TO be able to read with propriety, is certainly a genteel accompliſhment, and not ſo eaſy to be acquired as moſt people imagine; and perhaps you will not find one woman in five hundred, that is poſſeſſed of it. There are ſo many faulty ways of reading, which young people are apt to run into, that it is difficult to avoid them all; and when once a bad habit is contracted, it is almoſt impoſſible to correct it.

There is your aunt Filmer, who reads with ſuch a canting tone as grates the ears of the whole company. She has frequently almoſt ſung me to ſleep, though reading one of the moſt diverting books in the world. Your couſin Pultency, you know, reads with ſuch hurry and rapidity, and ſuch neglect of the proper ſtops and pauſes, that the moſt attentive hearer cannot underſtand one ſentence ſhe pronounces; whilſt Mrs. Daſhwood reads in ſuch a ſlow and ſlovenly manner, and draws out the words to ſuch an immoderate length, that nobody has patience to follow her. Mrs. Nugent reads with ſuch a loud and ſhrill voice as ſtuns the ears of the whole audience. It might do very well in a public aſſembly, but is altogether unfit for a tea-table: whereas Miſs Littleton's accent is ſo faint and feeble, that you muſt apply your ear almoſt to her mouth, before you can underſtand the ſubject.

I would therefore have you form yourſelf upon the example of your governeſs, who, indeed, is one of the beſt readers I ever heard. She reads with the ſame eaſy natural voice as ſhe uſes in converſation. She obſerves the ſtops and pauſes with great exactneſs. She reads ſo ſlow as to be eaſily underſtood by any perſon, who will give a proper attention, and is not abſolutely dull; and yet ſo faſt, as not to diſguſt thoſe of the quickeſt apprehenſion. Her voice ſhe carefully adapts to the number and extent of her audience. When ſhe reads to a large company, her voice is high without being ſhrill; when to a ſmall one, it is low, but withal diſtinct. In a word, ſhe is a complete miſtreſs of the art of reading; and you cannot fail to become ſo too, if you imitate her manner, and follow her directions.

WRITING, my dear, is one of the moſt uſeful arts that ever was invented. Were it not for this art, the knowledge of every perſon would be contracted within the narrow circle of his own experience and obſervation; but by means of this, we can enjoy the knowledge and diſcoveries of all thoſe, who have lived before us; and, in ſome meaſure make them our own. By means of this art, you may converſe with your friend, though removed to the moſt diſtant corner of the world, almoſt as well as if perſonally preſent. By means of this art, you can preſerve on paper whatever you read, hear, or ſee, that is worth remembering; and which it would otherwiſe be impoſſible to treaſure up in your memory.

But it is not only an uſeful, it is likewiſe a polite qualification; nor ſhould any one pretend to the character of an accompliſhed woman, who cannot write a diſtinct and legible hand. Let me therefore adviſe you to be remarkably careful and diligent in learning the art of writing. Follow the directions of your maſter, who, I preſume, will lay before you the moſt perfect copies and examples. Of all the various hands, a round hand is, in my opinion, the moſt proper; for when you are a miſtreſs of that, you may, with great eaſe, learn either a neat running or Italian hand; but if you begin with the latter, you never can arrive at any degree of perfection in the former. When you write, never be in a hurry, but proceed with the greateſt care and deliberation: always write as well as you can, and then your hand will be ſtill improving; for if you do not, inſtead of improving, it will, every day, become worſe. But before you put pen to paper, you muſt reſolve not to indulge yourſelf in the wrong ſpelling of a ſingle word; and if you faithfully obſerve this rule for a ſhort time, you will ſoon be able to ſpell any word without the help of a dictionary. Nothing, indeed, is more unworthy the character of a gentlewoman, than falſe ſpelling: and yet, in this reſpect, I am ſorry to ſay it, moſt of our ſex are ſhamefully deficient; and ſome of them too, whom I know to be perſons of excellent good ſenſe and diſtinguiſhed abilities: but this muſt have been owing to bad habits contracted in their youth, of which they were never afterwards able to get the better. It is therefore your part to prevent, what it is ſo extremely difficult to correct.

OF all the various qualifications of an accompliſhed woman, there is not any one more uſeful and neceſſary than cyphering. Without this, you muſt depend upon your memory for every farthing of money that paſſes through your hands. Without this, you can neither keep an account of the money you receive, nor of what you expend. Without this, you will be in danger of being cheated by every perſon you deal with. Without this, you will not be able to aſſiſt me in the management of our family, which, however, I expect you ſhould be in a few years; and ſtill leſs will you be able to ſuperintend the economy of your own, when, in the courſe of providence, you come to be miſtreſs of one. In a word, without this, you will be altogether unqualified for ſeveral of the moſt important duties in life.

Let me therefore perſuade you, my dear, to give particular attention to your cyphering, and to acquire ſuch a competent knowledge in this uſeful art, as is proper for a woman. I ſay, a woman; for it is not neceſſary that ſhe ſhould underſtand it ſo perfectly as a man: as her ſphere of action is more confined, ſo her knowledge, in this reſpect, ſhould be more confined likewiſe. You ought, however, I think, to be a complete miſtreſs of the four ſimple rules of arithmetic, the rule of proportion, and a plain method of book-keeping. And I would adviſe you to begin to keep a diſtinct account of all the money you receive or lay out, and, indeed, of every thing belonging to you, that can be numbered; as ſoon, I mean, as you have acquired a knowledge of cyphering ſufficient for that purpoſe. By this means, you will, at once, impreſs the rules of arithmetic more deeply in your memory, and inſenſibly acquire ſuch a habit of accuracy and regularity, as will be of great ſervice to you in your future conduct.

I AM glad to hear that you have, at length, entered on the ſtudy of grammar. I hope you will go on, with ſpirit and perſeverance, and not be diſcouraged by its apparent difficulty; for, however great this may be, theſe will enable you to overcome it; and in proportion to your trouble in the acquirement of grammatical knowledge, will be your ſatisfaction in the poſſeſſion of it. Of all ſtudies, you will probably find grammar the leaſt entertaining: it is, however, one of the moſt neceſſary, and therefore ought not to be neglected. Without a competent knowledge of this ſcience you cannot expreſs yourſelf with propriety, either in converſation or in writing; and the poſſeſſion or want of it is one great occaſion of the difference obſervable in the language of the polite and the vulgar, the learned a • • he ignorant. A ſtriking inſtance of this difference o • s in two of your female acquaintance, Caroline M. and Sophia S. The former, poſſeſſed of excellent ſenſe, but without any knowledge of grammar, expreſſes herſelf in ſo awkward and incorrect a manner, that, with all her underſtanding, ſhe is often diſguſting; while the latter, with not half her abilities, or general knowledge, by being miſtreſs of the rules of grammar, expreſſes herſelf, both in writing and converſation, in ſo eaſy, correct and graceful a manner, as charms all who hear her converſe, or enjoy her correſpondence. You will, I hope, make her your model, and not think you have attained ſufficient knowledge in that branch of your education, till you can ſpeak and write as correctly and with as much propriety as ſhe does.

I HAD lately the pleaſure of hearing, from your governeſs, that you are daily improving in all the different branches of your education, and particularly in geography, which, ſhe ſays, you have been learning for ſome months paſt. This is an accompliſhment equally uſeful and genteel; but in which, I am ſorry to ſay it, moſt of our ſex are ſhamefully deficient; as I could prove by a variety of examples. Your aunt Delaval has frequently aſked me whether Conſtantinople lay in Aſia or Africa, and a thouſand other queſtions no leſs ridiculous. Miſs Fenton, whoſe wit is greater than her knowledge, and her vanity greater than both, is perpetually committing blunders of this kind. Mr. Grenville happened, the other day, to be reading the news papers to a large company, and, among other articles, one from Warſaw, giving an account of a certain nobleman, who, for ſome ſlight cauſe, had divorced his lady. He had no ſooner finiſhed, than Miſs, with her uſual forwardneſs, obſerved that theſe Spaniards were the worſt huſbands in the world. Some of the company bluſhed, others ſmiled, and the reſt remained demurely grave. Miſs, perceiving her error, was confounded and abaſhed: but the gentleman, out of his great humanity, endeavoured to apologize for her, as well as he could, by adding, that the young lady's remark was very juſt; that, though the place mentioned in the news-paper was the chief city in Poland, he believed there was a town ſomewhere in Spain of the ſame name, and it was a very eaſy matter to miſtake the one for the other. Into ſuch ſhameful blunders do young ladies frequently fall, from their ignorance of geography; and to ſuch pitiful ſhifts muſt their friends have recourſe, to ſave them the bluſh of confeſſing their ignorance. But the knowledge of geography will effectually prevent your committing any blunders of this kind, as it will teach you the names of all the principal towns in the world. Nor is this all; it will further acquaint you with the climate, the ſoil and produce of all the different parts of the earth; and with the cuſtoms, manners, government and religion of the ſeveral inhabitants: by which means you will be able to talk pertinently on moſt ſubjects that occur in converſation.

YOUR governeſs writes me, that you are become a great proficient both in vocal and inſtrumental muſic. This, though not the moſt uſeful, is certainly one of the moſt genteel qualifications which a young lady can poſſeſs. It is, of all others, the moſt agreeable amuſement, the moſt pleaſant recreation; and ſhe that underſtands muſic, • eed never complain that her time lies heavy on her hand. It is at once the beſt preventative, and the moſt effectual cure for melancholy and low ſpirits, as it can baniſh every gloomy and deſponding thought, and inſpire us with cheerfulneſs and good humour.

The power of muſic over the human mind is very ſurpriſing, and almoſt irreſiſtible. When we are depreſſed with ſorrow and grief, it can cheer and enliven our drooping ſpirits. When we are elated with exceſſive and immoderate joy, (for joy may be immoderate and even dangerous) it can allay the violence of the paſſion, bring us down from the giddy height, and reduce us to a ſtate of pleaſing tranquillity. If inflamed with anger, or boiling with rage, it can ſoften and melt us into pity and compaſſion. In a word, hatred, malice, envy, and every other vicious paſſion, may, by the power of muſic, be preſently baniſhed, or at leaſt charmed and allayed for a while, and if the charm be frequently repeated, they may at laſt be overcome.

Theſe are a few of the many advantages which may be derived from muſic. But all this is only meant with regard to thoſe who have a taſte for muſic, or, as it is commonly called, a good ear; for there are ſome people ſo utterly devoid of this taſte, that they can make no other diſtinction of ſounds, than that of more or leſs loud. To them, the noiſe of a blackſmith's hammer, and the fineſt airs of a violin, are the ſame; whilſt a perſon of a good ear, improved by practice, receives from ſuch an entertainment the moſt exquiſite and refined pleaſure; perhaps the moſt refined that can be enjoyed in this world, except that of doing a good action.

WERE drawing only to be conſidered as an innocent amuſement, even in this light would it merit your attention; for innocent amuſements are of more importance to our happineſs, and perhaps to our virtue too, than many people imagine. The moſt active and buſy ſtations of life have ſtill ſome intervals of reſt, ſome hours of leiſure. The body, as well as the mind, requires it. And, if theſe are not employed in innocent amuſements, they will either lie heavy on our hands, and, inſtead of raiſing, depreſs our ſpirits; or, what is worſe, tempt us to kill the time, as it is called, by ſuch amuſements as are far from being innocent.

But drawing is not only an innocent amuſement: it is more; it is an uſeful qualification. It will exerciſe, delight, and improve your imagination, by filling it with the images of every thing that is beautiful or curious in the works of nature or art. It will ſtrengthen and correct your judgment, by obliging you to examine the objects you copy with greater care and accuracy than you would otherwiſe have done; and it may ſometimes be an aſſiſtance to your memory, as it will enable you to take down on paper a greater variety of objects, or circumſtances of the ſame object, than it would be eaſy, or perhaps poſſible, to remember. It will likewiſe be of great uſe in furniſhing you with beautiful patterns and deſigns for ſewing, which thoſe who are ignorant of this art muſt borrow from others, without being able to judge whether they are good or bad.

But I have neither time nor inclination to enumerate all the advantages which a young lady may derive from the art of drawing. What I have ſaid, however, will, I hope, be ſufficient to kindle in you a deſire of acquiring an accompliſhment, at once ſo uſeful and genteel. Allow me to give you one general advice, which is this; let the objects from which you copy, be chiefly the works of nature; and carefully avoid every thing that is unnatural, whimſical, or romantic, as moſt Chineſe drawings are. To imitate the former, has a natural tendency to improve the taſte; to copy the latter, has a natural tendency to corrupt and pervert it.

CLEANLINESS is a habit, I had almoſt ſaid a virtue, which you cannot learn too ſoon, nor retain too long, both from a regard to yourſelf, and the world around you. It will, at once, contribute to the eaſe and health of your body, and be the means of introducing you into polite and genteel company; at leaſt the oppoſite extreme of dirtineſs will certainly deprive you of that advantage; it will either make your company to be ſhunned; or, if that cannot be done, it will always render your preſence diſagreeable.

But beware that you do not confound cleanlineſs with finery; nor miſtake the one for the other. They are as diſtinct in their nature as any two things can well be; and, though not inconſiſtent, are frequently found to be ſeparated. A woman may be very neat and clean in a plain and ſimple dreſs; and ſhe may be very dirty and tawdry in a fine and coſtly one. There is Miſs Moleſworth, ſhe never wears any thing above a plain ſilk gown; but that, and all the other parts of her dreſs, which are equally ſimple, ſhe puts on and adjuſts with ſuch elegance and propriety, as pleaſes the eye of every one that beholds her: whilſt Lady Dormer, on the contrary, though dreſt in the richeſt ſattin brocade, and loaded with a profuſion of jewels and pearls, is, after all, ſo ſlovenly and tawdry, that ſhe may be ſaid rather to carry her clothes like a porter, than to wear them like a well dreſt lady.

But you ſay, it conſumes a great deal of time: I am perſuaded you always find as much as you ought to beſtow, in order to be neat, between the time that is uſual for leaving off ſchool, and that of going to dinner. Beſides, it will every day require leſs, for the more you practiſe it, the eaſier it will become; and a twelvemonth hence, I dare ſay, you will be able to dreſs yourſelf as well in half an hour, as you can do at preſent in a whole one.

FIRST of all, take care never to interrupt any perſon when ſhe is ſpeaking. This is the height of ill manners. If ſhe talks longer than ſhe ought, and even deſerves to be interrupted, yet be not you the firſt to do it. That will come with a better grace from one of greater age and experience. If ſhe be guilty of one fault, that is no reaſon why you ſhould be guilty of another. If you have a reflection to make upon any thing ſhe has ſaid, you muſt reſerve it till the end of the ſtory; though perhaps you may imagine it would have come in with greater propriety in the middle of it. If the remark would have been very pertinent then, it will not be impertinent now; but if it appears to be trifling here, you may be aſſured it would not have been very ſenſible even there. By this means you will at once diſcover your prudence and diſcretion, and inſenſibly acquire a habit of retaining and examining your thoughts before you throw them out in converſation.

I am the more anxious to caution you againſt this practice of interrupting people in the middle of their diſcourſe, becauſe it is an error which young perſons, from the natural heat of their temper, and the vivacity of their ſpirits, are moſt apt to commit. Your friend is telling a ſtory: in conſequence of ſomething ſhe ſays, a good thought ſtrikes your fancy; out it comes; for you can contain yourſelf no longer: your friend is ſtopt: the reſt of the company ſmile; and yet perhaps your remark was very ſmart and witty. But was it really, do you think, or could it poſſibly be, ſo very ſmart and witty, as to apologize for your ill manners in interrupting your friend? Every ſenſible perſon will tell you that it could not.

Another rule which you ought carefully to obſerve, is, never to take up too much of the converſation yourſelf, and far leſs to engroſs the whole of it. This, even in perſons of the greateſt age, knowledge, and experience, muſt appear ridiculous; but, in one ſo young, ſo ignorant, and ſo inexperienced as you are, it would be condemned as the height of arrogance and preſumption. Indeed, every one ſeems to be entitled to a greater or leſs ſhare of the converſation, in proportion to her years and knowledge: but no perſon, let her years and knowledge be what they will, has a right to the whole of it; nor ſhould any one, however young and ignorant, be entirely excluded. This would deſtroy the very end of converſation, which is mutually to impart and receive knowledge, pleaſure, and improvement. For, what knowledge or improvement can ſhe poſſibly receive, who is always talking herſelf, and never allows the reſt of the company to open their mouths? Or, what pleaſure can they enjoy, who are condemned to profound ſilence, and have their ears perpetually ſtunned with the noiſe of the ſame tongue? If, indeed, they could enjoy any pleaſure in ſuch circumſtances, they muſt be endued with great patience and humility; greater, I am afraid, than fall to the ſhare of any individual of the human kind.

In company, never ſpeak ill of any abſent perſon, whether friend, ſtranger, or enemy. The firſt would be baſe, the ſecond unjuſt, and the laſt low and mean-ſpirited. By ſpeaking ill of your abſent friends, you deſerve to loſe, and certainly would loſe, both them and thoſe who are preſent; for who, in their ſenſes, would cultivate a friendſhip with one guilty of ſo much perfidy and baſeneſs? By ſpeaking ill of ſtrangers, you would make all the world your foes; for ſhe, who, without the leaſt provocation, can aſperſe the character of thoſe with whom ſhe has little acquaintance and no connexion, deſerves to be the object of univerſal deteſtation. By inveighing againſt your abſent enemies, you would diſcover the moſt contemptible meanneſs of ſpirit and littleneſs of mind; and if it ſhould come to their ears, might flatter their pride and vanity too much, by making them imagine, that they had ruffled your temper more perhaps than they had really done, or, at leaſt, than you ſhould give them an opportunity of knowing.

Another rule which you ought to obſerve in converſation, is, never to ſay any thing that may give pain or uneaſineſs to any one of the company. By this I do not mean any of the errors which I have deſcribed and condemned above. All theſe, to be ſure, give pain and uneaſineſs to the perſons that ſuffer by them; but then they do ſo in plain and open terms, and, of conſequence, may be the more eaſily corrected or refuted. What I mean at preſent is, that you ought never to ſay any thing that ſeems to reflect, even in the moſt diſtant manner, upon the faults or foibles of any of the company, or of their abſent friends. If this proceed from malice, it betrays a bad heart; if from want of thought, it diſcovers a weak head: and the ill-natured and fooliſh are equally unqualified for the delicate intercourſe of polite converſation.

WITH regard to diverſions in general, I would have you to remember, that they are to be conſidered merely as diverſions, and not as ſerious buſineſs. They are intended not to diſſipate and unſettle the mind, but only to relax and unbend it; that it may return to the performance of the important duties of life with greater alacrity and vigour; and therefore you ought never to allow them to take up too much of your time, and far leſs to engroſs the whole of it, as is the practice, I am afraid, of too many young ladies. What with ſhopping in the forenoon, viſiting in the afternoon, and plays, balls and concerts in the evening, I doubt they find but little time for more uſeful employments. This might do extremely well, had we been ſent into the world only to divert ourſelves for a while with baubles and gew-gaws, like children; but that would be a ſuppoſition equally unworthy our great Creator, and the dignity of our own nature: on the contrary, we were placed here to contribute to the happineſs and welfare of our fellow-creatures, and to improve our minds in knowledge, virtue and piety, in order to qualify us for a better and happier ſtate hereafter.

Let me therefore adviſe you, never to have recourſe to diverſions, till once you are fatigued and wearied with buſineſs. By this means you will enjoy them with double pleaſure; whereas, ſhould you make them your employment, inſtead of your amuſement, they will loſe all their reliſh. For it is with diverſions as it is with all other ſenſual pleaſures; the more frequently they are enjoyed, the leſs agreeable do they become; they pall upon the ſenſe, grow taſteleſs and inſipid, and at laſt perfectly nauſeous and irkſome: ſo that, as well from a regard to your own happineſs, as from a ſenſe of duty, you ſhould take care never to throw away too much of your time upon them. And that you may not be tempted to do ſo, learn to employ yourſelf in ſome more ſerious and uſeful buſineſs: for I believe in my conſcience, that it is not ſo much from an immoderate love of pleaſure, as for want of ſomething elſe to do, that ſo many young ladies ſquander away the whole of their time in a perpetual round of diverſions.

I AM glad to ſee by your laſt, that you are fully convinced of the truth of what I ſaid concerning dreſs and diverſions, and are ſo ſenſible of the ineſtimable worth and value of your time, which indeed is the moſt precious treaſure you can poſſeſs, as it is the foundation and ground-work of every other bleſſing you enjoy.

But precious as our time is, yet there is not any one thing of which we are ſo careleſs, or rather prodigal and profuſe. We either ſquander it away upon mere trifles, or allow it to paſs in a ſtate of liſtleſs indolence, or lazy inactivity. The preſent moment we ſeldom enjoy, or improve to any good purpoſe. We are perpetually buſied in forming ſchemes for ſome future and diſtant period; but when that period is come, we neglect it, as we have done thoſe that are already paſt; and then lay new ſchemes for ſome other period more diſtant ſtill: and ſo on without end; till, at laſt arrived on the verge of old age, we begin to take a review of our paſt conduct, and find that we have conſumed the greateſt part of our time in forming ſchemes and reſolutions; but have hardly ever had the wiſdom and courage to put ſo much as one of them in execution.

Such is the picture of a lazy, indolent, and idle perſon: for, I believe, even the lazieſt of that lazy tribe have ſtill ſome thoughts of doing better to-morrow; but to-morrow comes and paſſes like to-day, and another morrow after that; and thus they doze away their whole lives in a kind of waking dream or reverie. Such a conduct us this would be extremely fooliſh and abſurd, even upon the ſuppoſition that they were certain of arriving at old age, though indeed it were to be wiſhed, for the honour of their character, that they never reached that period, ſince the longer they live, they only become the more ridiculous: but when it is conſidered that no one can promiſe herſelf another year, and hardly even another day or hour, then folly is too gentle a name for ſuch a behaviour; it is madneſs, it is phrenzy in the higheſt degree: and yet with this phrenzy and madneſs every perſon may be ſaid to be ſeized, who conſumes her whole life in idleneſs and indolence.

But do not miſtake me. I do not mean to inſinuate, by any thing I have now ſaid, that the mind ſhould always be kept on the ſtretch; but this, I think, I may ſafely affirm, that it ought always to be engaged one way or other, either in ſome uſeful and profitable employment, or in ſome innocent and cheerful diverſion, that it may return to the duties of life with greater vigour and alacrity; but never ſhould, by any means, be ſuffered to ruſt in ſloth and inactivity.

Idleneſs is a moſt pernicious and fatal vice, whether we conſider its influence on the mind or body. It weakens the ſtrength and impairs the beauty of the latter; for an indolent perſon will hardly be at the pains to take ſo much exerciſe as is neceſſary to keep the body in health and vigour. It ſtupifies and benumbs the underſtanding; for ſhe will not take the trouble to improve it either by reading or converſation. Nay, it will even corrupt and debaſe the heart; for it is inconſiſtent with a ſtate of eaſe and indolence to have the ſtrong but fine affections of love, pity, compaſſion, ſorrow, ſympathy, and the like, frequently awakened and excited in the breaſt: and yet if theſe tender paſſions are not frequently excited either by real or imaginary objects, the heart will gradually become hard and unfeeling, and at laſt perfectly callous and inſenſible.

This diſeaſe of idleneſs has different effects upon different tempers. What tempts Mrs. Stanley to ſpend the greateſt part of her time in ſcandal and defamation? Why it is idleneſs working upon a diſpoſition naturally ſour and ſplenetic. What makes Miſs Temple trifle away her whole life in an inſipid round of public and private diverſions? Becauſe ſhe has got nothing elſe to do; it is idleneſs working upon the natural levity and giddineſs of her mind. In a word, idleneſs is the parent, or at leaſt the nurſe, of moſt of the follies and vices incident to human nature, and from which we might eaſily be preſerved, would we only take care to keep ourſelves always engaged either in ſome uſeful employment, or innocent amuſement.

A BEAUTIFUL perſon, with a vicious mind, is no better than a painted ſepulchre, fair and comely without, but ugly and deformed within. A wit, without humanity and good-nature, is a peſt and a nuiſance; like a venomous waſp, or poiſonous ſerpent, ſhe ſtings and bites every one ſhe meets, without diſtinction of friend or foe. And a perſon of knowledge and learning, without humility and modeſty, is generally a vain, conceited, and prattling pedant.

On the other hand, a beautiful young lady, if ſhe is virtuous at the ſame time, becomes by that means, at once more virtuous and beautiful: more virtuous, becauſe her temptations to vice are more frequent and ſtrong; and every time ſhe reſiſts theſe temptations, ſhe gives the moſt convincing proof of her untainted chaſtity and unſpotted honour: more beautiful; for what is beauty? it is not a ſet of features formed with the niceſt ſymmetry and proportion; it is not a complexion compoſed of the pureſt white and red; no: but it is both theſe informed, inſpired, lighted up, and animated by the emanations of a virtuous mind: it is chaſtity, modeſty, good-nature, compaſſion, benevolence, and all the other virtuous diſpoſitions and tender affections ſtreaming forth from the eyes, thoſe windows of the ſoul, and playing in every lineament of the face. Unleſs theſe virtues prevail in the ſoul, and are ſtrongly marked and expreſſed in the countenance, the fineſt features and complexion are little better than the face of a painted baby, or lifeleſs ſtatue: all is dull, dead, and inanimated; or, what is ſtill worſe, groomy, four and ſullen.

Hence the graceful bluſh of modeſty, and the pleaſing ſmile of good-nature, ſo frequently and ſo awkwardly affected by thoſe who are poſſeſſed of neither of theſe virtues, but perhaps are remarkable for their oppoſite vices: no matter; they are paying a compliment to virtue; they confeſs, by their hypocriſy and diſſimulation, that the appearance of it is amiable and lovely; and if the appearance of it be lovely, how much more ſo muſt the reality be? The truth is, virtue is the only thing that is good and amiable: ſenſe, wit, knowledge, and learning, are, in their own nature, indifferent; they are either good or bad, juſt as they are well or ill employed. In the hands of a virtuous perſon they may be the means of much good; in the hands of a vicious perſon, they may be the means of much ill: but virtue, in its own nature and conſequences, is certainly and infallibly productive of happineſs, as well to the perſon poſſeſſed of it in particular, as to the world in general.

MODESTY is the outward expreſſion of a pure and chaſte mind; and, therefore, every word you ſpeak, every action you perform, every geſture of your body, every look of your eyes; in fine, every thing, by which the inward diſpoſitions of the mind can be expreſſed and diſcovered, comes under the regulation of this virtue.

