admired; and it will be injustice both to yourself and the world, to deprive them of the gratification of perusing them▪ and yourself of the fame you would certainly acquire, and undoubtedly deserve.

It is rather surprising▪ thought I, that one wo­man should be so liberal in the praises of another.—I looked intently in Mrs. Greenham's face; and methought I read dissimulation in every feature—I took an attentive view of Ellen, and plainly discovered that she saw through the thin veil of her visitor's flattery; and though she could not but listen to her with silent civility, she, in her heart, despised her envy and ill-nature much less than the specious arts with which she endeavoured to cover them.

When Mrs. Greenham took her leave, I follow­ed her, determined to hear in what manner she spoke of Ellen, when absent from her. She went immediately home, and entertained her husband and several visitors at the expence of the inoffensive Ellen.

I found her, said she, scribbling as usual; I praised her extravagantly, and advised her to pub­lish her works—she said she had some [...]ghts of it. I wish she would to my heart, for I should like to see her heartily laughed at—I am sure wo­men have no business with pens in their hands, they [Page 144] had better mend their cloaths, and look after their family.

And pray, why not, Madam, said an old gen­tleman, who had listened attentively to this lo­quacious harangue, why may not a woman, if she has leisure and genius, take up her pen to gratify both herself and friends. I am not ashamed to acknowledge that I have perused the productions of some of our female pens, with the highest sa­tisfaction; and am happy when I find any woman has so large a fund of amusement in her own mind. I never heard a woman, who was fond of her pen, complain of the tediousness of time; nor, did I ever know such a woman extravagantly fond of dress, public amusements, or expensive gaiety; yet, I have seen many women of genius prove themselves excellent mothers, wives, and daugh­ters.

But, Sir, replied Mrs. Greenham, the Lady in question only fancies herself possessed of genius; her writings are the most insipid things in na­ture.

If I could see some of them, said the old gentle­man, I should be a better judge.

Then you shall presently, for I expect she will come and spend an hour or two with me this even­ing, when I can easily prevail with her to shew you some of her pretty scrawls.

Ellen soon after made her appearance.—Mrs. Greenham received her with a vast shew of affection, and soon began a conversation which led to literary productions.

[Page 145] I know of nobody so clever in this way, said she, as my little friend Ellen here—do, my dear, oblige the company by reciting some of your poems; or, perhaps, you may have some in your pocket—I know you always have a treasure there.

Indeed Madam, said Ellen, I only write for a­musement; nor can it be supposed my performances have any merit worthy the attention of this com­pany.

Oh, you are always so diffident—

It is a sure sign of merit, said the old gentleman,—But, pray Madam, addressing himself to Ellen, do you devote much of your time to your pen?

I am so situated, Sir, she replied, that I am un­avoidably obliged to pass many hours entirely by myself—In the former part of my life I have been engaged in many scenes, the remembrance of which, in these solitary hours, would be extremely painful, were it not for the relaxation and a­musement I find in the exercise of my pen—I have but few acquaintance, she continued, and even those few might, by too frequent visits, grow tired of my company. I seldom go out but I meet with some object to engage my attention; and often when reflecting on the various scenes around me, I fall into a train of ideas which I feel a sort of plea­sure in committing to paper; and in general they serve to occupy the next leisure or solitary hour.

[Page 146] And an excellent way of spending time too, re­plied the old gentleman.—I am certain, Madam, you are never less alone than when by yourself.

It is true, Sir, said she, I do find a great deal of entertainment from this method of employing myself; but it is no reason for me to suppose, be­cause I am amused in writing, another person should be amused in reading what I have writ­ten.

But, I do assure you, said Mrs. Greenham, it will give us all a great deal of satisfaction to hear a little of your performance.—Now do, Ellen, oblige us.

Ellen was of a temper that could not bear en­treaties—she had not power to refuse a request made with any tolerable degree of sincerity and earnestness. I am always in pain for people of this disposition; they often do things absolutely disa­greeable to themselves, because they have not strength of mind to refuse peremptorily, but do it so faintly, and with such evident marks of pain, that a second or third request always con­quers.

I know a young man of this disposition who is intoxicated two or three times a week, though he is not naturally addicted to inebriety, and in ge­neral suffers exceedingly after it, merely because he cannot resist the earnest importunities of his friends.

I know a woman too, who, whenever she goes into a shop, lays out twice as much money as she [Page 147] intended, because the shop-keeper intreats her to have this, and that is so vastly pretty, or ama­zingly cheap—and she imperceptibly launches into extravagancies which she afterwards heartily re­pents.—Now, though such a pliability of temper may be extremely pleasing and agreeable in domes­tic life, it exposes a person to a thousand inconve­niences, improprieties, and irregularities. I would have a man or woman maintain an opinion of their own; and when resolved to refuse a request which they may judge imprudent or improper to grant, refuse it with such steadiness and dignity as may at once prevent their being teazed into an action which their reason revolts against.

But, this is by way of digression, so I beg par­don, and return.

Ellen, urged by the united requests of the com­pany, and a little female vanity which dwelt in her own bosom, at length complied, and recited in a graceful manner, a short, pathetic tale, written in the elegiac style, and greatly in the manner of Shenstone.

The old gentleman bestowed no praises on it, but he honored the recital with a tear, and soon after left the company—when the inoffensive Ellen became a butt for the satire, ridicule, envy, and ill-nature of those that remained, and whose tongues had only been restrained by his presence. Yet Mrs. Greenham professed an unbounded friendship for her, and declared there was nothing but what she [Page 148] would freely do to serve her—but she was a fashi­onable friend.

Friendship is a word universally used, but little understood; there are a number of people who stile themselves friends, who never knew what it was to have an anxious thought for the person for whom they pretend this violent friendship, in the female world in particular. I make no doubt but there are numbers of women who, should they be informed whilst at cards, of the greatest misfor­tune having befallen one of their most intimate friends, would cry, Poor thing, I am vastly sorry—I had a great regard for her—and then inquire what is trumps? or how gows the game? I can divide the world into five distinct classes of friends, for there is hardly any one person breathing but boasts of feeling that exalted attachment for some one or other of their fellow mortals.—Among the men, is the professing friend and insidious friend; among the women, the ostentatious, and the envious friend; and a small parcel may be culled of both sexes and set under the denomination of real friends.

THE PROFESSING FRIEND.

I WILL try him, however, said Lavinia, wiping her eyes, for I have often heard him say he valued my dear Ferdinand above all other men—and sure he will not let him languish in a prison for the want [Page 149] of such a trifle, and which we can so soon re­pay.

It was a day or two after I was in possession of my ring.—I had stepped into a shop to buy a pair of gloves, when a young woman behind the counter addressed these words to her compa­nion.

You may try him, Lavinia, said her companion, but I do not think you will succeed; beside, my dear, your circumstances are not so bad as to lead you to fear your husband's confinement.

They are worse than you imagine, Eliza, said she; we have, besides this bill, several more to pay, which we are equally unable to provide for.—Mr. Woudbe has professed the warmest friendship for my husband, I think he will be glad of the oppor­tunity to convince him it was not merely profes­sional.

I had by this time purchased my gloves; and be­ing anxious to know how Lavinia would succeed in her undertaking, I just left the shop, put on my ring, and returned.

Lavinia had left the shop, and was in the par­lour. A person came in, who, from his appear­ance, I should have supposed a man of fashion; yet, I knew him to be a mechanic—his affected air and gait spoke him a finished coxcomb—it was the identical Mr. Woudbe; he asked for her hus­band; he was not at home—he sat down, fell into conversation, frequently intimated his ser­vant [Page 150] wishes for their prosperity, and declared he desired nothing more than an opportunity to convince his worthy friend Ferdinand how much he had his interest and happiness at heart.

Lavinia's eyes beamed pleasure and gratitude; she thought it a favourable, golden opportunity—she told him her husband's circumstances were embarrassed, but the loan of eighty or an hundred pounds would set them quite at ease; and they should by industry and oeconomy soon be enabled to repay it.

She pleaded with the most persuasive eloquence; love animated her countenance; an anxious tear glittered in her eye—but the professing Mr. Woud­be had none of the finer feelings which dignify the man; he loved ostentation, show and grandeur; but he had no idea of any pleasure in life superior to that he felt when dressed in a finer coat than his neighbour.—Two guineas was not too much for a ticket for a ball, but a shilling was extravagantly thrown away in relieving the wants of a distressed fellow creature.

To such a man, the tearful eye, the anxious countenance, alternately red and pale, the trem­bling frame, and struggling sign of Lavinia, pleaded in vain; he heard her with indifference; he consoled her in language in which was an equal mixture of pity and contempt; and I was informed, by a person who knew him, that it was the last visit he ever paid his friend Ferdi­nand.

[Page 151] This is a sort of friend which the world swarms with—professions cost nothing—give me the man, whose heart, alive to every dictate of humanity, stays not till he is asked to do a favour, but eager­ly seeks out opportunities to render service to man­kind.

Anxious for the fate of Lavinia, a short time af­ter, I made another invisible visit—when I entered the house, every thing was in confusion; and La­vinia herself looked like Melancholy musing on a scene of woe. I was casting in my own mind, fifty different plans to find out the real cause of her distress, and, if possible, relieve it, without hurt­ing her feelings, by letting her know that her necessities were discovered by a stranger, when a little man entered the house, whose features, how­ever plain, and, to the generality of the world, uninteresting, immediately prepossessed me in his favour.

Lavinia, said he, I hear you are moving, and am come to see if I can be of any service to you—where is your husband?

A gush of tears was all she could answer.

Dear girl, do not weep, said he—is it pecu­niary matters that distress you? speak, Lavinia; will twenty or thirty guineas be of any service to you?

She hesitated; but at last confessed that they were greatly distressed for money; and that her husband was obliged to keep out of the way of his creditors.

[Page 152] I will be with you again in a few moments, said he, darting out of the house.

I waited his return.

In less than half an hour he came back, and put a sum of money into Lavinia's hand, which entirely calmed her fears.

Oh! Sir, said she, how shall I ever return this obligation?

By never mentioning it, he replied▪ let me beg it may be buried in oblivion—I shall be offended if ever I hear it talked of—it gives me pleasure that I had it in my power to serve so worthy a man as your husband, and restore tranquility to two hearts which were formed for love and domestic happiness.

He shook her hand cordially, and left her.

How does thy humility exalt thee, my gene­rous friend, said Lavinia, when he was gone; but actions like thine cannot be hid; it would be an injury to mankind, to conceal them—yet it is not an action to be blazoned from the trump of common fame; but gratitude shall snatch a gentler clarion, and tell thy virtues to the listen­ing few, who know how to admire and imitate them.

I left her with a heart at ease.

It was the close of the evening—passing through a public street, I heard the sound of music, and saw a room, in an house of entertainment, elegantly illuminated—I took the advantage of my ring, [Page 153] and went in—It was an entertainment given at the expence of Mr. Woudbe—the kind, the friend­ly, Mr. Woudbe, was lavishing in folly and dissi­pation, a sum, which might have lightened the hearts of the miserable, and dried the tear of des­pondency—But he could not shew his taste in giving or lending money—he could display his elegant fan­cy by spending it on trifles, or, in reality, throw­ing it away.

THE ATTORNEY.

YOU must not lose a moment, Sir, said a foot­man, addressing a man in the coffee room, whom I knew to be an attorney—You must make all possible haste, for my master cannot live three hours.

The attorney was a tall, meagre man; had a great deal of servile politeness and outward sanctity in his manner; yet there was an under designing cast with his eyes, which made me suspect the inte­grity of his heart.

He is going to make a will, said I—perhaps some rich, old miser is at the point of death, and is wil­ling to dispose of his hoards in the best manner he can—I will accompany the attorney.

We were sat down at the door of an handsome house, and I followed Mr. Vellum unseen into the chamber of the sick man.

He appeared to be between the age of forty and fifty; his looks were venerable, but his features [Page 154] were marked by the hand of death—behind his pillow, supporting his head, sat a lovely girl about fourteen years old, who while she▪ with her hand, wiped away the sweat which stood upon the fore­head of the dying man, bedewed it again with her tears—At the foot of the bed stood a youth some­thing older than the girl; he leaned against the supporter of the bed▪ the curtain partly hid his face, but the part which was exposed to view, spoke filial love, anxiety and sorrow.

My good friend, Mr. Vellum, said the sick man, feebly stretching out his hand, I am glad you are come: I feel the springs of life almost worn out, and I wish to settle my worldly affairs, that my dear Julietta and Horace may have no trouble from my relations.

You know, Mr. Vellum, I married their mother contrary to the inclination of my father, and, on that account, at his decease, found myself possessed of but a small patrimony: willing to provide, not only for the present moment, but also for futurity, I entered into partnership with an eminent mer­chant, and my success being beyond my hopes, I not only lived in affluence, but am enabled to leave my beloved children sufficient to place them above temptation, and give them the exalted pleasure of administering to the necessities of their fellow crea­tures—I have experienced so much malignity and envy from my own relations, that I think them by no means fit guardians for my children. My wife was poor, and an orphan; she had many relations, [Page 155] but no friends. Those who will no befriend a de­solate orphan, are not proper people to be entrust­ed with the care and management of young, vola­tile minds—You, my friend, have a son about the age of Horace; and a daughter some years older than Julietta; they will be fit companions for each other. I do not think my children can be happier than under your guardianship and protection—I have in the funds thirty thousand pounds—I desire you will divide it equally between my children; and, in case of their dying without issue, it shall devolve to you and yours—I shall leave you other testimonies of my regard, and a few legacies to my servants—pray be quick, I am hastening toward my end—

Mr. Vellum wrote the will, the old gentleman signed it, and two of the servants witnessed it.

