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nt : rd ra ee Set SLE YT = Co ey eee Oe Rs we gale ther tes let ee et AO AP PEO AL OIL CONNEC tp SU ay TN OS eR Ne oa hee Sat ae eet ear teeny sangeet Met (aD es ene otf tele Ny IA OT E.Bo CJULL kC 7 troceeded fothe ae ee eneeeu vel’ QR BE oo ne Séa yeclea oe LIV pt eto if ey ane f). 70 Luh Ma i42023,by MJcnes, Paternoster pow. eet ee ee Ams i ene be he ae eat Oe ent ore nn OU em tet te A a lt A rene ee i ee Neti te ie a ls a <> cy ne ' A. BY B. MCMILLAN, AUGUSTUS axp MARY; OR, THE MAID OF BUTTERMERE. A DOMESTIC TALE. a BY WILLIAM MUDFORD. | 44 Long she flourished, ** Grew sweet to sense and lovely to the eye; “Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, ‘ Cropt this fair rose, and rified all its sweetness, oT ine it like.a loathsome weed away.”’ _ ** Such was his looks, so melting was his voice, ~ “Such his soft sighs, and his deluding tears, “© When with that preasing perjur’d breath avowing, “* His whispers trembled thro’ my credulous ars, ** And told the story of my utter ruin.”? LONDON: PRINTED FOR M. JONES, NO.I, PATERNOSTER- ; ROW, = 1803, BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN, rn nt cee tee ner. » aie TO: TRUTH,. INNOCENCE,. AND SIMPLICITY,. TILE: FOLLOWING PAGES — ARE INSCRIBED. BY WILLIAM MUDFORD. ue. Bek i ae sho ald so Me) Bias i , PREFACE. FROM the title of the pre- sent work, many might be led to imagine, that it contained real situations and incidents, and such as have actually occurred to the persons brought forward. But it is incumbent upon me to declare,. that nothing except the bare event, the point, round which all the other circumstances revolve, have any connexion whatever with that unfortunate female, the peculiar nature of whose fate has excited the commiseration of all Europe. a 4. It x “PREFACE. “It-was merely my intention, and ul hope I have attained it, to chuse _a popular subject, which might arrest attention, for the purpose of inculcating MORALITY and vIR- FUE, under the guise of a simple story, possessing nothing which ~ could give ita claim .to rank among the reprehensible produc- trons which daily issue from. the Press. I.do not speak this from vanity: an Author may-fairly be allowed to know his. own éfidéa- vours, and the point to which they tend: if they have virtue unequi- vocally for their basis, he may justly felicitate himself, and even arrogate a superiority over those (whipeves they are) who have ne- elected PREFACE. - ost ‘a elected it. Idetest, as much per- haps as any man, the whining cant of some Authors, who beg their readers to be persuaded of their virtue, and their piety, and their morality: who has not seen the pages even of such, give the direct lie to all of their assertions ? It is not professions whichcan carry any weight with the sensible part. of mankind: it is their aétions,’ it is their conduét, which must corroborate those professions. I. am willme to resien, with ail possible good nature, nay, with exultation, the applauses of those who delight to revel in the ob-’ scenity and filth of some recent. publications: let but the prudent, | | parent x41 PREFACE. parent or the judicious guardian, put my book with pleasure into the hands of their child or their pupil, and I shall feel more amply - gratifed than I could possibly do were my praises re-echoed usgue ad 1auseam, as the author of a vicious philosophy, or a morbid morality. I may freely assert, that the fol- lowing pages do not contain one ‘single expression, incident, or idea, which can raise a blush on the cheek of the most chaste female that ever existed; and this is my pride: this is my exultation! Yet, I confess, I could be well, contented were the publication of novelstotally abolished, or, at least, placed under such restrictions, and. subjected PREPRACE.: Xt subjected to such a previous pe- rusal, as would stop the daily in- crease of low ribaldry and unmean- ing vulgarity. I often sigh at the inefficacy of all human institutions, when I behold, as frequently I do in my peregrinations, some spright- ly damsel emerging from the door of a CIRCULATING Lisprary, with a bundle of poison under her arm, in the form of oé¢tavo. volumes. Look to this, ye Fathers, and let not seduction and debauchery come masked among your daughters ; rather keep them to their back- stitching, their whippmg and their felling, till their forefinger become, | aye, aS roueh asa files then:let them XIV PREFACE. them corrupt their minds *. The foundations of virtue once weak- ened, who shall answer for the ra- pidity of its destruction ? The seeds of vice once sown, who shall presume to correct their growth ? —% © For my part, whenever chance brings within my observation a knot of misses busy at their needles, I consider myself as in the school’ of virtue; and though I have no extraordinary skill in plainwork or embroidery, look upon their operations with as much satisfaction as their Governess, because I regard them as providing a security against the most dangerous ensnarers of the soul, by enabling themselves to exclude idle- ness from their solitary moments, and with idle- ness her attendant train of passions, fancies, and chimeras, fears, sorrows, aad desires,’—JoHnson, g- AUGUSTUS AUGUSTUS axp MARY; OR, THE MAID OF BUTTERMERE. A TALE. CHAPTER. I, Fy EADER! whoe’er thou art, whe- ther gay, morose, dull, or pedan- tic, it is my wish to please thee. But, as well I know, very few are likely to be pleased by disappointment, and as disappointment may be the consequence B of (2) of extensive hope, before I proceed to natrate my simple Tale,. leb:me tel thee what thou hast to expect in the following pages. Alas! should’st thou, gentle Reader, chance to be some warm admirer of modern ghosts, of castel- lated mansions, of chains, of dun- econs, of daggers, masks, blood, and all the et ceferas which form the component parts of the Mopern SuBLiMgE, vul- early called a Nove, lay down, | beseech thee, the book’ now wn athe hands, for none such shall I give thee. But if simple) Nature ‘dehight thee; 1f thou can’st wander with me through the paths of Trutu and Prosagi- LiTy, and weep over the misfortunes of Native INNocENCE and ARTLESS AFFECTION, read on, read on! and when thou hast reached even unto the Finis, which decorates my last page, should’st (3) should’st thou bestow one good-natured word of approbation, why, then, ze, kind Reader, shall in all probabuity part very good friends. — Adieu ! a \ MARY, the heroine of our Tale, is the beauteous offspring of a simple, honest, and industrious couple. From her infancy, bred up and nurtured in the paths of. genuine snnplicity .and virtue, her mind became the mirror of innocence and truth. Mr.and Mrs. Rozinson, the parents of this rich gem,. were universally esteemed for the benevolence of their principles and the rectitude of their conduct. Far from the noise and strife of the world’s busy scenes, they led << the noiseless tenor of their way,” am- bitious only to extend the sphere of | BQ tiieie. (4) their philanthropic activity. Mrs. Ro- BINSON was the Atsculapius of the neighbourhaod-; and whenever a poor villager’s wife was ill, she always thought it her duty to administer, as far as her limited circumstances would admit, to their necessities. Indeed, her generous heart felt no greater gratification, than in tending the sick-bed of honest in- dustry; of cheering with the conso- latory voice of religion, those who were trembling in the agonies of death; of smoothing the pillow of discontent ; and healing the discords of families. Oh, ye gay votartes of giddy fashion! ye unnatural mothers, ye cool systema- tic friends! confess, tn the secrecy of your own hearts, how much ye are be- neath this amiable woman ! | Her husband, attentive to his agri- cultural pursuits, bore the universal character (6) charaGter of an honest, worthy, and industrious man. In the bosom of his family he reigned, as every father and every husband ought to reign, by mild- ness and affection. No tart replies, no taunting jeers, ever escaped his lips ; no sullen frowns, no angry looks, ever discomposed his brow. He was kind to,. all,.. and) trom, all jhe; expenenced kindness in return. As aman, he en- joyed that primeval simplicity, and that pure unsullied happiness, which flows from moderated desires, from re- ligious faith, and rigid temperance. Mary was their only child, and in consequence, the dearest objeCt-of their sffeGtions. While yet an infant, the germs of beauty unfolded in her, and she displayed a form and features ele- gant and interesting. Unconscious, however, of these rare endowments, B 3 che (6 ) she endeavoured only to obey her mo- ther’s precepts—‘‘ to be good to her neighbours, to be dutiful to her pa- rents, to be humane to animals, and to say her prayers.’