Modeſty, as it relates to dreſs, has already been conſidered under that article: as it relates to converſation, it has been, in ſome meaſure, explained. After the advice I then gave you to ſhun the lewd and immodeſt converſation of others, it would certainly be unneceſſary to uſe any other arguments to diſſuade you from running into the ſame error yourſelf. There is ſomething in this practice ſo baſe and vulgar, that I will not even ſuppoſe you capable of a thing at once ſo unpolite and immoral.

Nothing is more inconſiſtent with modeſty, than to talk with a loud, ſhrill and harſh tone of voice. This is very unbecoming, even in a man, but much more in a woman, and moſt of all in a young woman, whoſe accent ſhould be low, ſmooth and gentle, an emblem of the inward ſoftneſs and delicacy of her mind. It is no leſs inconſiſtent with the rules of modeſty, to talk in a poſitive and peremptory ſtrain. This is ſcarce tolerable, even when you are talking of things that cannot be contradicted; but it is abſolutely intolerable, when you are ſpeaking of matters that are of a doubtful nature, as, indeed, moſt ſubjects of converſation are. It is the duty of a young lady to talk with an air of diffidence, as if ſhe propoſed what ſhe ſaid, rather with a view to receive information herſelf, than to inform and inſtruct the company.

Modeſty, as it regards the countenance, and eſpecially the expreſſion of the eyes, is no leſs worthy of your attention, becauſe, perhaps, it appears more in this than in any one thing whatever. Young as you are, you cannot be ignorant, that all the different paſſions of the mind may be painted and expreſſed in the countenance. Anger and meekneſs, joy and ſorrow, love and hatred, pride and humility, impudence and modeſty, have each a particular air of the face, naturally adapted to expreſs them; and whatever paſſion happens to be uppermoſt in the mind, the countenance will take its tincture and expreſſion from thence. Though I know the face is ſometimes a falſe glaſs, ſtill I am perſuaded it is often a true one; and that the countenance is often a faithful picture of the mind.

In a word, the only way to have a modeſt look, a modeſt gait, or a modeſt behaviour, in general, is to have a modeſt mind. Without this, all the formality, gravity, and grimace, in the world, will ſignify nothing; for, though by this means, you may be able to impoſe upon the thoughtleſs and ignorant, yet the ſenſible and judicious obſerver will always ſee through the maſk, and perhaps but deſpiſe you the more for your hypocritical ſolemnity. But do not miſtake me; while I adviſe you to be modeſt, I do not adviſe you to be ſheepiſh and baſhful; far from it. Modeſty and ſheepiſhneſs, however alike they may be in appearance, are as different in their nature as any two things can well be. A modeſt perſon will not talk too much or two high in company, becauſe ſhe knows it is improper: a ſheepiſh perſon will hardly talk at all, or at leaſt not ſo as to be underſtood, becauſe ſhe is afraid. A modeſt perſon looks with a decent aſſurance; a ſheepiſh one is abaſhed, and bluſhes at ſhe don't know what. A modeſt perſon will never contradict the general taſte of the company, unleſs it be inconſiſtent with decency and good manners; a ſhepiſh perſon will hardly contradict it, even when it is. The one acts from principle, the other from mere inſtinct; the one is guided by the rules of right reaſon, and therefore is conſiſtent in her conduct; the other is guided by no rules at all, and conſequently has no uniformity of character.

Let me adviſe you carefully to guard againſt falſe modeſty, which is one of the greateſt enemies of virtue, and perhaps has betrayed young people into as many vices as the moſt abandoned impudence. Never be ſo extremely modeſt as to comply with any thing that is bad, how much ſoever it may be in vogue; nor ever be aſhamed to follow what is good, however ſingular or uncommon.

True modeſty is meant to be the preſerver, not the betrayer of your virtue; it will be a kind of guard and protection to your chaſtity; it will ſecure you from the rudeneſs and impertinence of the impudent and abandoned part of the other ſex. There is ſuch a dignity and majeſty in a modeſt behaviour, as never fails to command reſpect: it confounds and abaſhes even the moſt prodigate, and makes them either aſhamed or afraid of giving vent to their low and obſcene ribaldry, when they are ſure it will be received with a bluſh or frown, with contempt or averſion.

THE virtue directly oppoſed to anger and peeviſhneſs, and which I would recommend to your ſtudy and practice, is humanity and good-nature; a certain meekneſs of temper and gentleneſs of diſpoſition, that makes us happy in ourſelves, and prompts us to communicate happineſs to all around us. This temper of mind, it muſt be confeſſed, is rather the gift of nature than the attainment of art. Some people are born with ſuch a happy conſtitution, that hardly any thing can diſturb or diſcompoſe them. The former may be ſaid to be more happy than the latter, but not more virtuous, for nothing deſerves the name of virtue that is not of our own acquiſition: and, however difficult the taſk may appear, yet this virtue of good-nature, may, in ſome meaſure be acquired by every one who will apply herſelf to the ſtudy of it with care and diligence.

In order to excite you to the ſtudy and practice of good-nature, let me entreat you to conſider the many happy effects that flow from it. It is an inexhauſtible fund of inward peace and tranquillity. What the wiſe man ſays of a good conſcience (without which, perhaps, good-nature cannot exiſt, at leaſt not in its higheſt perfection) may properly enough be applied to this virtue, to wit, that it is "a continual feaſt." A perſon bleſſed with this happy temper of mind, poſſeſſes within herſelf a never-failing ſource of joy and pleaſure: ſhe derives happineſs from almoſt every incident and occurrence of life, even from thoſe, which to the peeviſh and ill-natured, are the cauſe of pain and uneaſineſs. Thus the bee imbibes honey from the very ſame herbs from which more noxious animals extract venom.

FRIENDSHIP, in the higheſt ſenſe of the word, can only ſubſiſt between perſons of ſtrict integrity, and true generoſity. Before you fancy yourſelf poſſeſſed of ſuch a treaſure, you ſhould examine the value of your own heart, and ſee how well it is qualified for ſo ſacred a connexion: and then a harder taſk remains, to find out whether the object of your affection is alſo endued with the ſame virtuous diſpoſition. Youth and inexperience are ill able to penetrate into characters; the leaſt appearance of good attracts their admiration, and they immediately ſuppoſe they have found the object they purſued.

It is a melancholy conſideration, that the judgment can only be formed by experience, which generally comes too late for one's own uſe, and is ſeldom accepted for that of others. I fear it is in vain for me to tell you what dangerous miſtakes I made in the early choice of friends; how incapable I then was of finding out ſuch as were fit for me, and how little I was acquainted with the true nature of friendſhip, when I thought myſelf moſt fervently engaged in it! I am ſenſible all this will hardly perſuade you to chooſe by the eyes of others, or even to ſuſpect that your own may be deceived.

A due regard to reputation is an indiſpenſable qualification in the choice of a friend. "Have regard to thy name," ſaith the wiſe ſon of Sirach, "for tha • will continue with thee above a thouſand great treaſures of gold." The young perſon who is careleſs of blame, and indifferent to the eſteem of the wiſe and prudent part of the world, is not only a moſt dangerous companion, but gives a certain proof of the want of rectitude in her own mind. Diſcretion is the guardian of all virtues, and when ſhe forſakes them, they cannot long reſiſt the attacks of an enemy. There is a profligacy of ſpirit in defying the rules of decorum, and deſpiſing cenſure, which ſeldom ends otherwiſe than in extreme corruption, and utter ruin. Modeſty and prudence are qualities that early diſplay themſelves, and are eaſily diſcerned; where theſe do not appear, you ſhould avoid, not only friendſhip, but every ſtep towards intimacy, leſt your own character ſhould ſuffer along with that of your companion; but where they ſhine forth in any eminent degree, you may ſafely cultivate an acquaintance, in the reaſonable hope of finding the ſolid fruits of virtue beneath ſuch ſweet and promiſing bloſſoms; ſhould you be diſappointed, you will at leaſt have run no riſk in the ſearch after them, and may cheriſh as a creditable acquaintance the perſon ſo adorned, though ſhe may not deſerve a place in your inmoſt heart.

Fancy, I know, will have her ſhare in friendſhip, as well as in love. You muſt pleaſe, as well as ſerve me, before I can love you as a friend of my heart. But the talents that pleaſe for an evening, may not pleaſe for life. The humorous man ſoon runs through his ſtock of odd ſtories, mimicry, and jeſts; and the wit, by conſtantly repeated flaſhes, confounds and tires one's intellect, inſtead of enlivening it with agreeable ſurprize; but good ſenſe can neither tire nor wear out; it improves by exerciſe, and increaſes in value the more it is known: the pleaſure it gives in converſation is laſting and ſatisfactory, becauſe it is accompanied with improvement: Its worth is proportioned to the occaſion that calls for it, and • ſes higher on the moſt intereſting topics; the heart, as well as the underſtanding, finds its account in it; and our nobleſt intereſts are promoted by the entertainment we receive from ſuch a companion.

But family friendſhips are friendſhips made for us, if I may ſo ſpeak, by God himſelf! With kindeſt intentions, he has knit the bands of family love, by indiſpenſable duties; and wretched are they, who have burſt them aſunder by violence and ill-will, or worn them out by conſtant little diſobligations, and by the want of that attention to pleaſe, which the preſence of a ſtranger always inſpires, but which is often moſt ſhamefully neglected towards thoſe whom it is moſt our duty and intereſt to pleaſe. May you, my dear, be wiſe enough to ſee that every faculty of entertainment, every engaging qualification which you poſſeſs, is excited to the beſt advantage for thoſe, whoſe love is of the moſt importance to you—for thoſe who live under the ſame roof, and with whom you are connected in life, either by the ties of blood, or by the ſtill more ſacred ties of a voluntary engagement.

Converſation, which is ſo apt to grow dull and inſipid in families, nay, in ſome to be almoſt wholly laid aſide, muſt be cultivated with frankneſs and openneſs of friendſhip, and by the mutual communication of whatever may conduce to the improvement or innocent entertainment of each other.

Reading, whether apart, or in common, will furniſh uſeful and pleaſing ſubjects, and the ſprightlineſs of youth will naturally inſpire harmleſs mirth and native humour, if encouraged by a mutual deſire of diverting each other, and making the hours paſs agreeably in your own houſe: every amuſement that offers, will be heightened by the participation of theſe dear companions, and by talking over every incident together, and every object of pleaſure. If you have any acquired talent for entertainment, ſuch as muſic, painting, or the like, your own family are thoſe before whom you ſhould moſt wiſh to excel, and for whom you ſhould always be ready to exert yourſelf, not ſuffering the talents you have gained, perhaps by their means, and at their expenſe, to lie dormant, till the arrival of a ſtranger gives you ſpirit in the performance. Where this laſt is the caſe, you may be ſure vanity is the only motive of the exertion: but how little ſenſibility has that heart, which is not more gratified by the ſilent pleaſure painted on the countenance of a partial parent, or of an affectionate brother, than by the empty compliments of a viſitor, who is, perhaps, inwardly, more diſpoſed to ridicule and criticiſe, than to admire you.

ECONOMY is ſo important a part of a woman's character, ſo neceſſary to her own happineſs, and ſo eſſential to her performing properly the duties of a wife and of a mother, that it ought to have the precedence of all other accompliſhments, and take its rank next to the firſt duties of life.

Economy conſiſts of ſo many branches, ſome of which deſcend to ſuch minuteneſſes, that it is impoſſible for me in writing to direct you in every particular.

The firſt and greateſt point is to lay out our general plan of living in a juſt proportion to our fortune and rank: if theſe two will not coincide, the laſt muſt certainly give way; for, if you have right principles, you cannot fail of being wretched under the ſenſe of the injuſtice as well as danger of ſpending beyond your income, and your diſtreſs will be continually increaſing. No mortifications, which you can ſuffer in retrenching in your appearance, can be comparable to this unhappineſs. If you would enjoy the real comforts of affluence, you ſhould lay your plan conſiderably within your income, not for the pleaſure of amaſſing wealth; though, where there is a growing family, it is an abſolute duty to lay by ſomething every year: but to provide for contingencies, and to have the power of indulging your choice in the diſpoſal of the overplus, either in innocent pleaſures, or to increaſe your funds for charity and generoſity, which are in fact the true funds of pleaſure.

In your table, as in your dreſs, and in all other things, I wiſh you to aim at propriety and neatneſs; or, if your eſtate demands it, elegancy, rather than ſuperfluous figure: to go beyond your ſphere, either in dreſs, or in the appearance of your table, indicates a greater fault in your character than to be too much within it. It is impoſſible to enter into the minutiae of the table: good ſenſe and obſervation on the beſt models, muſt form your taſte, and a due regard to what you can afford, muſt reſtrain it.

Ladies, who are fond of needle-work, generally chooſe to conſider that as a principal part of good houſewifery: and, though I cannot look upon it as of equal importance with the due regulation of a family, yet, in a middling rank, and with a moderate fortune, it is a neceſſary part of a woman's duty, and a conſiderable article in expenſe is ſaved by it. Many young ladies make almoſt every thing they wear; by which means they can make a genteel figure at a ſmall expenſe. This, in your ſtation, is the moſt profitable and deſirable kind of work: and, as much of it as you can do, conſiſtently with a due attention to your health, to the improvement of your mind, and to the diſcharge of other duties, I ſhould think highly commendable. Abſolute idleneſs is inexcuſable in a woman, becauſe the needle is always at hand for thoſe intervals, in which ſhe cannot be otherwiſe employed. If you are induſtrious, and if you keep good hours, you will find time for all your employments. Early riſing, and a good diſpoſition of time, is eſſential to economy.

The neatneſs and order of your houſe and furniture, is a part of economy, which will greatly affect your appearance and character, and to which you muſt yourſelf give attention; ſince it is not poſſible even for the rich and great to rely wholly on the care of ſervants, in ſuch points, without their being often neglected. The more magnificently a houſe is furniſhed, the more one is diſguſted with that air of confuſion, which often prevails where attention is wanting in the owner. But, on the other hand, there is a kind of neatneſs, which gives a lady the air of a houſe-maid, and makes her exceſſively troubleſome to every body, and particularly to her huſband: in this, as in all branches of economy, I wiſh you to avoid all parade and buſtle. Thoſe ladies, who pique themſelves on the particular excellence of neatneſs, are very apt to forget that the decent order of a houſe ſhould be deſigned to promote the convenience and pleaſure of thoſe who are to be in it; and that, if it is converted into a cauſe of trouble and conſtraint, their huſbands and gueſts would be happier without it. The love of fame, that univerſal paſſion, will ſometimes ſhew itſelf on ſtrangely inſignificant ſubjects; and a perſon, who acts for praiſe only, will always go beyond the mark in every thing. The beſt ſign of a houſe being well governed is that nobody's attention is called to any of the little affairs of it, but all goes on ſo well of courſe that one is not led to make remarks upon any thing, nor to obſerve any extraordinary effort that produces the general reſult of eaſe and elegance, which prevails without.

CHASTITY is the next virtue that is to fall under your conſideration: no charm can ſupply its place: without it, beauty is unlovely; wit is mean and wanton; quality contemptible, and good breeding worthleſs. Chaſtity is ſo eſſential and natural to your ſex, that every declination from it is a proportionable receding from womanhood. An immodeſt woman is a kind of monſter, diſtorted from its proper form. She who forfeits her chaſtity, withers by degrees into ſcorn and contrition; but ſhe who lives up to its rules, ever flouriſhes, like a roſe in June, with all her virgin graces about her—ſweet to the ſenſe, and lovely to the eye. Chaſtity heightens all the virtues, which it accompanies; and ſets off every great talent that human nature can be poſſeſſed of. It is not only an ornament, but alſo a guard to virtue. This is the great point of female honour, and the leaſt ſlip in a woman's honour is never to be recovered.

This, more than any other virtue, places your ſex in the eſteem of ours; and invites even thoſe to admire it, who have the baſeneſs to profane it. I therefore recommend it to your approbation, in the minuteſt circumſtances. Chaſtity is a kind of quick and delicate feeling in the ſoul, which makes her ſhrink, and withdraw herſelf from every thing that is wanton, or has danger in it. This makes it ſo great a check to looſe thoughts, that I preſcribe to you the practice of it in your greateſt ſolitudes, as if the beſt judges were to ſee and cenſure all you do.

It is reported of one Lucretia, a Roman lady, that having been raviſhed by Sextus, eldeſt ſon to Tarquin, the king of the country, ſhe took a dagger in her hand; and, after having publickly exhorted her relations to revenge her injury on the barbarous raviſher, ſhe plunged it in her boſom, at once putting an end to her life and her diſgrace. And ſuch was the opinion which the Romans entertained of this crime, as well as of the fatal conſequences which followed the commiſſion of it, that the whole nation roſe in arms, and not only dethroned the king, and baniſhed the royal family, but even, if I may ſo ſpeak, baniſhed kings, in general, making a decree, that, for the future, no king ſhould ever ſway the ſceptre over the Roman people, but that their government, inſtead of a monarchy, ſhould thenceforth become a republic.

IT is impoſſible that young people ſhould ſteer their courſe aright in the world, before they are acquainted with the ſituation of the many dangers that lie in their way; wherefore it is neceſſary, that they ſhould be under the government and direction of thoſe, who are appointed, by the laws of nature, to take the charge of their education. If children had but ſedateneſs enough, how readily would they embrace the counſel of their parents; how attentively liſten to their precepts; and how ſtrenuouſly purſue their advice! They have already walked in the difficult wilderneſs of life, and obſerved the various dangers that lurk in the paths of it, to annoy the footſteps of thoſe who never trod the way. Of theſe, with much tenderneſs and affection, parents make a diſcovery to their children; and interſperſe gen ••• •• vices, what courſe to take. Children, for this reaſon, ſhould not take it ill, if the commands of their parents ſometimes ſeem difficult and diſagreeable. Perhaps, upon experiment, they may prove as pleaſing as if they had followed their own choice. However, this they may be certain of, that all ſuch cautions are intended out of true love, by thoſe who are more experienced than themſelves, and therefore better judges what their conduct ſhould be.

To thoſe who honour their parents, it is promiſed by the word of eternal truth, that their days ſhould be long in the land of their inheritance. From this we may learn how amiable the performance of this duty is in the ſight of Heaven. Let your obedience to your mother be therefore your delight and exerciſe. God has given her power over you, to bring you up in his fear and ſervice. She was the guardian of your childhood, and is the guide of your yet inexperienced youth; this muſt naturally enliven your love for her, and melt you into the gentleſt obedience to her. Therefore let filial affection be your governing principle; and behave yourſelf towards her with all humility and obſervance. Let no pretence of your being in the right, ever provoke you to anſwer her with indifference or contempt. You muſt love her, and be grieved at every thing that diſquiets her. You are to pleaſe her in all circumſtances; to comfort her on all occaſions; to obey her commands with pleaſure; to conſult her in all affairs, and to reverence all her precepts. Conſider, that all this is but a moderate return of gratitude, for the toils and hardſhips, expenſe and inquietudes, ſhe has ſuffered for you; for the care ſhe has taken to educate and inſtruct you; for the good examples ſhe has ſhewn you, and for the honeſt principles, and improvements of the mind, ſhe has conveyed unto you.

MANY are the arguments that eſtabliſh this great 〈◊〉 . Firſt, it is reaſonable to believe, that an immaterial being, enriched with ſo many beautiful faculties, as the human ſoul is, can naturally have no internal principle of corruption, or be ſubject to annihilation; and hence ariſes a certainty of its being a particle of an immortal and eternal eſſence. Again, its love of exiſtence; its hopes of undying happineſs; its ſatisfaction in the practice of virtue; its remorſe on the commiſſion of vice; and the delight it takes, in the contemplation of its divine original, are irreſiſtible proofs of its immortal nature. He muſt be loſt in ſtupidity, who can either imagine, or believe, that a thinking being, which is in a perpetual progreſs of improvement, that is always capable of new accompliſhments and further enlargements, and is ſtill travelling on, from perfection to perfection, ſhould, in the beginning of her inquiries, and after a few diſcoveries of her own excellencies and acquirements, fall away into nothing, and periſh with corruption. Beſides, the juſtice, wiſdom, goodneſs and veracity of God, are all concerned in the proof of her eternity. In this world, man, let his talents be ever ſo great, and his labour ever ſo conſtant, can never take in his full meaſure of knowledge; can never eſtabliſh his ſoul in virtue, or come up to the perfection of his nature. Would it then agree with the infinite juſtice and wiſdom of God, to create ſuch noble beings, for ſo mean a purpoſe, as to periſh with the beaſts of the field? That would be, to give us reaſon to be abortive, talents not to be exerted, and capacities not to be gratified; which would deſtroy that infinite wiſdom and goodneſs of the Deity, that ſhines through all his works.

We are to look upon this world as a nurſery for the next, and are only to receive our firſt rudiments of exiſtence here, and afterwards to be tranſplanted into eternal dominions; where our immortal ſouls will ſtill be adding knowledge to knowledge, and virtue to virtue; and will ſhine forever with new acceſſions of glory to all eternity. This is the triumphant pleaſure of our ſouls: this is the higheſt perfection of our nature; and it muſt be a proſpect pleaſing even to God himſelf, to ſee his creation drawing nearer to him by greater degrees of reſemblance.

THE ſureſt way you can take, to live above ſuch miſtaken, periſhing enjoyments, as this world can boaſt, is to put yourſelf under the neceſſity of obſerving, how one day goes through your hands, and let virtue, ſincerity, and religion be the rules of actions for that day. Oblige yourſelf to a certain order of time, in your devotions, in your buſineſs, in your retirements, amuſements, recreations, and pleaſures. Let your firſt care be to pleaſe the Deity, who preſides over all your cheerful hours, and innocent converſations; the next to avoid the reproaches of your own heart; and the next, to eſcape the cenſures of the world. A lady is never ſo ſure of her conduct; as when the verdict ſhe paſſes upon her own behaviour is confirmed by the opinion of all that know her. By an obſervation of theſe rules, you will come to a diſcovery of all the foibles that lurk in the ſecret corners of your ſoul; and will ſoon arrive at a true and impartial knowledge of yourſelf. You are likewiſe carefully to conſider, how far you deſerve the approbation, with which the world favours you: whether your actions proceed from worthy motives, and how far you are really poſſeſt of thoſe virtues, that they imagine you are. Friends may not ſee our faults; they may be partial and conceal them from us; or elſe they may ſoften them, ſo as to reconcile us to them, and make them appear too trivial to be taken notice of. I therefore, cannot think it improper, to conſult, what character we bear among our enemies, whoſe malice (though it may inflame our imperfections, and expoſe them in too ſtrong a light) has frequently ſome ground for what it advances. By the reproaches which an enemy caſts upon us, our eyes are opened to ſeveral blemiſhes and defects in our conduct, which otherwiſe would eſcape our obſervation.

The exerciſe of ſome ſocial virtue or other will fall in your way almoſt every day in your life. To relieve the needy, and comfort the diſtreſſed; to make allowance for the ſtips and defects of others; to adviſe the ignorant, and ſoften the envious; to rectify the prejudiced, and quiet the angry; to ſilence detraction, and juſtify the deſerving; to overlook hatred, and forgive an injury; to mitigate the fierceneſs of others, and to ſubdue our own paſſions; are virtues that may give daily employment to the moſt induſtrious tempers, and in the moſt active ſtation of life. Thoſe are exerciſes ſuited to reaſonable creatures, and always bring delight to the diſcreet manager.

MARY now went up to Leonora, a rich Baronet's daughter, and taking her good-naturedly by the arm, ſhe ſaid—Come, Leonora, let us take a walk round the garden; the race does not ſuit well with our fine holiday dreſſes.

But Leonora was very proud, and drew her arm haſtily back, ſaying—Pray, Miſs Jones, take care, or you will rumple the lace on my ſleeves. She then drew up her head, bridled her chin, and turned up her noſe; as much as to ſay, a tradeſman's daughter like you ought not to be ſo familiar with me. The lace on my dreſs is very rich, and the flowers the fineſt that have lately come from France, continued ſhe; my mother purchaſed them, that I might have ſomething to diſtinguiſh me, when I was forced to mix with nobody know • who; for I am a young lady of a good family, and it is inſupportable to ſee citizens daughters imitate, in every thing, people of condition, ſaid the lady who ſo often viſits my mother, Lady Upſtart. I had theſe paſte bookles lately ſent home; they were bought of the Prince of Wales' jeweller: what pedlar ſet yours? I never ſaw any thing ſo vulgar. I put mine on for the firſt time when I ſung at a private concert before the Prince. For you muſt know, that I am allowed to ſing charmingly; Lord Smoothtongue, who dined at our houſe the other day, ſaid that I had a fine angelic Italian voice. He ſpoke in French to me too for half an hour, and declared, that I prattled like a native of France. I ſhall ſoon begin to learn Italian; it is not very difficult; but nothing indeed is difficult to me; I ſhall be able to ſpeak it in ſix months.

Thus did ſhe run on, till poor Mary was quite weary of her fooliſh pride and chat, and longed to leave her, to enjoy her vain thoughts alone. She looked anxiouſly round for an opportunity, and ſaw a young lady coming whom ſhe had been in company with before. She inſtantly left Leonora, and joined Charlotte, ſaying—Will you take a walk with me, for this is a ſweet garden? With all my heart, anſwered ſhe; and they turned down another walk, and left Leonora, with her fine lace and paſte buckles, to count her ſteps, and look in vain at the trees for admiration.

The reſt of the company gathered round theſe two girls, and all agreed that Leonora was haughty and fooliſh. Let her go, ſaid Charles; a Miſs who knows ſo much is not fit company for us; we might rumple the lace on her fine dreſs. Who will play at queſtions and commands? I, I, cried they all, and away th • y • an to a feat at the upper end of the garden, to begin to play.

The haughty, vain Leonora, who ſaw herſelf excluded from this amuſement, was ready to bite her nails with vexation. She walked up and down the path with a grave ſtep, looking at them as if ſhe expected to be invited by ſome one, to play with them; but no one took notice of her. She paſſed by with a pretty pocket-book in her hand, hoping that they would aſk to ſee it, and admire its ſilver claſp and enamelled figures. But, inſtead of that, the little folks began to whiſper, and then burſt into a loud laugh.

Leonora perceiving that they were laughing at her, turned away bluſhing with anger, and at laſt began to weep, becauſe ſhe could not vent her paſſion on them.

Then ſhe happened to meet her father, who was a ſenſible man, and ſaw with pain that his wife ſpoiled her daughter. What is the matter with you? Why do you weep? Has any accident befallen you? How ſhould I laugh, anſwered ſhe; thoſe children have no manners. They ſit there together, and laugh and play without inviting me. They appear what they are, poor vulgar creatures; I ought not to have expected better from them. Would you believe it, when I paſſed by, they laughed me out of countenance. Is not that very rude and ill-bred?