Mr. Vellum seemed greatly affected, professed much esteem for the lovely children, and declared the whole study of his life should be to make them happy—he embraced, and pretended to weep over his friend▪ but methought there was more of joy than sorrow in his tears—The will in his possession gave him greater satisfaction, than the death of his friend gave him pain.

THE DEPARTURE.

THE old gentleman desired to be left to him­self a few moments, the attorney and the children [Page 156] withdrew—he offered up some pious ejaculations, requesting the blessings so abundently shower'd on himself might be continued to his children; his heart overflowed with gratitude for the many mer­cies he had enjoyed; he petitioned health and pros­perity, for his friends, penitence and pardon, for his enemies, and finished his prayer by fervently re­commending his soul to the mercy of that Being who had guided and supported him through life. This essential duty finished, he again called for his chil­dren.

My dear Horace and Julietta, said he, I am sum­moned from you; early, my children, you are be­reft of the love, attention, and advice of a parent, who had no other regard for life than as it contri­buted to your happiness—I have but one precept I wish to inculcate and impress upon your minds: deal by all mankind as you wish and expect them to deal by you; let nothing, my children, alienate your affections from each other; and remember to respect your brother and sister mortals, not ac­cording to the homage which the mistaken world may think due to wealth and grandeur, but ac­cording to their own intrinsic worth and merit.

Horace, respect virtue wherever you find it; nor dare on any account use the wealth of which Hea­ven has appointed you steward, to corrupt inte­grity, or pervert innocence; shun the society of the licentious though dignified with titles; re­gard not the scoffs of the libertine, but preserve unshaken your integrity to God and man.

[Page 157] Julietta, my beloved girl, fly from the voice of adulation; beware of insidious villains, who spread their spacious snares for youth and innocence; guard with unceasing vigilance your honor and your fame; yet, my dear girl, exult not in the pride of your own virtue, nor triumph over the wretched fallen of your sex; be uniformly good; be innocent yourself but pity and lament the mi­sery of those who have forfeited that inestimable jewel; pour the balm of comfort into their bleed­ing hearts, and learn from their errors to rectify your own.

Oh, I am going—one more embrace—Almighty Father bless—bless my—Children, he would have said, but the ghastly monarch sealed up his lips for ever.

Oh! take me with you, dear saint, cried Julietta, wildly clasping her hands—she threw herself on the bed and fainted.

The grief of Horace was manly, but expressive—the tears rolled down his cheeks—he walked about the room in silent agony—till seeing his sister's situ­ation, he forgot his own sorrows, and endeavoured to revive and comfort her.

THE ORPHANS.

LOVELY children, said I, as I left the house, you are now launched into a world full of temptations to vice, which will approach you under the fasci­nating [Page 158] form of pleasure.—May you avoid the rocks and quick sands on which so many youths of both sexes are wrecked.

I do not like Mr. Vellum, said I, making a quick transition from the orphans to the guardian.—I wish he may discharge his trust faithfully.

Hang this suspicion, continued I, it is an uncha­ritable, unchristian-like thing that has crept into my mind under the shape of anxiety for the wel­fare of these poor orphans.—There's another foolish idea now; how is it possible a person can be poor who has fifty thousand pounds to their fortune; it may seem an inexplicable riddle to the narrow minded race of mortals who place the summum bonum of sublunary happiness in an osten­tatious display of wealth and grandeur: but I can assure them a person possessed of fifty times that sum, may be poor and so poor as to be misera­ble.

Impossible, exclaims pretty Miss Diddy, the tradesman's daughter, who just returned from board­ing school, is informed by mamma that she is to have five thousand pounds for her fortune.

Impossible, had I ten more added to that five, I should be the happiest mortal breathing—and it is quite out of the question to think of ever being poor again.

A well-a-day, said I, 'tis a strange thing; but, to me, poverty of ideas and meanness of spirit are greater afflictions than poverty of purse and mean­ness of birth.

[Page 159] When a man is alone, and in a thinking mood, his imagination insensibly runs from one thing to another, till he entirely wanders from the subject that first engaged his attention.

Now, this being my case, I had got into such a train of thought on the various kinds of poverty with which the world is infested, that it was with difficulty I brought my mind back to Horace and Julietta; and, when I did, that devilish suspicion of their guardian's integrity would creep along with them.

Pshaw, said I, what business have I to suspect a man of baseness, to which, perhaps, he may be an entire stranger. I declare▪ week mortal as I am, I find sufficient employ in correcting my own errors, without searching out the errors of others.

I endeavoured to give my thoughts another turn, but in vain, they involuntarily turned back to the orphans, and I wandered on, musing on the uncer­tainty of their future happiness.

THE GIRL OF THE TOWN.

FOR ever cursed be that detested place, said a wretched daughter of folly, as she passed a tavern in Holborn; and for ever execrated be that night, on which I first entered it.

She caught my hand as I passed her.

Give me a glass of wine, said she.

The watch had just gone ten.

[Page 160] I looked in her face—she was pretty; and I thought her features were not of the sort which never express shame; her eyes were cast down—I thought I saw a tear steal from them—I touched her cheek, it was wet, ye she forced a smile—I took hold of her hand, it was cold, it trembled.

My compassion was strongly excited—by an involuntary motion, I drew her hand under my arm, and walked on in silence till we came to ano­ther house of entertainment.—I then gave her some­thing to procure refreshment, and bade her good night.

Then you will not go in with me, said she, in tremulous accents.

I must not, said I, I have a wife.

Go then, said she, letting go my arm. Yet, I thought I had found a friend, and would have told you such a tale—but, no matter—I am wretched—I have made others so—I will not sin against con­viction. While this lasts, said she, I will live un­polluted—when it is gone, I must either starve or sin again.

Now let the icy sons of philosophy say what they please. I could no more have left this poor girl, after such a declaration, than I could travel bare-foot over the burning deserts of Arabia.—So, without once asking the advice of Ma­dam Prudence, or suffering Suspicion to hint, that her affliction might be assumed—I again took hold of her hand, and we entered the house together.

[Page 161] And now for your tale, my poor afflicted, said I, after she had eaten an hearty supper of cold▪ veal and sallad.

To engage your friendship, Sir, said she, I must be open and candid, and often condemn myself—I know I stand convicted before the world; but the world sees not the heart.—Cre­dulity was my fault; a vile platonic system, my ruin.

Yet, had I been ruined alone, it were but little consequence; but, alas! I have involved others in misery—I have sown thorns on the conjugal pillow of a worthy woman—I have torn the heart of a parent with all the dreadful pangs an in­jured wife, a doating mother, can feel, who sees the husband of her affections, the father of her children, eagerly pursuing, and encouraged in a guilty passion.

Gracious God, cried she, clasping her hands, let my sorrows, my miseries, my unfeigned peni­tence, expiate this fault, and for the rest, thy will be done.

I know not how it was; but, though she so strongly accused herself, and of such heinous of­fences, for my soul I could not but pity her; and so did my Emma too, when I told her the tale; so I bade her be comforted, and I would serve her in every thing that lay in my power—

But, to the tale—

[Page 162] You shall have it directly, good ladies—I know you love a little private history.

Mercy on me! cried Miss Autumn, what sort of a story are we to have now? the history of a filthy creature, who lived with another woman's husband, and then turned street-walker?

Even so, dear Madam; and if your immaculate modesty will be too much shocked at the recital in public, double down the page, take it up in your chamber, and read it when you are alone; it will save you the trouble of a blush—

And do you think, Mr. Inquisitor, that your works will be proper for the perusal of youth?

I hope so, Madam; Heaven forbid that I should ever write a page, whose tendency might make me blush to own it, or in my latest hour, wish to blot it out—my narrative is calculated to inspire at once pity and horror—

Pity! good Lord—I never heard the like—pity for an abandoned hussey, who merits the most fla­grant punishment?

You'll pardon me, Madam, If I differ from you in opinion—I would have every woman to feel a proper horror and detestation of the crimes this unhappy girl has committed; but, at the same time, pity the weakness that led into them, and the miseries the commission of them has entailed upon her.

I have no patience, Sir; I insist upon it, that the breach of chastity in woman deserves the most rigo­rous punishment.

[Page 163] Unfeeling woman! if thou art really virtuous thyself, boast not thy superiority over thy afflicted, fallen sisters; but retire to thy closet, and thank thy Creator, that he gave thee not a form that might lead thee into temptations, or endued thee with fortitude to withstand them—

But now for Annie's story.—

ANNIE's STORY.

IT was on a fine evening, the latter end of May, when tired with the fatigues of the day, for she was a milliner's apprentice, Annie obtained leave of her mistress to walk out for a little air.—Her mistress had a shop which she occupied, and frequently vi­sited during the summer season, situated on the banks of the Thames.

Annie strayed toward the water side. Some ve­nerable trees grew on the banks, forming a covert from the sun at noon; and, by their interwoven branches, inspired a sort of pleasing melancholy in the gray twilight of the evening.

Annie was a sentimental girl—she loved solitude, poetry, and music.—With a mind softened by the remembrance of some former occurrences of her life, and spirits calmed, but not depressed, by the so­lemn silence and serenity of every thing around her, she wandered on meditating on the happy state of those who were in a situation to enjoy unmolested [Page 168] the darling pleasures of reading, meditation, and friendship.

Whether love had any share in her thoughts at that moment, I never could get her to confess—but, whether a sentimental young woman, wan­dering in a solitary walk, and contemplating the works of nature, might not naturally enough wish for a bosom friend to participate in her pleasures, and join in an innocent conversation, I leave to my fair readers to determine—to be sure, she might wish for a female companion; very likely she did; but it is a point I never could determine.

In this shady walk Annie was accosted by Mr. Winlove.

Mr. Winlove was a gentleman of fortune, to whose family Annie had been recommended by a particular friend as an innocent, well-disposed girl.—She frequently visited Mrs. Winlove—she had re­ceived numberless civilities from her husband—there could be no harm in walking two or three turns with a married man—she accepted his pro­ferred arm, and they proceeded together.

I had been wishing for an agreeable companion in this walk, Annie, said he.

Why did you not bring Mrs. Winlove with you?

'Tis a natural question; Annie, but a wife is not always the most agreeable companion. I am much better pleased with your company than I should be with hers.

Annie had been brought up in the strictest princi­ples of virtue; she had likewise imbibed some [Page 169] strange, obsolete notions concerning honor, piety, integrity, and the like. She, therefore, thought it strange that a man should prefer the company of an indifferent person, to that of the woman to whom he had vowed eternal love and constan­cy.

How can you talk so inconsistently, Mr. Win­love? said she; surely my company cannot be pre­ferable to that of the woman of your choice.

Do people never marry from any other motives than inclination?

I have heard, indeed, said Annie, of marriages of interest, where avarice, not love, lighted the hymeneal torch; but I have too good an opinion of Mr. Winlove to think he could be biassed by so sordid a motive.

How I am delighted to find that you entertain so high an opinion of me, my dear creature; and yet it pains me.

Oh, why am I denied the power of bestowing myself and fortune on a woman every way so ami­able.

Annie was going to interrupt him, but he stopped her, and proceeded.—

Be not offended, my sweet angel, you have no idea of the miseries of my situation; drawn into a cursed connection with a woman who has neither beauty, merit, nor accomplishments to render her a desirable companion—a woman for whom I have [Page 170] not the least tenderness, and whom I married from a mistaken point of honor—unhappy wretch that I am, I must now daily see you, charming Annie, lovely, amiable, accomplished, yet obliged to earn a subsistence, when nature formed you to move in a sphere more exalted, more suited to your gentle disposition.—These hands, dear girl, were not formed for labour—he took one hand and pressed it tenderly to his lips.

Now, however Annie might be inclined to re­prove Mr. Winlove in the beginning of this address, the latter part of it was so prettily mixed with praises of herself, that she could not well deter­mine whether to be pleased or offended—she therefore continued silent.

Annie was the daughter of a merchant; had been well educated; and being supposed to have a large fortune, was early introduced into the school of gallantry, and her ears invaded by the voice of adulation—she was pretty—how could she avoid knowing it? she had heard an hundred different men swear it; her glass confirmed their oaths.—She was naturally sensible; but she was vain, and a little inclined to coquetry.—Her father died in­solvent—she was taken from a scene of grandeur, and apprenticed to a milliner.—She was good-na­tured, every body loved her—she submitted to her fate without repining, and endeavoured to render herself useful in her new occupation. But, alas! poor Annie, she loved the soft numbers of a Dryden or a Pope, much better than the study of the fashions; [Page 171] and would prefer spending an hour at her pen, be­fore the formation of the most elegant ornament for the person.

It is not to be wondered at, that she was de­lighted by the voice of flattery, since she had seldom, from her cradle, been accustomed to any other.

Mr. Winlove was artful; he easily discovered the method by which he might gain the good will of this simple girl; and imperceptibly changed the subject, from admiring the beauties of her person, to commend the graces of her mind.—He then in­quired into the nature of her studies; commend­ed her taste in the selection of authors; ventured gently to laugh at her ideas of religion; called them superstitious; said she was a novice in the ways of the world, and openly avowed a passion for her.