—These pious injunc- tions comprised all her system of mo- rality; and unindebted to the refine- ments of metaphysical learning, and the dogmas of schclastic erudition, she | justly thought that: Mary could not’ act wrong in acting thus. Thus was Mary educated in the principles of genuine simplicity and virtue, and her heart insensibly became formed even to the most perfeé& pu- rity. She had now attained her seventh year, and was hale, beautiful, and ac- tive. To sport in the open air, and amid the wild beauties of uncultivated Nature, was her custom. Behold her return- Ley returning from an evening gambol among the new-mown hay, a charming brunette! Surrounded by a smiling circle of village lasses, she is telling in simple phrase, some mirth-moving tale; and ever and anon she accompanies her words with an expressive gesture, which raises a peal of laughter. Rich in the sentiments of undisguised Nature, she ‘betrays a pathos; a vivacity,; an ex- pression, which gives an irresistible force to her narration; and she reads in the smiles of her rustic companions their cordial approbation. Arrived at home, thé mutual! kiss / goes round, and each retirés with real regret to the thatched roof of their pa- ternal cottages. ALL RETIRE? No, Reader; they do not all retire;. for see, one entérs with her, in simple | B 4. Guise ; ( 8 ) guise; about her own age, her own size, with auburn locks, sweet blue eyes, white teeth, fair complexion, and engaging form. AND WHO IS SHE? Louisa FAuLKNER 1s the humble daughter of a poor cottager, who earns his subsistence by daily labour. Her mother is nomore. She died tn giving her birth, and left her as a pledge of harmony and love. Her father brought her up as well as could be expected; but hard-had it gone with poor Louisa, if the mother of Mary had not proved her benefactress. | | . Perceiving in her, strong marks of charaéter, and a natural wish to do right, she conceived Mary might reap advantage from such an amiable com- panion, and therefore allowed them unrestrained intercourse. This pro- | duced (0p) duced a friendship formed on the in- dispensable requisites—similarity of con- dition and sentiment. The one never acted in any affair without consulting the other; and this union, began in infancy, cemented and grew up. with their years. And now, Reader, that thou art ac- quainted with Louisa FauLKNeEr, and Mary, and all the other persons hitherto brought forward in this our Tale, suppose that we close this Chapter, and if you feel disposed, commence Chapter I]. AGREED. CHAP. ( Fo ) CRAP. i, I NOW pass on to the fourteenth year of Mary, and present hér to the Reader, mature in all the loveliness of beauty. She is now become the help- mate of her mother, and atténds to the domestic economy of the house: I mean, she makes the béds, and she sweeps the rooms, and she provides the meals, and she rubs the furniture ; and yet, oh, fair Readert (shotild’st “nou: be: one) wilt thou ) believe. it, . Mary is not, for all this, less lovely. Though perhaps the enamelled polish of her arms, or the smooth texture of her hands, may be a little injured, yet, could’st thou for a moment conceive how (8 how amiable it 1s to spare the labour of thy mother, and to let her (good old woman !) sit quiet in her elbow-chair, unoccupied in the labour of the house, then would’st thou think Mary appears more’ lovely tnanscver, “in her” shore gown, neat check-apron, and black stockings. But to proceed with our narrative : It was one sultry day in June, that our heroine’s father returned unusually soon from the occupation of the field. His looks were wan, and his counte- nance betrayed evident marks of in- disposition. Mary affectionately hung upon his hand, and inquired the cause. He complained of a grievous pain in his head, which, in‘his homely diale&, he said, “bounced as thof ’twould crack.” ‘And, indeed, poor man, he looked extremely ill. | With (12 ) With much difficulty Mary _ suc- ceeded in persuading him to lie down a few hours, when perhaps, as she ob- served, acup of tea might relieve him. As soon as he had retired, she resumed her station in the parlour, where she awaited the return of her mother, who had “‘just stepped out” to visit a sick friend. As she sat alone, ruminating upon the uncertain tenure of life, and the melancholy evils which frequently result from the premature loss of a husband, tears involuntarily suffused her eyes, and she offered a silent prayer to the Almighty for the preservation of her dear father. Yet her mind was uneasy. She could not remain satisfied, till she knew whe- ther her father, slept. . She, crept: ap stairs, and listened at hischamber door, but all was silent. With trembling | anxiety, (rt 37) anxiety, she softly opened it, and en- tered? Vonene: as thre “orave.” Sie drew towards the bed, and opened his cur- fains.’**FHe was ‘asleep.’ Huis’counte- nance was flushed with fever, and his slumbers were restless. Mary bent over him, with all the tenderness of filial solicitude. A tear dropt upon his cheek, which she kissed away ; and pressing his burning hand to her lips, sighed, «** poor’ dear” father, get’ ‘well again |’? At this moment his lips un- closed, and he exclaimed fervently, “Gop protect thee!” But te was stil sleeping. Mary was startled; for she could hardly persuade herself but that he was awake, and had heard her in- junction. Convinced, however, she was deceived, she retired softly from the chamber, with a heart somewhat lightened of its grief. When (.44)) When she reached the parlour, her mother was returned. She flew to em- brace her, and burst into tears. Mrs. Roginson anxiously inquired the rea- son of her grief. ‘‘ Oh, my dear mo- ther, my father 1s so ii!??—<** [Ill where is he ?”