True, ſaid her father, it was indeed very rude; but, perhaps, you offended them firſt.

I, anſwered ſhe; I have done nothing to them; I would not demean myſelf to quarrel with ſuch—. She ſtopped ſhort, becauſe ſhe ſaw a frown on her father's brow. She then related to him, that ſhe had only informed them how her ſinging was admired, and that ſhe ſpoke French remarkably well. I told them indeed, added ſhe, that I was ſoon to learn Italian, and kept them at a diſtance, that they might not tear my lace, they were ſo rude. Leonora! Leonora! ſaid he, you have acted very ſimply. If you wiſh to be reſpected and loved, and that people ſhould like to be in your company, you muſt not always ſpeak of yourſelf and your talents, for you will then certainly diſguſt them. You muſt attend to what others ſay, and obſerve their good qualities, and not be eager to intrude the little you know on every body you meet. I am not ſurpriſed that they laughed at you. If a man were to be in my company, who only talked of himſelf, and took care to let me ſee that he thought me an inferior, becauſe he had a larger fortune than myſelf, I ſhould laugh in his face. For a proud man is always ridiculous.

He took her out of the garden and ſent her home, telling her as he led her to the carriage, that he would take away her fine clothes, and ſend her to a little farm-houſe in the country, if ſhe did not ſoon appear to have more ſenſe; for pride is folly. A fool may wear fine clothes; but a fool will never become wiſe.

MARY chatted during this time with little Emilia, Mr. Goodman's daughter, who gave her a deſcription of every thing remarkable in her village and houſe. Amongſt other things, ſhe ſaid, that her preſent mother was not her own mother, but a ſtep-mother: her own mother, ſhe ſaid, ſhe had never known, becauſe ſhe died when ſhe was an infant. A ſtep-mother, do you ſay? replied Mary, quite ſurpriſed; a ſtep-mother! Poor child! I have always heard that ſtep-mothers were very cruel; that they beat poor children, and do not give them enough to eat. Do not believe ſuch ſtories, dear Mary, anſwered Emilia! I remember I heard the ſame thing, but I found it very different. It is poſſible there may have been many cruel ſtep-mothers; and for that reaſon I wiſh that all good children may keep their own parents; but my ſtep-mother is certainly the beſt woman in the world. She has her own children, and my mother's, but ſhe loves us all as well as her own. The cake and fruit ſhe diſtributes amongſt us are always in equal ſhares: when they are naughty, they are always puniſhed as ſeverely as I am, when I am careleſs or neglect my work. She has only once given me a blow; and I am aſhamed to tell you I deſerved it, for telling her a lie, and perſiſting in 〈◊〉 though ſhe took me gently by the hand, and told me • hat a dreadful thing a lie was. And this is her uſual method; ſhe melts me by her kindneſs, and I promiſe to try to become better; for I know that I acquired ſome bad habits before my father married again. What then would have become of me if I had not had a ſtep-mother? My own mother was gone to heaven; I never knew her: but my ſtep-mother had pity on me, and has taught me to read and work; nay, to tell truth, and be orderly: my father loves me twice as well as he did; and I love my father, though people ſay I am paſſionate and have a bad temper. I wiſh to be good. And then, when I was ſick, yes, very ſick, ſhe ſat up with me all night, and was ſo kind—who knows where I ſhould have been now, but for her?

Mrs. Jones did not meet with ſuch an agreeable companion. She walked with the ſiſter of an amiable young lady, lately married to a very worthy man. She found her converſation very tireſome; nay, it gave her great pain. She had been brought up by a relation; and, in her childhood, been with thoughtleſs, idle people; and had learned from them the dreadful cuſtom of ſlandering, or ſpeaking ill of every body. Mrs. Jones did not yet know her evil propenſity: ſhe took her arm in a friendly manner, and ſaid, your ſiſter's marriage with ſuch a worthy man gave me great pleaſure. I congratulate you, and ſincerely wiſh that they may all their lives enjoy the happineſs they merit. Hannah (for that was the name of this malicious girl) thanked her coldly for the part ſhe took in the happineſs of her family. But, continued ſhe, with a ſneering laugh, I know not whether the doctor's happineſs, or, if you pleaſe, the profeſſor's, will be ſo very great. Now it is only the honey-moon. But when he has his wife at home a month or two, he will ſoon ſee what a fine choice he has made. I really do not know what he will do with her. She knows nothing of the management of a family; and ſhe has ſuch a bad temper, God help thoſe who are to live always with her! for my part, I am very glad that ſhe is now out of our houſe. The worthy profeſſor will have trouble enough with her; but then, (ſhe laughed again) the worthy profeſſor has no right to find fault with her. I know him, and know all his tricks. I muſt not mention them: but, Mrs. Jones, if you knew what I know, you would form quite a different opinion of him.

Mrs. Jones now teſtified her ſurpriſe, and aſſured her that ſhe never had heard any thing but good of him and her ſiſter. Beſides, Mr. Goodman had praiſed them, and he was certainly a worthy, ſenſible man.

He may be a learned man, anſwered Hannah, but he is nothing more. He leaves all things at ſixes and ſevens; and if any one will give him a glaſs of wine, he will ſay all that is kind and good of them for it. I do not love to ſpeak ill of others; but I know very well what they ſay of his wife; ha! ha! ha! ſhe can ſkin a flint in the management of her houſe; you will ſee more ſunſhine than bread there, I fear.

Mrs. Jones earneſtly endeavoured to defend her friends; for ſhe knew them, and would not ſuffer ſuch artful calumny to ſhake her good opinion. But the more ſhe defended their characters, the more ill this malicious girl ſaid of them. She then turned the converſation to other perſons; and ſhe had ſomething bad to tell of every one. Mrs. Jones liſtened above half an hour to theſe malicious ſlanders, for ſhe could not ſtop her: unable to bear it any longer with patience, ſhe looked at her with contempt, and abruptly interrupted her. Madam, ſaid ſhe to her, you have recollected ſomething ill of every perſon you have mentioned; I ſhould be glad to hear you, juſt to turn the torrent, ſay ſomething good of them.

How can I help it, ſaid ſhe, if people are not better? How can • t I ſpeak well of them, when they have nothing good in them?

What, continued Mrs. Jones, are you not aſhamed of yourſelf? Have you heard nothing good of any of thoſe perſons you have been calumniating? I love and eſteem them all, becauſe I know them to be good; but if I only believed half what you have ſaid of them, they would ſink ſo low in my opinion, that they would forfeit the place they have in my eſteem: I ſhould be forced to deſpiſe them, as being deſtitute of virtue and honour. Is not this deteſtable? Hannah! Hannah! if you robbed me of my watch or purſe, it would be very wrong; but it would not be ſo blameable an action as ſlandering, if you deprived me of my reputation, and thus robbed me of my honour! However precious my watch may be, I can purchaſe another if it be ſtolen; but gold cannot rub out the ſtains you might fix on my good name. But only think how much you have injured yourſelf. How can I reſpect a perſon who has ſpoken in ſuch a ſtyle of her own ſiſter and brother! If I were to repeat to them, to Mr. Goodman, or any of the other perſons you have mentioned, only half what you have ſaid of them, what do you ſuppoſe would be the conſequence?

What do you ſay, dear Madam? (interrupted the frightened Hannah) ſurely you will not repeat what I have ſpoken to you, becauſe I conſidered you as my friend. I did not mean any harm.

If I (anſwered Mrs. Jones) ſpare you, you will ſoon betray yourſelf: you will ſoon loſe every friend you have. All your acquaintance will fly from you; they will deſpiſe and loathe you. We loathe a ſlanderer as we do a viper. I, at leaſt, ſhall take care in future not to come near you, leſt you ſhould again faſten on my ear, as you have done to-day, to inſtil poiſon into my heart; for whoever ſpeaks ill to me of all the world, will certainly not ſpeak well of me when my back is turned.

So ſaying, ſhe haſtily left the malicious girl ſtanding alone, not knowing what to do with herſelf, ſhe was ſo vexed. She walked angrily up and down the garden; and, meeting her ſiſter, would have begun to ſpeak ill of Mrs. Jones; but ſhe would not hear her, and turned from her, ſaying, I know you ſiſter, and I know Mrs. Jones. I have not time to liſten to you.

This made her very angry. When the whole company were cheerful, and walked about chatting and laughing, Hannah flew to a dark corner, and ſeated herſelf there, the prey of her own malice.

AS Mr. Jones and his family were, one day walking through a field juſt ſown with wheat, James, all at once, ſprang forward, bent down on the ground, then ſtarted up again, threw his hat before him, as if to catch ſomething, and then darted forward again. Mary, who was curious to know what he had in his eye, ran after him. At laſt he caught what he purſued, as Mary came up with him, and both rejoiced at having taken a little priſoner. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Jones were in converſation, and did not obſerve them. However, they were ſoon obliged to ſtop, for they heard Mary ſcream out, in a terrified tone—Dear James, ah! do not do it; pray, pray hold your hand! And theſe entreaties having no effect, ſhe called to her father and mother for help. Mr. Jones could not imagine what the children were diſputing about, but waved his hand for them to come near him. Dear father, ſaid Mary, you do not know what a wicked boy James is! he has juſt caught a field-mouſe, and for all I can ſay, will cut its ears and tail off. The poor mouſe! it never did him any harm! he has already opened his knife! only look at him. James came up ſmiling, holding the mouſe in one hand, and the knife in the other. What are you going to do? aſked Mr. Jones.

Ah! my dear James! cried Mary, do not kill it; give me the little mouſe; I pray you give it me! Can you deny me?

He gave it her, and, as ſoon as ſhe got it, ſhe let it run away, calling after it—Run, run, poor animal, till you find again your little children.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Jones were pleaſed with her. Mrs. Jones kiſſed Mary, and ſaid, good girl! you have perhaps ſaved the lives of four or five little mice, who muſt have periſhed with hunger if their mother had been killed.

Mr. Jones ſtill continued the ſubject. He ſaid, that the ſmalleſt animals were of ſome uſe; and that a good man ought not to kill the leaſt worm, unleſs it injured him, or that its death would be uſeful to him; but even in that caſe it would be unjuſt and cruel to torment them.

WE do not expect that women ſhould always utter gr ••• ſentences, no men neither. It were inconſiſtent with the ſtate of mankind. It cannot be expected from philoſophers of the h • ſt rank▪ nor, if it could, do I know that it would be deſirable. I am e • en inclined to believe that they who underſtand the art of what has been termed trifling agreeably, have gained a very conſiderable point. The frailty of human nature, and the infelicity of human life, require to be relieved and ſoothed. There are many occaſions, on which this is not to be done by ſage admonitions, or ſolemn reflections. Theſe, to well-diſpoſed minds, are often highly ſolacing; but to dwell on them always were to ſtrain the machine beyond its powers. Beſides, in fact, a ſeaſonable diverſion to anxiety, a temporary forgetfulneſs of grief, is frequently a far better method to remove it, than any direct application or laboured remedy. To change the metaphor; when the road proves rugged, or is in danger of growing tedious, one ſucceſsful method of beguiling it is, for travellers to cheer and amuſe one another by the play of fancy, and the facetiouſneſs of mirth. But then the end of the journey muſt not be forgotten. Becauſe we are weak, there is no reaſon why we ſhould be ſilly. The brow of care may ſurely be ſmoothed without converting it into the laugh of folly. While we indulge the recreation neceſſary for mortal, let us maintain the temper requiſite for immortal beings. To reconcile theſe two things, and to blend them happily, ſeems the proper ſcience of creatures on their journey through time to eternity. From you, my gentle friends, we look for every thing that, next to the diviner influence of religion, can ſoften the inequality, and animate the dulneſs of the way.

I AM one of four Siſters; and having ſome reaſon to think myſelf not well uſed either by them or by the world, I beg leave to lay before you a ſketch of our hiſtory and characters. You will not wonder there ſhould be frequent bickerings amongſt us, when I tell you that in our infancy we were continually fighting; and ſo great was the noiſe, and din, and confuſion, i • our continual ſtruggles to get uppermoſt, that it was impoſſible for any body to live amongſt us, in ſuch a ſcene of tumult and diſorder. Theſe brawls, however, by a powerful interpoſition, were put an end to; our proper place was aſſigned to each of us, and we had ſtrict orders not to encroach on the limits of each other's property, but to join our common offices for the good of the whole family.

My firſt ſiſter (I call her the firſt, becauſe we have generally allowed her the precedence in rank,) is, I muſt acknowledge, of a very active ſprightly diſpoſition; quick and lively, and has more brilliancy than any of us: but ſhe is hot: every thing ſerves for fuel to her fury, when it is once raiſed to a certain degree; and ſhe is ſo miſchievous whenever ſhe gets the upper hand, that, notwithſtanding her aſpiring diſpoſition, if I may freely ſpeak my mind, ſhe is calculated to make a good ſervant, but a very bad miſtreſs.

I am almoſt aſhamed to mention, that notwithſtanding her ſeeming delicacy, ſhe has a moſt voracious appetite, and devours every thing that comes in her way; though, like other eager thin people, ſhe does no credit to her keeping. Many a time has ſhe conſumed the product of my barns and ſtore-houſes, but it is all loſt upon her. She has even been known to get into an oil-ſhop or tallow-chandler's, when every body was aſleep, and lick up, with the utmoſt greedineſs, whatever ſhe found there. Indeed, all prudent people are aware of her tricks, and though ſhe is admitted into the beſt families, they take care to watch her very narrowly. I ſhould not forget to mention, that my ſiſter was once in a country where ſhe was treated with uncommon reſpect; ſhe was lodged in a ſumptuous building, and had a number of young women of the beſt families to attend on her, and feed her, and watch over her health; in ſhort, ſhe was looked upon as ſomething more than a common mortal. But ſhe always behaved with great ſeverity to her maids, and if any of them were negligent of their duty, or made a ſlip in their own conduct, nothing would ſerve her but burying the poor girls alive. I have, myſelf, had ſome dark hin • s and intimations, from the moſt reſpectable authority, that ſhe will ſome time or other make an end of me. You need not wonder, therefore, if I am jealous of her motions.

The next ſiſter I ſhall mention to you, has ſo far the appearance of modeſty and humility, that ſhe generally ſeeks the loweſt place. She is indeed of a very yielding eaſy temper, generally cool, and often wears a ſweet placid ſmile upon her countenance; but ſhe is eaſily ruffled, and when worked up, as ſhe often is, ſhe becomes a perfect fury. Indeed ſhe is ſo apt to ſwell with ſudden guſts of paſſion, that ſhe is ſuſpected at times to be a little lunatic. Between her and my firſt mentioned ſiſter, there is a more ſettled antipathy than between the Theban pai • ; and they never meet without making efforts to deſtroy one another. With me ſhe is always ready to form the moſt intimate union, but it is not always to my advantage. There goes a ſtory in our family, that when we were all young, ſhe once attempted to drown me. She actually kept me under a conſiderable time, and though at length I got my head above water, my conſtitution is generally thought to have been eſſentially injured by it ever ſince. From that time ſhe has made no ſuch atrocious attempt, but ſhe is continually making encroachments upon my property; and even when ſhe appears moſt gentle, ſhe is very inſidious, and has ſuch an undermining way with her, that her inſinuating ar •• are as much to be dreaded as open violence. I might indeed remonſtrate; but it is a known part of her character, that nothing makes any laſting impreſſion upon her.

As to my third ſiſter, I have already mentioned the in offices ſhe does me with my laſt mentioned one, who • entirely under her influence. She is beſides of a very uncertain variable temper, ſometimes hot, and ſometimes cold, nobody knows where to have her. Her lightneſs is even proverbial, and ſhe has nothing to give thoſe who live with her more ſubſtantial than the ſmiles of courtier • . I muſt add, that ſhe keeps in her ſervice three or four rough bluſtering bullies with puffed cheeks, who, when they are let looſe, think they have nothing to do but 〈◊〉 drive the world before them. She ſometimes joins with my ſiſter, and their violence occaſionally throws me into ſuch a trembling, that though naturally of a firm conſtitution, I ſhake as if I was in an ague fit.

As to myſelf, I am of a ſteady ſolid temper; not ſhining indeed, but kind and liberal, quite as lady Bountiful Every one taſtes of my beneficence; and I am of ſo grateful a diſpoſition, that I have been known to return 〈◊〉 hundred fold for any preſent that has been made me. I feed and clothe all my children, and afford a welcome home to the wretch who has no other home. I bear with unrepining patience all manner of ill uſage; I am trampled upon, I am torn and wounded by the moſt cutting ſtrokes; I am pillaged of the treaſures hidden in my moſt ſecret chambers; notwithſtanding which, I am always ready to return good for evil, and am continually ſubſervient to the pleaſure or advantage of others; yet, ſo ungrateful is the world, that becauſe I do not poſſeſs all the airineſs and activity of my ſiſters, I am ſtigmatized as dull and heavy. Every ſordid miſerly fellow is called by way of deriſion one of my children; and if a perſon, on entering a room, does but turn his eyes upon me, he is thought ſtupid and mean, and not fit for good company. I have the ſatisfaction, however, of finding that people always incline towards me as they grow older; and that thoſe, who ſeemed proudly to diſdain any affinity with me, are content to ſink at laſt into my boſom. You will probably wiſh to have ſome account of my perſon. I am not a regular beauty; ſome of my features are rather harſh and prominent, when viewed ſeparately; but my countenance has ſo much variety of expreſſion, and ſo many different attitudes of elegance, that thoſe who ſtudy my face with attention, find out continually new charms; and it may be truly ſaid of me, what Titus ſays of his miſtreſs, and for a much longer ſpace: For five whole years, each day ſhe meets my view; Yet every day I ſeem to ſee her new. Though I have been ſo long a mother, I have ſtill a ſurpriſing air of youth and freſhneſs, which is aſſiſted by all the advantages of well-choſen ornament; for I dreſs well, and according to the ſeaſon.

This is what I have chiefly to ſay of myſelf and my ſiſters. To a perſon of your ſagacity it will be unneceſſary for me to ſign my name. Indeed, one who becomes acquainted with any one of the family, cannot be at a loſs to diſcover the reſt, notwithſtanding the difference in our features and characters.

"SHE was born at Runghen, a ſmall village in Livonia, of very poor parents, who were only boors, or vaſſals: her father and mother dying, left her very young in great want; the pariſh clerk, out of compaſſion, took her home to his houſe, where ſhe learnt to read. Dr. Glack, miniſter of Marienburgh, ſeeing her there, inquired of the clerk who ſhe was; and being informed ſhe was a poor orphan, he had taken into his houſe out of charity, what from a wiſh to relieve the poor clerk from a burthen he was not well able to ſupport, and a liking to the little orphan, the Doctor took her home to his houſe, notwithſtanding he had a numerous family of his own. Here her company and opportunities for improvement were better, and her deportment ſuch, that ſhe became equally eſteemed by the Doctor, his wife and children: her ſteady, diligent, and careful attention to all their domeſtic concerns ingratiated her ſo much with the Doctor and his wife, that they made no diſtinction between her and their own children. She ever after ſhowed her acknowledgment with the utmoſt gratitude, in richly providing for all thoſe, who could lay claim to any alliance with the Doctor's family; nor did ſhe forget her firſt benefactor, the clerk of Runghen. In this happy ſituation ſhe grew up to woman, when a Livonian ſerjeant, in the Swediſh ſervice, fell paſſionately in love with her; ſhe likewiſe liking him, agreed to marry him, provided it could be done with the Doctor's conſent; who, upon inquiry into the man's character, finding it unexceptionable, readily gave it. The marriage day was appointed, and indeed, came; when a ſudden order came to the ſerjeant that very morning, to march directly with a detachment for Riga. Soon after this, General Baur, at the head of an army, came before the town and took it, in the year 1742, when all the inhabitants were made priſoners, and amongſt the reſt this lovely bride. In the promiſcuous crowd, overwhelmed with grief, and bathed in tears at her unhappy fate, the General obſerving her, ſaw a je ne ſçai quoi in her whole appearance, which attracted him ſo much, that he aſked her ſeveral queſtions about her ſituation; to which ſhe made anſwer with more ſenſe than is uſual with perſons of her rank. He deſired her not to be afraid, for he would take care of her, and gave immediate orders for her ſafety and reception into his houſe, of which he gave her the whole charge, with authority over all his ſervants, by whom ſhe was very much beloved, from her manner of uſing them: the General afterwards often ſaid, his houſe was never ſo well managed as when ſhe was with him.

Prince Menzikoff, who was his patron, ſeeing her one day at the General's, obſerved ſomething very extraordinary in her air and manner; and inquiring who ſhe was, and on what ſooting ſhe ſerved him; the General told him what has been already related, and with due • ncomiums on the merits of her conduct in his houſe. The Prince ſaid, ſuch a perſon would be of great conſequence to him, for he was then very ill ſerved in that reſpect: to which the General replied, he was under too many obligations to his Highneſs, to have it in his power to refuſe him any thing he had a mind to; and immediately calling for Catharine, told her that was Prince Me •• ikoff, and that he had occaſion for a ſervant like herſelf; and that the Prince had it much more in his power to be a friend to her than he had; adding, that he had too great a regard for her to wiſh to prevent her receiving ſuch a piece of honour and good fortune. She anſwered only by a profound courteſy, which ſhewed, if not her conſ • nt, that it was not in her power to refuſe the offer that was made: in ſhort, the Prince took her home the ſame day, and ſhe lived with him till the year 1744, when the Czar, one day dining with the prince, happened to ſee her, and ſpoke to her: ſhe made a yet ſtronger impreſſion on that monarch, who would likewiſe have her to be his ſervant; from whence ſhe roſe to be Empreſs of Ruſſia."

DURING my reſidence in Moſcow, I was told the following particulars of the Czar. He was born in the year 1672, and was married in 1690, at the age of eighteen, to Ottokeſſa Lupochin, a beggar's daughter, by whom he had Prince Alexis. Some time after, he turned her away, and ſhut her up in a monaſtery, on ſuſpicion of diſloyalty to his bed. After the divorce, one Miſs Mons, a very beautiful young lady, born at Moſcow of foreign parents, was much in favour with the Czar; but when he was abroad, Mr. Keyſerling, then reſident at. Moſcow, as Envoy from the King of Pruſſia, paid his addreſſes to, and married her.

The Czar was ſometime after ſmitten with the charms of another beautiful young lady, the daughter of a foreign merchant in this city: he firſt ſaw her at her father's houſe, where he dined one day. He was ſo much taken with her appearance, that he offered her any terms ſhe pleaſed, if ſhe would live with him, which this virtuous young woman modeſtly refuſed; but, dreading the effects of his authority, ſhe put on a reſolution, and left Moſcow in the night, without communicating her deſign even to her parents. Having provided a little money for her ſupport, ſhe travelled on foot ſeveral miles into the country, till ſhe arrived at a ſmall village, where her nurſe lived with her huſband and their daughter, the young lady's foſter ſiſter, to whom ſhe diſcovered her intention of concealing herſelf in a wood near that village: and to prevent any diſcovery, ſhe ſet out the ſame night, accompanied by the huſband and daughter. The huſband being a timber man by trade, and well acquainted with the wood, conducted her to a little dry ſpot in the middle of a moraſs, and there he built a hut for her habitation. She had depoſited her money with her nurſe to procure little neceſſaries for her ſupport, which were faithfully conveyed to her at night, by the nurſe or her daughter, by one of whom ſhe was conſtantly attended in the night time.

The next day after her flight, the Czar called at her father's to ſee her; and, finding the parents in anxious concern for their daughter, and himſelf diſappointed, fancied it a plan of their own concerting. He became angry, and began to threaten them with the effects of his diſpleaſure, if ſhe was not produced: nothing was left to the parents but the moſt ſolemn proteſtations, with tears of real ſorrow running down their cheeks, to convince him of their innocence, and ignorance what was become of her; aſſuring him of their fears that ſome fatal diſaſter had befallen her, as nothing belonging to her was miſſing, except what ſhe had on at the time. The Czar, ſatisfied of their ſincerity, ordered great ſearch to be made for her, with the offer of a conſiderable reward to the perſon who ſhould diſcover what was become of her; but to no purpoſe. The parents and relations, apprehending ſhe was no more, went into mourning for her.

Above a year after this, ſhe was diſcovered by accident. A Colonel, who had come from the army to ſee his friends, going a hunting into that wood, and following his game, through the moraſs, he came to the hut, and looking into it, ſaw a pretty young woman in a mean dreſs. After inquiring of her who ſhe was, and how ſhe came to live in ſo ſolitary a place, he found out at laſt that ſhe was the lady whoſe diſappearance had made ſo great a noiſe. In the utmoſt confuſion, and with the moſt fervent entreaties, ſhe prayed him, on her knees, that he would not betray her. To which he replied, that he thought her danger was now paſt, as the Czar was then otherways engaged; and that ſhe might with ſafety diſcover herſelf, at leaſt to her parents, with whom he would conſuit how matters ſhould be managed. The lady agreed to his propoſal; and he ſat out immediately, and overjoyed her parents with the happy diſcovery. The iſſue of their deliberations was to conſult Madam Catharine (as ſhe was then called) in what manner the affair ſhould be opened to the Czar. The Colonel went alſo upon this buſineſs, and was adviſed by Madam to come next morning, and ſhe would introduce him to his Majeſty, when he might make the diſcovery, and claim the promiſed reward. He went according to appointment; and, being introduced, told the accident by which he had diſcovered the lady, and repreſented the miſerable ſituation in which he found her, and what ſhe muſt have ſuffered by being ſo long ſhut up in ſuch a diſmal place, from the delicacy of her ſex. The Czar ſhewed a great deal of concern that he ſhould have been the cauſe of all her ſufferings, declaring that he would endeavour to make her amends. Here Madam Catharine ſuggeſted, that ſhe thought the beſt amends his Majeſty could make, was to give her a handſome fortune, and the Colonel for a huſband, who had the beſt right, having caught her in purſuit of his game. The Czar, agreeing perfectly with Madam Catharine's ſentiments, ordered one of his favourites to go with the Colonel, and bring the young lady home; where ſhe arrived, to the inexpreſſible joy of her family and relations, who had all been in mourning for her. The marriage was under the direction and at the expenſe of the C • , who himſelf gave the bride to the bridegroom; ſaying that he preſented him with one of the moſt virtuous of women; and accompanied his declaration with very valuable preſents, beſides ſettling on her and her heirs three thouſand rubles a year. This lady lived highly eſteemed by the Czar and every one who knew her. Beſides t •• concurring reports of other people, I had the ſtory from her own mouth.