At first her looks plainly indicated her horror and amazement—She trembled—shrunk from him▪ and telling him she was shocked to find the person she had supposed her friend, was her bitterest ene­my, burst into tears.

Had Annie acted with propriety, she would have instantly left him; but he attempted to palliate his offence—she staid to hear him.

How can you call me your enemy, dear Annie, said he—though I doat on you almost to madness, I would not injure you to obtain an empire. I will curb my passion; it shall be pure, exalted friendship that warms our bosoms; we may be friends, my [Page 172] sweet girl; you cannot refuse me that token of your esteem.

Let your actions teach me to esteem you, Mr. Winlove—I will be the friend of no man who pre­tends to laugh at all obligations, moral and reli­gious.

Mr. Winlove, by degrees, led her into a dis­pute—Annie was not a match in argument with this insidious friend; he was a sophist; he pre­ferred the laws of nature; called religion priest­craft; brought innumerable proofs to convince her that her opinion was fallacious, and that she was entirely ignorant of the road to happiness, if she supposed it was to be found by strictly adhering to the musty rules prescribed by the aged and captious, who, unable any longer to enjoy the pleasures of youth, would deprive others of their share.

Take example, dear Annie, said he, from the excellent Eloise, of Rousseau.

She had never read it.

He recommended it very strongly for her pe­rusal.

As she returned home, passing a library, Mr. Win­love purchased the pernicious novel, and gave it to Annie.

She took it home—she read it—her judgment was perverted—she believed in the reality of a pla­tonic passion—she thought she had the virtue of an Eloise, and Mr. Winlove the honour of a St. Preux.

[Page 173] Churchill was the next author that was recom­mended.

She read—she listened to the soft language of love, and imbibed pernicious poison from every page she read, and every word she heard.

Trusting to her own strength and [...]tue, she made a private assignation—met him—confessed she loved him—and was lost.

But little now remains to be told.

A few months convinced her, that when honour is forfeited, love cannot exist.

Mr. Winlove forsook her.

Her reputation stained—without friends—with­out peace—despised and insulted by her own sex, pitied by the other, and renounced by her uncle, who had bound her apprentice, she became the associate of the abandoned and profligate; and re­duced to chuse the dreadful alternative of death or infamy, became a partner in vices which once she would have shuddered but to think on.

LOVE.

AND this man pleaded love as an incitement to the ruin of the poor, simple Annie.

What is love?

It is a question which would be answered differ­ent ways, according to the age and situation of the person to whom it is addressed—Love! cries the [Page 174] lovely girl, whose imagination is warmed by the perusal of a sentimental novel—love is the cordial drop Heaven has thrown in, to sweeten the bitter draught of life—without love we can only exist—sweet soother of our cares! that can strew roses on the coarsest bed, and make the most homely fair delicious.—Give me love and Strephon, an humble cottage shaded with woodbine; for love will ren­der the retreat delightful!

Charmed with the enchanting scene her busy fan­cy draws, she imagines happiness exists only in a cottage; and that for the love of her dear Stre­phon, she could easily, and without regret, forego all the indulgencies of her father's house; all the advantages of wealth, and solace herself with a brown crust and a pitcher of milk. But then her Strephon will always be near her, ever whispering his love, and studying to promote her felicity: fired with these romantic ideas, she takes the first op­portunity of quitting her home; and without a moment's deliberation, throws herself upon the ho­nor of a man, who perhaps, had no further regard for her than the hope of sharing her fortune might excite.

Ask this same woman, some few months after, when poverty has visited her dwelling, and unmask­the real designs of her husband, ask her then what love is—her answer will be, it is a foolish, head­strong passion, whose pleasures exist merely in ima­gination; a blind hood-winked deity, who leads on his votaries by promises of everlasting felicity; [Page 175] and when two late for retreat, discovers his real aspect, and plunges them into inevitable misery.—Yet this woman's ideas of love were both erroneous—the reason of which was, she had never really felt the effects of that exalted passion.

Ask the libertine what is love?

Innocence trembles at his answer; religion and virtue replies, it is ruin, infamy and shame.

The old, avaricious, captious wretch will tell you, there is no such thing as love that it never existed but in romances▪ plays, and novels.

Then pray, Mr. Inquisitor, what is your opinion of love?

THE ANSWER.

REAL love was born of beauty, nursed by Inno­cence, and its life prolonged by good sense, affabi­lity and prudence—it consists of a strict union of soul and parity of sentiment between two persons of different sexes—its constant attendants are honor, integrity, candour, humility, good nature, and cheerfulness.

A passion of this kind elevates the soul▪ and in­spires it with fortitude to bear the various vicissi­tudes of life of without complaining—from such a passion proceeds all the endearing ties of nature—Father, brother, husband, wife, mother, daugh­ter; names, the very sound of which will make every fibre of the heart vibrate with pleasure.

[Page 176] What noble, praise-worthy actions have men performed when animated by the esteem and love of a deserving object; even women have forgot the weakness of their sex, and suffered hardships, combated perils, and braved even the threats of war, for▪ the sake of a beloved husband.—It opens the heart to all the gentle virtues which ornament society—the heart susceptible of love is never cal­lous to the feelings of humanity; he never beholds a distressed object but he immediately wishes to relieve it, not that he feels so much for the person's suffering as for those who may suffer with or for their distress, such as a wife, husband, or parent.—It is a passion which, when inspired by virtue, and guided by religion and reason, dignifies man­kind—a passion which ornaments the highest station, and adds new lustre even to the British diadem.

Illustrious pair! whose every action tends to point the way to real happiness; long, long may you reign the pride and blessing of your people—May your bright example spread throughout the kingdom, till Hymen led by Love and Honor, shall reign triumphant o'er the British nation.

It is very extraordinary, but I never can finish with the subject I begin upon—I began a definition of Love, and I ramble immediately to the King and Queen; and how was it possible I could do otherwise when love and harmony was the theme.

My fair country-woman, you whose hearts are formed by nature open to every gentle, generous sentiment, beware of Love—there are many de­ceivers [Page 177] who assume his appearance, and steal un­suspected into the heart; but of all the various shapes it assumes, none is so much to be dreaded as the spacious mask of friendship.—There has been more women lost through platonic love than any other; and the reason is, they are thrown entirely off their guard, and have not the least doubt of the strength of their own virtue, or their lover's honor, till both are forfeited past redemption.

But all this is digressing from Annie's story.

THE SEQUEL.

WHEN she had finished her relation, I took her into a hackney-coach, and conveyed her home—candidly told my dear Emma the circumstance of our meeting, and asked her advice in what manner to dispose of the poor girl.

We tried her penitence; found it sincere; and willing to encourage her in virtue, recommended her to the service of a lady, whose example con­firmed those sentiments which were newly returning to be inmates of Annie's bosom.

I have frequently seen her since, and experience a thousand times more satisfaction in the reflection that I have snatched her from infamy, than the man of pleasure can feel, who raises the object of his guilty pursuit from the lowest station, to affluence and grandeur.

That is but a bad comparison neither; the two actions cannot come is competition with each [Page 178] other, since the first elevates human nature, the latter debases it.

THE JOURNEY.

I HAVE often been surprised to find that persons who are possessed of elegant villas, and are at liber­ty to dispose of their time as they think proper, should prefer spending it in London. For my own part, I should hardly pass one month of the twelve in that seat of commerce and bustle, were it not for unavoidable obligations.

I find the purest pleasures arise from a walk in a pleasant meadow, hedged round with hawthorn, in a sweet May morning, when the lark attunes her early song, and chaunts forth the praises of her Creator; to see bright Phoebus leave his wa­tery bed, and kiss away Aurora's pearly tears, which hang upon the opening flowers.

Drive on, said I to the postillion, I long to be at my journey's end, and I must positively dine at Friendly Hall to-day.

Pray, your honor, give me some half-pence, said a boy that ran out of a cottage as the carriage passed.

He was an arch-looking boy, with curly hair, very decently dressed, and ran along by the side of the carriage with surprising agility.—I threw him out some half-pence; and looking out of the window to observe him pick them up, I saw a young man, who had greatly the appearance of a gentleman, [Page 179] eagerly take the money from the child, and go into the cottage.

I had scarcely mentioned the circumstance to my Emma, before the postillion driving carelessly over a heap of stones, one of the wheels gave way, and down came the coach.

At another time, I should undoubtedly have sworn at the postillion, and thrown myself into a violent passion, from which I might not have reco­vered the whole day.—At present, as there was no harm done, the accident only coincided with my wishes, which led me towards the cottage; so helping my Emma out, and taking Harriet in one hand and Lucy in the other, we walked into the humble habitation.

THE COTTAGERS.

THE young man was seated by a woman, whose face had never been remarkable for beauty, but was irresistibly charming, overshadowed by me­lancholy, and adorned by sensibility.—Her fine auburn hair she had endeavoured to confine un­der a small lawn cap, but it had broke from its bandage, and played in wanton ringlets round her face.

A child about three months old was at her breast, and the boy, to whom I had given the half-pence, was making boats with bits of wood, and swim­ming them in a pail of water that stood in a corner of the room.

[Page 180] As we entered, the young man glanced his eyes upon his cloaths; his cheeks assumed a sanguine hue.—They certainly were thread-bare; but what of that? they had once been new, and from what remained, we could see they had once been elegant; perhaps it was that very circumstance which dis­tressed him.

Whatever circumstances a person is in, you may always discover by their behaviour, whether they have been inured to their situation from childhood.—A person, who has never known any thing but poverty, shews no other mark of chagrin at the entrance of a stranger, than what proceeds from an aukwardness of manner, which they ever betray, when in the company of their superiors—and raise that person to the most exalted station, and you will still perceive the same disgusting aukwardness and rusticity.—So, place a man of education in ever so obscure a situation, you will always discover the manners of the gentleman, though obscured by the garb of the beggar.

I, therefore, no sooner beheld the young man, than I discovered that he had not always worn a thread bare coat, or lived from his childhood in a cottage.

THE EMBARRASSMENT.

I AM hungry, mamma, said Harriet.

Could you procure us a little bread and milk, said I to the young woman.

[Page 181] We have none in the house, Sir, she replied, visi­bly embarrassed; and it is above two miles to ano­ther cottage.

The young man turned pale as ashes.

Give me my money, mother, said the boy, and I will go and buy some.

She hesitated, and the boy proceeded.

I think it is time we had some breakfast—I am sure I am hungry—and so are you—I heard you say so, or I should not have begged of the gentle­folks.

He will discover our poverty, said the father, forcing a smile.—The mother turned from us, and wept.

Pardon me, Madam, said Emma, if I ask the cause of your tears—it is not curiosity, but a wish to serve you, occasions the question.

Pride and poverty, replied the young man, strug­gling to suppress his emotions.

Will this relieve you, said I, offering him a few guineas.—

Though I am almost starving, said he, I feel more anguish than satisfaction at the offer; nor would I accept it, but for my wife and children.

It is extraordinary that there is such an innate pride implanted in the mind of some men that they are ashamed of poverty, though it was entailed upon them by unavoidable misfortunes, and I am certain that people of this cast, in receiving fa­vours, [Page 182] though perhaps those favours raise them from a state of penury to plenty, feel a larger share of pain than pleasure—the noble mind is always pained when labouring under the weight of obli­gations.

Now, shame upon the world for occasioning this—were it not that there is greater respect paid to the gilded equipage, glaring liveries, and em­broidered cloaths, than to the poor atom of clay that is attended by all this pomp, a man would never blush at poverty when it was attended by honor and virtue.

I do not mean hereditary honor, I mean a noble­ness of soul, an elevation of sentiment, an integri­ty of heart, that would rather bear the laugh of the world for keeping within the strict rules of oeconomy than suffer a tradesman's bill to go unpaid, or a fellow creature to want sustenance.

A man of real honor will not always draw his sword at every trivial offence; but he ever stands forth the undaunted champion of innocence and virtue—he also holds his friend's wife or daughter as sacred, regards them with esteem, and treats them with respect.

The modern man of honor is quite a different creature; he must have his pleasures whether he can afford to pay for them or not; he will steal his friend's fortune at the gaming table; debauch his wife, or ensnare his daughter, and then run him through the body by way of reparation.

[Page 183] And, what is hereditary honor?—A word of pompous sound—a toy—a plaything—a pretty bau­ble for children of twenty, thirty, aye, up to an hundred years of age.

I have seen those great babies as pleased with enumerating the titles of their ancestors, as an in­fant has been with a new rattle, or a jack in the box.

Sir, my forefathers were Earls, or Dukes, or Princes.—Sir, I have noble blood in my veins, which has flowed uncontaminated through twenty gene­rations.

Yes, Sir, but your ancestors were cruel, or un­just, or ambitious, or avaricious, or proud, or re­vengeful.—But they were Earls, or Dukes, or Prin­ces.—That is the convincing argument; and my Lord sits down perfectly contented with the re­flection that he is right honorable by birth, and never gives himself the trouble to perform one honorable action during the whole course of his life.

And, pray what has this to do with the cotta­gers.

Faith I don't know that it has the least connecti­on with them; but I never can prescribe rules for my pen, any more than I can confine my thoughts to one single object.—To write straight forward, is like an hackney horse that, setting out from the first stage, continues in the beaten track till he arrives at the end of his journey—for my part I hate such insipid travelling; mine is a jour­ney [Page 184] of pleasure, and I will turn out of the road as often as I please to take a view of any thing amus­ing or entertaining.