—* I have persuaded him to he down. for a few hours; he com- plains of a violent head-ache, and so I thought a cup of tea might relieve him, as it often does you, you know, and se he said: he would; and he intends to come down when tea is. ready.” This artless narration relieved the fears of Mrs. Ropinson, and she con- cluded that her husband’s indisposition . was merely the consequence of a too great exposure to the heat of the sun. Mary busied herself in preparing: tea, and making some of the ‘* micest: foas?, as she said, “* bat could Bes: When ( 15 ) When this was ready, she again ascended to her father’s chamber, who was now awake. She embraced him ; and placing her blooming cheek on his rough and toil-worn face, imprinted it with fervent kisses. Iie was not insensible to the kind affection of this amiable girl, of his dear Mary; and his honest, feeling heart, rose in adoration to the throne of Gop, and in silent gratitude thanked the Almighty for such a blessing. When he arose, he found himself con-_ siderably weakened. He could scarcely descend into the parlour, supported.as he was by theassiduity of Mary. Mrs. Roxginson saw with alarm his extreme Jassitude, and read. with anxiety in his, dull and languid eye, symptoms of an illness more serious than she had been led fo expect from theaccountof Mary. Indeed, so apprehensive was she of some- thing ( 16 ) thing worse, that she proposed calling in the assistance of Mr. NuGenrt, the village apothecary; but this her hus- band absolutely rejected. Mary heard with increased terror this proposal of her mother’s, arid begged, with all the ardour of ‘affection, that her father would agree to it. But he was inflexible, for he did not even him- self suppose he was ill enough to have Mr. Nucenr. In fact, people in the country seldom fail to conclude, that when a man has a doctor, he must be dying; and hence Mr. RoBinson’s aver- sion. Mary, during tea, felt an innocent pleasure, in seeing her father eat some ef her ‘ Jest toast that could be; and - with genuine simplicity, she believed the dictates of her heart, which prompt- ed her to suppose, that it might make him (gs) him better. Her mother praised it too; and, to complete her happiness, her father observed, that Mary ‘* might make toast for the Queen.” Her heart swam in gladness, and tears of rapture elistened in her cyes! + amiable girl! Mr. Ropinson at an early hour re- tired to rest, and was shortly after fol- lowed by his wife. Mary repaired to her chamber, full of devotion; and ere she closed her eyes in sleep, implored the blessings of Divine Providence on - her afflicted father, praying for his speedy recovery, and continued health; and that he might live to protect her dear mother. This pious wish concluded, she then prayed that she might keep in the right } way herself, and not be allured from. virtue by the wiles of vice; and that, not forgetting her parents’ anole in- C ui oétions, ( 18 ) junGions, she might “* be good to her neighbours, dutiful to her parents, and humane to animals.” Excellent girl! May thy virtues be their own reward! CuAr. { in } ChAT. * HOW pleasant is: this morn- ing’s walk! The song of birds is de- lightful. See, -how blithe yon mulk- yaid chaunts her simple ditty of for- saken love and broken vows; uncon- ‘scious she, perhaps, of ether,” “Ah me!” sighed Louisa (to whom this apostrophe was addiessed by Ma-. ry) ‘“ how easily do women resign themselves to the wiles of man. Well, I vow, if I ever have a sweetheart, he shan’t plague me: no; for 7f he does, I won’t love him.” Now these unlucky ifs were spoken so hesitatingly by Loutsa, with such an arch smile upon her countenance, and C2 ‘Vee ( 20 ) yet with such a long sigh at the end, that Mary, who had listened with great attention to her positive resolu- tion, could not help ejaculating another =. . if, which said 7f, seemed to say, ‘as if you had zot a sweetheart.” Louisa, however, took littl notice of the circumstance, for she was so ab- sorbed in meditation, that she was walking very leisurely into the middle of a bog, had not her companion checked her. She stood aes hed, “© Why, really, my_ dear girl;” said VARY, “fou sdre.so: determined tig torment your sweetheart, and so bent upon devising the means, that 1 am almost inclined to ie you are shortly going to practice.’ “da, ha, ha!’ rejoined: Eommsiag with.a forced laugh. “ Me! Oh dear! how (ar) how could such a thought enter your head? I declare and vow, there 1s-not a man in all the village that should even touch me; no, ‘they- shouldn't }.ne; not even ‘Squire LovepocG’s servant shouldn’t, though he ts smart enough, #a;-be:sures and, -as.to ‘that; heican speak French, and read poetry too.” _ * And write poetry too?’ responded Mary, ironically. Lam sures] domt:know-:. hemever wrote any poetry to me—never—that he didntg:? “ And, to be sure, you don’t think of him, Louisa; and your heart never beats quicker, nor your cheeks don’t burn, if ever you happen to meet him— do they.” ¢ Liat ihad oa question. Why, I “never. ppore of him in my life.” « But see,” added Mary, “who ap- Cn proaches : ( 22 ) proaches: he is very studious ; he has a book in his hand. Idare say 1t is the Squire himself. We. had better turn.” Lovtsa looked. Oh Love, what quick discerning eyes hast thou! Sadly art thou wronged, when poets paint thee blind. Most true it is, thy votaries are to /bee indebted for an improvement, at least, of three senses, SigGntT, HEAR- inc, FeeLtinc. How nimbly will the maiden’s eye single out from amid the bustiing crowd her lover’s form! How quickly will she ken him in the distant perspective! How well she knows his voice, his footstep on the stair, his tread! She flies to meet him. How quick, when romping in the gay circle, and with kerchief’d eyes, she gropes about to catch some straggler in the game, her fingers tell her heart, if he is, , caught ! { 23 ) eaught! Yes, ye pretty smirking lasses, strive not to hide the truth. We know it well, and we think it too the happiest prerogative of love. But, as I said before, Lovisa looked, and she looked again. | | Reader, 1t was Wiiit1am! — yes, WiLLIAM, the’Squire’s servant; and not the Squire himself, as Mary kindly conjectured. ‘* No, 1 don’t an we need go— he won’t hurt us.’ She blushed as she said it, and lifted her eyes towards Mary, expecting to read a tacit reproof in her countenance. Ah, Leuisa! the secret is now disclosed. ; Wirtxitam is the object of your se Alione: may he, my dear gutl, return your love; and may he possess a heart’ worthy of making virtue Itke yours happy !” Cz Lovisa a (24) LovisA was going to reply, but by the respective motion of both parties, they were now opposite each other. WILLIAM very cavalierly doffed his hat, and ‘* Ladies, your servant.” — “ Sir, yours.’’—‘‘ A very fine morning so Se beautiful morning ;” ‘delightful air ;” and an abundance of congratulatory, and ether compliments, were lavished on both sides. But before I proceed any farther, the Reader may probably wish to be ac- quainted with WiLL1aMm3;3 and so he shall. ~Wixitam is the son of an indus- trious patns-taking cobler, named Pe- TER STITCHEM. His father had only him, and consequently as being son and heir, it was thought necessary that WILLIAM STITCHEM should have a better °* beddication than bis father. < : Ac- 7 ( 25) Accordingly honest Petrer sent him up to London when a youth, under the care of his brother Martin, who there followed the occupation of a shoe-. black ; and let .me tell thee, Reader, that Martin, though a shoe-black, had wit, -for. he used to say, ‘‘as how his brother made souls, and he clean- eq. eine MARTIN sent’ his nephew toa day- school, the master of which was once an itinerant show-man, but who con- ceiving he had parts which might be made to shine, he accordingly took a carret, determined to commence school- master. Over the window of / this said g@arret was nailed a board, im- porting that “‘barnazsas baRrNna- CLE TEACHED JOOVENILLS AT TUP- Pw PENCE A WEAK, IN ALL’ THE ARTS OE ( 26 ) OF RITIN, REEDIN, ‘AND A,RITE- METTIk.” To. this place it was that WiLttiam STITCHEM was sent to’ have a better ““heddication taan has father.’ The boy, however, had a quickness about him, which enabled him ina few weeks to read with wonderful facility “* da, de, bi,” and this astonishing progress, con- vinced old BARNABAS inafavourite opi- nion of his, ‘‘that 1f was always Je/- terer to keep foovenills at ba, be, b2, till they could say it out of book.” | And here, kind Reader, F must re- date a brilliant specimen of Wriititam STITCHEM’s amazing wit. You must know, that in the ‘satd garret afore- mentioned, which was made to answer every purpose that a garret could an- swer, hamieiy, school-roam, bed-room, kitchen, © 24) kitchen, and sitting-room, there was, pendant exactly opposite to. BARNABAS BARNACLE, when he sat in his chair of magistracy, a murror, a/as a three- cornered glass. Now this glass an- swered a very useful end, for when the <<“ s90venills” were saying unto BARNA- as their “* da, Ze, dis,” the said Bar- waBas did, whenever they were in- correct, place the naughty ‘* poovenzils”’ behind his chair, as a mark of disgrace. Now it may easily be conceived, that a bey would sometimes indulge himself in mimicking poor BARNABAS, for the fun of his companions.. And in this case, BarwasBas could see them in the elass, and accordingly punish their bare bottoms. | One day it happened that WILLIAM STITCHEM was thus placed, and that he might. not be indebted to Barwna- BAS ( 28 ) Bas for any particular kindness, he em- ployed himself in tying strips of paper - to the tail of Barnasas’s wig. But — be was seen, by the means already stated, and punished for his impiety, in daring to ridicule the venerable wig of Barnasas. Ashe was being Jed to the . desk of flagellation, he very piteously sobbed out, ‘* I did not think, Sir, you could see me.” —‘“* Pooh! child! I have got a 4i in the back of my perrikra- nium.” - Oh! what asapient remark, BARNA- BAS, wasthis! tor now thou wilt be able to enjoy the advantages of thy murror unmolested. WILLIAM STITCHEM was flogged ! A few days afterwards, -unlucky ‘chance again placed him behind’ the chair of .Barnagpas. Resolved to play him another trick, he first pon- dered had = made considerable progress in de) «. dered on the means of rendering hini- self secure. Lo! he found them! | The wicked wight had a book in his hand, and raising up his arm, he levelled a furious blow at the head of BaRrNa= BAS, whose wig, dislodged by the con- cussion, now decorated the floor. En- raged, he seized the culprit, and voci- ferated, with a Stentorian voice, ** You skoundrelly raskal, what do you meen?” — «| was only knocking the back 4 of your PREC a ont sir, that you might not see me.’ | Poor WILLIAM STITCHEM was flor- ged again! Now, Cfo ba Reader, was not this ery witty action for a. boy of tweive years to perform ?—Yes.. ‘ With Barwasas our hero remained till he was fifteen, during which, he x 6 recdin (036°) “¢ yeedin and ritin,” though it was more owing to his own exertions than to any capability of his master. Being one day sent by his uncle Maxtin for a pound of black pud- ding, he returned with them wrapped up ina sheet of JAmEs Pre’s Works! Froin this day WILLIAMSTITCHEM became a poet. He read the sheet again and again, and every time with increased admira- tion. Impressed with its sublime beau- dies, its energetic language, its harmo- nious versification, he thought JAMES Pye, Esq. a demi-god. He dreamt of him in his sleep; awake, he was the constant object of his thoughts. About this period he emerged from the forming hand of Barnasas, and returned to his native village. Honest Prter was proud of his son’s ‘ hed-. dication,”’ Cat) dicatron,” and Desorauw STITCHEM marvelied that. her husband did not make him a lawyer. Indeed Master WILLIAM was considered as a “bit of a prodigy” among his rustic neigh- bours; and he was allowed to possess all the advantages of a London edu- eation. « The village all declar’d how much he knew 3. *¢ *T was certain he could write, and cypher too; 4 xy In arguing too, the parson own’d his skull, «© For ey’n tho’ vanguish’d, he could argue still ; 6 “ While words of learned strength and thund’r- “ing sound, — ‘© Amaz’d the gazing rustics rang’d around ; ‘© And still they gaz’d, and still the wonder grew, ‘© That one small head couid carry all he knew.’ As a poet, WILLIAM STITCHEM ac- quired great reputation, particularly | on account that all his books were poe- | tical ; (32) tical ; and what is more, he always read as he winked: Wondrous mark of wisdom! On the occasion of Miss Twippie being married to Mr. Cart- Gut the fiddler, he produced the fol- lowing | | ie STANZAS =): I. © And now, Miss Twippte, that you are mar-- ried quite, ce WineCarcun, afiddier, of skill, Keg hope you’|] permit your humble servant to indite ak : ‘cA few lines with his own good will. | rt, et May you be happy in the marriage chain, © And fe el in earnest every joy ; «© May you be free from every troublesome pain, “© And before the twelvemonth’s out, have a boy. ’ | (11s May Mr. Catcur have business in pienty, And fiddle to his friends? approbatien ; a € S$ ~ © OF balls may he have at least 'two and twenty, ie ~~ In this and other parts of the nation. ‘6 And » RS2 } IV. 8 And now, Miss Twippxre, I take my hum. ble leave, *¢ Hoping that your friends you’ll enrich ’ems - «© And that, should your husband die, you will | snot take to grieve, ‘ Js the wish of yours, a ‘6 WrLLIAM STITCHEM,’? And now, courteous Reader, if this specimen of WiLLIAM STITCHEM’S. poetry does not convince thee that he is, a worthy pupil of his first inspirer, you: must forego every claim to sound judg- THeEnC Or taste... 1. nue) Nothing was now wanting to com- . plete our hero, but a little of that po- lish which a free intercourse with so-. ciety bestows; for though a London ‘< heddication”’ had. been his good for-. tune, MEE AL may easily be supposed, D on Anat ( 34.) that among the connexions of his uncle Martin, there were none conspicu- ous, either for their elegance of de- portment, or suavity of manners. It was, therefore, the wish of Pr- TER STITCHEM, that his son should be a ** wally de cham” to some gentle- man; and this obye&t was soon attained, by the circumstance of "Squire Love- poG wanting one. W1LL1AM STITCH- EM, therefore, offered himself, was ac- cepted, and three years since departed for London with him. | 2 Thus was our hero again launched into the metropolis ; and with an ardent desire to become a fine gentleman, he imitated as far as he could, his brethren of the shoulder-knot, and their allied friends, the box-tobby loungers. He soon became a perfect footman; that is is to say, insolent, conceited, ignorant, and brutal. But possessing a tolerable figure, and dressing with that taste and elegance which his master’s left-off clothes would admit of, Wui.Liriam STITCHEM became a favourite with the lathes.) 5 At this juncture, and in all the mas turity of menia! foppery, he arrived once more inthe village. Great a poet asever, he ambles through fields and proves, with some’ sentimental trash in his hand, which he cons with affeGed rapture. | There, Mr.- Reader, now you. .are acquainted with WILLIAMSTITCHEM; and now, if you please, we will retura to him and the ladies. WiTH ALL MY HEART. ‘* Really, Sir,” said. Mary, with modest reserve, “ you must be ex- D2 7 tremely fo) tremely fond of readine, to make a book the companion of your walks.” “Oh, Ma’am!”’ interrupted Wi - LIAM, “‘ reading is the soul of life; it vivifies the heart, and expands the sentiment; indeed, I know nothing so capable of affording refined satis- faction as books of exquisite sensibi- lity.” it “But,” rejoined Mary, “they re- quire to be chosen with great judgement. That flippancy of language, and frivo- lity of ideas, which stain the leaves of many modern productions, tend rather to corrupt than enlarge the heart.” The decided, yet modest manner in which this rejoinder was delivered, abashed the witling; and putting his book into his pocket, he addressed his discourse to Lovisa, who had hitherto remained silent; she was labouring under — (37) under the most painful sensations that. can depress the heart of ingenuousness 5 | she was trembling under the conviction - af va‘ falsehood. Jolem. anxiety ‘arose,: not from the presence of WiLLIAM, but from the dread of being discover-: ed by Mary, in what she had so re- cently denied. _ Now might I enter into a most: charming detail of all the pretty things. said by Witiram; of all the modest : teplies made by Louisa ; how WIL-: LIAM squeezed her hand, and looked tender; how she tried to draw it away, and said he was rude; how Mary purposely stopt to pick up a daisy, because she wouldn’t see WILLIAM sive Louisa a kiss; how But no; 1 do not know that WIL- LIAM