SOME years ago, while profeſſor Krahe was ſuperintendant of the gal • y of paintings, he received a viſit from a young • a • er of the town; who, after a ſhort introduction, took a book out of his pocket, which he preſented to Mr. Krahe, expreſſing a deſire that he would purchaſe it. The ſuperintendant found, upon examination, that it was a prayer-book, ornamented in the ancient ſtyle of religious foppery, with a number of coloured figures and engravings. It was the one which the Elector Clement Auguſtus, of Cologne, had ordered to be publiſhed, and was become very ſcarce and valuable. The profeſſor inquired whence he had it? and the young man anſwered with a modeſt bluſh, that it was a copy from one he had borrowed. "By whom?" "By myſelf," rejoins the youth. Upon a cloſe examination, Mr. Krahe could ſcarcely diſtinguiſh the copy from the original. He could not conceal his ſurpriſe, and aſked why he did not practiſe engraving, rather than continue a baker? The youth anſwered, that it was the wiſh of his ſoul; but his father having a numerous family, could not afford the expenſe of ſuitable inſtructions. "I deſign to travel," adds he; "but as my father cannot furniſh the means, and as I knew that you was fond of drawings, I was emboldened to make this application to you, in hopes that you would purchaſe the copy, to furniſh immediate help, and I muſt truſt to my induſtry and good fortune for future advancement."

"Call here to-morrow, without fail," ſays Mr. Krahe, with an emphaſis that manifeſted pleaſure and aſtoniſhment.

Early the next morning, the profeſſor called upon an intimate friend at Keyſerſworth, a few miles from Duſſeldorff, of which place the young man was a native.

This friend, with the power, had the diſpoſition to do good. Krahe told him the ſtory, ſhewed him the workmanſhip, and begged him to lend the young artiſt two hundred crowns. "He will, doubtleſs," adds he, "become, in a few years, a diſtinguiſhed engraver, and be able to reimburſe you. I will be ſecurity for the payment."

"I take no ſecurity," anſwered his friend; and he advanced three hundred crowns.

Krahe returned to the aſtoniſhed and tranſported baker with the money. He quitted the oven, learned geometry and perſpective, applied to drawing according to the rules of the art, and acquired a competent knowledge of hiſtory.

After aſſiduous application, for the ſpace of two years, the young man had made ſuch rapid progreſs, that Mr. Krahe adviſed him to quit Duſſeldorff, where no further improvement was to be expected, and viſit Paris, promiſing him a letter of introduction to Mr. Willes, a celebrated engraver in that metropolis.

Smith (for this was the young man's name) put his advice into execution; and, in order to economize his little ſtore, he travelled on foot from Duſſeldorff to Paris. But unfortunately, he fell ill immediately upon his arrival; and, although he applied to a monaſtery, where he was hoſpitably received, and carefully attended, yet incidental expenſes, during an illneſs of ſome continuance, had entirely exhauſted his little ſtore. Upon his recovery, that delicate kind of pride, which ſo frequently accompanies true genius, forbade his making application to Mr. Willes, while he muſt appear an indigent beggar.

One day, as he was walking, penſively in the ſtreets, his mind occupied with his unfortunate ſituation, he was met by two ſoldiers of the Swiſs guards; one of whom accoſted him with the inquiry, "Young man, are you not a German?"—"Yes."—"From whence?"—"From Keyſerſworth, near Duſſeldorff."—"You are my countryman.—What do you do here?" Smith related to him the particulars of his hiſtory; adding, that a long illneſs had exhauſted a large portion of his time, and all his money; and that he could not ſupport the idea of being troubleſome to any one. The ſoldiers adviſed him to enliſt, aſſuring him that the ſervice was not ſevere, and that he would have leiſure to follow the bent of his genius. Smith accepted the propoſition, was introduced to the captain of the regiment, was enliſted for four years, and ſhortly after was introduced to Mr. Willes, by the captain himſelf. As much time was indulged to him, as the nature of the ſervice could poſſibly admit, to purſue his favourite object, under Mr. Willes. He continued in this ſituation the four years, when he received his diſmiſſion.

Finding that he was in the line of improvement, he continued at Paris two years longer, applying himſelf, with the utmoſt diligence, to the art of engraving: at the expiration of which term, he returned home, with the beſt atteſtations concerning his talents, induſtry, and moral conduct.

Profeſſor Krahe received him with open arms, was charmed with the progreſs he had made, and engaged him to work in the cabinet. He continued to work under the inſpection of the profeſſor, about two years, conducting himſelf in ſuch a manner, as to gain upon the affections of his patron.

It was about this period, that the profeſſor invited our artiſt to an entertainment, where ſeveral of his friends were to be preſent. He met his friends, and was entering into the joys of convivial converſation, when he was informed that the entertainment was in honour of a ſtranger. But alas! this ſtranger was the deſtined huſband of the profeſſor's eldeſt daughter;—beautiful, in his eyes as an angel; and wiſe, in his judgment, as the goddeſs of wiſdom. He made as precipitate a retreat as decency would permit, and left the briſk glaſs and jovial ſong to circulate among the happy.

The next morning he returned to the cabinet with the utmoſt dejection of mind and countenance. This ſudden change was noticed by his benefactor, who inquired into the cauſe. Smith, in confuſed expreſſions, and with faultering voice, confeſſed that he had fallen deeply in love with that very daughter who was ſhortly to be in the poſſeſſion of another.

"Have you intimated to my daughter the ſtrength of your affections?"

"Never," anſwered the noble youth; "not in the moſt diſtant manner. Could I, without title, fortune, or pretenſions of any kind, be ſo baſe as to ſpeak of love to the daughter of my friend, my patron, my benefactor? I was contented to ſee her, and was careful to conduct myſelf in ſuch a manner, that no ſuſpicions might ariſe, to debar me of that happineſs; and now I learn, that I am ſhortly to be deprived of the only ſatisfaction to which I dared to aſpire."

The benevolent profeſſor tried his utmoſt to ſoothe and comfort him; aſſured him of the ſtrength of his affection; that he loved him as his own child: but warned him to ſubdue his love for Henrietra; expatiating upon the criminality, circumſtanced as they were, of indulging the paſſion.

The poor young man admitted the force of the argument, and promiſed to obey. But the ſtruggle was too much for his conſtitution. He fell ill, and continued in a dangerous ſtate upwards of four months. Mr. Krahe paid him every attention, and gave him every conſolation in his power. But, in all their interviews, the name of Henrietta was never mentioned. His lamentable ſituation, however, could not be concealed from her. She ſympathized with, and moſt ſincerely pitied him; but, though "pity is ſo near a-kin to love," duty and honour interpoſed a barrier between them.

The intended huſband returned to his parents; and it was not difficult to perceive, from the tenor of his letters, that certain objections were ſtarted by them to the union. Although he dared not to expreſs his own ſentiments fully upon this occaſion, yet Henrietta divined the • , and gave him full power to follow the genuine bent of his own inclinations, renouncing every claim upon his promiſe. The anſwer was correſpondent to her expectations; and, allowing a ſhort interval for the ſuppreſſion of th • chagrin, which the injured pride of every young lady muſt ſuffer in ſuch delicate ſituations, ſhe permitted the ſufferings of Smith to engage more of her thoughts, generouſly indulged her compaſſion, until ſhe found it blended with affection; and, finally, addreſſed her father thus: "Sir, I know it has been your wiſh to have Smith for your ſon-in-law—every obſtacle is removed. Tell him that Henrietta will be his, if ſhe can promote his •• licity."

The joyful father informed him of this declaration in his favour: But the good news was as like to have proved fatal as his deſpair. Recovering from his emotion, and leaning on the arm of his benefactor, he was conducted to the generous object of his paſſion; and, by paſſing the evening in her company, he was cheered, comforted, and reſtored.

But how great was the ſurpriſe of every one, wh •• they learned, the next morning, that the lover had l ••• the town, in a carriage with four horſes, and had carried his plates and drawings with him!—What aſtoniſhment to Krahe!—What a thunderſtroke to poor Henrietta▪

This was ſo apparently the act of a diſordered brain, that his return was dreaded as much as his flight was lamented. Nor did they receive a ſingle line in the interval, to remove their doubts. On the ninth day • e returned from Munich, with an order for a penſion of ſix hundred florins per annum, to be paid to Smith by the treaſurer of the palatinate.

He had been to throw himſelf at the feet of the Elector Palatine. He diſcovered to him his love, his ſituation; ſhewed him the certificates of his conduct, and the ſpecimens of his workmanſhip. The heart of the Elector was moved, and he gave him the penſion.

"Now, Sir," ſaid the generous hearted Smith, "I am more worthy of my Henrietta."

See there, my friend, in one ſhort hiſtory, the eulogium of numbers!—I beſeech you to make due comments upon the excellent character of our artiſt, the hero of the piece—upon the benevolence of the profeſſor—his friend, of Keyſerſworth—the monks in the convent—the two ſoldiers, with their captain—the engraver Willes—the Elector Palatinate—and the amiable Henrietta; and then revert to my propoſition, that the private hiſtory of individuals would, in general, give us more favourable ideas of human virtue, and of human happineſs, than thoſe are apt to imagine, who direct their chief attention to the ambition of the great, and the ſubverſion of empires. Numberleſs are the inſtances, where individuals emerge from obſcurity, and act a conſpicuous part on the theatre of life. We behold and applaud the actor, without adverting to the different ſtages through which he muſt have paſſed, before he was prepared for this honourable exhibition, and how far he muſt have been aſſiſted, in each ſtage, by thoſe around him.

Go to, ye libellers of your ſpecies! ye defamers of God's moſt perfect workmanſhip below! ye that delight to ſketch out figures with charcoal, add horns, a tail, and cloven feet to your ſketch, and call it human! Man is naturally a friend to man. Adventitious circumſtances may ſuppreſs this kindly temper, until the moſt contracted ſelfiſhneſs is deemed a ſyſtem of genuine prudence! Tyranny may depreſs the mind, until it be rendered incapable of one virtuous exertion! Falſe theology, by repreſenting the heart as naturally vicious and depraved, may deſtroy the choiceſt ſprings of action; may perſuade us that to act the knave or fool, is merely to act in character: whereas a conſciouſneſs that we are capable of doing much good—a conviction that we are naturally diſpoſed to do good—that the inſtinct was given us, that we might become the active inſtruments of the divine benevolence—an inſtinct ſo ſtrong, that it is deemed inhuman to ſtifle its impulſe; theſe are admirably calculated to quicken the diſpoſition, improve the habit, and extend the effects.

IT was the cuſtom of Mrs. Wormwood to profeſs the moſt friendly ſolicitude for female youth, and the higheſt admiration of beauty: ſhe wiſhed to be conſidered as their patroneſs, becauſe ſuch an idea afforded her the faireſt opportunities of ſecretly mortifying their inſufferable preſumption. With a peculiar refinement in malice, ſhe firſt encouraged, and afterwards defeated, thoſe amuſing matrimonial projects, which the young and the beautiful are ſo apt to entertain. The higheſt gratification which her ingenious malignity could deviſe, conſiſted in torturing ſome lovely inexperienced girl, by playing upon the tender paſſions of an open and unſuſpect ••• heart.

Accident threw within her reach a moſt tempting ſubject for ſuch fiend-like diverſion, in the perſon of Amelia Nevil, the daughter of a brave and accompliſhed officer, who, cloſing a laborious and painful life in very indigent circumſtances, had left his unfortunate child to the care of his maiden ſiſter. The aunt of Amelia was ſuch an old maid as might alone ſuffice to reſcue the ſiſterhood from ridicule and contempt. She had been attached, in her early days, to a gallant youth, who unhappily loſt his own life in preſerving that of his dear friend, her brother: ſhe devoted herſelf to his memory with the moſt tender, unaffected, and invariable attachment; refuſing ſeveral advantageous offers of marriage, though her income was ſo narrow, that neceſſity obliged her to convert her whole fortune into an annuity, juſt before the calamitous event happened, which made her the only guardian of the poor Amelia. This lovely but unfortunate girl was turned of fourteen on the death of her father. She found, in the houſe of his ſiſter, the moſt friendly aſylum, and a relation, whoſe heart and mind made her moſt able and willing to form the character of this engaging orphan, who appeared to be as highly favoured by nature as ſhe was perſecuted by fortune. The beauty of Amelia was ſo ſtriking, and the charms of her lively underſtanding began to diſplay themſelves in ſo enchanting a manner, that her affectionate aunt could not bear the idea of placing her in any lower order of life: ſhe gave her the education of a gentlewoman, in the flattering and generous hope that her various attractions muſt ſupply the abſolute want of fortune, and that ſhe ſhould enjoy the delight of ſeeing her dear Amelia ſettled happily in marriage, before her death expoſed her lovely ward to that poverty, which was her only inheritance. Heaven diſpoſed it otherwiſe. This amiable woman, after having acted the part of a moſt affectionate parent to her indigent niece, died before Amelia attained the age of twenty. The poor girl was now apparently deſtitute of every reſource, and expoſed to penury, with a heart bleeding for the loſs of a moſt indulgent protector. A widow lady of her acquaintance very kindly afforded her a refuge in the firſt moments of her diſtreſs, and propoſed to two of her opulent friends, that Amelia ſhould reſide with them by turns, dividing her year between them, and paſſing four months with each. As ſoon as Mrs. Wormwood was informed of this event, as ſhe delighted in thoſe oſtentatious acts of apparent beneficence, which are falſely called charity, ſhe deſired to be admitted among the voluntary guardians of the poor Amelia. To this propoſal all the parties aſſented; and it was ſettled that Amelia ſhould paſs the laſt quarter of every year, as long as ſhe remained ſingle, under the roof of Mrs. Wormwood. This lovely orphan had a ſenſibility of heart, which rendered her extremely grateful for the protection ſhe received, but which made her ſeverely feel all the miſeries of her dependence. Her beauty attracted a multitude of admirers, many of whom, preſuming on her poverty, treated her with a licentious levity, which always wounded her ingenuous pride. Her perſon, her mind, her manners, were univerſally commended by the men; but no one thought of making her his wife. "Amelia," they cried, "is an enchanting creature; but who in theſe times, can afford to marry a pretty, proud girl, ſupported by charity?" Though this prudential queſtion was never uttered in the preſence of Amelia, ſhe began to perceive its influence, and ſuffered the painful dread of proving a perpetual burden to thoſe friends, by whoſe generoſity ſhe ſubſiſted: ſhe wiſhed a thouſand times that her affectionate aunt, inſtead of cultivating her mind with ſuch dangerous refinement, had placed her in any ſtation of life, where ſhe might have maintained herſelf by her own manual labour: ſhe ſometimes entertained a project of making ſome attempt for this purpoſe; and ſhe once thought of changing her name, and of trying to ſupport herſelf as an actreſs on one of the public theatres; but this idea, which her honeſt pride had ſuggeſted, was effectually ſuppreſſed by her modeſty; and ſhe continued to waſte the moſt precious time of her youth, under the mortification of perpetually wiſhing to change her mode of life, and of not knowing how to effect it. Almoſt two years had now elapſed ſince the death of her aunt; and, without any proſpect of marriage, ſhe was in her ſecond period of reſidence with Mrs. Wormwood. Amelia's underſtanding was by no means inferior to her other endowments. She began to penetrate all the artful diſguiſe, and to gain a perfect and very painful inſight into the real character of her preſent hoſteſs. This lady had remarked, that when Miſs Nevil reſided with her, her houſe was much more frequented by gentlemen than at any other ſeaſon. This, indeed, was true; and it unluckily happened that theſe viſitors often forgot to applaud the ſmart ſayings of Mrs. Wormwood, in contemplating the ſweet countenance of Amelia; a circumſtance fully ſufficient to awaken, in the neglected wit, the moſt bitter envy, hatred and malice. In truth, Mrs. Wormwood deteſted her lovely gueſt, with the moſt implacable virulence; but ſhe had the ſingular art of diſguiſing her deteſtation in the language of flattery: ſhe underſtood the truth of Pope's maxim, "He hurts me moſt who laviſhly commends;" and ſhe therefore made uſe of laviſh commendation as an inſtrument of malevolence towards Amelia; ſhe inſulted the taſte, and ridiculed the choice, of every new-married man, and declared herſelf convinced, that he was a fool, becauſe he had not choſen that moſt lovely young woman. To more than one gentleman ſhe ſaid, you muſt marry Amelia; and, as few men chooſe to be driven into wedlock, ſome offers were poſſibly prevented by the treacherous vehemence of her praiſe. Her malice, however, was not ſufficiently gratified by obſerving that Amelia had no proſpect of marriage. To indulge her malignity, ſhe reſolved to amuſe this unhappy girl with the hopes of ſuch an event, and then to turn, on a ſudden, all theſe ſplendid hopes into mockery and deluſion. Accident led her to pitch on Mr. Nelſon, as a perſon whoſe name ſhe might, with the greateſt ſafety, employ as the inſtrument of her inſidious deſign, and with the greater chance of ſucceſs, as ſhe obſerved that Amelia had conceived for him a particular regard.

Mr. Nelſon was a gentleman, who, having met with very ſingular events, had contracted a great but very amiable ſingularity of character. He was placed, early in life, in a very lucrative commercial ſituation, and was on the point of ſettling happily in marriage with a very beautiful young lady, when the houſe in which ſhe reſided was conſumed by fire. Great part of her family, and among them the deſtined bride, was buried in the ruins. Mr. Nelſon, in loſing the object of his ardent affection, by ſo ſudden a calamity, loſt for ſome time the uſe of his reaſon; and when his health and ſenſes returned, he ſtill continued under the oppreſſion of the profoundeſt melancholy, till his fond devotion to the memory of her, whom he had loſt in ſo ſevere a manner, ſuggeſted to his fancy a ſingular plan of benevolence, in the proſecution of which he recovered a great portion of his former ſpirits. This plan conſiſted in ſearching for female objects of charity, whoſe diſtreſſes had been occaſioned by fire. As his fortune was very ample, and his own private expenſes very moderate, he was able to relieve many unfortunate perſons in this condition; and his affectionate imagination delighted itſelf with the idea, that in theſe uncommon acts of beneficence, he was guided by the influence of that lovely angel whoſe mortal beauty had periſhed in the flames!

Mr. Nelſon frequently viſited a married ſiſter who was ſettled in the town where Mrs. Wormwood reſided. There was alſo, in the ſame town, an amiable elderly widow, for whom he had a particular eſteem. This lady, whoſe name was Melford, had been left in very ſcanty circumſtances on the death of her huſband, and, reſiding at that time in London, ſhe had been involved in additional diſtreſs by that calamity to which the attentive charity of Mr. Nelſon was forever directed: he more than repaired the loſs which ſhe ſuſtained by fire, and aſſiſted in ſettling her in the neighbourhood of his ſiſter. Mrs. Melford had been intimate with the aunt of Amelia, and was ſtill the moſt valuable friend of that lovely orphan, who paid her frequent viſits, though ſhe never reſided under her roof. Mr. Nelſon had often ſeen Amelia at the houſe of Mrs. Melford, which led him to treat her with particular politeneſs, whenever he viſited Mrs. Wormwood; a circumſtance on which the latter founded her ungenerous project. She perfectly knew all the ſingular private hiſtory of Mr. Nelſon, and firmly believed, like all the reſt of his acquaintance, that no attractions could ever tempt him to marry; but ſhe thought it poſſible to make Amelia conceive the hope that her beauty had melted his reſolution; and nothing ſhe ſuppoſed, could more effectually mortify her gueſt, than to find herſelf derided for ſo vain an expectation.

Mrs. Wormwood began, therefore, to inſinuate, in the moſt artful manner, that Mr. Nelſon was very particular in his civilities to Amelia; magnified all his amiable qualities, and expreſſed the greateſt pleaſure in the proſpect of ſo delightful a match. Theſe petty artifices, however, had no effect on the natural modeſty and diffidence of Amelia: ſhe ſaw nothing that authoriſed ſuch an idea in the uſual politeneſs of a well-bred man of thirty-ſeven; ſhe pitied the misfortune, ſhe admired the elegant and engaging, though ſerious manners, and ſhe revered the virtues of Mr. Nelſon; but, ſuppoſing his mind to be entirely engroſſed, as it really was, by his ſingular charitable purſuits, ſhe entertained not a thought of engaging his affection. Mrs. Wormwood was determined to play off her favourite engine of malignity, a counterfeited letter. She had acquired in her youth, the very dangerous talent of forging any hand that ſhe pleaſed; and her paſſion for miſchief had afforded her much practice in this treacherous art. Having previouſly and ſecretly engaged Mr. Nelſon to drink tea with her, ſhe wrote a billet to Amelia, in the name of that gentleman, and with the moſt perfect imitation of his hand. The billet ſaid, that he deſigned himſelf the pleaſure of paſſing that afternoon at the houſe of Mrs. Wormwood, and requeſted the favour of a private conference with Miſs Nevil, in the courſe of the evening; intimating, in the moſt delicate and doubtful terms, an ardent deſire of becoming her huſband. Mrs. Wormwood contrived that Amelia ſhould not ſee the billet till juſt before dinner-time, that ſhe might not ſhew it to her friend and confidant, Mrs. Melford, and by her means detect its fallacy before the hour of humiliation arrived.

Amelia bluſhed in reading the note, and, in the firſt ſurpriſe of unſuſpecting innocence, gave it to the vigilant Mrs. Wormwood, who burſt into vehement expreſſions of delight, congratulated her bluſhing gueſt on the full ſucceſs of her charms, and triumphed in her own prophetic diſcernment. They ſat down to dinner, but poor Amelia could hardly ſwallow a morſel; her mind was in a tumultuous agitation of pleaſure and amazement. The malicious impoſtor, enjoying her confuſion, allowed her no time to compoſe her hurried ſpirits in the ſolitude of her chamber. Some female viſitors arrived to tea; and at length Mr. Nelſon entered the room. Amelia trembled and bluſhed as he approached her: but ſhe was a little relieved from her embaraſſment by the buſineſs of the tea-table, over which ſhe preſided. Amelia was naturally graceful in every thing ſhe did; but the preſent agitation of her mind gave a temporary awkwardneſs to all her motions: ſhe committed many little blunders in the management of the tea-table; a cup fell from her trembling hand, and was broken; but the politeneſs of Mr. Nelſon led him to ſay ſo many kind and graceful things to her on theſe petty incidents, that, inſtead of increaſing her diſtreſs, they produced an oppoſite effect, and the tumult of her boſom gradually ſubſided into a calm and compoſed delight. She ventured to meet the eyes of Mr. Nelſon, and thought them expreſſive of that tenderneſs, which promiſed a happy end to all her misfortunes. At the idea of exchanging miſery and dependence for comfort and honour, as the wife of ſo amiable a man, her heart expanded with the moſt innocent and grateful joy. This appeared in her countenance, and gave ſuch an exquiſite radiance to all her features, that ſhe looked a thouſand times more beautiful than ever. Mrs. Wormwood ſaw this improvement of her charms, and, ſickening at the ſight, determined to reduce the ſplendor of ſuch inſufferable beauty, and haſtily terminate the triumph of her deluded gueſt. She began with a few malicious and ſarcaſtic remarks on the vanity of beautiful young women, and the hopes which they frequently entertain of an imaginary lover; but, finding theſe remarks produced not the effect ſhe intended, ſhe took an opportunity of whiſpering in the ear of Amelia, and begged her not to harbour any vain expectations; for the billet ſhe had received was a counterfeit, and a mere piece of pleaſantry. Amelia ſhuddered and turned pale: ſurpriſe, diſappointment, and indignation, conſpired to overwhelm her. She exerted her utmoſt power to conceal her emotions; but the conflict in her boſom was too violent to be diſguiſed. The tears, which ſhe vainly endeavoured to ſuppreſs, burſt forth, and ſhe was obliged to quit the room in very viſible diſorder. Mr. Nelſon expreſſed his concern; but he was checked in his benevolent inquiries by the caution of Mrs. Wormwood, who ſaid, on the occaſion, that Miſs Nevil was a very amiable girl, but ſhe had ſome peculiarities of temper, and was apt to put a wrong conſtruction on the innocent pleaſantry of her friends. Mr. Nelſon obſerving that Amelia did not return, and hoping that his departure might reſtore the interrupted harmony of the houſe, took an early leave of Mrs. Wormwood, who immediately flew to the chamber of Amelia, to exult like a fiend over that lovely victim of her ſucceſsful malignity. She found not the perſon whom ſhe was ſo eager to inſult. Amelia had indeed retired to her chamber, and paſſed there a very miſerable half hour, much hurt by the treacherous cruelty of Mrs. Wormwood, and ſtill more wounded by reflections on her own credulity, which ſhe condemned with that exceſs of ſeverity ſo natural to a delicate mind in arraigning itſelf. She would have flown for immediate conſolation to her friend, Mrs. Melford; but ſhe had reaſon to believe that lady engaged on a viſit; and ſhe therefore reſolved to take a ſolitary walk for the purpoſe of compoſing her ſpirits: but neither ſolitude nor exerciſe could reſtore her tranquillity; and, as it grew towards evening, ſhe haſtened to Mrs. Melford's, in hopes of now finding her returned.

Her worthy old confidant was indeed in her little parlour alone, when Amelia entered the room. The eyes of this lovely girl immediately betrayed her diſtreſs; and the old lady with her uſual tenderneſs exclaimed, "Good Heaven! my dear child, for what have you been crying?" "Becauſe," replied Amelia in a broken voice, and burſting into a freſh ſhower of tears, "becauſe I am a fool." Mrs. Melford began to be moſt ſeriouſly alarmed; and, expreſſing her maternal ſolicitude in the kindeſt manner, Amelia produced the fatal paper. "There," ſays ſhe, "is a letter in the name of your excellent friend, Mr. Nelſon; it is a forgery of Mrs. Wormwood's, and I have been ſuch an idiot as to believe it real." The affectionate Mrs. Melford, who, in her firſt alarm, had apprehended a much heavier calamity, was herſelf greatly comforted in diſcovering the truth, and ſaid many kind things to conſole her young friend. "Do not fancy," replied Amelia, "that I am fooliſhly in love with Mr. Nelſon, though I think him the moſt pleaſing as well as the moſt excellent of men; and though I confeſs to you, that I ſhould certainly think it a bleſſed lot to find a refuge from the miſery of my preſent dependance, in the arms of ſo generous and ſo benevolent a protector." "Thoſe arms are now open to receive you," ſaid a voice that was heard before the ſpeaker appeared. Amelia ſtarted at the ſound, and her ſurpriſe was not a little increaſed in ſeeing Mr. Nelſon himſelf, who, entering the room from an adjoining apartment, embraced the lovely orphan in a tranſport of tenderneſs and delight. Amelia, alive to all the feelings of genuine modeſty, was for ſome minutes more painfully diſtreſſed by this ſurpriſe, than ſhe had been by her paſt mortification: ſhe was ready to ſink into the earth, at the idea of having betrayed her ſecret to a man, from whom ſhe would have laboured moſt to conceal it. In the firſt tumult of this delicate confuſion, ſhe ſinks into a chair, hides her face in her hankerchief. Nelſon, with a mixture of reſpect and love, being afraid of increaſing her diſtreſs, ſeizes one of her hands, and continues to kiſs it without uttering a word. The good Mrs. Melford, almoſt as much aſtoniſhed, but leſs painfully confuſed than Amelia, beholds this unexpected ſcene, with that kind of joy, which is much more diſpoſed to weep than to ſpeak: and, while this little party is thus abſorbed in ſilence, let me haſten to relate the incidents which produced their ſituation.