THE STEWARD.

THE young man went out and procured some refreshment, of which we partook, and, after the repast was finished, the wife prepared to give us her own and husband's history.—

She laid her infant to sleep, set her apartment in proper order; and, having set a mug of cyder (which her husband had brought in) upon the table, sat down to gratify the curiosity she had so strongly excited.—

At that instant a fat old man rode up to the door, dismounted, fastened his horse to a tree, and en­tered.

I never cast my eye upon a stranger but I imme­diately form some idea of his or her dispositions by the turn of their eyes and cast of their features; and though my skill in physiognomy is not infallible, I seldom find myself deceived.

The old man had a sort of haughtiness in his car­riage, which seemed the result of mean pride and self-sufficiency▪ his person was coarse, his manner rude, his language almost insulting.

I am surprised, said he to the young man, that you have not brought me your last half year's rent—I have repeatedly sent, and will no longer be put [Page 185] off by your trifling excuses—I am now come for the money, and will not depart without it.

Sir, said the young man, we have it not; and to add to our misfortunes, two days since our cattle were seized for a small sum which we owed in the neighbourhood.—

Money I want, and money I will have, said the man—a large sum is to be made up this week, and I will not wait any longer—if you do not send me the rent within two days, I will turn you out of the cottage, first seizing what stock you have.

Confound this money, said I, it is the occasion of more ill will and dissention than any thing else in the world.

Why, pray, young man, said he, what would you do without money?

I was dressed very plainly—so was Emma and the children—he had not seen the carriage that was re­pairing; or if he had, could never have supposed it was mine.

He addressed me, therefore, by this familiar epithet, on account of his supposed superiority; and as he pronounced the words young-man, he assumed such an air of self-sufficiency, and sat him­self back in the chair with such an insulting as­surance, that I had hardly patience to answer him calmly.

If there was no money in the world▪ said I, there would be no extortion; and, I fancy then, [Page 186] you, my good friend, would find but little employ­ment.

One of my servants then informed me that the carriage was ready—I enquired of my young host if this was his landlord, and was informed he was only steward to Lord M—: I became answerable for the rent, and determined, on my return to town, to pay a visit to his Lordship, and inform him of the necessitous situation of his tenants.

THE AUTHOR.

ONE evening, as I was rambling out, I observed a man sitting on the trunk of an old tree, with a paper and pencil in his hand; at first I supposed him to be drawing, but, on a nearer approach, I found him to be writing.

Pray, Sir, said I, advancing, and paying him the compliments of the evening, what may be the subject which so agreeably engages your attention? I presume you are sacrificing at the shrine of the Muses—I am, Sir, said he, rising and putting the paper in his pocket—I have been writing all this summer, and in the winter I hope to have my works in print—It is a novel, Sir, entirely calculated to amuse—

In how many volumes?

Two.

And are you sure of selling them?

[Page 187] I am engaged, Sir, to write for a person who scarcely ever publishes any thing but novels.

What may be the plot or foundation of your novel?

It is called Annabella; or Suffering Innocence—my heroine is beautiful, accomplished, and rich; an only child, and surrounded by admirers—she contracts an attachment for a man, her inferior in point of birth and fortune; but honourable, handsome, &c.—She has a female friend, to whom she relates all that passes in her breast—her hopes, fears, meetings, partings, &c.—She is treated hardly by her friends—combats innumerable diffi­culties in the sentimental way, but at last over­comes them all, and is made the bride of the man of her heart.

Pshaw, said I, that is [...]le; there are at this present day, above two thousand novels in exist­ence, which begin and end exactly in the same way—the novel writers have now taken ano­ther road; and, if you will give me leave, I will just give you a few hints, which may, perhaps, be of some service to you in writing a novel in future.

SKETCH OF A MODERN NOVEL.

IN the first place, your heroine must fall violent­ly in love with an all-accomplished youth at a very early age—keep her passion concealed from her pa­rents [Page 188] or guardians; but bind herself in her own mind to wed no other than this dear, first conquer­or of her heart—ill-natured, proud, ambitious fa­thers, are very necessary to be introduced—kind, affectionate, amiable mothers. The superlative beauty and accomplishments of your heroine, or perhaps the splendour of her fortune, must attract the attention of a man diametrically opposite in person and disposition to her first lover—the father must threaten—the mother entreat—and the lover be very urgent for the completion of his felicity—remember to mix a sufficient quantity of sighs, tears, swooning, hysterics, and all the moving expressions of heart-rending woe—her filial duty must triumph over inclination; and she must be led like a victim to the altar.—

So much for the first part.

The second volume displays her angelic, her ex­emplary conduct in the character of a wife—the husband must be jealous, brutal, fond of gaming, keep a mistress, lavish all his fortune on sharpers and lewd women—the wife pious, gentle, obedient and resigned—

Be sure you contrive a duel; and, if convenient, a suicide might not be amiss—lead your heroine through wonderful trails—let her have the fortitude of an anchorite, the patience of an angel—but in the end, send her first husband to the other world, and unite her to the first possessor of her heart—join a few other incidents; such as the history of her bosom friend, and a confidant—Manage your [Page 189] plot in such a manner as to have some surprising discovery made—wind up with two or three marri­ages, and the superlative felicity of all the dramatis personoe.

There, Sir, said I, there you have the substance of a narrative which might be spun out to two or three, volumes—there has been many novels intro­duced to the public built on as slender a foundation as that—The Modern Fine Gentleman, Deserted Bride, Clara and—

THE INTERRUPTION.

I HAVE often been surprised, said the author, taking the sketch (for I had wrote it down) and giving me a bow of thanks—It has often surprised me, said he, to find that all the distresses of a no­vel proceeds from a passion, which is, in general, supposed to contribute to our chief happiness—All writers of that sort of production, from the time of romance and enchanted tales, to the present tribe of scribblers, could find no other subject to employ their pens, but love—I wonder that the novel readers are not tired of reading one story so many times, with only the variation of its being told different ways.

When I first commenced Author, continued he, I wrote on religion and philosophy; but I found in the first I could gain no reputation, unless I wrote in the enthusiastic style of a Methodist; [Page 190] and the latter was too obstruse a study for the young and gay, required too much time for the old, and was totally improper for the ignorant and illiterate.—My books would not sell—I had frequently applied to a person eminent for his nu­merous publications. He told me if I wished to get a living, I must write to amuse rather than instruct the world; and that If I would write him a good novel in two volumes, he would give me ten guineas for it.

He thought, no doubt, ten guineas was a very large sum to be put into the hands of a poor author: to deal candidly, I should have been very glad at that time, of a fifth part of the sum—but, to proceed—I was not at all conversant in that sort of reading; but finding it absolutely necessary, I borrowed some of the best esteemed modern novels from a library, and began to pe­ruse them with great attention, but there was a sameness in the generality of them that disgusted, and a looseness in the language of others that shocked me.

It is indeed shocking, said I, to see so many reams of paper expended in ushering to the world pernicious pages, which tend to vitiate the taste and corrupt the heart. When the heroine of a no­vel is represented as flying in the face of filial duty, eloping, running into the very lap of danger, brav­ing the authority of her parents, and forgetting the decorum and delicacy which ought to be the characteristic of the female sex, and yet, in the end, [Page 191] meets with every blessing, every comfort, she can wish; is it not enough to ruin the weak head and unwary heart, by leading them to think true feli­city is to be found by following the bent of their own inclinations, though never so wayward and opposite to the advice of their friends or the dictates of reason?

Nor can I think that the more modern produc­tions contain a better moral, since the whole merit of the filial obedience is cancelled by the retaining an affection for one man after they have vowed eternal fidelity to another.

I would wish the authors of those works to re­flect, that it is the inclinations of the heart that renders us guilty, as much as the actual commis­sion of a crime; and a woman who strays from her husband only in wishes and thoughts, is, in reality, as culpable as she who actually wounds his honor.

I have very nice notions of conjugal fidelity and filial duty, and earnestly wish that no writings might ever be made public which tend to injure either: they are the foundation on which we may always raise the temple of happiness, they are a crown of glory for the head, a cordial and com­forter even to the sorrow-wounded heart.

These virtues are the brightest ornaments the female sex can wear, they make the plainest woman lovely; and, when displayed in an eminent degree, elevate the human soul, and make it little inferior to angels.

THE FAIR MANIAC.

I WAS proceeding in this manner, when a love­ly young creature darted out of a little cottage, as we were passing, and seized me by the arm, ea­gerly desired I would convey her back to her friends.

They say I am mad, said she: but I am not, I have my reason as well as they have; I know I am miserable, and have been so ever since they took my brother from me.—Oh! cruel to tear him from my arms, to break my very heart strings, and send him away, never, never to return—he went on the treacherous ocean—Yes, yes, the sea, the sky, all, all combined with my inhuman guar­dian to take him from me—hark! hark! do you not hear the wind?—See the blue lightning—the raging waves—the thunder—I hear it—I see the vessel beat the foaming sea—I see my brother—see him wave his hand—I cannot come—I cannot save thee—the vessel parts—she sinks—he's gone, he's gone—Oh! merciless.—

Alas my drooping lily, said I, you see nothing; there is no sea near you; this is merely the effect of fancy; your brother, no doubt, is safe, and will one day return to make you happy.

Oh no! said she, crossing her hands upon her bo­som, and sitting down upon the ground.—Oh no! he will never eturn to me; he will never [Page 193] more sooth and cheer his unhappy sister—but here will I sit on this lone bank, and mourn the heavy hour in which he left me—I'll build a tomb of sea shells, weeds, and corals—I'll plant around it pale primroses and sickly daffodils, and every day I'll wash it with my tears, and count the hours, and chide dull, lagging Time, till his sharp scythe shall cut life's fine drawn thread, and I may lay me down and sleep with my dear Ho­race—

Horace! said I, looking more intently at her—It was poor Julietta—then Vellum was a vil­lain.

At the name of Vellum, she started from the ground, appeared terrified, looked wildly round her, and uttering a feint exclamation, ran hastily into the cottage.

I bade the author a good night, and followed her—but an old woman, who I found was her only attendant, could give me no information concern­ing her; only that she had lost her senses ever since the death of her brother, who was ship­wrecked as he was going abroad to finish his edu­cation, and that she had been sent into the country, in hopes that the air would be of service to her.

I found my heart so deeply engaged by the mise­rable situation of this lovely orphan, that it was with difficulty I restrained my tears when I pressed her cold hand and bade her good night.

THE MENDICANT.

THOUGH it was near three years since I had been a witness to the sorrow of Julietta, on the death of her father, yet the scene still remain­ed fresh in my memory—I remembered the doubts I then entertained of Vellum's integrity, and was determined immediately to return to town, and search into the mystery of Horace's death, and the shocking privation of Julietta's senses.

When I have once formed a resolution, I am not long in putting it in execution.

The morning after my arrival in town, I deter­mined to pay Mr. Vellum an invisible visit.

As I was proceeding through a very public street, I saw a servant, in livery, seeding a fine dog with bits of roast meat, which appeared perfectly fresh and good.—A poor woman, whose tattered garb spoke extremity of poverty, whose emaciated frame seemed tottering on the verge of eternity, and whose head was sprinkled over with hoary frost, approached the man, and in the humblest manner entreated him to let her pick up a little of the victu­als which he had thrown to the animal—only one bit, Sir, said she, to save me from starving—The servant was silent—she took it for consent, and bent forward to pick up what the dog seemed to refuse.

The servant, who, unmoved, had heard her re­quest, no sooner saw her attempt to gather up the [Page 195] broken scraps, than he stepped eagerly to her, snatched them from her, and with sacrilegious hand struck the wretched mortal, whose sex, age, and poverty, should have kept her sacred from in­sult.

Good Heavens! said I, that a man should so far forget himself.—What! must the brute creation enjoy case and plenty, while an unhappy hu­man being wanders through the streets perishing with hunger?—and what must this poor woman suffer, at seeing herself denied the fragments that are rejected by a brute? for the dog had absolutely left a large part of the food that had been given him.

Who does that dog belong to? said I to the ser­vant.

Lord M—, said he.

Lord M—, said I, at that instant recollecting the unhappy cottagers—then why not pay Lord M—a visit now, as well as at any other time; it will only defer my intended enquiry at Mr. Vel­lum's a few hours longer.

It was no sooner thought on than determined; and having inquired of the servant in which house his Lordship resided, I put on my ring, ascended the steps, and patiently waited the opening of the door.

THE PEOPLE OF FASHION.

I CHOSE to make this visit invisible, that I might be the better able to judge of the sentiments and disposition of his Lordship.

Having got admittance into the house, unper­ceived, I followed a servant who was going up stairs with the breakfast apparatus, though it was then one o'clock.

On entering a room, I saw a woman in an ele­gant dishabille, lolling on a sopha, and turning over an enormous heap of complimentary cards—She was between forty and fifty—was finely formed, and had once been handsome, if one might judge from a regular set of features; but at present her skin was shriveled and yellow, her eyes sunk and languid.

Thomas, said she to the servant, is my Lor stirring?

Yes, my Lady.

Go with my compliments, and I should be glad of his company to breakfast.

In a few moments my Lord entered, threw him­self into an easy chair, yawned, and drawled out the compliments of the morning.

Where were you, my Lord, last night? I was quite surprised at not seeing you at Lady Blackace's—all the world was there.