did any of these things; 1 am not cestain that Mary did stoop to D3 pick { ee 5 pick up a daisy; and if I did, Tf arm sure it would not become me to tell it; and so, Mr. Reader, you must be content with learning that they all walked home together; that Lovisa. took hold of Mary’s arm, and that W ILL am peregrinated silently by him- self; that when they reached Mr.. Ro- etwson’s house, he took his leave; and that —— But if yow wish to know any more, you must proceed to the next- Chapter; and so farewell! — CHAP» Mt 39°) CHAP. IV. THE breakfast table awaited the presence of May and Lovisa when they entered. Mr. Rozpinson had arisen somewhat early, much relieved from his late indisposition; and Mrs. Roginson, who seldom courted the early breeze, had, however, this morning, taken a short ramble; she was folding up her cloak with great care, when Mary en- tered, lovely as the morh. Her delicate complexion, heightened by the glow of health, which temperance and exercise bestows, seemed to outvie the combined beauties of the lilly and the rose. Her uncurled tresses flowed gracefully over her shoulders, and her hght and airy ; BA, fioure, { 40 ) fioure, added to an expressive coun- tenance and full blue eye, gave her all the charms to which mortality can aspire. , _ Mr. Rosinson was not unconscious of the enchanting loveliness of Mary; and though justly proud of such a daughter, yet he well knew that indi- gent beauty often proved a fatal rock. But Mary was innocence itself—yet she was young. “Why, child, where hast thou been to this morning?” said Mrs. Roginson “thou look’st as fresh as a rose-bud.” ‘< We have been enjoying a pleasant walk across Parson’s-field, and through the lane into “Squire Lovepoe’s mea- dow, and—”’ ‘“¢ But fearing we should be late for breakfast, we hurried back as fast as we could,’ added Louisa. Now, ( 41 ) Now, was not Lovtsa very kind, to help Mary to finish her account? Oh yes! The mention of ’Squire Love- DoG’s name made her very obliging, did it not? Oh yes! But I wonder if she thought of Witt1am? Ohno! Nor I dare say she did not feel that Mary might by mistake say that they had met Mr. WiLzitaAm, and that she might inadvertently say, that—Oh no! Oh no! Mr. Author—Why then, I say, Me Reader; :Ole yest’: During breakfast, Mary descanted with exquisite simplicity on the charms of rural scenery. Her observations were purely the suggestions of her heart, the native dictates of her own undisguis~ ed feelings ; they were not modified by artificial sentiments of taste and con- gruity, or by learned rules of vicious refinement ; they were the spontaneous effusions. ( 42 ) effusions of a feeling heart, which in its silent workings, «t Look’d thro’ Nature, up to Nature’s God.” “* How beautiful it 1s, my dear fa- ther,’ she observed, ‘* to see all the happy cottagers, with such blithe con- tented looks, going to their daily la- bour; and some followed by their little ehubby boys, who divide with their fa- ther the labours of the field. My heart always follows them to their humble eottages, where in rural innocence and peace they live a happy, quiet, and do- mestic life.” | “¢ Ah, my gul,” replied Mr. Rozin- son, ‘* the industrious farmer is a more valuable member of society than per- haps any other; and yet few of its members are more unworthily coun- tenanced.”’ “* | won- ( 43 ) 3 ‘¢ J wonder,” responded Marry, * whether Garrer Burton has got about again, poor man. It was a sad misfortune, and Marcery and his children must have suffered a great deal.” | Louisa endeavoured to direct the conversation to its former channel, by observing, ‘* that she never saw the sun rise so beautiful in her life as it did this morning over ’Squire—— She stopped suddenly.—Ah! the sly slut ! ~ Mary was silent for an mstant. She appeared in the act of recalling to her +9 memory something that she had for- gotten. After a short pause, she re- cited, with exquisite tenderness and simplicity, the following lines from the moraland sublime BE ATTIE: ‘ But €¢ 6 c6 c¢ iS €¢ e¢ c¢ é¢ c¢ 66 Ce eC 66 ‘s ‘6 6 a6 ( 44 ) But who the melodies of morn can tell ? The wild brook babbling down the moun» tain’s side; The lowing herd; the shéepfold’s simple bell s The pipe of early shepherd dim descried ~ In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; The hollow murmur of the ocean tide, The hum of bees, the linnet’s lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ; ‘ Crown’d with her pail, the tripping milk. maid sings ; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope the pond’rous waggon . rings ; Thro’ rustling corn the hare astonish’d Springs ; | z Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour ; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings 3 Deep mourns the turtle in sequester’d bower, : And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour, « Oh, *° Oh, Nature! how in every charm supreme, «© W hose- Po * Dear me, now—I have forgotten the rest. But did you ever hear any thing so pretty, father? Is not Dr. BEATTIE a sweet poet? Why faith, girl,” said Mr. Ro- Binson, ‘* you'd do for an actress. The little witch speaks as pretty as any stage player.” Mees Mary smiled at this good-natured remark of her father’s; pleased, not because he praised Jer, but because he was eratified. Their repast being finished, Mary retired to her room, accompanied by Loursa.. As soon as: they entered, the latter threw herself on the neck of Mary, and burst into tears. She was astonished, and affectionately pressed her to reveal the cause of her grict. Ae aes (46 ) ss] am sure you never will forgive me—lI am sure you will not.” “ My. dear. girl,” replied \MLAgy, ‘“ what is it you have done, that should require my forgiveness? And do not think so harshly of me, as to suppose that, were 1t necessary for your comfort, I would with-hold it.” **Oh dear, oh dear t;-you) cannot am sure, because 1 have deceived you. 1 haye told you a falsehood; and now that you have found me out before | undeceived you, I. am sure you never will forgive me.” ed Here her tears flowed afresh; and Mary softened into the same weak- ness, begged her with a tremulous woice to explain herself; assuring her, that nothing could estrange her atec- tion, or violate her friendship. “Be confident, added she: **-waae ever + ~ (47) ever you have done, cannot be so hei- nous as to injure you in my opinion. I speak thus, not but that there are of- fences, and manifold ones, which, if you were capable of committing, would, nay, must, compel me to break off our connexion; but thy heart, I dare an- swer for it, is too pure to be the re- ceptacle of ought so dreadful. Speak then, my dear girl, and relieve thyself and me.”’ ) This kind assurance considerably re- heved the impetuosity of Low1sa’s grief ; who now, drying her eyes, and sobbing most piteously, looked at Mary. ‘{—ni— J— but let me: hide my face in your bosom, and then I w// tell you—indeed | will.” She threw ‘herself, weeping, once more, on the neck of Mary. Aftera snort ( 43 ) | Q short silence, she said, in a faultering accent, «¢J— J—- I— Jove— Mr.