Mr. Nelſon had obſerved the ſarcaſtic manner of Mrs. Wormwood towards Amelia; and, as ſoon as he had ended his uncomfortable viſit, he haſtened to the worthy Mrs. Melford, to give her ſome little account of what had paſſed, and to concert with her ſome happier plan for the ſupport of this amiable, inſulted orphan. "I am acquainted, ſaid he, with ſome brave and wealthy officers, who have ſerved with the father of Miſs Nevil, and often ſpeak of him with reſpect; I am ſure I can raiſe among them a ſubſcription for the maintenance of this tender, unfortunate girl: we will procure for her an annuity, that ſhall enable her to eſcape from ſuch malignant patronage, to have a little home of her own, and to ſupport a ſervant." Mrs. Melford was tranſported at this idea; and, recollecting all her own obligations to this benevolent man, wept, and extolled his generoſity; and, ſuddenly ſeeing Amelia at ſome diſtance, through a bow window, which commanded the ſtreet in which ſhe lived, "Thank Heaven, ſhe cried, here comes my poor child, to hear and bleſs you for the extent of your goodneſs." Nelſon, who delighted moſt in doing good by ſtealth, immediately extorted from the good old lady a promiſe of ſecreſy: it was the beſt part of his plan, that Amelia ſhould never know the perſons, to whom ſhe was to owe her independence. "I am ſtill afraid of you, my worthy old friend, ſaid Nelſon; your countenance or manner will, I know betray me, if Miſs Nevil ſees me here to-night."—"Well, ſaid the delighted old lady, I will humour your delicacy; Amelia will probably not ſtay with me ten minutes; you may amuſe yourſelf, for that time, in my ſpacious garden: I will not ſay you are here; and, as ſoon as the good girl returns home, I will come and impart to you the particulars of her recent vexation."—"Admirably ſettled," cried Nelſon; and he immediately retreated into a little back room, which led through a glaſs door into a long ſlip of ground, embelliſhed with the ſweeteſt and leaſt expenſive flowers, which afforded a favourite occupation and amuſement to Mrs. Melford. Nelſon, after taken a few turns in this diminutive garden, finding himſelf rather chilled by the air of the evening, retreated again into the little room he had paſſed, intending to wait there till Amelia departed; but the partition between the parlours being extremely ſlight, he overheard the tender confeſſion of Amelia, and was hurried towards her by an irreſiſtible impulſe, in the manner already deſcribed.

Mrs. Melford was the firſt who recovered from the kind of trance into which our little party had been thrown by their general ſurpriſe; and ſhe enabled the tender pair, in the proſpect of whoſe union her warm heart exulted, to regain that eaſy and joyous poſſeſſion of their faculties, which they loſt for ſome little time in their mutual embarraſſment. The applauſe of her friend, and the adoration of her lover, ſoon taught the diffident Amelia to think leſs ſeverely of herſelf. The warm-hearted Mrs. Melford declared that theſe occurrences were the work of Heaven. "That (replied the affectionate Nelſon) I am moſt willing to allow; but you muſt grant that Heaven has produced our preſent happineſs, by the blind agency of a fiend; and, as our dear Amelia has too gentle a ſpirit to rejoice in beholding the malignity of a devil converted into the torment of its poſſeſſor, I muſt beg that ſhe may not return, even for a ſingle night, to the houſe of Mrs. Wormwood." Amelia pleaded her ſenſe of paſt obligations, and wiſhed to take a peaceful leave of her patroneſs; but ſhe ſubmitted to the ardent entreaties of Nelſon, and remained for a few weeks under the roof of Mrs. Melford, when ſhe was united at the altar to the man of her heart. Nelſon had the double delight of rewarding the affection of an angel, and of puniſhing the malevolence of a fiend: he announced in perſon to Mrs. Wormwood his intended marriage with Amelia, on the very night when that treacherous old maid had amuſed herſelf with the hope of deriding her gueſt; whoſe return ſhe was eagerly expecting, in the moment Nelſon arrived to ſay, that Amelia would return no more.

The ſurpriſe and mortification of Mrs. Wormwood aroſe almoſt to frenzy: ſhe racked her malicious and inventive brain for expedients to defeat the match, and circulated a report for that purpoſe, which decency will not allow me to explain. Her artifice was detected and deſpiſed. Amelia was not only married, but the moſt admired, the moſt beloved, and the happieſt of human beings; an event which preyed ſo inceſſantly on the ſpirit of Mrs. Wormwood, that ſhe fell into a rapid decline, and ended, in a few months, her miſchievous and unhappy life; a memorable example, that the moſt artful malignity may ſometimes procure for the object of its envy, that very happineſs which it labours to prevent!

IN about an hour's climbing, we arrived at a place where there was no ſnow; and where a warm and comfortable vapour iſſued from the mountain, which induced us to make another halt. From this ſpot it was •• ly about three hundred yards to the higheſt ſummit of the mountain, where we arrived in full time to ſee the moſt wonderful and moſt ſublime ſight in nature.

But here deſcription muſt ever fall ſhort; for no imagination has dared to form an idea of ſo glorious and ſo magnificent a ſcene. Neither is there on the ſurface of this globe, any one point that unites ſo many awful and ſublime objects. The immenſe elevation from the ſurface of the earth, drawn as it were to a ſingle point, without any neighbouring mountain for the ſenſes and imagination to reſt upon, and recover from their aſtoniſhment in their way down to the world: this point or pinnacle, raiſed on the brink of a bottomleſs gulf, as old as the world, often diſcharging rivers of fire, and throwing out burning rocks, with a noiſe that ſhakes the whole iſland. Add to this, the unbounded extent of the proſpect, comprehending the greateſt diverſity and the moſt beautiful ſcenery in nature; with the riſing ſun, advancing in the eaſt, to illuminate the wondrous ſcene.

The whole atmoſphere, by degrees, kindled up, a •• ſhewed dimly and faintly the boundleſs proſpect around▪ Both ſea and land looked dark and confuſed, as if o •• emerging from their original chaos; and light and darkneſs ſeemed ſtill undivided, till the morning by degrees advancing, completed the ſeparation. The ſtars are •• tinguiſhed and the ſhades diſappear. The foreſts, whi •• but now ſeemed black and bottomleſs gulfs, from which no ray was reflected, to ſhew their form or colours, appear a new creation riſing to the ſight, catching life a •• beauty from every increaſing beam. The ſcene ſtill enlarges, and the horizon ſeems to widen and expand itſelf on all ſides; till the ſun, like the great Creator, appears in the eaſt, and with his plaſtic ray completes the mighty ſcene. All appears enchantment; and it is with difficulty we can believe we are ſtill on earth. The ſenſes, unaccuſtomed to the ſublimity of ſuch a ſcene, are bewildered and confounded; and it is not till after ſome time, that they are capable of ſeparating and judging of the objects that compoſe it. The body of the ſun is ſ • , riſing from the ocean, immenſe tracts both of ſea and land intervening; the iſlands of Lipari, Panari, Alicudi, Strombolo, and Volcano, with their ſmoaking ſummit • , appear under your feet; and you look down on the whole of Sicily as on a map; and can trace every river through all its windings, from its ſource to its mouth. The view is abſolutely boundleſs on every ſide; nor is there any one object, within the circle of viſion, to interrupt it; ſo that the ſight is every where loſt in immenſity: and I am perſuaded it is only from the imperfection of our organs, that the coaſts of Africa, and even of Greece, 〈◊〉 not diſcovered, as they are certainly above the horizon. But the moſt beautiful part of the ſcene is certainly the mountain itſelf; the iſland of Sicily, and the numerous iſlands lying around it. All theſe, by a kind of magic in viſion, that I am at a loſs to account for, ſeem as if they were brought cloſe around the ſkirts of Etna; the diſtances appearing reduced to nothing. Perhaps this ſingular effect is produced by the rays of light paſſing from a denſer medium into a ra • er; which (from a well-known law in optics) to an obſerver in the rare medium, appears to lift up the objects that are at the bottom of the denſe one, as a piece of money placed in a baſon appears lifted up as ſoon as the baſon is filled with water.

It has been obſerved, and from experience I can ſay with truth, that on the tops of the higheſt mountains, where the air is ſo pure and refined, and where there is not that immenſe weight of groſs vapours preſſing upon the body, the mind acts with greater freedom, and all the functions of both ſoul and body are performed in a ſuperior manner. It would appear that in proportion as we are raiſed above the habitations of men, all low and • ulgar ſentiments are left behind; and that the ſoul, in approaching the etherial regions, ſhakes off its earthly affections, and already acquires ſomething of their celeſtial purity. Here, where you ſtand under a ſerene ſky, and behold, with equal ſerenity, the tempeſt and ſtorm forming below your feet, the lightning darting from cloud to cloud, and the thunder rolling around the mountain, and threatening with deſtruction the poor wretches below; the mind conſiders the little ſtorms of the human paſſions as equally below her notice.

IT was quite duſk when I got aſhore, and the evening being delightfully ſerene, I was glad, after ſo long a confinement, to ſtretch my legs, and determined to walk home to my lodgings, at the weſt end of the town.

Having occaſion to recur to my ſnuff-box, I found that its contents were exhauſted, by being liberally offered to ſome of my companions in the hoy; ſo it occurred to me to call at my old ſnuff ſhop in Covent Garden, and get it repleniſhed; conceiving I might at the ſame time pick up a little intelligence of what was ſtirring in town.

The ſhop was lighted up as uſual, and two candles ſtanding on the counter; but the door being bolted, I knocked twice before I gained admiſſion; when the maſter, coming from above ſtairs, complimented me 〈◊〉 my return home, and on the good looks I had brought back with me.

I thanked him for his civility; and my noſe having become very impatient, I whipped my ſnuff-box from my pocket, and borrowed a haſty pinch from the jar • e had taken down.

I thought, as he was filling my box, that his featu •• had more than their uſual glow of good-nature; and, • the ſame time hearing a female voice above ſtairs, acc •• panied by a guitar—I fear, ſaid I, that I have called y •• down from ſome convivial meeting: I hate to fu • any one's pleaſure, even for a moment; ſo there is • money, and now run up again to your friends.

You by no means ſuſpend my pleaſure, replied • tobacconiſt; nay you will increaſe it, by allowing me • o tell you what has occaſioned it. It is, in truth, a 〈◊〉 that might intereſt your feelings.

Two young men, who have, for a great length of t • , lived with me under this roof, have endured the ſevere mortification of ſeeing a worthy father, whoſe ta • and ingenuity might have entitled him to a better 〈◊〉 , by a ſeries of misfortunes, thrown into confinement; 〈◊〉 by the rigour of an unrelenting creditor, detained there for the greater part of twenty years! Though t • ſituation in life denied them the power of reſcuing him from his adverſity, yet they have comforted him conſtantly by their daily viſits, and ſupported both him and his ſecond wife by the labour of their hands; ever pouring into his boſom the balm of filial affection. An act of grace hath at laſt ſet the diſtreſſed parent at liberty; and they have, this evening, been to fetch him home from the forlorn ſcene of captivity, which hath worn down his grey hairs! We have made a little ſupper on the occaſion, and had not long finiſhed it, when you knocked at the door. One of his daughters, whoſe voice you now hear, is come to welcome his return; and, as all the family have a muſical turn, ſhe has taken up a guitar to accompany herſelf. Nothing can, at this moment, exceed the tranſport of the father, after experiencing for ſo many years the ſeverity of ill-fortune, to find himſelf at laſt, houſed in ſecurity under his children's roof.

You paint the ſtory, returned I as one who ſtrongly participates in the general joy. You might well call it a ſcene to intereſt the feelings: on my ſoul, it hath played the dence with mine, inſomuch that I would almoſt give one eye to peep through a key-hole with the other, and obtain a glimpſe of theſe happy people, without intruding on their delicious moments.

Why that, Sir, continued the landlord, I could gratify you in, as there can be no breach either of hoſpitality or honour, in exhibiting the merits of one's friends, when their actions may not only bear the view, but claim the applauſe of the world. The little room where they are, has a glaſs folding-door, with a curtain drawn only acroſs the lower half of it; if you will give yourſelf the trouble to ſtep up with me on the ſecond ſtairs, you may, unperceived, look over it and indulge your curioſity.

—I would not have miſſed the ſight, for all I ſhall ever be worth on this ſide the grave! It ſhewed me ſo lovely a Family Picture, as bid defiance to all the efforts of art. Even the pencil of a Raphael, a Titian, or a fluido, would have failed in the attempt; for it was drawn and coloured by a greater hand!—by thy inim • ble hand, O Nature! who ſhalt ever, to the laſt page I write, remain the object of my adoration!

I wiſhed a thouſand times, my dear Jenny, that thy benevolent heart could have enjoyed it with me; but I will give you ſome idea how the canvaſs was diſpoſed, and your ſenſibility will paint the reſt.

Imagine the whole family grouped round the table on which they had ſupped: in full view before me conceive the portrait of the father, whoſe features wore the traces of age and infirmity, poſſibly ſomewhat ſtrengthened by the ſorrows of life, but whoſe countenance was, at the ſame time, brightened by ſo placid an eye, as indicated a mind ſuperior to them all! On either ſide of him ſat his good ſons; and next to them, his wife, the faithful partner of his afflictions. Oppoſite to her, appeared the vacant chair from whence I had ſo abruptly ſummoned my conductor, who now ſtood by me; while the daughter, whoſe voice I had heard from below, and the friendly miſtreſs of the houſe, who had prepared them this little entertainment, filled up the remainder of this happy circle.

The daughter was ſtill ſinging to her guitar; they were ſoothing, plaintive notes; but my mind was 〈◊〉 occupied to attend to ſounds: it was watching the characters which compoſed this ſingular picture, and marking attentively the expreſſions of cordiality and love, which during the ſong, were ſhot from eye to eye. Often did the good old man caſt looks of tranſport on each of b • family, one after the other; then fix his attention on h •• child, whoſe voice was welcoming his return; while at intervals, his hands and eyes were uplifted in ſilent gratitude, to that Providence, who had, after trials ſo ſev • at laſt brought him home in peace.

As ſoon as the ſong was ended, he beckoned his daughter to approach him; when, taking her by the arm, he gently pulled her down to his cheek, and hi • his face in her neck. The miſtreſs of the houſe 〈◊〉 puſhed nearer to him a glaſs of wine, which had 〈◊〉 poured •• t, and had long ſtood before him unregarded, on the table; he placidly drank it off; and ſurveyi •• all around him, with a look of meaſureleſs contentment, ſtretched out his hands to his two ſons, who were beſide him, which were inſtantly preſſed in theirs with the utmoſt fervour; while, in their features, were pictured all thoſe delicate emotions of the heart, which nature 〈◊〉 alone entruſted to the human countenance to expr • ſ •• and which the efforts of language are far too feeble to convey.

Believe me, my dear Jenny, there was not a dry 〈◊〉 in all the room; nay, and I might add, on the ſtains neither, for I more than once obſerved my honeſt toba • coniſt paſs his hand before his face. There are tears of pleaſure as well as tears of diſtreſs! the latter are excited by our own ſufferings, the former are the involuntary tribute which ſenſibility pays to virtue!

I lament, ſaid I, turning round to my companion, that this picture you have ſhewn me, which glows with ſo many lovely tints that affection hath ſpread over it, ſhould be concealed in your little apartment; it ought to be exhibited to the public; the view of it might ſerve to confirm the good, and ſhame the unfeeling!—Nor could I quit the ſcene I had been contemplating, without breathing this benediction over it:—

Heaven proſper you, children of virtue! nay, and it will proſper you, for you have given the world a noble example of filial piety! and, if loſt in its diſſipations, it ſhould overlook the unurged claims you have on it, yet have you treaſured up, in your own boſoms, thoſe enviable feelings of conſcious rectitude, which it never can take from you; and which, without hearts like your's, it hath not in its power to beſtow.

I pity, from my ſoul, the gloomy temperament of the ſatyriſt • whoſe delight is to view only the unfavourable ſide of • e. The imperfections of humanity may never leave his ſpleen deſtitute of a ſubject; yet I am inclined to believe, for the honour of Providence and Nature, that there ever has been a proportionate degree of benevolence in the world. Thoſe virtues that moſt adorn and endear ſociety, a • e confined to a limited circle. Could we ſteal in on the privacies of domeſtic life, I am confident we ſhould ſee many more actions and characters to admire and reſpect, than we are in general inclined to ſuppoſe.

When I arrived at my lodgings, I had nothing to do, but to ſwallow a mouthful of refreſhment, inquire of my truſty valet the trivial occurrences of the road, and retire to my chamber.

I do not recollect, in all my life, to have ever paſſed a more delicious night; for I ſlept till late the next morning, without the ſmalleſt interruption, and aroſe in the fineſt ſpirits imaginable: nor will I ever be perſuaded, to this moment, that it was half ſo much occaſioned by the exerciſe and fatigue of the preceding day, as it was by my having gone to bed, in perfect good humour with the world.

MR. George Campbell was the youngeſt ſon of a wealthy baronet, who having ſeveral livings in his gift, beſides good intereſt at court, brought him up to the church, with the ſanguine expectation of one day ſeeing him a biſhop.

Unfortunately for George, before he had attained his twenty-third year, he became attached to a young lady, who had every requiſite to render the married ſtate happy, but money; and money being the old gentleman's darling idol, he conſequently thought ſhe poſſeſſed no requiſite worthy the wife of his ſon: but George was too far engaged to retreat with honour; he therefore told his father, he was reſolved upon the union, and in a few days preſented his beloved Louiſa to entreat his bleſſing,

When Sir James found they were really married, he thought it was in vain to fly in a paſſion; he received them cordially, and gave them an univerſal invitation to his houſe, but in his heart he never forgave them. The livings were diſpoſed of to other people, and at his death he left the whole of his eſtate to his eldeſt ſon.

Mr. Campbell had only a curacy of about eighty pounds a year, and as regular as the year came round, his wife preſented him with a child. Poverty took up her habitation among them, and he bitterly regretted having, by an act of diſobedience, not only brought on himſelf his father's diſpleaſure, but involved an amiable woman, whom he loved, in a ſcene of penury and diſtreſs. Theſe reflections ſoured his diſpoſition; he became peeviſh and moroſe; nay ſometimes went ſo far, as to reproach his wife as the cauſe of his abject ſituation.

Mrs. Campbell took great care to inſtil into the minds of her children, the reſpect and affection due from them to their father. "My dear children," ſhe would often ſay, "be aſſured a breach of filial duty is ever attended with regret, and in general with misfortune."

Louiſa was the eldeſt of five children; ſhe was mild, meek, and affectionate. She attentively liſtened to the precepts of her mother, and laid them up in her heart, as an ineſtimable treaſure. Mr. Campbell's temper grew ſo extremely bad, that not only his wife, but his children came in for a ſhare of his ill humour. Louiſa, in particular, was ſure to be wrong, in whatever ſhe ſaid or did, and it was ſeldom ſhe was favoured with a kind or affectionate word; yet her manners were ſo amiable and her form ſo lovely, that though ſhe laboured under the diſadvantages of a narrow education and extreme poverty, her company was courted by ſome of the genteeleſt families in the village; but in compliance with her father's ill humour, ſhe was ſeldom allowed to ſtir from home.

When Louiſa had reached her ſeventeenth year, 〈◊〉 Mary Campbell, a diſtant relation of her father's, ca •• on a viſit to a family who reſided in the ſame village▪ Louiſa's good qualities were reſounded to Lady Mary from every mouth, and all unanimouſly agreed it was a pity ſo lovely a girl ſhould be buried in obſcurity, 〈◊〉 loſt for want of a proper education.

Lady Mary was naturally of a humane diſpoſition; 〈◊〉 expreſſed a deſire to ſee Miſs Campbell; and when introduced to her, finding her even ſuperior to what ſhe had been taught to expect, made her an offer of going wh •• her to London.

This was a propoſal too much to Louiſa's advantage to be refuſed; the invitation was accepted, and the 〈◊〉 prolonged for three years, during which time Louiſa 〈◊〉 an opportunity of improving herſelf in the ornamental a • well as uſeful branches of education.

Mrs. Campbell, who had for many years laboured under an evident decline, was now ſummoned home by the Power, who had been pleaſed, in this life, to try 〈◊〉 with long and heavy afflictions. Lady Mary carried Louiſa to receive the dying bleſſing, and pay the l ••• duties to her amiable mother. That finiſhed, ſhe propoſed her return to London. The lovely girl, penetrated, with gratitude for the many favours ſhe had received, and tenderly attached to her genero ••• benefact ••• , with difficulty reſtrained her tears, whil • •• e thus addreſſed her:—

"Think me not ungrateful, dear Madam, if I beg •• remain with my father: my brothers and ſiſters are engaged in learning occupations, which will enable them •• paſs through life with induſtry and without reproach.

"I cannot leave my father in this ſolitude, after ſo recent an affliction: he has for many years been uſed to the unremitting attention and tenderneſs of my excellent mother; I muſt not ſuffer him too ſeverely to feel her loſs, but endeavour, as far as is in my power, by affection and aſſiduity, to ſupply her place."

"And can you, dear Louiſa," ſaid her ladyſhip, "ſ • eaſily forego the eaſe and plenty you have enjoyed with me, to live a life of penury and labour, and that for a man, who, though he is your father, I muſt ſay does not deſerve ſuch attention: Did he not always treat you with unmerited-harſhneſs?"

"Hold, my dear Madam," ſaid Louiſa, "if, as you think, my father has not behaved to me with the kindneſs of a parent, it by no means releaſes me from my duty to him; had he a thouſand errors, he is ſtill my father; i • ſuch, I am called upon by nature and religion to do every thing in my power to render his life comfortable: if my endeavours to pleaſe can awaken his affection, I ſhall think myſelf amply repaid; if not, the conſciouſneſs of having performed my duty, will give me a ſatisfaction which no future event can ever rob me of."

It was in vain Lady Mary urged her to return: the lovely, elegant, accompliſhed Louiſa, preferred a low roofed manſion, ſcanty meals, and attendance on a ſick peeviſh father, to the lofty apartments, plenteous table, and variety of amuſements ſhe might have enjoyed with Lady Mary. She attended him to the laſt, and by her tender ſolicitude and affection ſmoothed the down-hill of his life, and cheered and comforted him in the moſt painful illneſs by her unaffected piety. He was moved by her filial duty; all the father ruſhed upon his ſoul; he bleſſed her with his parting breath, and expired in her a • ms!

You may, perhaps, inquire, what benefit Louiſa reaped from this rigid performance of her duty? The queſtion is eaſily anſwered. She gained a contented happy mind, ſerenity dwelt in her heart, and cheerfulneſs beame • from her eyes.

She had a genteel competency left her at Lady Mary's death; married a deſerving man, and ſhone as conſpicuouſly in the characters of a wife and mother, as ſhe had done as a daughter: ſhe lived beloved by all, and died univerſally regretted.

CHARLOTTE and Maria were educated together at an eminent boarding-ſchool near London; there was little difference in their age, and their perſonal accompliſhments were equal: but though their families were of the ſame rank, yet, as Charlotte was an only child, ſhe was conſiderably ſuperior in fortune.

Soon after they were taken home, Charlotte was addreſſed by Captain Freeman, who, beſides his commiſſion in the guards, had a ſmall paternal eſtate: but as her friends hoped for a more advantageous match, the Captain was deſired to forbear his viſits, and the lady to think of him no more. After ſome fruitleſs ſtruggles, they acquieſced; but the diſcontent of both was ſo apparent, that it was thought expedient to remove Miſs into the country. She was ſent to her aunt, the Lady Meadows, who, with her daughter, lived retired at the family ſeat, more than one hundred miles diſtant from the metropolis. After ſhe had repined in this dreary ſolitude from April to Auguſt, ſhe was ſurpriſed with a viſit from her father, who brought with him Sir James Forreſt, a young gentleman who had juſt ſucceeded to a baronet's title, and a very large eſtate in the ſame county. Sir James had good nature and good ſenſe, an agreeable perſon and an eaſy addreſs. Miſs was inſenſibly pleaſed with his company; her vanity, if not her love, had a new object; a deſire to be delivered from a ſtate of dependence and obſcurity, had almoſt abſorbed all the reſt; and it is no wonder that this deſire was gratified, when ſcarce any other was felt; or that in compliance with the united ſolicitations of her friends, and her lover, ſhe ſuffered herſelf within a few weeks to become a lady and a wife. They continued in the country till the beginning of October, and then came up to London, having prevailed upon her aunt to accompany them, that Miſs Meadows, with whom the bride had contracted an intimate friendſhip, might be gratified with the diverſions of the town during the winter.

Captain Freeman, when he heard that Miſs Charlotte was married, immediately made propoſals of marriage to Maria, with whom he became acquainted during his viſits to her friend, and ſoon after married her.

The friendſhip of the two young ladies ſeemed to be rather increaſed than diminiſhed by their marriage; they were always of the ſame party, both in the private and public diverſions of the ſeaſon, and viſited each other without the formalities of meſſages and dreſs.

But neither Sir James nor Mrs. Freeman could reflect without uneaſineſs upon the frequent interviews which this familiarity and confidence produced between a lover and his miſtreſs, whom force only had divided; and though of theſe interviews they were themſelves witneſſes, yet Sir James inſenſibly became jealous of his lady, and Mrs. Freeman of her huſband.

It happened, in the May following, that Sir James went about ten miles out of town, to be preſent at the election of a member of parliament for the county, and was not expected to return till the next day. In the evening, his lady took a chair and viſited Mrs. Freeman: the reſt of the company went away early; the Captain was upon guard; Sir James was out of town, and the two ladies after ſupper ſat down to piquet, and continued the game without once reflecting upon the hour till three in the morning. Lady Forreſt would then have gone home; but Mrs. Freeman, perhaps chiefly to conceal a contrary deſire, importuned her to ſtay till the Captain came in, and at length with ſome reluctance ſhe conſented.