It is quite a bore, my Lady, to see a man and his wife at the same place.

[Page 197] Very true, my Lord; but had your Lordship appeared, I should certainly have been so polite as to have made my exit.— A propos, my Lord—I won­der what has become of that fond fool, Charles Howard, and how he and Isabella like matrimony with the sour sauce of poverty—Good God! con­tinued she, I wonder how any body can think of swallowing that bitter pill without having it suffi­ciently gilded over.

A servant entered, and announced Mr. How­ard.

Mr. Howard! cried my Lady, staring up with astonishment, surely you mistake; my brother has been dead above these seven years; and Charles cannot think of coming.

The gentleman certainly sent up the name of Howard, said the servant.

He was bid to shew him up.

THE FATHER.

AN elegant, elderly gentleman soon entered the room, dressed in the military habit—he paid his respects politely to my Lord—advanced to the La­dy with a look of tenderness, and embraced her.

You are, no doubt, surprised to see me, sister, said he, after having supposed me dead so many years; but your surprise will be converted into joy when I inform you during the last seven years of [Page 198] my absence I have accumulated a large fortune, and am now come to reclaim my son, and return the kindness and generosity with which you step­ped forward, and offered him your favour and protection during the time when my duty forced me to be absent from my native country—You, my dear Lord and Lady M—, took my poor boy when he had no inheritance but poverty.

During the time the old gentleman was delivering these words Lady M—'s countenance underwent several changes, and at last settled in a deadly pale—the fond father instantly saw the change, and asked in a voice scarcely audible, whether his child was dead?

No, Captain Howard, said my Lord, he is not dead, but he has behaved so ill of late, that he has entirely forfeited my favour; he has voluntarily ab­sented himself from my house; and to confess the truth, I have not seen him these six years, nor do I know where he is.

And what has he done? asked the distracted fa­ther.

He has behaved like a poor, mean spirited wretch, said my Lady—he has degraded the family my marrying a low, vulgar creature, in direct op­position to the advice, nay absolute commands, of my Lord and myself.

Upon my honor, Mr. Howard, said my Lord, I had contracted such an esteem for the lad▪ that I had positively determined to adopt him; but on [Page 199] his absolutely persisting in his design of marrying the low creature my Lady mentions, I forbid him my house:—I had no intention to adopt a beggar's brat.

The conversation was now interrupted by a ser­vant, who informed my Lady there was company in the drawing room—she begged leave of her brother to go and receive them, and my Lord, having rung for his valet, retired to adjust his dress:

THE ECLAIRCISSEMENT.

CAPTAIN Howard had been abruptly informed that his son had forfeited his uncle's favour; had been informed of it in a manner inconsiderate and unfeeling▪ and then left to himself to reflect at lei­sure on his misfortune.

He sat with one hand resting on the breakfast ta­ble, and the other in his bosom, his brow contract­ed▪ and his eyes fixed on the floor—there was such a dignity in his person, and yet such an apparent concern upon his countenance, that my affections were drawn towards him by an irresistible impulse—I longed to call him brother and friend—my heart was wrung with sensibility.

And what avails it, said I, that this man has ac­cumulated a large fortune?—of what benefit is wealth to him?—he had looked upon his son as his greatest treasure—for these many years has his de­lighted [Page 200] imagination drawn a most perfect picture of felicity in the idea of beholding this beloved son, and seeing him enjoying the favour of his uncle, and perhaps wedded to some amiable woman, who, to the gifts of birth and fortune, added the gifts of nature, whose beauty created love, and her virtue esteem.

Behold him now in one moment bereaved of this darling hope, his heart aching with paternal love and fear—oh! would children but reflect how greatly the happiness of a parent depends on their well doing; could they have the least idea of the mighty pangs which tear the parental bosom when they stray from their duty, they would surely avoid every action which might tend to disturb the peace or wound the minds of their parents; for sure I am, that not the sharpest torture enthusiastic zeal could invent, can equal the torments that rend the heart of a fondly-doating disappointed parent.

My meditations were interrupted by a decent, elderly woman, who opened the door, and, ad­vancing to Captain Howard, welcomed him cordial­ly to England.

My good Mrs. Watson, said he, taking her by her hand▪ can you tell me where Charles is, and to whom he has united himself so contrary to the de­sire of his uncle and aunt?

It was for that purpose, said Mrs. Watson, that I took the liberty of coming into the room to speak to you—but this room, Sir, is not a proper place to converse in; I must beg you to come into my [Page 201] apartment, and I will then inform you of some circumstances which will fill you with astonish­ment.

I felt a curiosity which I could not withstand, and, anxious for the fate of Charles, I followed Captain Howard and Mrs. Watson into another apartment. Mrs. Watson I found was Lady M—'s housekeeper, and had formerly lived in that capa­city with her Ladyship's mother—When Cap­tain Howard was seated, she related the following circumstances:

You know, Sir, said she, just before you left England, my Lady, at my Lord's request, had ta­ken Miss Isabella Beauchamp to be her companion—you had not been gone many years before Mr. Beauchamp died insolvent, and the poor young La­dy had no dependence but on my Lord, who was a distant relation of her father's. From the time of Mr. Beauchamp's death, Lady M—altered in her behaviour to Miss Bella; treated her often with disrespect; and in general, with cold contempt—My Lord, on the contrary, behaved with the greatest politeness, assiduity, and attention; made her elegant presents, insisted on her joining all par­ties, public or private, in which Lady M—was in­cluded—young Mr. Howard shewed the attenti­on of a brother; and, I must own, this conduct raised both the gentlemen highly in my opinion It was with great concern that I noticed a settled me­lancholy on Miss Bella's countenance, and often would she retire from a crowded assembly to her own apartment and give a loose to her tears—she [Page 202] had always conducted herself in such a manner as to gain the love of all the domestics, and she had favour­ed me with many singular marks of friendship—I therefore took the liberty one day to enquire into the cause of her melancholy; when bursting into a flood of grief, she cried, oh! Mrs. Watson, what will become of me? Lord M—pursues me with a criminal passion—I cannot stay in this family to be subject to his insults; and if I leave it, how shall I guard myself from the snares and insults of the un­feeling part of mankind, who know not how to pity poverty? or how shall I provide for the neces­saries of life? I endeavoured all in my power to console her, and told her I would certainly look out for some reputable family where she might be boarded on moderate terms, and that I would advise her to sell a few of her jewels to provide for the present, and trust in providence that her future life may be more fortunate—she gave me a pair of dia­mond earings, which were her mother's, to dispose of; but as I was returning to my own apartment I met Mr. Howard, and knowing he was always plentifully supplied with money by his aunt, I deter­mined to make him acquainted with Miss Bella's situation, and engage him to assist her—but judge my surprise, when I had informed him of my Lord's designs, to hear him fly into a violent rage, and swear she should not stay another hour in the house▪ called her his wife, his adored Bella, and was has­tening to her apartment, when he was stopped by his aunt, who had overheard our conversation, and peremptorily demanded whether he had been so [Page 203] mean spirited as to marry Miss Beauchamp?—he an­swered with warmth, he was not married to her; but since there was no other way to shield her from the contempt of pride and the insults of libertinism, he would marry her the next morning.

Lady M—was greatly irritated, and sent a mes­sage to Miss Beauchamp, commanding her to quit her house instantly—Charles followed the poor dis­tressed girl; and before my Lord returned, who was then in the country, prevailed on her to give him a lawful right to protect her.

However ill Miss Beauchamp had been treated, Mr. Howard thought it was his duty to visit his uncle, and sue for his pardon, for the precipitate step he had taken.

They made their appearance the morning after my Lord come to town—It is unnecessary, and would only be shocking your feelings, to give you an account of the reception they met with; suffice it to say, they were spurned by the haughty pair, and turned with indignity out of the house. Lord M—swearing by all that was holy he would not give them a single farthing to keep them from starving—they left the house, and I never heard where they were till last summer, when I acciden­tally found them in a mean cottage, which they rented of Lord M—'s steward—they went by an assumed name, and Mrs. Howard having bred very fast, and being very weakly, they were reduced to the most abject state of penury.

Then these are my poor cottagers, said I.

[Page 204] —Mr. Howard, when he had heard the conclu­sion of her relation, arose from his seat and looking at once joy and indignation, swore he would never rest till he had found his dear injured Charles.

I will find him, said he; and his lovely Isabella shall be rewarded for all her love and patient suf­ferings—he gave the housekeeper something by way of gratuity, and immediately departed—when I, having no farther business there, followed his ex­ample.

NATURAL REFLECTION.

IT has often surprised me to find that people who have, with unbounded generosity, educated, cloath­ed, and fostered an infant in childhood, indulging it to an extravagant degree, never suffering it to be contradicted, but bringing it up in ease and luxury, shall, when that infant arrives at years of maturity, when it has attained sense and reason sufficient to enable it to judge what will most con­duce to its own happiness, for the most trifling misdemeanor, nay, for only daring to think con­trary to its benefactors, or presuming to choose a companion for itself, spurn from them, with in­dignity, the object they once cherished, and drive it out, defenceless, to brave those storms of adver­sity, which the education they have bestowed on it renders it totally unable to combat with—It has often puzzled me to determine whether such people [Page 205] have ever been actuated by true generosity. Pure philanthropy will lead us rather to study the hap­piness of a human being, when it is capable of re­ceiving real satisfaction from our kindness. So far from evincing our affection to children by unlimited indulgencies, we are acting with cruelty toward them, since we are laying up a fund of discontent and uneasiness for hereafter. How hard is it for those darlings of families, whose every desire has been complied with, who never wished for a toy or bauble, but it was procured, though at the most exorbitant price, who was always fed with the greatest dainties, to find, when arrived at matu­rity, that they are journeying through a world, where they will unavoidably meet with disap­pointments, vexation and trouble—for my part, I would never indulge my children in a wish which I thought might tend hereafter to render them un­happy; I would teach them to confine their de­sires within the bounds of moderation, not by morosely opposing all their little fancies, but by insensibly drawing off their attention to any other objects.

As they advanced in years, I would, by example, teach them that forbearance and self-denial, which precept alone will ever fail to effect. If they have affluence, let them enjoy every reasonable wish of their hearts; and no one need inquire what is to be done with the overplus.

Oh! ye sons and daughters of prosperity, look around you; see, in yon little mansion lies a mo­ther; [Page 206] a few hours since made her the parent of her seventh child; she is in a situation, of all others the most deserving pity; she has scarcely the means to support life; she is on a bed of pain and weak­ness; pain, my lovely countrywomen, from which none of you are exempt, and which, no doubt, you think almost insufferable, though you are surround­ed with all the comforts and blessings of life—that poor woman has no comfort—her husband is at sea, labouring, watching, toiling, for a small pittance, which he hopes to bring home to his wife and children—she has anguish of mind added to the sickness of her frame—have you no trifle to spare, Madam, which might, in some measure, alleviate that poor creature's sufferings? Two or three of those guineas will never be missed by you, and they will be a treasure to her.—You cannot spare them—you had rather lay them out in a hobby horse for master, or a wax baby for miss—if the dear creatures are disappointed, they will fret and spoil their pretty faces with crying; and what mo­ther can refuse her little darlings any thing they ask for?

Oh! shame on thee, woman; thou hast not one spark of genuine maternal tenderness in thy com­position, or thou wouldest prefer easing the pangs of a wretched mother, whose heart is pierced by the cries of her children wanting bread, rather than by gratifying the caprice of thy own children—lead them to set no farther value on the wealth which Providence has entrusted to their care, than [Page 207] as it may serve to purchase pleasure, dissipation, and folly.

Your wealth was certainly given you to purchase pleasure, but pleasures far, very far different from those you are so eager in the pursuit of—Go wipe the tear from the eye of affliction; cloathe the poor naked wretch who, nightly unhoused, in some sad lonely place, braves storms and tempests, heats and pinching cold—go release the unfortunate tradesman, who, through the inattention, folly, or villainy of others, has lost his property, and now sighs out his long, long hours in a prison—Go seek the wretched mortals, who, by dire misfortune reduced, oppressed by the iron hand of affliction, sit starving in obscurity, and, rather than ask the cruel world for assistance, or blazon forth their heart-felt sorrows, would sink to the silent grave, victims to famine in the land of plenty.

I know, Madam, you will say I am very dull, that I have given you the vapours, that these are phantoms of my own creating—would to Heaven they were! but alas! these things have seen, and my heart has bled that I had not power to relieve them.

Oh! I could tell such tales of woe, drag forth such vile ingratitude to light, that human nature would disclaim the being who could practise it.

THE INGRATE.

Do you see that beautiful woman in that splendid equipage, surrounded by a train of servants? 'tis the thoughtless, ungrateful Amelia.

Behold that poor old woman, who toils through the dirt, unattended by any but her two lovely daughters, sweet as opening flowers, and inno­cent as new-born infants; see on her venerable countenance, what grief and despondency is im­printed! see the big tears roll down her furrowed cheeks! see she enters an obscure apartment, and a scanty meal is divided between her children and herself.

She looks at them by turns, with such maternal tenderness, such anguish of heart, that she seems to say, what will become of you, my sweet child­ren; how will you pass through life, when I am gone?

That poor old woman was Amelia's benefac­tress—but it is fit I should tell my tale methodi­cally.

Amelia was the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune, who, besides her, had nine other children: Mrs. Ellwin was a distant relation of the family; she was the wife of an opulent merchant, and their habitation was the habitation of philan­thropy.