— Wit- L1AM—and I told you I did not. Oh, can you—can you forgive me?” Mary pressed her in her arms, and mingling tears with hers, exclaimed, ‘* Dear, dear Louisa; hew «coule you doubt me’ It was the simplicity of thine own heart, which imagined a. fault where there was none.” ““Oh, Mary! but then you know, we never have concealed any thing | from each other: You used «to ‘tell me every thing, and so did [.you, till now. Sut it is only three weeks since 1 loved him, and I never told’ you, because because - I did not think I did love him.” Mary re-assured. this innocent girl, — that she had not a¢ted wrong, and se-: cretiva ( 49 ) cretly rejoicisig in her own heart, that the cause of her grief was so trivial, she added jocularly, ‘that certainly in love-matters, secrecy was pardonable; and besides, don’t you know, Louisa, - we should never kiss and tell °”’ - Lovursa smiled at the good humour of her dear Mary, and embraced her with fervent transports, assuring her at (the same’ ‘tine, that henceforward ‘she would tell her every thing—that she would!” LovisA WAS NOW ITAPPY. . Ah, Reader! -should’st thou have been accustomed to the vicious senti- mentality of modern romance, I know thou wilt turn with disgust from this simple scene. You, perhaps, have ‘been used to !behold vices. far’ more elaring and atrocious than this of poor Lovisa’s, softened down into.a mere | E | — venial ( 50 ) venial fault, by the aid of false philo- a sophy ; extenuated from the weakness — of human reason; and forgtven from the dictates of conscious guilt, falsely imagined to be the whisperings of re- fined sentiment. But should’st thou ever chance to east thine eyes on Nature, and judge for thyself, and instead of estimating — moral rectitude, or obliquity, by thedog- mas of pseudo-philosophers, decide by the spontaneous dictates of thine own heart, you may then, perhaps, attain © to judge rightly of men and things. And you will then, perhaps, feel for Louisa all that she felt; for (if vou know it not, be informed), there is nothing more afflictive to the . really ingenuous heart, than the con- sciousness of having wantonly abused 2 sacred and dear friendship ; nor is there ) fas) there any thing more pungent te its feelings, than the reflection of having acted with Ca) meanness, and falsehood. ‘ - Lovisa drew from her pocket a housewife, and taking from it a piece . of paper neatly folded, put it into the hands of Mary. It was a letter from WILLIAM SritcHeM; and as the Reader has had a very just specimen: of -_ WILLIAMSTITCHEM Sspoetical powers, it will be but equitable that he should also be put in possession of a proof of — his epistolary abilities. Flere itis. E22 °° TO ae 52 } TO MISS LOUISA FAULKNER, | FROM WILLIAM STITCHEM, Etourre*. ‘‘ DEAR MISS LOUISA, “How shall I begim this letter? In what words shall I paint the overflowing ardour of my ever-burning passion? | ‘© As the Poet says, a pA a — — —_ * Let not the Reader stand aghast at this in- vasion of a once honourable title. When privi. leges become equal, every man possesses an equal right to.avaml himself of them; and when every pseudo gentleman of. fifty pounds per annum, from the empiric to the garretteer, from the garretteer to the translator, and from the trans- Jator of what he does know, to the translator and professar of languages which he dses not know, tack this appendage to their names, why may not zy inoffensive Poet attach it to his? Where 3s the difference between an ape in litera- ture and an ape in livery ? 6 oay 0 Cas) * Say not a word of this to my old father: *« Murmuring streams, soft shades, and spRne = ing flowers ; < hAbess aie. seas of milk, and ships of amber !’ | Oh, sweet Lovtsa! in all, the agony of words I tell my tale! | “© AS the Poet says, * Look upon me not as I am, aman, * But as a bone.’ «Oh that we could become two bones! or, _ ather, as the Scripture finely says,’ | © A mystical union!’ ‘In fne, Miss Louisa, I love you— Yes, by the Gods, I do—I swear I love you. But do you love me? Oh, the thought is madness! J mean when on the doubting side. ‘© Ah, Miss Louisa, do you know the horse- + pond, opposite Smur’s the farrier?, ‘There will I die, if you don’t love me! es ‘Figure to yourself, dear Louisa, when I E3 an (54 ) am taken out of it—my face all swelled and blue; the water running out of my eyes, nose, and mouth; my hair like unto a pound of candles ! «© Can you take such a picture to your heart, and be the cause? Oh, no! Farewell! ever-adored, ever - beautiful Louisa! Farewell, farewell ! ‘© From your loving youth, till death, 66 WILLIAM OTITCHEM.” Mary could with difficulty refrain from smiling at this eccentric. epistle} but retaining the inflexible gravity of her countenance, she folded it up again, and returned it to Lovisa, inquiring, | at the same time, whether she had ~ written an answer. ‘* | have one in my pocket, which I wrote a week ago, but did not send it, because I did not think he would drown : himself.”’ ae “« Bot ( 55) ** But [ hope,” replied Mary, “ you did not declare your love in terms so warm and explicit as WiLiiaM ‘has done ?”’ rl wee * Oh, nod dlere it as 3) you ‘cansee if I have.” | She then presented her letter to Mary, who perused it with a loud voice. It was as follows: ‘wR, WILLIAM, ‘6 [ don’t know how to answer your letter, “because I never had one of the kind before. As to the fava bones, and the mystical union, I don’t understand them. Howsomever, you may be certain I won’t tell your old father, and if you — don’t drown yourself in Smur’s horse-pond, vege naps by-and-by I may like you. i) ‘© So no more from your’s, % “Louisa FAULKNER,?? EA Mary ( 56 ) % MARY having read it, returned this letter to its fair writer, “© My'dear girl,” “sard “she, -“* Fitove thy caution. We are both young and inexperienced in the arts of man; and though we have both a father to fly to in cases of doubt and necessity, yet it too often happens, that love rejects all advice till its own determinations are formed, and then solicits it only for the sake of apparent caution. Let not, however, such be your case. Make me the confidant of your secret, and if WILLIAM prove to be possessed of a | good heart and sound principle, you may then hope to enjoy happiness as his wife.” (Ag eYs WIFE!’ This was a word rather too great for — Lovisa; she had never dared to extend her fondest hopes so far: she had never pre- & hadn’t | better send— ( 7) ‘presumed to whisper even to her own heart the possibility of such an event. It seemed then to her like a word she had never heard before. ‘Oh, good heavens, Mary! how can you talk so! I declare I never in- 9 tend to be “ His wife,’ I suppose she meant to say ; but the word faultered on her tongue, and Mary, wishing to spare her from any unpleasant feelings, changed the discourse, by proposing that. they should to-day continue their patch- ‘work, which was intended to form a quilt for Mrs. Roprnson’s bed. This was assented to, and they im- mediately descended into the parlour ; ‘but as they were going down stairs, oursa. whispered, I'' say “Mary, 9% ** The letter,” replied her companion quickly ( 58 ) quickly —‘* Oh, yes! send it by all means, to save the poor man from _ drowning.” This point being agreed upon, alittle boy was called to carry it, with an assurance of a penny when he returned, provided, if he was asked by any one who the letter came from, he said, “* Nobody ;” and what 1s more, enjoined Lovwisa, “ You must declare nobody sent it.” CHAP» ( 59 ) CPAP. V. LET us now leave the affection of Witt1am and Lovisa to “ grow with their growth,”:and pay our attention to a new personage in this our Taie. [t was one morning in the month of May, that a gentleman (whom we shall simply call Aucusrus) entered the village in a post-chaise. He was driv- ing furiously along, when one of the wheels flew off, and the vehicle in an instant was dashed to the ground. In this situation it was dragged a consider- able distance, as the postillion had been thrown from his seat, and tlte horses, wild with affright, flew like the wind, till their flight was intercepted just op- . posite (ke). posite Mr. Rosinson’s house, by a _ countryman who was going to work. The gentleman was soon extricated from his late perilous, and now unplea- sant situation. He was much bruised, and had, besides, received a violent con-. tusion on the side of his head. Mr. Rosrinson kindly offered him a bed in his house, for the present, until medi- cal assistance could be procured. This he accepted with many acknowledge- - ments; and with the assistance of Mr. Rosrnson and the postillion, who had now come