About five, the Captain came home, and Lady Forreſt immediately ſent out for a chair: a chair, as it happened, could not be procured; but a hackney-coach being brought in its ſtead, the Captain inſiſted upon waiting on her ladyſhip home. This ſhe refuſed with ſome emotion; it is probable that ſhe ſtill regarded the Captain with leſs indifference than ſhe wiſhed, and was therefore more ſenſible of the impropriety of his offer: but her reaſons for rejecting it, however forcible, being ſuch as ſhe could not allege, he perſiſted, and her reſolution was overborne. By this importunate complaiſance he had not only thrown Lady Forreſt into confuſion, but diſpleaſed his wife: ſhe could not, however, without unpoliteneſs, oppoſe it; and, leſt her uneaſineſs ſhould be diſcovered, ſhe affected a negligence which in ſome degree revenged it: ſhe deſired that when he came back he would not diſturb her, for that ſhe ſhould go directly to bed; and added, with a kind of drowſy inſenſibility, "I am more than half aſleep already."

Lady Forreſt and the Captain were to go from the Haymarket to Groſvenor Square. It was about half an hour after five when they got into the coach; the morning was remarkably fine, the la • e conteſt had ſhaken off all diſpoſition to ſleep, and Lady Forreſt could not help ſaying, that ſhe had much rather take a walk in the Park than go home to bed. The Captain zealouſly expreſſed the ſame ſentiment, and propoſed that the coach ſhould ſ • t them down at St. James's Gate. The lady, however, had nearly the ſame objections againſt being ſeen in the Mall without any other company than the Captain, that ſhe had againſt its being known that they were alone together in a hackney-coach: ſhe, therefore, to extricate herſelf from this ſecond difficulty, propoſed that they ſhould call at her father's in Bondſtreet, and take her couſin Meadows, whom ſhe knew to be an early rifer, with them. This project was immediately put in execution; but Lady Forreſt found her couſin indiſpoſed with a cold. When ſhe had communicated the deſign of this early viſit, Miſs Meadows entreated her to give up her walk in the Park, to ſtay till the family roſe, and go home after breakfaſt. "No," replied Lady Forreſt, "I am determined upon a walk; but as I muſt firſt get rid of Captain Freeman, I will ſend down word that I will take your advice." A ſervant was accordingly diſpatched to acquaint the Captain, who was waiting below, that Miſs Meadows was indiſpoſed, and had engaged Lady Forreſt to breakfaſt.

The Captain diſcharged the coach; but being piqued a • the behaviour of his wife, and feeling that flow of ſpirits which uſually returns with the morning, even to thoſe who have not ſlept in the night, he had no deſire to go home, and therefore reſolved to enjoy the fine morning in the Park alone.

Lady Forreſt, not doubting but that the Captain would immediately return home, congratulated herſelf upon her deliverance; but, at the ſame time, to indulge her deſire of a walk, followed him into the Park.

The Captain had reached the top of the Mall, and turning back met her, before ſhe had advanced two hundred paces beyond the Palace. The moment ſhe perceived him, the remembrance of her meſſage, the motives that produced it, the detection of its falſehood, and diſcovery of its deſign, her diſappointment and conſciouſneſs of that very ſituation which ſhe had ſo much reaſon to avoid, all concurred to cover her with confuſion, which it was impoſſible to hide: pride and good-breeding were, however, ſtill predominant over truth and prudence; ſhe was ſtill zealous to remove from the Captain's mind any ſuſpicion of a deſign to ſhun him, and therefore with an effort perhaps equal to that of a hero, who ſmiles upon the rack, ſhe affected an air of gaiety, ſaid ſhe was glad to ſee him, and as an excuſe for her meſſage and her conduct, prattled ſomething about the ſickleneſs of woman's mind, and concluded with obſerving, that ſhe changed her's too often ever to be mad. By this conduct a retreat was rendered impoſſible, and they walked together till between eight and nine: but the clouds having inſenſibly gathered, and a ſudden ſhower falling juſt as they had reached Spring-Gardens, they went out inſtead of going back; and the Captain having put the lady into a chair, took his leave.

It happened that Sir James, contrary to his firſt purpoſe, had returned from his journey at night. He learnt from the ſervants, that his lady was gone to Captain Freeman's, and was ſecretly diſpleaſed that ſhe had made this viſit when he was abſent; an incident, which, however trifling in itſelf, was, by the magic of jealouſy, ſwelled into importance: yet, upon recollection he reproved himſelf for this diſpleaſure, ſince the preſence of the Captain's lady would ſufficiently ſecure the honour of • e own. While he was ſtruggling with theſe ſuſpicions, they increaſed both in number and ſtrength in proportion as the night wore away. At one, he went to bed; but he paſſed the night in agonies of terror and reſentment, doubting whether the abſence of his lady was the effect of accident or deſign, liſtening to every noiſe, and bewildering himſelf in a multitude of extravagant ſuppoſitions. He roſe again at break of day; and after ſeveral hours of ſuſpenſe and irreſolution, whether to wait the iſſue, or go out for intelligence, the reſtleſſneſs of curioſity prevailed, and about eight he ſet out for Captain Freeman's; but left word with his ſervants, that he was gone to a neighbouring coffee-houſe.

Mrs. Freeman, whoſe affected indifference and diſſimulation of a deſign to go immediately to bed, contributed to prevent the Captain's return, had during his abſence ſuffered inexpreſſible diſquiet: ſhe had, indeed, neither intention to go to bed, nor inclination to ſleep; ſhe walked backward and forward in her chamber, diſtracted with jealouſy and ſuſpenſe, till ſhe was informed that Sir James was below, and deſired to ſee her. When ſhe came down, he diſcovered that ſhe had been in tears: his fear was now more alarmed than his jealouſy, and he concluded that ſome fatal accident had befallen his wife; but he ſoon learnt that ſhe and the Captain had gone from thence at five in the morning, and that he was not yet returned, Mrs. Freeman, by Sir James's inquiry, knew that his lady had not been at home: her ſuſpicions were, therefore, confirmed; and in her jealouſy, which to prevent a duel ſhe laboured to conceal, Sir James found new cauſe for his own. He determined, however, to wait with as much decency as poſſible, till the Captain came in; and perhaps two perſons were never more embarraſſed by the preſence of each other. While breakfaſt was getting ready, Dr. Tattle came to pay Mrs. Freeman a morning viſit; and, to the unſpeakable grief both of the lady and her gueſt, was immediately admitted. Dr. Tattle is one of thoſe male goſſips who, in the common opinion, are the moſt diverting company in the world. The Doctor ſaw that Mrs. Freeman was low ſpirited, and made ſeveral efforts to divert her, but without ſucceſs: at length he declared, with an air of ironical importance, that he could tell her ſuch news as would make her look grave for ſomething: "The Captain," ſays he, "has juſt huddled a lady into a chair, at the door of a bagnio, near Spring-Gardens." He ſoon perceived that this ſpeech was received with emotions very different from thoſe he intended to produce; and therefore added, "that ſhe need not however be jealous; for notwithſtanding the manner in which he had related the incident, the lady was certainly a woman of character, as he inſtantly diſcovered by her mein and appearance." This particular confirmed the ſuſpicion it was intended to remove; and the Doctor, finding that he was not as good company as uſual, took his leave, but was met at the door by the Captain, who brought him back. His preſence, however inſignificant, impoſed ſome reſtraint upon the reſt of the company; and Sir James, with as good an appearance of jocularity as he could aſſume, aſked the Captain "What he had done with his wife." The Captain, with ſome irreſolution, replied, that "he had left her early in the morning at her father's; and that having made a point of waiting on her home, ſhe ſent down word that her couſin Meadows was indiſpoſed, and had engaged her to breakfaſt." The Captain who knew nothing of the anecdote, that had been communicated by the Doctor, judged by appearances that it was prudent thus indirectly to lie, by concealing the truth both from Sir James and his wife: he ſuppoſed, indeed, that Sir James would immediately inquire after his wife at her father's, and learn that ſhe did not ſtay there to breakfaſt; but as it would not follow that they had been together, he left her to account for her abſence as ſhe thought fit, taking for granted that what he had concealed ſhe would alſo conceal, for the ſame reaſons; or, if ſhe did not, as he had affirmed nothing contrary to truth, he might pretend to have concealed it in jeſt. Sir James, as ſoon as he had received this intelligence, took his leave with ſome appearance of ſatisfaction, and was followed by the Doctor.

As ſoon as Mrs. Freeman and the Captain were alone, ſhe queſtioned him, with great earneſtneſs, about the • dy, whom he had been ſeen to put into a chair. When he heard that this incident had been related in the preſence of Sir James, he was greatly alarmed leſt Lady Forreſt ſhould increaſe his ſuſpicions, by attempting to conceal that, which, by a ſeries of inquiry to which he was now ſtimulated, he would probably diſcover: he condemned this conduct in himſelf, and, as the moſt effect •• means at once to quiet the mind of his wife and obtain her aſſiſtance, he told her all that had happened, and his apprehenſion of the conſequences: he alſo urged her to go directly to Miſs Meadows, by whom his account would be confirmed, of whom ſhe might learn farther intelligence of Sir James; and to find ſome way to acquaint Lady Forreſt with her danger, and admoniſh her to conceal nothing.

Mrs. Freeman was convinced of the Captain's ſincerity, not only by the advice he urged her to give Lady Forreſt, but by the conſiſtency of the ſtory and the manner in which he was affected. Her jealouſy was changed into pity for her friend, and apprehenſion for her huſband. She haſted to Miſs Meadows, and learnt that Sir James had inquired of the ſervant for his lady, and was told that ſhe had been there early with Captain Freeman, but went away ſoon after him: ſhe related to Miſs Meadows all that had happened, and thinking it at leaſt poſſible that Sir James might not go directly home, ſhe wrote the following letter to his lady.

This letter was given to a chairman, and he was ordered to ſay he brought it from the milliner's; becauſe, if it ſhould he known to come from Mrs. Freeman, and ſhould fall by accident into Sir James's hands, his curioſity might prompt him to read it, and his jealouſy to queſtion the lady, without communicating the contents.

Sir James being convinced that his lady and the Captain had paſſed the morning at a bagnio, by the anſwer which he received at her father's, went directly home. His lady was juſt arrived before him, and had not recovered from the confuſion and dread, which ſeized her, when ſhe heard that Sir James came to town the night before, and at the ſame inſtant anticipated the conſequences of her own indiſcretion.

She was told he was then at the coffee-houſe, and in a few minutes was thrown into an univerſal tremor, upon hearing him knock at the door. He perceived her diſtreſs, not with compaſſion but rage, becauſe he believed it to proceed from the conſciouſneſs of guilt. He turned pale, and his lips quivered; but he ſo far reſtrained his paſſion, as to aſk her, without invective, "Where and how ſhe had paſſed the night." She replied, "at Captain Freeman's; that the Captain was upon guard; that ſhe ſat up with his lady till he came in, and that he then inſiſting to ſee her home, ſhe would ſuffer • he coach to go no further than her father's, where he left her early in the morning." She had not fortitude to relate the ſequel, but ſtopped with ſome appearance of irreſolution and terror. Sir James then aſked, "If ſhe came directly from her father's home?" This queſtion, and the manner in which it was aſked, increaſed her confuſion. To appear to have ſtopped ſhort in her narrative, ſhe thought would be an implication of guilt, as it would betray a deſire of concealment: but the paſt could not be recalled, and ſhe was impelled by equivocation to falſehood, from which, however, ſhe would have been kept back by fear, if Sir James had not deceived her into a belief that he had been no further than the neighbourhood. After theſe tumultuous reflections, which paſſed in a moment, ſhe ventured to affirm, that "ſhe ſtaid with Miſs Meadows till eight, and then came home:" but ſhe uttered this falſehood with ſuch marks of guilt and ſhame, which ſhe had, indeed, no otherwiſe than by this falſehood incurred or deſerved, that Sir James no more doubted her infidelity than her exiſtence. As her ſtory was the ſame with that of the Captain's, and as one had concealed the truth and the other denied it, he concluded that there was a confederacy between them; and, determining firſt to bring the Captain to account, he turned from her abruptly, and immediately left the houſe.

At the door he met the chairman, who had been diſpatched by Mrs. Freeman to his lady; and fiercely interrogating him what was his buſineſs, the man produced the letter, and ſaying, as he had been ordered, that he brought it from Mrs. Faſhion. Sir James ſnatched it from him, and, muttering ſome expreſſions of contempt and reſentment, thruſt it into his pocket.

It happened that Sir James did not find the Captain at home; he therefore left a billet, in which he requeſted to ſee him at a neighbouring tavern, and added, that he had put on his ſword.

In the mean time, his lady, dreading a diſcovery of the falſehood which ſhe had aſſerted, diſpatched a billet to Captain Freeman; in which ſhe conjured him as a man of honour, for particular reaſons not to own to Sir James, or any other perſon, that he had ſeen her after he had left her at her father's: ſhe alſo wrote to her couſin Meadows, entreating, that if ſhe was queſtioned by Sir James, he might be told that ſhe ſtaid with her till eight o'clock, an hour at which only herſelf and the ſervants were up.

The billet to Miſs Meadows came ſoon after the chairman had returned with an account of what had happened to the letter; and Mrs. Freeman was juſt gone in great haſte to relate the accident to the Captain, as it was of importance that he ſhould know it before his next interview with Sir James: but the Captain had been at home before her, and received both Sir James's billet and that of his lady. He went immediately to the tavern, and inquiring for Sir James Forreſt, was ſhewn into a back room, one pair of ſtairs. Sir James received his ſalutation without reply, and inſtantly bolted the door. His jealouſy was complicated with that indignation and contempt, which a ſenſe of injury from a perſon of inferior rank never fails to produce: he, therefore, demanded of the Captain, in a haughty tone, "whether he had not that morning been in company with his wife, after he had left her at her father's?" The Captain, who was incenſed at Sir James's manner, and deemed himſelf engaged in honour to keep the lady's ſecret, anſwered, that "after what he had ſaid in the morning, no man had a right to ſuppoſe he had ſeen the lady afterwards; that to inſinuate the contrary was obliquely to charge him with a falſehood; that he was bound to anſwer no ſuch queſtions, till they were properly explained; and that as a gentleman he was prepared to vindicate his honour." Sir James juſtly deemed this reply an equivocation and an inſult; and being no longer able to reſtrain his rage, he curſed the Captain as a liar and a ſcoundrel, and at the ſame time ſtriking him a violent blow with his fiſt, drew his ſword and put himſelf in a poſture of defence. Whatever deſign the Captain might have had to bring his friend to temper, and reconcile him to his wife, when he firſt entered the room, he was now equally enraged, and, indeed, had ſuffered equal indignity; he, therefore, drew at the ſame inſtant, and, after a few deſperate paſſes on both ſides, he received a wound in his breaſt, and, reeling backward a few paces, fell down.

The noiſe had brought many people to the door of the room, and it was forced open juſt as the Captain had received his wound: Sir James was ſecured, and a meſſenger was diſpatched for a ſurgeon. In the mean time, the Captain perceived himſelf to be dying: and wha •• ver might before have been his opinion of right and wrong▪ and honour and ſhame, he now thought all diſſimulat • criminal, and that his murderer had a right to that tru •• which he thought it meritorious to deny him when • e was his friend: he, therefore, earneſtly deſired to ſpeak a few words to him in private. This requeſt was im • diately granted; the perſons who had ruſhed in withdrew contenting themſelves to keep guard at the door; a • the Captain beckoning Sir James to kneel down by hi • ▪ then told him, that "however his lady might have b • ſurprized or betrayed by pride or fear into diſſimulation or falſehood, ſhe was innocent of the crime which he ſuppoſed her ſolicitous to conceal." He then briefly related all the events as they had happened; and at laſt, graſping his hand, urged him to eſcape from the window that he might be a friend to his widow and to his child, if its birth ſhould not be prevented by the death of its father. Sir James yielded to the force of this motive▪ and eſcaped as the Captain had directed. In his way to Dover, he read the letter which he had taken from the chairman, and by the next poſt incloſed it in the following to his lady: "MY DEAR CHARLOTTE,

"I AM the moſt wretched of all men! But I do not upbraid you as the cauſe. Would to God that I were not more guilty than you! We are the martyrs of diſſimulation. By diſſimulation dear Captain Freeman was induced to waſte thoſe hours with you, which he would otherwiſe have enjoyed with the poor unhappy diſſembler, his wife. Truſting in the ſucceſs of diſſimulation, you was tempted to venture into the Park, where you met him whom you wiſhed to ſhun. By detecting diſſimulation in the Captain, my ſuſpicions were increaſed; and by diſſimulation and falſehood you confirmed them. But your diſſimulation and falſehood were the effects of mine; your's were ineffectual, mine ſucceeded: for I left word that I was gone no further than the coffee-houſe, that you might not ſuſpect I had learned too much to be deceived. By the ſucceſs of a lie put into the mouth of a chairman, I was prevented from reading a letter, which at laſt would have undeceived me; and by perſiſting in diſſimulation, the Captain has made his friend a fugitive and his wife a widow. Thus does inſincerity terminate in miſery and confuſion, whether, in its immediate purpoſe, it ſucceeds or is diſappointed. O my dear Charlotte! if ever we meet again,—to meet again in peace is impoſſible—but if ever we meet again, let us reſolve to be ſincere: to be ſincere is to be wiſe, innocent, and ſafe. We venture to commit faults, which ſhame or fear would prevent, if we did not hope to conceal them by a lie. But in the labyrinth of falſehood, men meet thoſe evils, which they ſeek to avoid; and as in the ſtraight path of truth alone they can ſee before them, in the ſtraight path of truth alone they can purſue felicity with ſucceſs. Adieu! I am—dreadful!— I can ſubſcribe nothing, that does not reproach and torment me!—Adieu!"

Within a few weeks after the receipt of this letter, the unhappy lady heard that her huſband was caſt away in his paſſage to France.

IN one of the moſt beautiful vallies that lie upon the borders of the Eaſt, lived Zegdad, an inoffenſive ſhepherd. He had but one child, and having been early deprived of his wife, he laviſhed his whole ſtock of tenderneſs on Fatima.

Though fortune had not been laviſh of her gifts to the father of Fatima, yet he wanted not the neceſſaries or the comforts of life; his cottage was clean, and furniſhed with every thing uſeful; his fields ſupplied him with food, his flock with raiment.

Fatima was coarſe in her perſon, but ſhe was cheerful and good-natured; ſhe roſe each morn with the feathered ſongſters, and cheerfully performed the duties of her ſtation; her whole ſtudy was to pleaſe her father, and a ſmile from Zegdad was, at any time, ample •• ompenſe for the ſevereſt fatigue, and like a cordial ſerved to revive her drooping ſpirits. She would aſſiſt, 〈◊〉 aſked, in the moſt laborious employments, and when 〈◊〉 labour of the day was paſt, ſhe would lightly trip over the green turf, with her young companions, while her father played on the flagelet. The mind of Fati •• was calm as the delights of paradiſe.

One day her father ſent her to the Grand Vizier's▪ with fruit for his favourite; ſhe was conducted by an eunuch into the garden, where the beautiful Semira was repoſing on a bed of roſes, clad in all the pomp of eaſtern magnificence, while two ſlaves were fanning her 〈◊〉 reſt.

Fatima had never before ſeen aught but ſimplicity: ſhe was filled with wonder and aſtoniſhment at the ſurprizing beauty and grandeur of Semira; and as ſhe ga • ed, envy and diſcontent crept into her hitherto guileleſs heart.

She returned home with a mind totally altered from what it was. Her rural paſtimes no more delighted her; labour was now a trouble; ſhe had been a witneſs to the eaſe and indolence of Semira. I • at any time ſhe caught a glimpſe of her perſon in the ſtream, ſhe turned from it with diſguſt. Her days were joyleſs, and her nights ſpent in bewailing her unhappy lot.

One evening, deaf to the ſolicitations of her young companions, ſhe retired to a thick grove, and inattentive to the ſound of the flagelet, thus gave vent to her ſorrow:

"Oh, wretched Fatima! unhappy maid! Why was I born to ſo hard a fate? to eat the bread of labour, to ſleep upon a ruſhy couch, while Semira is ſurrounded with ſplendor, is ſerved by kneeling ſlaves, and ſleep • on a bed of down! Why has nature denied me thoſe raviſhing beauties, it has ſo bountifully laviſhed on her? her eyes are bright as the ſtars, her lips like half-blown roſes, her hand and arm like poliſhed ivory. Oh! why was not I lovely as Semira, and favourite to the Grand Vizier? In this low abject ſtate my being is intolerable; I will no longer endure it, but in yon limpid ſtream loſe the remembrance of myſelf and Semira."

At this moment the Fairy Urganda ſtood before her.

"Thy complaints are juſt, oh, Fatima! (ſaid ſhe) and if thou wilt relinquiſh thy home, and forſake thy father, thou ſhalt enjoy the utmoſt extent of thy wiſhes."

Fatima eagerly complied with the offered terms, and the Fairy immediately ſprinkled her with water, at the ſame time pronouncing ſome myſtic words, when ſhe was transformed into a virgin of tranſcendant beauty, and found herſelf in the garden of a palace belonging to the Grand Vizier.

The lovely Semira had the day before offended her lord, and was no longer a favourite. Fatima attracted the notice of the Vizier; he ordered her to be led into ſplendid apartments, clothed with coſtly robes, adorned with jewels, and appointed ſlaves to wait on her and comply with all her wiſhes; and Fatima ſupplied the place of the degraded Semira.

She now thought herſelf the happieſt among the happy; but the Vizier was paſſionate, capricious, jealous, and extremely cruel; and it was not long before the diſappointed Fatima diſcovered that to be favourite to the Grand Vizier was to live only in ſplendid ſlavery.

"But (ſaid ſhe often to herſelf) though the Grand Vizier's favourite is miſerable, how ſuperlatively happy muſt be the favourite Sultana of my lord the Emperor! Oh! could I but attain that envied ſtation, how ſoon ſhould the imperious Vizier ſuffer for his barbarity to me."

Again did the boſom of Fatima ſuffer all the miſeries of diſcontent; the vaulted roofs, ſpacious gardens, and rich preſents of the Vizier, no longer charmed her; ſhe ſighed for the enſigns of royalty, and her pillow was nightly bedewed with her tears.

One evening ſhe retired to an arbour, at the extremity of the garden, and throwing herſelf on the banks where ſhe had firſt ſeen Semira, thus poured forth her complaints:

"How wretched is the fate of Fatima! condemned to drag a hated being with a man, who ſtudies only his own gratification, and expects me to be the ſlave of his caprice and paſſion. Oh! could I but get from this deteſted place, I would fly to my lord the Emperor, and bow myſelf low in the duſt before him. My charms might captivate his royal heart, and I might reign Empreſs of the Eaſt."

As ſhe ſpoke theſe words, a ſudden light entered the arbour, and the Fairy Urganda again ſtood before her.

"Beautiful Fatima, (ſaid ſhe) forbear your complaints, the prophet permits you to enjoy your wiſh; then riſe and follow me."

The Fairy led her to the Emperor's palace, and placed her among a number of beautiful ſlaves, from among which the Emperor was next morning to chooſe a favourite. In the morning the Emperor paſſed through the apartment, and his choice fell on Fatima. She was clothed in the enſigns of royalty, led in ſtate to the moſque, and in a few hours heard herſelf proclaimed Empreſs of the Eaſt.

But Fatima had to the idea of royalty annexed the ideas of youth and beauty; how ſurpriſed was ſhe then to find the Emperor old, ugly, and deformed in his perſon, moroſe in his diſpoſition, and jealous in the extreme. She ſhrunk from his embraces with horror, and contracted ſo ſettled an averſion to him, that not all the ſplendor which awaited her could in the ſmalleſt degree compenſate for the many tedious hours ſhe was obliged to devote to him.

Among the ſlaves that attended on Fatima, was the artful Zynina, who had long, with envious eyes, beheld the love of the Emperor beſtowed on others, and only watched an opportunity to ingratiate herſelf in his favour, by rendering him ſome piece of ſervice. To this end ſhe cultivated the friendſhip of the new Queen, and by degrees drew from her the reaſon of her tears and dejection.

This intelligence was inſtantly conveyed to the Emperor, with the addition of Fatima's heart being dedicated to another. Oſmin, willing to be convinced of the truth of Zynina's declaration, deſired to be concealed in an apartment adjoining the Queen's, where he might eaſily overhear any thing that paſſed between her and the deceitful ſlave, who immediately returned to her miſtreſs, and artfully renewed the converſation.

Fatima, glad to unburthen her almoſt burſting heart, confeſſed her ſettled averſion to her lord, and that death itſelf would be preferable to her preſent ſituation. "Then death be thy portion!" cried the enraged Emperor, furiouſly ruſhing into the apartment, and lifting his glittering ſcimetar.

Fatima fell upon her knees, and, in an agony of terror exclaimed, "Oh that I was an humble cottager, and had never known the pangs that wait on greatneſs."

At that moment ſhe found herſelf clad in her former homely apparel, ſtanding at the door of her father's cottage, when the Fairy appeared and thus addreſſed her:

"Fatima, I have ſhewn you the vanity of human wiſhes; learn from hence to be content with the allotments of Providence. Whatever be your ſituation in life, ſubmit to it without repining; and know that our holy prophet, who ordereth all things in this terreſtrial world, knoweth what is beſt for mortals. Fulfil, therefore, the reſpective duties of thy ſtation, to the utmoſt of thy power: envy not the ſuperior lot of another, but humbly take the bleſſings within thy reach, enjoy them, and be happy."

"—O THOU, that rolleſt above, round as the ſhield of my fathers! whence are thy beams, O Sun! thy everlaſting light! Thou comeſt forth in thy awful beauty, and the ſtars hide themſelves in the ſky: the moon, cold and pale, ſinks in the weſtern wave, but thou thyſelf moveſt alone: who can be a companio • of thy courſe? The oaks of the mountain fall; the mo •• tains themſelves decay with years; the ocean ſhri •• s, and grows again; the moon herſelf • s loſt in heaven; but thou art forever the ſame, rejoicing in the brightneſs of thy courſe. When the world is dark with tempeſt; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies, thou looke • in thy beauty from the clouds, and laugheſt at the ſtorm. But to Oſſian thou lookeſt in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eaſtern clouds, or thou trembleſt at the gates of the well. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a ſeaſon, and thy years will have an end. Thou ſhalt ſleep in thy clouds, careleſs of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O Sun, in the ſtrength of thy youth! age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it ſhines through broken clouds. The blaſt of the north is on the plain, and the traveller ſhrinks in the midſt of his journey."

THE conſideration of death has been always made uſe of, by the moraliſt and the divine, as a powerful incentive to virtue and to piety. From the uncertainty of life, they have endeavoured to ſink the eſtimation of its pleaſures, and, if they could not ſtrip the ſeductions of vice of their preſent enjoyments, at leaſt to load them with the fear of their end.