Amelia had received a tolerable education—she was pretty in her person, cheerful in her dispo­sition, [Page 209] and had a good share of understanding; with these accomplishments, Mrs. Ellwin thought it would be a pity for Amelia to be buried in obscurity; she gave her an invitation to her house, cloathed her genteelly, and introduced her into such company as she thought would be most conducive to her future advancement in life. It was not long before Amelia's charms made a con­quest of a gentleman of large fortune—he loved her; and her virtues were so kindly brought for­ward by Mrs. Ellwin, and her little faults buried in oblivion, that he overlooked her want of fortune, made her his wife, and settled upon her five hun­dred pounds per annum jointure. Amelia had not long enjoyed this advancement, before Mr. Ellwin, having placed too great a dependence on the honor of a friend, lost a large sum of money; of conse­quence his payments were not punctual, and he be­came a bankrupt.

He struggled for some time against his adverse fate, but at length died of a broken heart▪ and left his wife and lovely daughters no inheritance but poverty.

About this time, Amelia became a widow:—but Amelia was now a fine lady—she had no time to spend with poor relations, no money to spare to relieve the distresses of Mrs. Ellwin; though her wedding cloaths were purchased by that generous friend, and cost near five hundred pounds, and that sum had never been repaid.

[Page 210] Amelia is now just married again, and flying about in all the gaiety of heart which wealth and splendour can inspire in a giddy mortal; while poor Mrs. Ellwin is sinking under a load of anguish, unpitied and unthought of. Her once blooming, amiable daughters drooping like frost-nipped blos­soms, and either Friendship, Humanity, nor Gra­titude will reach forth a hand to cheer, revive, or save them.

But I am wandering from my intended route.

THE SUICIDES.

As I approached Mr. Vellum's house, an hearse and six mourning coaches drove from the door.

Perhaps, said I, the guardian is gone to give an account of his guardianship—and a very black account I fear it will be—however I will go in; perhaps I may learn something con­cerning the death of Horace, or gain some intelli­gence which may be serviceable to the hapless Julietta.

I put on my ring, and a servant opening the door soon afterwards, I entered unperceived.

I went into several rooms before I found any bo­dy likely to give me any satisfaction by their con­versation. At length I entered a chamber, where, on an embroidered sopha, lay Mr. Vellum, sur­rounded by magnificence—but, good Heavens! [Page 211] how changed from the man he once was—his face was ghastly pale, his eyes sunk, yet their motion was so quick and fiery, that they gave him the appearance of a fiend rather than an human being.

Opposite to him, in a pensive posture, sat a young woman in a deep mourning habit; her face was partly concealed with her handkerchief, but the part that appeared bore such evident marks of sorrow, that a savage must have felt his heart moved with pity at the sight.

He is gone, gone for ever, cried Vellum, start­ing from the sopha, and catching hold of the young lady's hand—he is gone, Hester, and you know not half the anguish of my soul.

My dear father▪ said she, why will you give way to unavailing sorrow? the kind power who lent him to you, has but recalled his own—it is the lot of mortality—then why, my father, why will you offend your Creator by repining at his divine will?

O, Hester, you do not know the dreadful cir­cumstances of your brother's death—alas! my child, he rushed unbidden into the presence of his Maker with multitudes of unrepented crimes upon his head.

Did he destroy himself? cried Hester, the look of woe changing into that of inexpressible hor­ror.—Oh! what could tempt him to the dreadful deed?

[Page 212] Hester, my beloved daughter, I was his murderer, I was the cause of the horrid act.

Forbid it, gracious God, she cried, clasping her hands, and sinking upon her knees—Oh! my father, recall those shocking words; you was not, could not be, so inhuman.

Hester, said he, with a look of horrid firmness, I will unfold to you a tale, which it is proper you should know; I may not long continue with you.—I have been guilty of deeds, which will make your tender▪ heart shudder to acknowledge me as a parent—Oh! cursed avarice, it was that which led me to stain my soul with murder, and to ruin my child, my darling son.—For him and for thee, I would have gained an empire, though I had waded to it through oceans of human blood▪ but to lead him by vile persuasions to agree to and execute the accursed plot, and plunge himself, for sordid ore, to the lowest abyss of hell.—Oh! it is more than I can bear to think of—my soul is at this moment suffering all the tortures of the damned—scorpions, flames, and furies hang about me—Horace, dear murdered youth, well may you smile to see my tor­tures.

Was Horace murdered! Oh! inhuman wretch, cried Hester—then where is my sweet Julietta? have you murdered her too?

I hope she still lives, said Vellum; and may your gentle friendship recall her wandering reason, for my cruelty has bereaved her of her senses; and if she is alive, she is a poor, distressed lunatic.

[Page 213] Gracious Heaven! cried Hester, bursting into a flood of tears, and leaning her head upon the elbow of the sopha.

The lovely girl, continued her father, is in a mi­serable cottage, on one of her own estates, in Wilt­shire, where I have employed an old woman to watch her, and, by harsh treatment, prevent her returning to reason.

As to Horace he is no more—When I sent him abroad, as I said, for education, your brother went with him—we laid the shocking plot before the ves­sel sailed; and one night as they were walking the deck together, your brother pushed Horace into the sea—the vessel was sailing before the wind, and he was lost in a moment.

You, my dear Hester, I knew would be an obsta­cle to these hellish schemes, and for that reason I sent you to France.—About three weeks since your brother had a thousand pounds of me; and in a few days after, applied for more; it was then I disco­vered he had a propensity for gaming—I remonstrat­ed with him on the folly of such a pursuit, and re­fused him a supply—high words ensued—he accus­ed me of being a murderer; of drawing him in to participate the crime, and then refusing him a participation of the wealth I had by that means gained.—It is impossible for you to conceive the ter­rors that seized my mind during this conversation; I actually formed the resolution of giving this dar­ling of my soul into the hands of justice, and thereby saving my own wretched life—but before [Page 214] I could execute my intention, I was alarmed by the discharge of a pistol—I ran to your brother's room, and saw him weltering in his blood, a pistol clenched in his hand.

Go, leave me, said he, as I approached him; add not, by thy hateful presence, to the horror of this moment—I thought, by dying, to shut out life and misery together, to fly from the terrors of a re­proaching conscience; but, alas! my miseries are but just beginning.

Oh! thou detested, wretched old man, continu­ed he, drawing me forcibly towards him, thou art ignorant what a task thou hast yet to perform: Go, lose not a moment, but use every method to restore that injured angel Julietta to her senses—give her back her fortune—and do thou retire to some de­sert—fast, pray, and lay upon the cold ground—years and years spent in supplication will hardly gain that pardon you so much need.—There is! there is! an hereafter—I feel it now rush on my guilty soul.—You do not know how hard it is to die, to plunge at once into eternity.—Oh! murder, murder cannot be forgiven.

At that instant he expired with a groan, so hol­low, that it still vibrates in my ears.

I hear thee, Oh! thou guilty shade—I will obey thee.

Hester, continued Vellum, I have sent for you home, that you may administer comfort to Julietta—here, take this paper, and go prepare for your journey; when you are seperated from me, open [Page 215] it; you will there find full instructions how to act—leave me, my child; I am now more composed, I may perhaps take some rest.

Hester gladly retired.

I saw from the agitation of her features, though she could not but pity the distresses of her father's mind, it was impossible for her any longer to love him.

That task is over, said Vellum, as she shut the door—now, what remains?—to pray for pardon.—Pardon for what?—Murder. Ah! that is not all▪ my soul is loaded with crimes—Fraud▪ perjury, oppression, are in the horrid catalogue!—the wi­dows, the fatherless children whom I have oppres­sed, will rise up in judgment against me.—Mercy—Oh! mercy just God.—but wretch that I am, did I ever shew mercy—will that just Creator then shew mercy to me?—No—for I must appear at a tribunal where every one will be rewarded accord­ing to his works.

Oh that I was annihilated!—that I had never lived—for the distraction of my mind is too mighty to be borne—I will not bear it—I will end my tortures—my life is in my own power▪ and it is but to plunge at once into evils which cannot be more dreadful than this constant terror.—This is the instrument, said he, taking a pistol from his pocket.

I stepped forward, in order to prevent his fatal intention.

[Page 216] It shall be done quick, said he—I will not lan­guish—

I caught hold of his arm; but it was too late; he had pointed the pistol to his temple—it went off, and he plunged in one moment into a dreadful eter­nity.

Oh! save him! save him! cried Hester, bursting into the room; he is not fit to die.

When she saw the shocking catastrophe, she ut­tered a scream of terror, and sunk down upon the floor—the servants entered, and all was in an in­stant a scene of confusion.

I thought I could gain no farther intelligence—and my spirits being greatly depressed by the occur­rences of the day, I departed, determining in a few days to pay the gentle, unfortunate Hester ano­ther visit.

THE WIFE.

I WISH to go to Mrs. Melbourne's assembly, next week, if agreeable to you, my dear, said a woman, who was walking through the park with a man whose appearance spoke him the gentleman.

She was a pretty-looking person; her counte­nance was open and engaging, and there was a mild air of tender melancholy diffused over it.

She led by the hand a beautiful girl, about four or five years old; and a smiling boy, seemingly a [Page 217] year or two older, was skipping, with steps as light as his own innocent heart, before them—that man, said I, must surely be happy.

I examined his countenance with a scrutinizing eye, and me thought I read in it indifference and in­attention; nay, he even seemed uneasy in the com­pany of his wife and lovely children.

—I should like to go to Mrs. Melbourne's assem­bly, said she, putting her hands under his arm, and giving him a look of tenderness—it was a look I know not well how to describe; it was a mixture of affection and gentle solicitude; it was that kind of look my Emma ever assumes when she has any little favour to ask, and it always carries with it such persuasive eloquence, that for my soul I could not refuse, though she were to request the half of my fortune.

You want new cloaths too, I suppose, said he, rather surlily.

I thought you might make it convenient to let me have my half-years stipend, said she, mildly; and you know, my dear, I never exceed it.

Very well, Madam, I hear enough of your oeco­nomy, said he, withdrawing his arm in anger; but I tell you I have no money for myself, and there­fore cannot let you have any.—I do not see why you should go to Mrs. Melbourne's; you may find employment and amusement too in nursing your brats; home is the fittest place for women.

[Page 218] I will not go, Mr. Selby, if you desire I should not.

There now, make a merit of staying at home to oblige me, when you cannot go, because I will not give you money to lavish in finery. The education of your children costs me so much, that I intend, for the future, to reduce your allowance to half what it used to be.

Very well, my dear, you are the best judge of what you can afford; I shall always have your in­terest too much at heart to repine at being deprived of a few superfluities, which I can easily do with­out.

By this time, they were arrived at Spring Gardens, where an handsome chariot was wait­ing.

I am engaged out this evening, said he, handing her into the carriage.

Shall I see you at supper? said she, again assuming the look of solicitude; but it was far more anxious than the former.

No—perhaps I shall not return all night, said he, and immediately left her without even the com­mon form of civility.

Drive on▪ said she to the coachman; and as the carriage moved, I saw her apply her handkerchief to her eyes.

Poor woman said I; at that instant feeling the drop of pity start into my own—Poor woman! thou art surrounded with wealth, have a number of [Page 219] servants, and, no doubt, for these advantages, are the object of envy in the eyes of many; but, alas! the poor cottager, whose mansion appears the ha­bitation of poverty, who has just set by her wheel, and is feeding a number of cherry-cheeked, curly­pated, ragged children, whose husband, returning from the labours of the field, accosts her with words of kindness, kisses all his little prattlers round, and takes the youngest on his knee to share his homely supper, that humble cottager is happier far than you.

These reflections had passed with such rapidity through my brain, that Mr. Selby was still in sight.—I will follow thee, said I, and see what has had power to charm thee from so sweet, so gentle a companion.

Having get my ring on, I quickened my pace, and soon overtook him.

He proceeded to May Fair: when knocking at the door of a large house, a servant in a showy li­very opened it, when, taking the advantage of my invisibility, I entered, and followed him through a magnificent suit of rooms into a draw­ing room.

THE MISTRESS.

SHE was an elegant-formed woman, rather a­bove the middle size; her features were regular, and her complexion would have been dazzling, had [Page 220] it not been for an immoderate quantity of rouge, which she had laid on her face, which, in reality, required no art to make it lovely; her eyes were dark, lively, and piercing; and her hair, which was bright as golden thread, hung in wanton ring­lets round her face and neck; her dress was studi­edly negligent, being only a white muslin robe, with small silver sprigs; it was fastened round her slender waist with a velvet zone, ornamented with pearl; she was seated by a table, on which sat a little French dog, which she was caressing as we entered.

My charming Lassonia, said he, running to her with eagerness, how tedious have the hours passed that kept me from you!

No doubt they have, said she coldly, evading his offered embrace, when you have made it two hours later than you promised.

My dearest love, I could not avoid it, said he, business of importance—

Oh you are a very prudent man, said she, scorn­fully; by all means business should be attended to before pleasure; but it is very well, Mr. Selby, I have waited at home to hear your paltry excuse for breaking your word; but I have made an engage­ment which I cannot possibly break; my chair is waiting:—

She arose to leave the room.

My angel, my dear Lassonia, said he, catching her hands, you surely do not mean to leave me; [Page 221] hear me but one word; I should have been here much sooner, had I not overtaken my wife and children in the Park, and she began teazing me for money.