up, he was led into the par- lour, where were sitting Mrs. Rozin-_ son, Lovisa,; and Mary. As soon as he entered, he apologized for this intrusion, and requested that somebody might be sent for a surgeon. The ‘postillton was immediately dis-_ ‘patched, and shortly after returned, ac- companied ( 61 ) companied by Mr.Nucent. He found it necessary to bleed him; and accord- ingly prepared to perform the opera- tion. | Mary and Louisa left the room unperceived. When Mr. Nucenr had done, he ordered him to lie down and remain undisturbed. He then left him, pro- mising to see him again in the evening, when he would bring some medicines, as he expected an access of fever might take place. The gentleman, when he learnt that his recovery was likely to be tedious, requested to know if it were possible to move him to some inn, as he feared he might inconvenience Mr. Rozginson by his stay there. — But this proposition was quickly ne- gatived by Mr. Rosinson himself, who declared ( 62 ) declared he had a spare bed at his ser - vice, and that, as to attendance, he had a wife and daughter, who never felt more happy than when administering to the necessities of sickness; ‘“‘ and you may be assured, Sir,” added this worthy. man, ‘* that no inn will use you better than our family, who require no ac- knowledgements but gratitude, and who will strive to make you happy, from the mere wish of doing so.” The stranger was overwhelmed at this rustic effusion of feeling and bene- volence; and unwilling to deny the good man his wish, he- resolved to take up his abode with him. He was, therefore, conducted to a bed, where, in the arms of sleep, we will leave him for the pre- sent. : Mary and Louisa were soon in- formed of their new guest, and en-' joined ) 5 , ( 63 ) joined by Mr. Roginson to pay him every attention, which, as an invalid and a gentleman, he had a right to ex- pect from their hands. AS aGENTLEMAN! Yes, Reader, as a gentleman; for such was his appearance. But let the sequel of this my Tale teach thee never more to indulge a predilection for ap- pearances. ‘They are deceitful. In the evening Mr. Nucenr called, and found his patient much relieved by a tranquil sleep, which he had enjoyed for some hours.. As there was no ap- pearance of fever, he gave reason to hope that a few days might restore him again to health, He was, however, rather stiff from his bruises, and being likewise weak from the loss of blood, he declined the invitation of Mr. Ro- BINSON, of joining him that evening, at ( 64 ) at supper. During that repast, how- ever; ithe family indulged themselves in various speculations respecting him, all of which terminated in this one de- cision, that he was a GENTLEMAN, and an invalid, and therefore entitled to their protection. On the following morning he ate his: breakfast with them. His looks. were wan and spiritless ; his fine dark eye was - Janguid, and his conversation desultory. He did not even seem to participate in the sincere joy expressed by his worthy host and hostess, on the probability of his speedy recovery. As soon as the meal was finished, he retired to his room, from whence he emerged not until the hour of dinner. Louisa to-day bade a temporary fatewell to Mary, as she was going to spend a week with her aunt, at a town a few ( 65 ) a few miles distant. They embraced each other, and Mary wept—yet she knew not why. Something heavy sat upon her heart, and she seemed to think she should want Louisa long ere her return. “Farewell! my dear girl,” were her words, **-anddo not exceed your time.” When she retired to her chamber, a thousand thoughts crowded on her mind. ‘To none could she afixaname. They ~ were the children of a disordered fancy, ‘heated by imaginary scenes of unknown bliss. At dinner she was unusually dis- ordered, and .actually when her father asked her for some bread, gave him a potatoe. She did not dare litt her eyes fromthe table, and when Avucusrus spoke, she felt an unknown sensation. WV BHAT COULD “THES MEIN Po 200 F ass ( 66 ) Ah, Reader! now are ye on the thorns of expectation to know what is the matter with Mary. But wait with patience. We Authors are not to gallop out of the high-road to place roses in the path of you Readers. No, no; you must be cortent to wait till. “you find them in their proper place. The health of Augustus was, in a few days, perfectly established ; and as he regained again his florid complexion, and his eyes assumed their wonted viva- city, he appeared~stil] more engaging in the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Rosinsen. AND NOT IN THE EYES OF— Patience! patience! patience! One evening as Mary was pursuing a solitary walk, and indulging her ima- gination, a stile intercepted her pro- | evess: she ascended one side, and was _ turning to descend the other, when AUGUSTUS ( 8?) Avcustwus issued forth from an ad- joining field. He instantly sprang to her assistance: Mary blushed; aye, I verily believe, to her fingers’ ends ; and thanking him with great affability for his kindness, offered ‘to turn into a nar- row lane which Jed to her. father’s house. eV ETS it: mot, said Aucusrus, “ that Jd fear it would be trespassing too muca on your time, | would solicit your company in a short walk this fine eyen- ing.” ; 0 My father expects me home, Sir’; replied Mary, ‘“‘ and I dare not -dis- obey him.” | “ But Jwill be a mediater between you and your father; and besides, so fine an evening, even Nature herself seems to invite you to wander among her beauties.” F 2 oo“ Tnigeeds ( 68 ) —& Indeed, Sir, ]-cannot ; I would not willingly offend my father: I never have done it, and I am sure IJ shall if he — knows—” “Pardon me, Miss Ropinson, I wish not to constrain your inclinations, it they prompt you to return; yet, while I admit their authority, I regret it should be so.” ‘‘ Tam not, Sir, mistress of my own wish, whatever it might be; | willingly submit to the superior knowledge and experience of a parent in every thing; and, in doing that, I feel persuaded I act right. Excuse me, Sir—I wish you good evening.” She departed, and AvcustTus con- tinued his ramble solus, admiring the native ingenuousness and simplicity of — Mary. Yet he regretted it had not been in his power to overcome het | scruples, ( 69 ) scruples, for he felt a certain something about his heart, which plainly told him she was not an indifferent object. Indeed, from the first moment of his entering her father’s house, he felt a superior consideration for her; and he resolved to make some excuse to Mr. Roxginson on his return, which might _ prolong his stay in the village. . He pursued his walk ull twilight, ruminating upon his present situation, and the singular circumstance which led to it. He considered it as a pre- destined scheme of Providence, and therefore resolved to accomplish it as far as rested with himself, Thus pondering, he proceeded on- wards till the banks of a small. river checked his progress. Hie was about to return, when the cries of some one in distress arrested his attention. He pro- FS ceeded 7°) ceeded to the spot from whence they issued, and perceived a female form standing in'a wild attitude at the foot of the rivulet. Her uncombed locks — floated in the breeze, and her loose attire displayed a bosom of snowy white- ness. Her eyes were fixed upon the water, and at intervals she uttered the most piercing cries, then subsiding inte a melancholy stupor, she sighed and wept. Aucustfus approached towards her, but she was unconscious of his presence. The moon had just risen 19 mild efful- — gent splendour, and beamed her soit — rays upon the countenance of this fe male. It was bathed 1m tears, but | shewed the wreck of a once famed . beauty ; but dim were now: her tearful \' eyes, and pale her sunken cheek; the — ‘roses of health were fled;, the sparklings: | GR aie ee (0705) of joy were for ever gone; her hands were Clasped within each other, and she stood the mournful monument of despair and grief. Avcustus, unwilling to disturb her, receded a few paces, to observe what would be her conduct, and likewise to be near in case the poor unfortunate should attempt to drown herself. After a few minutes silence, she again pierced the air with her shrieks; after- wards bursting into a flood of tears, she exclaimed, ‘«« So, so, do not cry angel! thy fa- ther will be here anon! See! from the OOZY bottom how he rises! Henry! My Gop! Oh, Henry, stay! do not, do not leave me!