But, though neither the ſituation of the world, nor the formation of our minds, allow the thoughts of futurity or death a conſtant or prevailing effect upon our lives, they may ſurely ſometimes, not unſeaſonably, preſs upon our imagination: even excluſive of their moral or religious uſe, there is a ſympathetic enjoyment, which often makes it not only better, but more delightful to go to the houſe of mourning, than to the houſe of feaſting.

Perhaps I felt it ſo, when, but a few days ſince, I attended the funeral of a young lady, who was torn, in the bloom of youth and beauty, from the arms of a father, who doated on her, of a family by whom ſhe was adored: I think I would not have exchanged my feelings, at that time, for all the mirth which gaiety could inſpire, or all the pleaſure which luxury could beſtow.

Maria was in her twentieth year. To the beauty of her form, and excellence of her natural diſpoſition, a parent equally indulgent and attentive had done the fa •• eſt juſtice. To accompliſh her perſon, and to cultivate her mind, every endeavour had been uſed; and they had been attended with that ſucceſs, which they commonly meet with, when not prevented by miſtaken fondneſs or untimely vanity. Few young ladies have attracted more admiration; none ever felt it leſs. With all the charms of beauty, and the poliſh of education, the plaineſt were not leſs affected, nor the moſt ignorant leſs aſſuming. She died when every tongue was eloquent of her virtues, and every hope was ripening to reward them.

It is by ſuch private domeſtic diſtreſſes, that the ſofter emotions of the heart are moſt ſtrongly excited. The fall of more important perſonages is commonly diſtant from our obſervation; but even where it happens under our immediate notice, there is a mixture of other feelings, by which our compaſſion is weakened. The eminently great, or extenſively uſeful, leave behind them a train of interrupted views, and diſappointed expectations, by which the diſtreſs is complicated, beyond the ſimplicity of pity. But the death of one who, like Maria, was to ſhed the influence of her virtues over the age of her father and the childhood of her ſiſters, preſents to us a little view of family affliction, which every eye can perceive, and every heart can feel. On ſcenes of public ſorrow and national regret, we gaze as upon thoſe gallery pictures, which ſtrike us with wonder and admiration; domeſtic calamity is like the miniature of a friend, which we wear in our boſoms, and keep for ſecret looks and ſolitary enjoyment.

The laſt time I ſaw Maria was in the midſt of a crowded aſſembly of the faſhionable and the gay, where ſhe fixed all eyes by the gracefulneſs of her motions, and the native dignity of her mien; yet ſo tempered was that ſuperiority, which they conferred, with gentleneſs and modeſty, that not a murmur was heard, either from the rivalſhip of beauty, or the envy of homelineſs. From that ſcene the tranſition was ſo violent to the hearſe and the pall, the grave and the ſod, that once or twice my imagination turned rebel to my ſenſes: I beheld the objects around me as the painting of a d • eam, and thought of Maria as ſtill living.

I was ſoon, however, recalled to the ſad reality. The figure of her father bending over the grave of his darling child; the ſilent ſuffering compoſure, in which his countenance was fixed; the tears of his attendants, whoſe grief was light and capable of tears; theſe gave me back the truth, and reminded me that I ſhould ſee her no more. There was a f • ow of ſorrow with which I ſuffered myſelf to be borne along, with a melancholy ſort of indulgence; but when her father dropped the cord, with which he had helped to lay his Maria in the earth, its found on the coffin chilled my heart, and horror for a moment took place of pity!

It was but for a moment. He looked eagerly into the grave; made one involuntary motion to ſtop the aſſiſtants, who were throwing the earth into it; then ſuddenly recollecting himſelf, claſped his hands together, threw up his eyes to Heaven; and then firſt I ſaw a few tears drop from them. I gave language to all this. It ſpoke a leſſon of faith, and piety, and reſignation. I went away ſorrowful, but my ſorrow was neither ungentle nor unmanly. I caſt on this world a glance rather of pity than of enmity; on the next, a look of humbleneſs and hope!

—SEPARATE from the reſt ſtood one, whoſe appearance had ſomething of ſuperior dignity. Her face, though pale and waſted, was leſs ſqualid than thoſe of the others, and ſhowed a dejection of that decent kind, which moves our pity, unmixed with horror: upon her, therefore, the eyes of all were immediately turned. The keeper, who accompanied them, obſerved it: "This," ſaid he, "is a young lady, who was born to ride in a coach and ſix. She was beloved, if the ſtory I have heard is true, by a young gentleman, her equal in birth, though by no means her match in fortune: but love, they ſay, is blind, and ſo ſhe fancied him as much as he did her. Her father, it ſeems, would not hear of the marriage, and threatened to turn her out of doors, if ever ſhe ſaw him again. Upon this, the young gentleman took a voyage to the Weſt-Indies, in hopes of bettering his fortune, and obtaining his miſtreſs; but he was ſcarce landed, when he was ſeized with one of the fevers, which are common in thoſe iſlands, and died in a few days, lamented by every one that knew him. This news ſoon reached his miſtreſs, who was at the ſame time preſſed by her father to marry a rich miſerly f •• low, who was old enough to be her grandfather. The death of her lover had no effect on her inhuman parent: he was only the more earneſt for the marriage with the man he had provided for her; and what between 〈◊〉 deſpair at the death of one, and her averſion to the other, the poor young lady was reduced to the condition you ſee her in. But God would not ſuffer ſuch cruelty: her father's affairs ſoon after went to wreck, and he died almoſt a beggar."

Though this ſtory was told in very plain language, it had particularly attracted Harley's notice; he had given it the tribute of ſome tears. The unfortunate young lady had till now ſeemed entranced in thought, with her eyes fixed on a little garnet ring ſhe wore on her finger: ſhe turned them now upon Harley. "My Billy is no more!" ſaid ſhe, "do you weep for my Billy? Bleſſings on your tears! I could weep too, but my brain is dry; and it burns, it burns, it burns!" She drew nearer to Harley. "Be comforted, young lady," ſaid he, "your Billy is in heaven." "Is he, indeed? and ſhall we meet again? and ſhall that frightful man (pointing to the keeper) not be there? Alas! I am grown naughty of late; I have almoſt forgotten to think of heaven: yet, I pray ſometimes; when I can, I pray; and ſometimes I ſing; when I am ſaddeſt, I ſing;—you ſhall hear me—huſh!

There was a plaintive wildneſs in the air, not to be withſtood; and, except the keeper's, there was not an vnmoiſtened eye around her.

"Do you weep again?" ſaid ſhe; "I would not have you weep; you are like my Billy: you are, believe me; juſt ſo he looked when he gave me this ring; poor Billy! it was the laſt time ever we met!—"

"'Twas when the ſeas were roaring—I love you for reſembling my Billy; but I ſhall never love any man like him." She ſtretched out her hand to Harley; he preſſed it between both his, and bathed it with tears. "Nay, that is Billy's ring; you cannot have it, indeed; but here is another, look here, which I plaited to-day of ſome gold thread from this bit of ſtuff; will you keep it for my ſake? I am a ſtrange girl; but my heart is harmleſs: my poor heart; it will burſt ſome day; feel how it beats!" She preſſed his hand to her boſom, then holding her head in the attitude of liſtening—"Hark! one, two, three! be quiet, thou little trembler; my Billy is cold! but I had forgotten the ring." She put it on his finger. "Farewel! I muſt leave you now." She would have withdrawn her hand; Harley held it to his lips. "I dare not ſtay longer; my head throbs ſadly: farewel!" She walked with a hurried ſtep to a little apartment at ſome diſtance. Harley ſtood fixed in aſtoniſhment and pity; his friend gave money to the keeper. Harley looked on his ring. He put a couple of guineas into the man's hand: "Be kind to that unfortunate." He burſt into tears, and left them.

THE ſweeteſt ſimplicity that can be conceived in compoſition, diſtinguiſhes, in general, the tender narratives of the Bible, from the love-tales of modern writers; nor does any author approach, in any degree, near them in this reſpect, except ſome parts in the works of the immortal Shakeſpear; and one would think, in ſome places where he treated of the tender attachment of the ſexes, that he had an eye to the unaffected beauties of the Scripture. The hiſtory of Rebekah and Rachel are both related in a language, and in a manner beyond deſcription, fine and natural: every ſyllable has its charm, and the whole is a feaſt for the fancy and the heart. Let us ſelect a few paſſages from each ſtory; and firſt from that of Rebekah.

"And it came to paſs, before he had done ſpeaking, that behold Rebekah came out with her pitcher upon her ſhoulder; and the damſel was very fair to look upon▪ and a virgin; and ſhe went down to the well and fille • her pitcher, and came up; and the ſervant of Abraham ran to meet her, and ſaid, Let me, I pray thee, drink a little water of thy pitcher."

Could any incident he poſſibly introduced with more ſimplicity? or could any be more favourable to begin the converſation? As if the ſervant, on ſeeing her approach, had ſaid to himſelf—Before I enter upon a more important ſubject, before I touch upon the point in which my maſter and his ſon are ſo tenderly intereſted, I will begin to try her diſpoſition by ſlighter circumſtances; and being a traveller and a ſtranger, I will examine her hoſpitality. Let me, I pray thee, fair damſel, refreſh myſelf amidſt the fatigue of a long journey, by a cool draught of the water which thou haſt juſt drawn from the well. What can be more courteous than her anſwer? "Drink, my lord!" There is an elegance in the brevity of this reply. An ordinary writer would have made her ſtand curteſying and complimenting for many an idle minute, with the pitcher in her hand, and at laſt made many excuſes that ſhe had no cup ready to preſent it more politely. Such is the abominable parade of literary refinement! But with equal frankneſs and prettineſs Rebekah only ſaid, "Drink, my lord." And then, inſtead of entering into prolix civilities, ſhe haſted, i. e. ſhe ſet down her pitcher as expeditiouſly as poſſible, and gave him drink: and when he had done, (but not till then) ſhe ſaid, "Now will I draw water for thy camels alſo, till they have done drinking."

The urbanity of a court could not have exceeded this; nor could any character more ſweetly explain itſelf. Having had ſufficient evidence of her kind temper and gentle heart, the ſervant now vent •• ed to inquire after her family—And whoſe fair daughter art thou, obliging damſel? tell me, I pray thee, for thy goodneſs has made me not a little ſolicitous about thee: is there room in thy father's houſe for us to lodge? Her anſwer to this does her freſh honour; for, perſiſting in her amiable humour, ſhe told him ſhe was the daughter of Bethuel, the ſon of Milcah, and that ſhe had both ſtraw and provender enough, and room to lodge in. And the damſel ran ſhow the ſpirit of the character is preſerved!) to tell thoſe of her mother's houſe the requeſt of the traveller, ſpeaking no doubt, as favourably of him as ſhe could. Her intelligence ſoon brought forth her brother, who had been informed by his ſiſter that he was the ſervant of the celebrated Abraham: and the brother, whoſe name was Laban, invited him in, with the moſt friendly cordiality; and preſſed him much to eat ſuch delicacies as were moſt ſpeedily provided. But the ſervant, willing to take advantage of ſo fair an opportunity, and improve the moment of benevolence, declared his reſolution to refuſe food till he had told his errand. This meſſage is delivered with the utmoſt perſpicuity, honeſty, and exactneſs. After he had finiſhed, he requeſted an immediate anſwer. "And now," ſaid he, "I beſeech thee, deal kindly and truly with my maſter." Then the brothers of the damſel anſwer in a remarkable but very affectionate manner.—The thing proceedeth from the Lord, we cannot anſwer thee bad or good; i. e. it appears to be a pre-determined matter of the Deity: to refuſe thee, therefore, might ſeem preſumptuous; and yet as brothers, having no authority over the affections of the maid, whoſe happineſs is dear to us, how ſhall we ſpeak abſolutely in thy maſter's favour? Perhaps, however, Abraham could not poſſibly have diſpatched a more truſty meſſenger; for, having received this ambiguous reply, by which nothing was determined, he tries, in the next place, a ſtroke of policy worthy to • e recorded. As ſoon as he had bowed himſelf in • eful acknowledgment to Heaven, for ſo much good fortune, he very j • diciouſly turns his efforts towards obtaining the conſent of the virgin: and he firſt begins his attack upon 〈◊〉 vanity, from which, with all her courteſy, one cannot ſuppoſe her to have been totally exempt: he brought forth jewels of ſilver, and jewels of gold, and raiment, and gave them to Rebekah. The man diſcovered no ſmall knowledge of human nature (ever operating, in many caſes alike) in this conduct; and ſtill more, when deſirous to get all the family on his ſide, he gave precious things to the brothers and mother. Surely an amour by proxy was never better or more ſkilfully carried on, from the beginning to the end.

When he had made the preſents, he did not improperly preſs for a direct reward, nor indeed ſo much as mention the matter farther at that time; but leaving the damſel to meditate upon her ornaments, he ate and drank and paſſed the night ſocially, and ſuſpended the delicate ſubject. Here was a ſagacity diſplayed, to the deſpair of our dealers in romance, who prepoſterouſly jumble together inconſiſtences, and deviate eternally from prudence and nature. In the morning, however, he deſired his anſwer. Whatever were the ſentiments of the fair virgin, the brother and mother relented; and, deſiring her company a few days longer, they promiſed ſhe ſhould go. In this requeſt there is a ſurpriſing ſweetneſs: how the relation ſpeaks in it! At any rate, ſhe muſt abide with us a little while, at the leaſt ten days: we cannot part without ſome endearing preparations; it would break our hearts. I pray thee, therefore, allow thus much to our kindred feelings; and if thou findeſt the maid nothing reluctant, why, after that ſhe ſhall go back with thee, to thy maſter and his ſon. But, poſſibly, the ſervant did not wiſh to truſt the thing ſo many days undecided; and he might underſtand enough of human ſickleneſs to apprehend ſtrange changes of mind in the courſe of that time. However this be, he ſtrongly urged an inſtant reply. The whole matter was drawing to a criſis. They called the damſel, and put to her the deciſive queſtion; and the reſult was, her conſent to the ſuit: in conſequence of which, ſhe ſet off with the man, attended by a favourite ſervant, (her nurſe) for the houſe of Abraham. In the mean time, Iſaac was not indifferent to the event of the tranſaction; for he went out in the field at eventide, to meditate, as we are told; but, more probably, to meet his deſtined bride; and when he ſaw the camels were coming, he was, no doubt, much affected with the approaching interview.

There is great delicacy preſerved in the character of Rebekah, in the deſcription of this interview. As ſoon as ſhe ſaw her future lord, ſhe lighted off her camel; and when the ſervant informed her it was Iſaac, with a modeſty truly feminine, and beyond the mere force of cuſtom, ſhe covered herſelf with a veil. When the ſervant communicated to Iſaac the whole of the circumſtances, he was charmed with her conduct; and the laſt verſe of this intereſting hiſtory repreſents the lover tenderly leading her into the tent of his mother; ſoon after which, he courted her heart, and ſhe became his wife, and was beloved. What a noble poem, or rather, what a poetical fact, is here exhibited in a ſingle leaf! Tenderneſs, ſweetneſs, and the moſt delicate aſſemblage of images are judiciouſly blended, without the leaſt appearance of affectation, or the ſmalleſt want of advantageous language.

THERE never was any thing more happily conceived, or more ſweetly told than the book of Ruth. It ſeems chiefly deſigned to exhibit to us a lively and high-coloured picture of the force of female friendſhip on the one hand, and the weakneſs of reſolution, when oppoſed by cuſtom on the other. The general circumſtances of the ſtory being uncommonly fine, will ſpe •• beſt for themſelves, and afford proper comments in the progreſs of reciting them.

When the famine raged with much ſeverity in her native land, Naomi and her huſband Elimelech, and their two ſons, went to ſojourn in the country of Moab; but Elimelech died, and Naomi, the widow, was left with her children. Soon after this, thoſe children "took them wives of the women of Moab; the name of the one was Orpah, and the other Ruth." It came to paſs that the young men, their huſbands, died alſo, both of them; and now the poor widow was bereaved of her ſons and her huſband. Unable, therefore, to bear any longer a place in which every ſcene preſented ſome image of loſt endearment, or revived ſome diſtracting idea of conjugal or maternal tenderneſs, ſhe reſolved to ſeek ſolace from her ſorrow, by change of reſidence. So ſhe aroſe with her daughters-in-law, Orpah and Ruth, that ſhe might return from the country of Moab. It preſently occurred to the poor woman, as ſhe was journeying on her way, that if ſhe was unhappy, it was no teſtimony of her affection to involve her ſons' wives in equal calamities; and judging the reception ſhe would be likely to meet in the land of Judah, entering it deſolate, unfriended, and unadorned, ſhe pauſed a moment, and thus pathetically addreſſed the young widows: "Go, my children, each of you return to your mother's houſe; the Lord deal kindly with you, as you have dealt with the dead, and with me. The Lord grant that ye may find reſt, each of you, in the houſe of your dear deceaſed huſband." Having uttered this ſhort prayer for their happineſs, ſhe kiſſed them, and prepared to depart alone. How tr •• to nature was their reply! They did not pour forth unmeaning compliments of condolence: they did not interchange any idle civilities of ſorrow, for their anguiſh was too ſincere for ceremony; neither did they enter into the parade of promiſing future interviews; for they ſpoke not at all.

The extreme of grief has, at the firſt ſurpriſe, little to do with language: at the moſt, it burſts into ſhort exclamations, as if it would ſhew the impoſſibility of proceeding: for our alleviation, therefore, in theſe caſes, that Power, who to every wound hath provided ſomething •• erewith to heal it, gave the comfort of tears, ſo that the fullneſs of the ſad heart is, in part, diſcharged by that kindly effuſion which Providence has intended as a fountain to relieve the exceſſes of nature; either in the ſurplus of miſery or tranſport. "They lifted up their voice and wept."—A folio could not ſo well diſplay their condition. After ſome time paſſed in this ſignificant ſilence, they ſaid unto her, "Surely we will return with thee unto thy people." Here, again, genuine grief diſcovers itſelf: one tender ſentence, and one only, expreſſes their deſigns and wiſhes to attend her. In ſuch caſes, conciſeneſs is nature, and circumlocution mere art and affectation. Perceiving the deſign of the daughters, the widow-woman Naomi again began to diſſuade them, and to preſs their ſpeedy return. She painted the various diſaſters they would be liable to, in her company; told them ſhe had no more ſons to give them for huſbands; nor even a • ut, however uncheary and forlorn, to accommodate them with in her own country: and, furthermore, that ſhe had not wherewithal to repoſe her own head upon, if, after the fatigues of travel, ſhe ſhould haply arrive ſafe. And now ſhe once more preſſed the women in a farewel embrace, whilſt ſhe cloſed her argument with another bleſſing, more melting even than the firſt.—"Nay, my daughters, weep not, I entreat you. It grieveth me more for your ſakes than my own, that the hand of the Lord hath gone out againſt me." This was the touchſtone: ſhe had now fairly diſcovered all the horrors of her ſituation, and ſhewed herſelf a woman without accommodation; a traveller, without hope of reſt at the end of her journey; and a widow, without one to take her by the hand, and ſay unto her, Welcome unfortunate! welcome again to thine own country. The picture was too deeply ſhaded for Orpah. The dread of poverty, and all its ſable catalogue of terrors, ſtruck her at once: ſhe ſhed the tribute of a few more tears, ſacrificed a few more ſighs, and went her way. Not ſo the affectionate Ruth. How excellently marked, and that, by a ſingle word, is the conduct of each. "Orpah kiſſed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her." The ſentence, though thus compreſſed, is emphatically copious in p ••• of meaning: but, indeed, the multum in parvo, ſhould be one characteriſtic of the ſacred writings. "Orpah kiſſed her mother-in-law," i. e. ſhe gave her a farewel embrace, wept a woman's ſorrow, and left her mother 〈◊〉 wander over the world. "But Ruth clave unto her." i. e. clung around her neck, kiſſed her with ardour, as if ſhe deſigned to leave the ſeal of her very ſoul impreſſed on her lips forever. In vain did the noble minded Naomi exhibit to her the various miſeries which were at hand, and againſt which there was no comfortable proviſion. In vain did ſhe point to the example, the politic, the prudent example of Orpah, her ſiſter. In ſcorn of ſuch conduct, and to cloſe at once all future diſſuaſions, ſhe th •• declared, to the eternal honour of her ſex, the glowing reſolutions of her ſoul.—"Entreat me not to leave thee, for whither thou goeſt I will go, and where thou lodge • . I will lodge; thy people ſhall be my people, and thy God, my God: where thou dieſt will I die, and there will I be buried." The whole beauty and force of this paſſage is not ſeen at once: it is a very fine climax, and there i • amazing elegance in the gradations. The full ſenſe implied, ſeems to branch out in this manner. She begins with deſiring Naomi to urge the ſubject of ſeparation no longer, ſince ſhe has completely made up her mind upon it. This is the firſt and ſlighteſt part. In the next place, ſhe unfolds her firſt deſign to follow her fortunes in whatever part of the habitable globe ſhe thinks proper to purſue them: but not thinking this ſufficiently expreſſive of her affection, ſhe reſolves to take up her abode in the ſame houſe with her; to lodge under the ſame roof, however poor, and to ſhare the ſame bed, however inelegant. After this, ſhe reſolves to know no other people, than ſuch as are equally the common friends of both; to enter into no attachments, but thoſe which are united by the ſame tender ties to her dear Naomi; and to form no connexions whatever, that can, in the leaſt, derogate from the love ſhe bore her. But ſhe is not contented with having delivered theſe aſſurances, for ſhe goes on, that her very religion ſhall be the religion of her friend; that one faith and one hope ſhall animate their devotion, and the God of one ſhall be the God of the other. Even this does not ſatisfy her: for ſhe next determines not only to go with her the pilgrimage of life, but attend her beyond the gate of death; to die with her Naomi, ſhould it be Naomi's lot to fall firſt; and to be buried at laſt in the ſame grave: and this ſhe confirmed by an immediate oath of the utmoſt importance and ſanctity amongſt the daughters of Judah: "The Lord God do ſo to me, and more alſo, if aught but death part thee and me."

"When Naomi ſaw that ſhe was ſtedfaſtly minded to go, ſhe left off perſuading her; ſo they went until they came to Bethlehem; and when they arrived, it came to paſs, that all the city were moved about them, and they ſaid, Is this Naomi?" Here are freſh morals and freſh elegancies opened upon us: the diſconſolate Naomi had no ſooner ſet her foot upon her own land, than all thoſe little paſſions, which lie lurking in the boſoms of the illiberal and the inhoſpitable, were inſtantly awakened. Curioſity ſurveyed the tatters which ſhe had not the ſoul to repair. Ill-nature was, we may be ſure, officious enough to throw in her bitter ſarcaſm. Pride was ready with her inſulting offer of pity. Avarice lamented his incapacity to anſwer the good wiſhes of his heart; and in ſhort, every arrogant, every paltry propenſity was in arms againſt our defenceleſs travellers. But as Naomi originally lived in ſome degree of comfort and credit in her own country, and was now reduced; ſhe, of courſe, more particularly was the mark of their obloquy and converſation.

She ſoon found, that to rely upon the kindneſs of old friends, was but a preca • ious mercy. Ill uſed by the world therefore, ſhe began to loſe the hope of ſuch reſources. The benevolence of diſtant relations, in whoſe memory ſhe might be able to revive the images of tenderneſs, was likewiſe a fond idea, that was born and buried almoſt in the ſame inſtant. Nothing of comfort ſeemed to remain in reſerve, till the excellent Ruth, the faithful partner of her ſufferings, ſuggeſted an expedient. And ſhe ſaid unto her friend—I perceive, oh my dear Naomi, that our conveniences muſt depend upon ourſelves, and that 〈◊〉 •• ſt owe our daily bread to 〈◊〉 daily labour: as it is now the beginning of the harve ••• behold the opportunity of exerting ourſelves is at 〈◊〉 Thou, indeed, art too much afflicted to toil: but for my part, much and tenderly as I ſympathize with thee, I am in the prime of my youth, and able to gather ſomething from the field: "Let me now therefore go and glean ears of corn after him, in whoſe fight I may f • grace."

"Now it was ſo that Naomi had a kinſman of 〈◊〉 huſband's, a mighty man of wealth, of the family of Elimelech, and his name was Boaz:" and it happened as Ruth was gleaning after the reapers, ſhe was ſit •••• on a part of the field belonging to Boaz. This circumſtance occaſioned a turn of fortune perfectly dramatic. For, Boaz, coming to take a view of his reapers, perceiving the ſtranger, ſaid unto the ſervant, who was ſet over the reapers, "Whoſe damſel is this?" The ſervant's anſwer is penned with the moſt natural ſimplicity.—"It i • the Moabitiſh damſel, that came back with Naomi, out of the country of Moab: and ſhe ſaid, I pray you let me glean, and gather after the reapers, among the ſheaves; ſo ſhe came and hath continued amongſt 〈◊〉 even from the morning till now, that ſhe tarried a little in the houſe." Something there was, either in this account, or in the appearance of the object, which w •• much upon the favour of the landlord: for it is ſurely a ſofter voice even than the voice of hoſpitality, that ſpeaks in the ſequel. "Heareſt thou not my daughter • go not I charge you to glean in any other field, neither go from hence, but abide here faſt by my maidens." I have given particular injunctions to "the young men, that they ſhall not touch thee. And when thou art athirſt, go to the veſſels and drink of that which the young men have drawn." Here began the firſt fruits of her fidelity; and the partiality of Boaz made a very rapid progreſs, for in his ſecond addreſs he was more benevolent than in the firſt; he invited her to conſider herſelf as one of his own people, to "eat of the bread, to dip her welcome morſel in the vinegar" at meal-times, and to ſit cheerfully beſide the reapers. Nay, more, with his own hand—(ſurely the heart extended it)—"he reached her parched corn, and ſhe did eat, and was ſuf •• ed, and left." Now it was that Boaz began to diſcover more evidently, that the ſpring of this generous current lay very near the heart. When ſhe was riſen up to glean, after her repaſt, he commanded the young men to ſhew her all poſſible marks of courteſy and diſtinction. His ſtrict orders were, not to ſuffer her to gather the ſcanty pittance, ear by ear, after the cautious rake had gone over the ground, but to let her glean unqueſtioned, even amongſt the ſheaves. Nay, more, they were to let ſome handfulls fall on purpoſe for her, and leave them for her particular gleaning: and indeed, ſuch was the ſucceſsful conſequences of theſe indulgencies, that after ſhe had beat out what ſhe had been permitted to glean in one ſingle day, "it was about an ephah of barley." This the kind creature carried with all the expedition of affection to her friend: and when Naomi ſaw it—when the ſoul of the ſorrowful widow ſang for joy; then Ruth related to her the whole hiſtory of her good fortune, and concluding that the name of the hoſpitable owner of the had was Boaz. This intelligence revived her ſpirits like a cordial, and ſhe exclaims with the moſt animated tranſport—"The man is near a kin to us," my beloved Ruth—"one of our next kinſmen." Often, and with equal ſucceſs, ſhe went, after this, into the field, and continued there to earn a very comfortable living for herſelf and her friend, even to the cloſe of the harveſt. In the mean time, the paſſion of Boaz had made a very great progreſs, and the reſult of it was, that he became the honourable lover of our fair gleaner, and renewed his acquaintance with his relation Naomi, to whom he made, we are told, various preſents. Boaz and Ruth were ſoon united; and, as a convincing inſtance of the harmony in which the family lived together, we find, highly to the gratification of every benevolent heart, that when Ruth preſented to Boaz a child—her firſt-born—Naomi, after all the peri • s of her paſt life, re-enjoyed the ſweets of privacy and peace: "for ſhe took the babe, and laid it in her boſom, and became nurſe unto it." And I muſt not forget to add, that this very child, whoſe name was Obed, was the grandfather of the famous David, to whoſe p ••• , the Pſalms are attributed; which, both as pieces of ſcripture and of writing, are totally •• rivalled, in point of energy and ſublimity, by any compoſition that hath yet been, or that probably ever will be, produced in h •• man language.