And you gave it her? said she, with precipita­tion.

No, my charmer, I have not given it to her, I have reserved it for you; there is not a wish my Lassonia can form, but shall be immediately complied with—Emily had set her heart upon going to Mrs. Melbourne's assembly; but I knew my adored girl intended to be there, and did not wish to meet her; so I have desired her not to go.

And have you brought me your wife's diamonds? said she.

No—but you shall have some more valuable than those—we will go out now, and you shall chuse them at any price you please.

What, I suppose, said she, with a look of con­tempt, your wife refused to part with them; and you, a poor, tame-spirited husband, dared not contradict her; but I will have her jewels or none, so take your choice▪ Sir, either bring me the meek, dutiful Emily's diamonds, or never see me more.

What a pity it is, said I, as I stood contem­plating this scene, what a pity so lovely a form should conceal so vile a heart; that woman ap­pears [Page 222] a masterpiece of nature, and yet draw aside that beauteous veil, and there is such soul deformi­ty within, that we shrink with horror and disgust from the very object which at first view filled us with admiration.

I am unwilling to refuse you any thing, my sweet girl, said he; but indeed I do not know how to get the jewels; I have no plausible pretext to ask for them.

And is this your boasted love? said she, this the fidelity, the fervent passion you have so repeatedly sworn? am I to be denied so trifling a gratifica­tion, because you cannot bear a few tears from that proud minx your wife? have I not sacrificed every thing for you? relinquished reputation, ho­nor, friends; and is this the return? this the gra­titude I am to meet with? you would sooner break my heart than comply with the smallest of my wishes.

During these reproaches, she had vented her pas­sion by tears.

Do not thus distress yourself, my dearest creature, said Selby; you cut me to the soul by your reproaches; come, dry up your tears, and tell me in what can I oblige you?

Go and bring me Emily's diamonds this evening, said she.

I came to spend the night with you, my love, then do not send me from you; let us go out and pur­chase some other trinkets.

[Page 223] I will have nothing but the diamonds! exclaimed she, in an agony of passion; which remined me of Othello, in his jealous fury, raving for the fatal handkerchief.

At length the infatuated Selby, finding it was in vain to attempt to sooth her, and being, as he said, unable to live without her, actually promised to go home and fetch the jewels for which she expressed such a desire.

I was determined to go with him, and hastily stepping down stairs before him, stepped unperceiv­ed into a hackney coach which he had sent for, and was waiting for him at the door—a short time brought us to Gower street.

THE RECEPTION.

THIS is kind indeed, my love, said Mrs. Selby, meeting him with a smile as he entered the par­lour; I was afraid you would not have returned so soon.

Pshaw, said he, throwing himself into a chair; I do not suppose you will be so pleased when I tell you the business which brought me home.

If it is any thing which will make you uneasy, my dear, said she, I shall certainly regret it; but if it only concerns myself, I shall regret nothing which gives me the extatic pleasure of your com­pany.

[Page 224] You are a good girl, Emily, said he, taking her hand—and methought at that instant he repented the task he had undertaken—but it was a momenta­ry reflection.

I have occasion for a large sum of money, said he, to make up a payment, and I have no possible means of raising it.

Good God! cried she, turning pale with ap­prehension, are your circumstances really so bad then?

Make no inquiries, said he, but consider if you can form any plan to relieve me.

How much do you want, my love?

About two thousand pounds.

I dare say my father will lend you such a trifle, rather than you should be distressed.

So, Madam, said he, you would advise me to apply to your father, and make my misfortunes the talk of the town.—You say you love me, Emily.

Heaven knows I do most fervently.

Then to prove it bring me your jewels, they will procure me the money I want.

You cannot raise so large a sum without my mother's also; and I should not wish to part with them.

A very pretty declaration indeed, Madam; you value your mother's memory more than your hus­band's peace of mind.

[Page 225] Oh! do not say so harsh a word, said she; I will bring the jewels—had I the universe at my com­mand, it would be of no value to me, when put in competition with your happiness.

She left the room, and soon returned with the jewels.

Here they are, said she; would to Heaven eve­ry desire which you form may be as easily ob­tained.

He looked them over.

These are not all, said he—

A blush of confusion passed over the pale face of the trembling Emily.

I have indeed reserved some, said she; but do not be angry, I cannot part with the first to­kens of your love; I cannot part with your pic­ture.

I must have all, said he, impatiently.

The afflicted wife drew from her throbbing bo­som a miniature picture set with diamonds, and a small, but valuable locket, emblematical of love and peace; he took them from her—

Leave me the picture, said she—take the dia­monds, but, for pity's sake, take not that dear, first pledge of your love.—The picture will not enhance the value to any but me.

I cannot stay to take it out, said he, putting the jewels in his pocket, and giving the poor, weeping Emily a slight kiss; he snatched up [Page 226] his hat, and instantly returned to the vile Lasso­nia.

I had been too much disgusted with that woman's behaviour to entertain a thought of returning with him, therefore, taking off my ring when I left the house, I walked toward home.

THE INFORMATION.

BEING at the play with a friend some months after, I observed Lassonia in a box opposite to that in which I sat, adorned with the very jewels which Selby had obtained from his affectionate wife.

Who that sees that woman, said I to my friend▪ but would think her the loveliest work of crea­tion?

I have been admiring her for some time, said he; can you give me any information concerning her? I have seen her once before, and am quite capti­vated with her beauty▪ if her mind is equal to her person, I could freely devote my life to such a wo­man.

There is no more comparison between her mind and her form said an old gentleman in a black coat and a snug round wig, who sat just behind us—there is no more comparison between them, said he, than there is between an angel of Light and a daemon of Hell.

[Page 227] Do you know her, Sir, said my friend, turning hastily round.

I do, young man, said he; and to guard you from the effects of her pernicious charms, if you will sup with me after the play, I will tell you a tale that shall make you hate her.

When the play was over, we adjourned to a ta­vern, and after supper our new friend gave us the history of Lassonia.

Miss Freeman and Miss Eldridge, said he, were the daughters of two opulent tradesmen; their fa­thers were united in the closest bonds of amity. Emily Freeman and Lassonia Eldridge were play­mates in infancy, educated at the same school, and contracted for each other the affection of sister.—Emily had just entered her sixteenth year, when she was called from school to attend an excellent mother, who was hastily advancing to that "bourne from whence no traveller returns." Lassonia would not be separated from her friend on this trying oc­casion, and Mrs. Freeman soon after paying the debt of nature, she was retained by Mr. Freeman, as a companion, whose vivacity would prevent Emily from too frequently musing on her recent loss.

Mr. Selby became acquainted with the lovely friends before Emily had attained her eighteenth year—her sense and penetration charmed him; and her person, having then all the attractions of blooming youth, he declared himself her lover—he frequently laughed and romped with Las­sonia, [Page 228] but never entertained a thought of love, as her conduct, in general, was so flighty, and her conversation so trifling, that though it was impossible to avoid admiring her beauty, she had not one requisite calculation to create es­teem.

About this time Mr. Eldridge was taken ill—the physicians feared a consumption, and advised a journey to Montpelier—Lassonia accompanied her father, and, during their absence, Emily gave her hand to Mr. Selby. Mr. Eldridge re­covered his health, and they revisited England; when no mention being made of Lassonia's re­turning to Mrs. Selby, she continued with her father▪ to superintend his family. Two years passed on in delightful harmony between Mr. and Mrs. Selby▪ in which time she presented him with a boy and a girl. During that period the fa­ther of Lassonia died insolvent, and she was reduced to the necessity of going to service, as there was not the least provision for her future sub­sistence.

It was then the generous, disinterested Emily of­fered her an asylum in her house, appointed her an apartment, a servant to attend her, and supplied her with cloaths and money from her own private purse.

Lassonia had not long been an inmate in the house of her friend, before, envious of her felicity, she determined to imbitter it, by alienating the af­fection of Selby from his truly amiable wife—Selby [Page 229] was young, and fond of variety; his passion for Emily was greatly abated by possession, and though he almost venerated her for her virtues, the charms of her faithless friend enflamed his heart, and he eagerly caught at the frequent opportunities which she intentionally gave him to plead his pas­sion.

Lassonia is a proud woman; her situation was irksome, though every favour from Emily was con­ferred in so delicate a manner, that an indifferent spectator would have imagined her the person obliged.

She was likewise an artful woman; she soon gained such an ascendency over Selby, that while Emily scarcely dared to hint her wishes, Lassonia demanded with authority, and gained every desire. Yet of so gentle, unsuspicious a temper, was Mrs. Selby, and so great a confidence did she place in the honour of her friend and her husband, that though Lassonia remained in the family near a twelvemonth after her connection with Selby, she never once thought such a thing could happen.—She frequently lamented to her treacherous friend the alteration in her husband's behaviour, but she never suspected her as the cause of her uneasi­ness.

But Lassonia now found it necessary to remove from Mrs. Selby's, to prevent her shame from becoming public; she told Emily that she was distressed at being so great an incumbrance to [Page 230] her, and that having an opportunity of going abroad with a lady, who wanted a companion, she would embrace it, and endeavour to contri­bute to her own support. By this conduct, she laid a plan to prevent returning to the family, which she predetermined not to do before she left it.

Mrs. Selby loaded her with obligations at part­ing. She retired to a small house, about twen­ty miles from town, which Selby had provided for her reception, and where she remained three years, Selby spending great part of his time with her.

About six months since she came to town, assumed the name of Green, took an elegant house, and set up a carriage. Mrs. Selby hearing of her arrival, and supposing she was married, requested me, who at that time was ignorant of the circumstances I have now related, to go with her and pay Lassonia a morning visit.

We were shewn into the drawing room by a servant▪ who informed us his mistress would be down in a few minutes, but that she was then dress­ing.

How agreeably surprised my dear Lassonia will be said Emily to find I am the lady who want­ed to speak with her—for she had sent up no name.

We were chatting on indifferent subjects, when a child ran into the room, crying, I will have pa­pa's picture; I won't break it indeed, a maid fol­lowed [Page 231] him in; he ran to Emily, whose arms were extended to receive him, and throwing the picture into her lap, judge her feelings when she saw the portrait of Mr. Selby, which she had given him but two days before with the greatest regret, ima­gining him in want of money. Her feelings over-powered her, and she fell lifeless on the floor. The cries of the servant alarmed the family, and Lassonia, thinking some misfortune had happened to her child, rushed into the room, followed by Selby himself.

It is impossible to describe the scene that ensued on the recovery of Emily—Lassonia raved, Mrs. Selby wept, and Selby appeared motionless as a statue.

As soon as Emily was able to walk, I took her hand and led her to the carriage. Upon her re­turn home, her fainting fits returned; she passed a night of inconceivable distress for Selby never came near her; and in the morning she was in a violent fever▪ I then went in pursuit of the perfidious hus­band but as the suffering saint desired, forbore to reproach him.

I found him, and he returned with me to her.

She beheld him approach with a faint smile—It is kind, my Selby, said she, to come and re­ceive the parting sigh of her who has so long been a barrier to your happiness; indeed I did not know, or I never would have visited my hap­py rival—I never thought your love was divided, [Page 232] and the certainty of it came so sudden upon my heart, that, weak and unprepared as it was, it could not bear the shock—take care of my children, said she▪ adieu, my love; my heart may break, but my tongue will never reproach you.

Her disorder hourly increased; a delirium ensued; and before the next morning she breathed her last, invoking blessings on the head of her faithless hus­band and treacherous friend.

THE DISSERTATION.

IT is such women as Lassonia, who cast an odium on the whole sex; and such women are not only objects of contempt, but detestation. I am not of opinion that women would never degenerate into vice, were they not at first seduced by man; certain I am, though my heart aches at the idea, that there are many women, who are abandon­ed to all manner of wickedness, entirely through the depravity of their inclinations.—Oh! how my soul rises with indignation, to see the fairest works of the Creator's hand so far forget their native dignity, as to glory in actions which debase them beneath the lowest reptile that crawls upon the earth! To see a woman loaded with ornaments which are the wages of guilt, and exulting in the badges of her dishonour; to see her admitted into all public places, and rudely pressing before the meek and virtuous—I could strip her of her [Page 233] gaudy trappings, and, to bring her to a just sense of her infamous conduct, feed her upon bread and water, till convinced of the necessity of repent­ance, she should gladly embrace the most servile employment, and accept the meanest apparel, ra­ther than return to her former life of vice and dissi­pation.

How many families have been ruined by licen­tious women! How many virtuous wives have sunk, broken-hearted, to the grave! how many innocent orphans have been sent portionless into the world, through their diabolical machinations! and, alas! (I shudder as the thought occurs) how many wretched women, forgetful of their marriage vows, have relinquished a tender hus­band, a family of children, whose innocent ca­resses should have linked her heart inseparably to their father, and thrown herself into the arms of an abandoned libertine!—let not such a woman plead seduction—a married woman must, by her conduct, give some encouragement before the most profli­gate man would dare offend her ear with a declara­tion of love; and weak, very weak, must be her repulses, if he ventures to persevere in his impious pursuit.

From the inmost recesses of my soul do I pity the unhappy girl, who, betrayed by the impulse of affection, falls a prey to an insidious villain, and, abandoned by her seducer, is exposed to the scorn and contempt of the world—Oh! how my heart has been wrung to see poor girls, who are scarcely [Page 234] past their childhood, whose misfortune it has been to have wicked advisers, so early initiated into the school of vice. Their tender frames, which once perhaps, by kind, paternal care, were shielded from the winds of Heaven—now defenceless, in the most inclement season, exposed to noxious damps and pinching cold, and when they most stand in need of consolation, when bowed almost to the grave with want, disease, and shame, to see them rest their wearied bones upon the cold, damp pavement, and lay their aching heads upon the steps of an house where a woman dwells, whose heart is a thousand times more guilty than theirs, who sins without remorse, and riots in wealth and luxury.

I never see the poor mightly wanderers that in­fest our streets, but, spite of my endeavours to the contrary, the tear of anguish will steal unbidden to my eye.

Poor souls! I often say, poor, unhappy creatures, would to Heaven I had a fortune capacious as my heart, that I might snatch you from perdition, and teach you the road to everlasting felicity. I would guard you from the insults of the world; I would cherish you, listen to all your tales of sorrow, and join my tears with yours, till we had washed away the stains of guilt, and taught you "that to be hap­py, is to be happy."

Oh! my fair countrywomen, turn not away from the plaints of misery; scorn not the daughters of affliction; for, if by clemency and humanity [Page 235] you could draw one miserable object from the thorny paths of vice, and restore her to peace with her own soul, you would do an act more ac­ceptable in the sight of your Creator, than the man who bestows thousands for the endowment of an hospital—the first action must proceed from innate goodness of the heart; the last may from self-love—a man may do a public act of bene­volence to perpetuate his name, and dignify him­self with the title of generous; but that pure charity, which leads us to forgive the failings of our fellow creatures, cheer the desponding heart, and wipe the grief-swoln eye of an ob­scure individual, must be the result of religion; it is a sort of benevolence which gratifies the heart in performing good deeds, but blushes whenever those actions are repeated—It feels the most ex­alted pleasure in relieving a distressed fellow creature, but it is pained to receive acknowledge­ments.

THE ARREST.

I WILL go and pay the disconsolate Hester a visit, said I, one morning as I was rambling near Chel­sea. I bent my steps toward her habitation; but had not proceeded far, before I observed a young man, whose dress had formerly been genteel, but was now shabby in the extreme; his hair had once been dressed, but it might have been some three weeks or a month since; his coat was de coleur de [Page 236] pace, but much the worse for wear, as the elbows discovered a very fine but dirty shirt; his once sattin waistcoat was thread-bare and greasy, his breeches loose and ragged at the knees; a pair of dirty silk stockings, ornamented with here and there a hole, hung in a slovenly manner about his legs; and the sable fril of his shirt, that peeped from his breast, was trimmed with the finest edg­ing—That man has once been a coxcomb, said I; for I always judge, when I see the remains of finery put on carelessly, or disfigured with dirt, that the wearer has formerly been extravagant in his dress.

I approached the tattered beau, in order to take a view of his person, when I discovered the features of my old acquaintance Mr. Woud­be.

And this is the end of ignorant pride, ostentation, and folly, said I—no doubt you would now be glad of a friend to administer to those wants which henceforth you will learn to pity in others—but I fear your conduct has been such that you have no friends to apply to.

The thought was scarcely passed, before two disagreeable loking fellows came up, and shew­ing the trembling Woudbe a bit of parchment, he was forced to surrender himself their prison­er.

Just at that time, a young man of fashion pass­ing, and recollecting Woudbe, accosted him with heigh! Jack, what! come to this already, I [Page 237] thought you would have held it out a little longer—ha! ha! what a rueful figure!—all out at the elbows, eh!

A truce with your sneers, Sir, said Woudbe, as­suming an air of importance, I stand in need of twenty pounds immediately—you have frequently made me offers of service; lend me that sum, and I shall be obliged to you.

Ah! Jack, said the other, that air and manner won't do now, it did very well while the I' argent lasted, and you was a gentleman at large; but now you are again plain Jack Woudbe, the Cabinet-maker; you must learn to bow, cringe, and mind your business—I am sorry it goes so hard with you; but depend upon it, this will always be the case with young men of trifling fortunes, who ape the manners, and launch into extra­vagancies, which are only becoming their supe­riors—I would lend you the money with all my heart, but I know you have no way to repay it, and are too proud to go to work; therefore you had better submit to your fate with a good grace.

The poor crest-fallen Woudbe walked away with his disagreeable companions, and the stranger ad­dressed himself to me—that young man, Sir, said he, was the son of an industrious tradesman, who, by strict attention to business, scraped together about three or four thousand pounds; at his death this money was left for his only son, who was then [Page 238] getting a little education at a cheap school in the country.

When fifteen years old, he was apprenticed to a capital Cabinet-maker; a very handsome premium was given with him; but he was too much of the gentleman to attend to business, and when he came of age, he assumed the dress and manners of a man of fashion; expensive a­musements, treats, balls, and the retinue of dissi­pation and folly were eagerly attended to—but this would not last long; it is now over; and even if he makes friends to get from his present confine­ment, I know of no method he can pursue for future subsistence.

Such young men as these, said I, by their folly, are often involved in difficulties, which, in hopes of extricating themselves from, they hurry to the gaming table, and finding their expectations frus­trated there also, as the last resource, betake them­selves to a black crape, a good horse, and a pistol.—How careful should parents and guardians be to instil into the minds of youth of narrow for­tunes, meekness, humility, and industry! the least tendency to thoughtless extravagance, in either sex, ought to be severely chastised; since pride, and a passion for expensive pleasures, which they have no laudable method to obtain, has hur­ried thousands into actions which imbitter the last hours of life, with poverty, shame, and re­morse.

[Page 239] As I finished these remarks, I looked up, ex­pecting an answer from my companion; but whe­ther my discourse was too grave, or whether it touched his feelings, or whether some other cause had occasioned him to leave me, I know not, but he was gone; and on my turning round to look for him, I saw he was hastily proceeding towards town.

How easy it is, said I, for a man to blame a con­duct in others, which he is eagerly pursuing him­self; perhaps a few years may reduce that young man to the same situation in which he now smiles to see Woudbe—experience is undoubtedly best when purchased; but Woudbe has, I fear, paid an exorbitant price for his.

I was now opposite Vellum's house.

THE RETRIBUTION.

HAVING entered, by means of my ring, I pro­ceeded, unseen, to Hester's apartment—she was greatly altered since the death of her father; a sickly langour had taken possession of her features, she looked anxious and fatigued.

I wonder Harper is not returned▪ said she to a young woman who was with her: I hope the dear Julietta is not worse.

She had hardly pronounced these words, before a post chaise stopped at the door, and, in a few [Page 240] moments, the injured orphan entered, leaning on the arm of an elderly woman; an universal trem­bling seized on Hester, when she beheld the ra­vages which sickness and ill usage had made on the form of her lovely friend; she led her to a sopha, dropped on her knees before her, and gazing at her with a lock that spoke the keen anguish of her soul, took her thin hands in hers, and burst into tears.

Do you not know me, my sweet friend? said she, after a long and affecting silence; will you not speak to me, Julietta?

Hester, said she, bowing her head forward, and leaning her cheek upon that of her weeping friend, Hester, why are you so sorrowful? and why are you dressed in black? are you an orphan, Hes­ter?

Oh? had it pleased Heaven I had been, cried Hester, earnestly, rather than you, dear, injured angel, had been reduced to this hapless state.

Alas! said Julietta, why would you wish to be an orphan, to have a cruel guardian, to lose your brother, to eat dry bread and drink cold water, and lie upon a wretched bed of straw? you could not bear it, dear Hester; you would die of a broken heart—for my part, I am used to it; I can bear it very well; then let me return to my little hut again—if my guardian knew I had left it, he would be very angry.

And have you suffered all this? cried Hester, weeping bitterly. Oh! Julietta, you never shall [Page 241] return to that sad place again; your cruel guardian is dead.

Dead! cried Julietta, raising her hands and eyes in a supplicating manner; then Heaven have mercy on him.

And what do you think of the poor girl's case? said Hester, as she re-entered the room with Dr. M—, after they had persuaded Julietta to go to bed.

The doctor gave her great hopes that kind and affectionate treatment would soon entirely restore her reason, which he imagined was already begin­ning to return.

Could I but see that happy day, said she, and de­liver her fortune into her own hands, I should have no farther business in this world.

How so, my young friend? said the Doctor, with a look of surprise; I think you have a great deal of business in the world yet; why sure, with all your goodness and accomplishments, you would not shut yourself up in a convent?

Why no, said she; I am not a sufficient convert to the catholic religion to imagine it absolutely ne­cessary to shut ourselves up within the walls of a prison to avoid the temptations of the world▪ but, I think, a person may in solitude better practise those virtues so necessary to our well doing hereaf­ter, than in the noise and hurry of the more busy scenes of life.—By solitude, I do not mean to retire [Page 242] to a desert, and shut myself from the converse and society of my fellow creatures; I mean a calm re­tirement, far from folly and dissipation, where I may consult my own heart on the propriety and equity of all my actions, without incurring the sneers and ridicule of the world. As to the wealth which my poor unhappy father hoarded, it does not belong to me; it is the property of the widow and the fatherless.

Here her tears interrupted her.

After this declaration, Doctor, she, continued, you will not be surprised at my resolution of retir­ing from the gay scenes of life; and, I flatter my­self, I shall in time regain that serenity of mind a series of uncommon trials have robbed me of.

The Doctor was too much affected to reply; he pressed her hand, struggled hard to suppress a rising tear, and making a hasty bow, left the room.

A few weeks restored Julietta to reason, health, and spirits; when Hester, having resigned her for­tune to her own care, and made ample retribution of those sums her father had appropriated to his own use, during the insanity of his ward, retired to a village, in a county far distant from London, and spent the remainder of her life in administering to the wants of the helpless and distressed.

Her friendship for Julietta ceased but with her life; and many summers has that amiable girl spent with her, uniting in every action of benevolence, and shedding peace and plenty around them; the [Page 243] villagers adored them while living, and mourned with unaffected sorrow when deprived by death of their benefactresses.

THE CITY HEIRESS.

I WILL have the most elegant that is to be had, Mamma, cried a young lady, as she came out of a carriage, and ran into a milliner's shop, which I had entered to buy some little presents for Harriet and Lucy.

Do not let me detain you from waiting on the ladies, said I to the mistress of the shop, for I was willing to see to what lengths this girl's extrava­gance would take her.

I want a bouquet, Mrs. Frippery, said she; come, shew me some of the handsomest you have.

The counter was in an instant overspread with roses, carnations, lilies, jessamine, and other flow­ers innumerable; it looked like the temple of Flo­ra; but I should by no means have taken the young lady for divinity of the place, as she was a little swarthy figure, with small black eyes, a good deal marked with the small pox, and something inclined to be crooked.—Nature might have made her real­ly so, but her stay-maker had found out a method, in a great measure, to hide the defect; her hair was dressed to the extremity of the fashion; her [Page 244] bonnet, which was large, and loaded with trim­mings, placed on the left side of her head; a train of rich satin swept the ground as she walked▪ the prominence of her handkerchief almost hid her chin; and her cheeks wore the tints of some of the best rouge.—It is astonishing, said I, as I sat looking at her, that a woman to whom nature has not been lavish in personal attractions, should take such pains by their outre manner of dressing▪ entirely to obscure the few charms with which they are endued, and make their defects conspi­cuous.

I was roused from these reflections by the Lady's bidding five guineas for as many flowers.

But really, Mrs. Frippery, said she, have you none more elegant?

Why, my dear Miss, said the woman, I have one, but it is positively bespoke by the Dutchess of Melvin, and it likewise comes rather high:—it cannot go out of my shop under seven guineas—though there are not more flowers in it than in the one you have chosen.

The flowers were produced, the Lady insisted on having them, and the money was paid.

It is a doubt with me▪ said I, whether the poor mortal whose industry and ingenuity formed those pretty ornaments, scarcely earns more than enough to support nature; and yet this thoughtless girl has paid seven guineas for them, merely because they were bespoke by the Dutchess of Melvin.

[Page 245] Just as the Ladies were about leaving the shop, a smart man, dressed like an officer, whose lan­guage spoke him hibernian, desired to look at some point ruffles; he advanced to the counter at which the young Lady sat, and while he seemed busy at looking at the ruffles▪ took an opportunity to slip a letter into her hand unperceived by her mother.—I shall again have recourse to my ring, said I, for if I am not mistaken, that man is a fortune-hun­ter.

That young Lady, said Mrs. Frippery, as they drove from the door, is the only child of Alderman Fig—she is heiress to a vast fortune.

Two fat old gentlemen passing just then, she in­formed me that one of them was Mr. Fig him­self.

I had made my purchases, so I stepped out of the shop and followed the Alderman.

THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

I HAVE been out on purpose to get an appetite, said Mr. Fig;—I think it was the largest turtle I ever saw; and my friend Dip always has his turtles so well dressed, that I long for the hour of dinner. I will just step home and change my wig, and be with you again immediately.

Then this is the time▪ said I, for me to get ad­mission.—I put my hand in my pocket for my ring—but it was gone—I searched every pocket dili­gently, [Page 246] but no ring could I find. I returned to the millner's shop, and from thence home—search­ed my bed—had every room in the house swept; but it was all to no purpose.—I never saw it a­gain.

And pray, Mr. Inquisitor, what became of the City Heiress?

Upon my word, Madam, I never heard.