THERE is a peculiar beauty, not only in the ſentiment and language of theſe verſes, but in the thing itſelf.

The tranſactions and friendly intercourſe of Noah and his Dove have a tenderneſs and ceremony in them, truly delightful. The eye melts at the ſimplicity, and the heart warms at the ſentiment. Poetry, in her happieſt flight, could imagine nothing more intereſting to the fancy.

Hail, gentleſt of birds! Hail, meſſenger of ſecurity▪ Through thy means was the dry ground diſcovered; and the gratitude of man ſhall not eaſily forget the fidelity of the Dove!

He ſent forth the Dove to ſee if the waters were abated. What an important errand for ſo ſmall an expreſs! Yet the induſtrious little wing flew over the watry univerſe, and employed every feather in the ſervice of man: after a vain excurſion, ſhe returned; for the waters were ſtill without a ſhore. Methinks I ſee the patriarch ſtand upon the deck, to wait the return of the meſſenger; and as ſoon as ſhe reſts her fatigued foot upon the ark, he tenderly puts forth his hand and pulls her to him: th • s rewarded for her labours, after ſeven days' repoſe, her aſſiſtance being again ſummoned, ſhe truſts to her pinion; and lo, in the evening ſhe came. By mention of the evening, it ſhould appear that ſhe was diſpatched in the morning, or at leaſt very early in the day. What a taſk of toil muſt it then have been! how many billowy leagues muſt ſhe have travelled, ere ſhe found that of which ſhe was in ſearch! Linger upon the land I can never believe ſhe did, however the verdure and vegetable novelty might charm her. No! it was not until the evening ſhe ſucceeded in her endeavours, and then, upon the wings of kindneſs, ſhe haſted to ſatisfy the impatience of her maſter. Upon her ſecond return, behold, a leaf was in her mouth! What a ſweet way is here of communicating the happy tidings. But, indeed, every ſyllable of this matter hath a grace and conſequence peculiar to it: it was an olive leaf which ſhe bore, the leaf of amity, the emblem of peace; as much as to ſay, Lo, maſter, the waters are abated, and I have plucked a leaf as a teſtimony of my truth. The Power, who commandeth the waves to dry up and diſappear, hath ordained me to bear to thee this olive-branch; haply it is the pledge of promiſe and conciliation betwixt him and thee, and thou ſhalt not only ſet thy foot ſafely upon land, but there proſper, and enjoy the pardon of thy God.

And after ſeven days more, he ſent her forth again, and ſhe returned no more. One is divided here betwixt ſmiles and tears: it is an exquiſite paſſage. The land and earth had, by this time, reſumed their accuſtomed beauties; the trees diſplayed a greener glory, the flowers ſprung brighter from the wave, and the Dove, having performed her duty, enjoyed, as nature directed, the beauties of renovated verdure: yet ſhe returned 〈◊〉 more. Noah, though he knew the cauſe of her delay, had loſt his favourite bird. Alas! it was a draw-back upon the felicity of the new appearing world. Fie upon the heart that has not a feeling upon ſuch occaſions. The ſoftneſs of the dove, however, is ſtill had, among the children of men, in grateful remembrance. She is equally celebrated in profane and ſacred hiſtory, and every epithet of endearment is allotted to her. She is conſidered as favourable to love, and propitious to every tender undertaking; nor can we, at any time, expreſs a courteous character, without giving to it, among other qualities, the gentleneſs and truth of a Dove.

THE Dean of the cathedral of Badajoz was more learned than all the Doctors of Salamanca, Coimbra, and Aleala, united. He underſtood all languages, living and dead, and was perfect maſter of every ſcience, divine and human; except that, unfortunately, he had no knowledge of magic, and was inconſolable when he reflected on his ignorance in that divine art. He was told that a very able Magician reſided in the ſuburbs of Toledo, named Don Torribio. Immediately he ſaddled his mule, departed for Toledo, and alighted at the door of no very ſuperb dwelling, the habitation of that great man.

"Moſt reverend Magician," ſaid he, addreſſing himſelf to the ſage, "I am the Dean of Badajoz. The learned men of Spain all allow me their ſuperior; but I am come to requeſt from you a far greater honour, that of becoming your pupil. Deign to initiate me in the myſteries of your art, and doubt not but you ſhall receive a grateful acknowledgment, ſuitable to the benefit conferred, and your own extraordinary merit."

Don Torribio was not very polite, though he valued himſelf on being intimately acquainted with the beſt company in the infernal regions. He told the Dean he was welcome to ſeek elſewhere for a maſter in magic; for that, for his part, he was weary of an occupation, which produced nothing but compliments and promiſes; and that he would not diſhonour the occult ſciences, by proſtituting them to the ungrateful.

"To the ungrateful!" cried the Dean: "has then the great Don Torribio met with perſons who have proved ungrateful! and can he ſo far miſtake me as to rank me with ſuch monſters?" He then repeated all the maxims and apophthegms, which he had read, on the ſubject of gratitude, and every refined ſentiment his memory could furniſh.

In ſhort, he talked ſo well that the Conjurer, after having conſidered a moment, confeſſed he could refuſe nothing to a man of ſuch abilities and ſo ready at pertinent quotations. "Jacintha," ſaid he, calling to his old woman, "lay down two partridges to the fire; I hope my friend the Dean will do me the honour to ſup with me to night." At the ſame time he takes him by the hand, and leads him into his cabinet; there he touches his forehead, muttering three myſterious words, which I muſt requeſt the reader not to forget, Ortobolan, Piſtafrier, Onagriouſ; then, without further preparation, he began to explain, with all poſſible perſpicuity, the introductory elements of his profound ſcience.

His new diſciple liſtened with an attention, which ſcarcely permitted him to breathe; when, on a ſudden, Jacintha enters, followed by a little man, in monſtrous boots, and covered with mud up to the neck, who deſired to ſpeak with the Dean on very important buſineſs.

This was the poſtillion of his uncle, the biſhop of Badajoz, who had been ſent expreſs after him, and had galloped quite to Toledo, before he could overtake him; he came to bring him information that, ſome hours after his departure, his Grace had been attacked by ſo violent an apoplexy that the moſt terrible conſequences were to be apprehended. The Dean heartily curſed (inwardly that is, and ſo as to occaſion no ſcandal) at once the diſorder, the patient, and the courier, who had certainly all three choſen the moſt impertinent time poſſible. He diſmiſſed the poſtillion, telling him to make haſte back to Badajoz, whither he would preſently fo • low him: after which he returned to his leſſon, as if there were no ſuch things as either uncles or apoplexies.

A few days after he again received news from Badajoz, but ſuch as was well worth hearing. The principal Chanter and two old Canons came to inform the Dean that his uncle, the right reverend Biſhop, had been taken to heaven to receive the reward of his piety; and, that the Chapter, canonically aſſembled, had choſen him to fill the vacant biſhopric; and humbly requeſted he would conſole, by his preſence, the afflicted church of Badajoz, now become his ſpiritual bride.

Don Torribio, who was preſent at this harangue of the deputies, endeavoured to derive advantage from what he had learned; and, taking aſide the new Biſhop, after having paid him a well turned compliment on his promotion, proceeded to inform him that he had a ſon, named Benjamin, poſſeſſed of much ingenuity and good inclination; but in whom he had never perceived either taſte or talents for the occult ſciences; he had therefore, he ſaid, adviſed him to turn his thoughts towards the church, and had now, he thanked Heaven, the ſatisfaction to hear him commended as one of the moſt deſerving divines among all the clergy of Toledo: he, therefore, took the liberty, to requeſt his Grace to beſtow on Don Benjamin the deanery of Badajoz, which he could not retain together with his biſhopric.

I am very unfortunate, replied the Prelate, apparently ſomewhat embarraſſed; you will, I hope, do me the juſtice to believe that nothing could give me ſo great a pleaſure as to oblige you in every requeſt. But, the truth is, I have a couſin, to whom I am heir, an old eccleſiaſtic, who is good for nothing but to be a Dean; and if I do not beſtow on him this preferment, I muſt embroil myſelf with my family, which would be far from agreeable. But, continued he, in an affectionate manner, will you not accompany me to Badajoz? Can you be ſo cruel as to forſake me juſt at the moment when it is in my power to be of ſervice to you? Be perſuaded, my honoured maſter: we will go together; think of nothing but the improvement of your pupil, and leave me to provide for Don Benjamin, nor doubt, but ſooner 〈◊〉 later, I will do more for him than you expect. A •• ltry deanery, in the remoteſt part of Eſtramadura, is not a benefice ſuitable to the ſon of ſuch a man as yourſelf.

The canon law would, no doubt, have conſtrued this offer of the Prelate's into ſimony. The propoſal, however, was accepted; nor was any ſcruple made by either of theſe two very intelligent perſons. Don Torribio followed his illuſtrious pupil to Badajoz, where he had an elegant apartment aſſigned him in the epiſcopal palace, and was treated with the utmoſt reſpect, by all the dioceſe, as the favourite of his Grace, and a kind of Grand Vicar.

Under the tuition of ſo able a maſter, the Biſhop of Badajoz made a rapid progreſs in the occult ſciences. At firſt he gave himſelf up to them, with an ardour which might appear exceſſive; but this intemperance: grew by degrees more moderate, and he purſued them with ſo much prudence that his magical ſtudies never interfered with the duties of his dioceſe. He was well convinced of the truth of a maxim, very important to be remembered by eccleſiaſtics, whether addicted to ſorcery, or only philoſophers, and admirers of literature, that it is not ſufficient to aſſiſt at learned nocturnal meetings, or adorn the mind with the embelliſhments of human ſcience; but that it is alſo the duty of divines to point out to others the way to heaven, and plant, in the minds of their hearers, wholeſome doctrine and Chriſtian morality.

Regulating his conduct by theſe commendable principles, the learned Prelate was celebrated throughout Chriſtendom for his merit and piety, and promoted, when he leaſt expected ſuch an honour, to the archbiſhopric of Compoſtella.

The people and clergy of Badajoz lamented, as may be ſuppoſed, an event by which they were deprived of ſo worthy a Paſtor; and the Canons of the cathedral, to teſtify their reſpect, unanimouſly conferred on him the right of naming his ſucceſſor.

Don Torribio did not neglect ſo alluring an opport •• ty to provide for his ſon. He requeſted the biſhopric 〈◊〉 the new Archbiſhop, and was refuſed with all imaginable politeneſs. He had, he ſaid, the greateſt veneration 〈◊〉 his old maſter, and was both ſorry and aſhamed it was not in his power to grant a thing, which appeared ſo very a trifle; but, in fact, Don Ferdinand de Lara, Conſtable of Caſtile, had aſked this ſame biſhopric for his natural ſon; and, though he had never ſeen that nobleman, he had, he ſaid, ſome ſecret, important, and what was more, very ancient obligations to him. It was, therefore, an indiſpenſable duty to prefer an old benefactor to a new one: but that he ought not to be diſcouraged at this proof of his juſtice, as he might learn, by that, what he had to expect when his turn arrived; which it certainly would the very firſt opportunity.

This anecdote, concerning the ancient obligations of the Archbiſhop, the Magician had the goodneſs to believe; and rejoiced, as much as he was able, that his intereſts were ſacrificed to thoſe of Don Ferdinand.

Nothing, therefore, was thought of but preparations for their departure to Compoſtella, where they were now to reſide. Though theſe were ſcarc • ly worth the trouble, conſidering the ſhort time they were deſtined to remain there; for, at the end of a few months, one of the Pope's Chamberlains arrived, who brought the Archbiſhop a Cardinal's cap, with an epiſtle, conceived in the moſt reſpectful terms, in which his Holineſs invited him to aſſiſt, by his counſel, in the government of the Chriſtian world; permitting him, at the ſame time, to diſpoſe of his mitre in favour of whom he pleaſed.

Don Torribio was not at Compoſtella when the courier of the holy father arrived. He had been to ſee his ſon, who ſtill continued a Prieſt in a ſmall pariſh at Toledo; but he preſently returned, and was not put to the trouble of aſking for the vacant archhiſhopric. The Prelate ran to meet him with open arms.

My dear maſter, ſaid he, I have two pieces of good news to relate at once. Your diſciple is created a Cardinal, and your ſon ſhall—ſhortly be advanced to the 〈◊〉 dignity. I had intended, in the mean time, to have beſtowed on him the archbiſhopric of Compoſtella; but, unfortunately for him, or rather for me, my mother, whom we left at Badajoz, has, during your abſence, written to me a cruel letter, by which all my meaſures have been diſconcerted. She will not be pacified, unleſs I appoint for my ſucceſſor the Archdeacon of my former church, Don Pablos de Salazar, her intimate friend and Confeſſor; ſhe tells me it will occaſion her death, if ſhe ſhould not be able to obtain preferment for her dear father in God; and I have no doubt but what ſhe ſays is true. Imagine yourſelf in my place, my dear maſter: ſhall I be the death of my mother?

Don Torribio was not a perſon who would incite or urge his friend to be guilty of parricide; nor did he indulge himſelf in the leaſt reſentment againſt the mother of the Prelate.

To ſay the truth, however, this mother he talked of was a good kind of woman, nearly ſuperannuated, who lived quietly with her cat and maid-ſervant, and ſcarcely knew the name of her Confeſſor. Was it likely, then, that ſhe had procured Don Pablos his archbiſhopric? Was it not far more probable that he was indebted for it to a Gallician lady, his couſin, a young widow, at once devout and handſome, in whoſe company his Grace the Archbiſhop had frequently been edified, during his reſidence at Compoſtella? Be it as it may, Don Torribio followed his Eminence to Rome. Scarcely had he arrived in that city before the Pope died. It is eaſy to imagine the conſequence of this event. The Conclave met. All the voices of the ſacred college were unanimous in favour of the Spaniſh Cardinal. Behold him, therefore, Pope!

Immediately after the ceremony of his exaltation, Don Torribio, admitted to a ſecret audience, wept with joy, while he kiſſed the feet of his dear pupil, wh • m he ſaw fill, with ſo much dignity, the pontifical throne. He modeſtly repreſented his long and faithful ſervices. He reminded his Holineſs of his promiſes: thoſe inviolable promiſes he had renewed before he entered the Conclave. He hinted at the hat which he had quitted▪ on receiv •• the tiara; but, inſtead of demanding that hat for 〈◊〉 Benjamin, he finiſhed, with the moſt exemplary moderation, by renouncing every ambitio • s hope. He and 〈◊〉 ſon, he ſaid, would both eſteem themſelves too happy, if his Holineſs would beſtow on them, together with his benediction, the ſmalleſt temporal benefit. Such as an annuity for life, ſufficient for the few wants of an ecclaſiaſtic and a philoſopher.

During this ha • angue, the ſovereign Pontiff conſidered within himſelf how to diſpoſe of his preceptor. He •• flected that he was no longer very neceſſary; that he already knew more of magic than was ſufficient for a Pope; that it muſt be highly improper for him to appe •• at the nocturnal aſſemblies of ſorcerers, and aſſiſt at their indecent ceremonies. After weighing every circumſtance, his Holineſs concluded that Don Torribio was not only a uſeleſs but a troubleſome dependant; and, this point decided, he was no longer in doubt what anſwer to return: accordingly he replied in the following words; "We have learned, with concern, that, under the pretext of cultivating the occult ſciences, you maintain a horrible intercourſe with the ſpirit of darkneſs and deceit; wherefore we exhort you, as a father, to expiate your crime by a repentance proportionable to its enormity. Moreover, we enjoin you to depart from the territories of the church, within three days, under pain of being delivered over to the ſecular arm, and its mercileſs flames."

Don Torribio, without being diſconcerted, immediately repeated aloud the three myſterious words which the reader was deſired to remember; and, going to the window, cried out, with all his force, "Jacintha, you need ſpit but one partridge; for my friend, the Dean, will not ſup here to-night." This was a thunderbolt to the imaginary Pope: he immediately recovered from a kind of trance • into which he had been thrown by the three magic w • rds, when they were firſt pronounced, and perceived that, inſte • d of being in the Vatican, he was ſtill at Toledo, in the cloſet of Don Torribio, and ſaw, by the clock, it was not yet a complete hour ſince he firſt entered that fatal cabinet, where he had been entertained w ••• ſuch pleaſant dreams. In that ſhort time he had imagined himſelf a Magician, a Biſhop, an Archbiſhop, a Cardinal, a Pope; and, at laſt, found he was only a •• pe and a knave. All was illuſion, except the proof • • e had given of his deceitfulneſs and evil heart. He in ••• tly departed, without ſpeaking a word; and, finding his mule where he had left her, he returned to Badajoz, without having made the ſmalleſt progreſs in the ſub •• me ſcience, in which he had propoſed to become an • dept.

TO be affected in any way, is, at all times, in all places, and in all degrees to be diſagreeable. But affectation of learning and authorſhip, in a woman of very little merit, draws upon itſelf the contempt and hatred of both ſexes. They who excel moſt in either ſex, are found by experience to be moſt candid and modeſt, to aſſume leaſt, and to join in converſation with others without diſplaying the ſenſe of their ſuperiority. Indeed it often happens, that there is an amiable humility in true genius and learning, which compels the poſſeſſor of them to think diffidently of his own character, amid the united praiſes of all around. Let her, then, who poſſeſſes the bright jewels of genius and learning, take care to ſet them in a plain manner, and their luſtre will diſplay additional brilliancy.

In the embel •••• ment of the perſon, a ſufficient degree of care is uſually taken, that nothing unbecoming ſhall have a place in it. A regard is commonly paid to age, rank, and every circumſtance which can point out the line of propriety. Yet there is certainly a kind of ſexual difference in the minds of the ſexes, which admits and requires a different ſpecies of intellectual accompliſhment. Economy is ſaid indeed to be the peculiar province of women; yet ſurely, as rational beings, their reaſon may properly receive the higheſt kind of culti •• tion. Nor ſhould their attainments occaſion contempt or neglect, unleſs they are ſullied by obtruding a • gance, by a maſculine boldneſs, a critical ſeverity, and an ill-timed and injudicious oſtentation.

HOWEVER juſt the complaints of the miſery of life, yet great occaſions for the diſplay of beneficence and liberality do not often occur. But there is a • hourly neceſſity for the little kind offices of mutual civ •• ity. At the ſame time that they give pleaſure to others, they add to our own happineſs and improvement. Habitual acts of kindneſs have a powerful effect in ſoftening the heart. An intercourſe with poliſhed and human • company tends to improve the diſpoſition, becauſe it requires a conformity of manners. And it is certain, that a ſenſe of decorum, and of a proper external behaviour, will reſtrain thoſe, whoſe natural temper would otherwiſe break out in acrimonious and petulant converſation. Even the affectation of philanthropy will in time contribute to realize it. The pleaſure reſulting from an act of kindneſs naturally excites a wiſh to repeat it; and indeed the general eſteem which the character of benevolence procures, is ſufficient to induce thoſe to wiſh for it, who act only from the mean motives of ſelf-intereſt.

As we are placed in a world where natural evil abounds, we ought to render it ſupportable to each other, as far as human endeavours can avail. All that can add a ſweet ingredient to the bitter cup muſt be infuſed. Amid the multitude of thorns, every flower that will grow muſt be cultivated with care. But neither pomp nor power are of themſelves able to alleviate the load of life. The heart requires to be ſoothed by ſympathy. A thouſand little attentions from all around us are neceſſary to render our days agreeable. The appearance of neglect in any of thoſe with whom we are connected, chills our boſom with chagrin, or kindles the fire of reſentment. Nothing, therefore, ſeems ſo likely to enſure happineſs, as our mutual endeavours to promote it. Our ſingle endeavours, originating and terminating in ourſelves, are uſually unſucceſsful. Providence has taken care to ſecure that intercourſe which is neceſſary to the exiſtence of ſociety, by rendering i • the greateſt ſweetener of human life.

By reciprocal attentions we are enabled to become beneficent without expenſe. A ſmile, an affable addreſs, a look of approbation, are often capable of giving a greater pleaſure than pecuniary benefits can beſtow. The mere participation of the ſtudies and amuſements of others, at the ſame time that it gratifies ourſelves, is often an act of real humanity; becauſe others would not enjoy them without companions. A friendly viſit in a ſolitary hour is often a greater act of kindneſs than a valuable preſent.

WHOEVER has made accurate obſervations on men and manners, will eaſily perceive, that the praiſe of goodneſs of heart is uſually accompanied with an oblique inſinuation of intellectual imbecility. I be •• eve him to be a well-meaning man, ſays the malignant panegy • iſt, and if there is any fault in him, it will be found rather in his head than in his heart. Nothing could be better contrived by a crafty and envious world, to render this amiable quality contemptible, than to repreſent it as the effect or as the companion of folly.

It is, indeed, true, that innocence and integrity are uſually accompanied with ſimplicity; not, however, with that ſort of ſimplicity which is ſometimes ſynonimous with folly; but with an amiable openneſs of manners, which had rather loſe its objects than obtain them by deceit; which leads the tongue boldly to ſpeak what the heart honeſtly conceives. If we weigh the ſatisfaction of an open and upright conduct, of a clear conſcience, and of that liberty which we enjoy by thinking, ſpeaking, and acting, without mean and ſervile reſtraints, it will, I •• lieve, be found, that this ſimplicity is true wiſdom, and that the cunning of the worldly wiſe is real and • gr • gious imprudence.

Goodneſs of heart, whether it be a natural or acquired goodneſs, is indeed, in every reſpect, the higheſt excellence. It is the only quality which can reſcue hum •• nature from the diſgrace and miſery of its wretched weakneſſes, and its powerful tendencies to evil. It rai • the poor worm, that otherwiſe crawls on a dung-hill, and ſtings and bites his wretched companions, to an exalted place in the ſcale of being, and cauſes him to aſſimulate with the divine nature.

Whatever the ſhort-ſighted votaries of avarice and ambition may aſſert, there is no doubt, but that r ••• goodneſs of heart is the nobleſt ornament of human nature, and the leaſt fallible ſource of permanent ſatisfaction. In truth, learning and abilities, without goodneſs of heart, conſtitute that kind of wiſdom, which is fooliſhneſs in the ſight of reaſon and God. Without goodneſs of heart, man, however accompliſhed, is ſo far from being little lower than the angels, that he is ſcarcely above the accurſed ſpirits, and by no means equal to many of the brutes, who often exhibit moſt amiable inſtances of a good heart in the virtues of gratitude, ſincere affection, and fidelity.

SENSIBILITY, with all its inconveniences, is to be cheriſhed by thoſe who underſtand and wiſh to maintain the dignity of their nature. To feel for others, diſpoſes us to exerciſe the amiable virtue of charity, which our religion indiſpenſably requires. It conſtitutes that enlarged benevolence, which philoſophy inc • lcates, and which is indeed comprehended in Chriſtian charity. It is the privilege and the ornament of man; and the pain which it cauſes is abundantly recompenſed by that ſweet ſenſation which ever accompanies the exerciſe of beneficence.

To feel our own miſery in a lively manner is not to be deprecated. Affliction ſoftens and improves the heart. Tears, to ſpeak in the ſtyle of figure, fertilize the ſoil in which the virtues grow. And it is the remark of one who underſtood human nature, that the faculties of the mind, as well as the feelings of the heart, are meliorated by adverſity.

But in order to promote theſe ends, our ſufferings muſt not be permitted to overwhelm us. We muſt oppoſe them with the arms of reaſon and religion▪ and to expreſs the idea in the language of the philoſopher, as well as the poet, of nature; every one, while he is compelled to feel his misfortunes like a man, ſhould reſolve alſo to bear them like a man.

THERE are many prejudices entertained againſt the character of a learned lady; and, perhaps, if all ladies were profoundly learned, ſome inconveniences might ariſe from it: but, I muſt own, it does not appear to me, that a woman will be rendered leſs acceptable in the world, or worſe qualified to perform any part of her duty in it, by having employed the time, from ſix to ſixteen, in the cultivation of her mind. Time enough will remain, after a few hours every day ſpent in reading, for the improvement of the perſon, and the acquiſition of the uſual accompliſhments. With reſpect to theſe accompliſhments, I will not preſume to direct the method of purſuing them. I will not ſo far intrude on a province, which by no means belongs to me. The ladies themſelves, and their inſtructors, want no directions in matters of external ornament, the end of which is to pleaſe on intuition. However arrogant the men have been in their clai •• of ſuperiority, they have uſually allowed the ladies the poſſeſſion of a delicate taſte in the improvement and perception of all kinds of beauty.

The literary education of women ought indiſputably to be varied according to their fortunes and their expectations. Much refinement, and a taſte for books, will injure her, whoſe time, from prudential motives, muſt be entirely engroſſed by economy. Few women are, indeed, exempted from all attention to domeſtic care; but, yet, the unmarried, and thoſe who enjoy opulence, find many intervals which they often devote to ſome ſpecies of •••• ing. And there is no doubt, but that the reading would be ſelected with more judgment, and would afford mo • e pleaſure and advantage, if the taſte were formed by early culture.

It is well known, that internal beauty contributes much to perfect external grace. I believe it will alſo be favourable to virtue, and will operate greatly in reſtraining from any conduct groſsly indelicate, and obviouſly improper. Much of the profligacy of female manners has proceeded from a levity occaſioned by a want of a proper education. She, who has no taſte for well writte • books, will often be at a loſs how to ſpend her time; and the conſequences of ſuch a ſtate are too frequent not to, be known, and too fatal not to be dreaded and avoided▪