—Ah, is he gone! Well, well, my mother told me so! Alas, she is:dead! the moss grows F 4 , over (i722) over her grave, and the cold winds whistle around her! Hush! hush! my sweet ! “Ab, Cuarzorre! thy heart hast sadly deceived thee! Henry vowed he would be true—and | beheved him}: but—yes! yes! ‘tis he! ‘tishe! HENRY, — Henry! Ob, my Gop! the waves. curl round thee} Hist! i hear his death: te shriek! He sinks! he sinks! Overpowered by her feelings, she threw: herself upon the earth: Aveustus flew to her relief. At this moment appeared two or three rustics, who immediately exclaimed, “ Here she is!” Instantly an aged man rushed forth, and threw himself upon his knees beside her— ‘CHARLOTTE! ny daveghter, CHArR- LOTTE, arise! Stranger, whoe’er thou art, my grateful thanks are thine ! J am “ A) aim a poor old father, whose only child, wlas, 1s bereft of reason! Soft; she re- covers :” _ CHARLOTTE arose, and threw her arms round her father; she wept abun- dantly, and mingled with her tears the name of Henry. At length she became more composed, and her father, turning to AucGusrus, continued— ‘© Now, Sir, for a few minutes will she be perfectly sensible—but soon, alas! will she relapse. It is in this manner she lives;.and yet she has a child at home, who sometimes shares her ca- resses.”” AvuGustTus inquired by what means she had that night reached the spot where he accidentally met her. The old man was about to reply, when CHARLOTTE, turning round, fixed a steady look upon Avucustus, then grasping ( 74) grasping hold of her father’s arm, ex- claimed with an indescribable wildness of accent, ‘* Just so was * Henry when frit ‘ saw him! He was indeed a lovely youth !” She approached towards Aucustus, and clasping his hand in her’s, placed it to her wan and tear-wet cheek ; she sighed the name of “* Henry,” and kissed it. } ‘Poor girl,” said AuGusTUS, “would to Heaven I could pour the balm vof comfort into thy bleeding bosom! May _ thy sorrows soon find repose in the . jj orave.”” ‘ ii eae 4 << Ah, Sir!’ replied her father, ‘* who would not wish to see her at rest in the | arms of death! .Yet, O Gop! may the _ same hour close both our lives.” | They had now reached the main road, | A759 road, when Aucustvs, wishing the fair maniac and her afflicted father a good night, hastened to the house of his , . friend, anxious to learn from him some- thing more respecting CHARLOTTE. When he entered he found the family all assembled tn the parlour, not even excepting Mary, who was at her needle. She made a slight obeisance to him at his entrance, and resumed her occupa- tion. | _.- Aveustrus had scarcely seated him- self when he related his adventure, and _ “expressed his desire to learn from Mr. i ~Roginson any thing relent her storf. , | ‘* Poor girl!” said he, ‘she has -in- deed been unfortunate; and there 1s not @ heart in the whole village but what has wept’ foy her’ ‘Her’ story, Str; 15 briefly this: | | Bie ter ( 76 ) © Her father keeps a small public- house down in the village, and she is his only daughter. Her mother died about two years since. ‘‘ A short time previous to her death, ayoung man, named Henry MeL- VILLE, Came to reside here, being em- ployed by farmer Grurr. He used to visit her father’s house occasionally, and being fond of CHARLOTTE, they some- times walked out together. They were the talk of the whole village, because CHARLOTTE had always carried herself” so reserved towards men folks, that every. body said she would'die an old maid. ‘‘ Flowever, Henry found the way to make her love him well enough, poor girl. He was a base man, and well deserved his death, but people were sorry for it, because of CHARLOTTE. © Well, they continued together | dares 1 77 )) dare say four months at least, if not more, and at the end of that time it was said they were going to be married, and that farmer GRUFF was going to give them a little cottage to live in. AN this was said, you know, but, how- ever, I never kelieved a word on’t for my part, for I knew farmer GruFF too well for that. ““ However, be that as it may, it is very certain they were asked three times m our church by Parson Tuin. This was news indeed, and it served all the old women for a week, to nobble about from one to another tellingit. Iknow at was thought miracles would never ‘cease, when the demure CHARLOTTE WHILLIAMs was going to ‘be married to Henry Metvitte. ‘¢Well, about this time ther mother —@ied, which of course put a stop to the wedding. ( ve }) wedding. Poor woman! the last words she said were, ‘*‘ CHARLOTTE, take care Henry does not deceive you.” When she died, honest Tom Wituiams lost an excellent wife. ‘¢ After a proper time had gone by, the marriage of CHARLOTTE was again talked of ; and so at last the day was fixed, when she was to be led to churci. But, poor girl! that day never came. ‘It was one evening that they were walking out together, when Henry recollected he had forgotten to fasten farmer GruFr’s barn-door, and afraid Jest he should find it out, he made CHARLOTTE walk home by herself, and so went back to farmer Grurr’s. | It was a perilous dark night, and the road lay all across the fields, so that CHar- LOTTE, you may suppose, Sir, did not feel happy tul he returned. Ta ah «When ( 79) *¢ When she got home she sat down on the bench at the door to wait for Henry. Nine o’clock came, and ten o'clock came, and eleven o’clock came, but no Henry. Poor thing! how she fretted. I was there that night, and Istried,..as mucel.as..1 could, to,make her comfortable, but it was all in vain. So.at last, when twelve o’clock came, she declared she would go to farmer GruFe’s, and inquire for him, for she was sure something had _ happened. However, her father and I contrived to persuade her out of that, because, as we said, farmer GRuFF might want him to do something, or, being such a dark night, he might bé afraid to come home, and so he slept there. “She therefore resolved to stay till morning; when, alas! the whole truth came out, for Hopsr Grunpy, com- ing ( 80 ) a ing along by that very pond you was at to-night, sees a hat lying on the bank, so taking it up, whose name should be in it but Henry’s. Hopes, however, not suspecting that the poor lad was crowned, carries his hat to old Wi :- LIAMS 3 so you may guess how Cuar- LOTTE was frightened. «© Well, the consequence was, that ’ the pond was dragged; and there, sure enough, was found the body of poor Henry, who, it is supposed, had missed his way 1n the dark, and so fell in. “From this moment, CHARLOTTE was never afterwards seen to smile. She was always crying, and used to dream that Henry appeared at her bed-side, and kissed her, and said he was not dead. Her father in vain en- deavoured to pacify her grief, for no- thing could do it. And now time f brought aS brought to light another sad- misfor- tune, for a ei months after Henry’s death, it was discovered she’ was S preg- nant by him. ‘‘ But even this her poor father ‘could have borne, had Gop been. pleased to spare her senses. But so it was, she mourned herself mad; and she was+de- lirious when she was delivered of her child. In this state she has continued ever since ; and sometimes, when she escapes her father’s vigilance, she flies to that pond, and fancies she 1s talking to Henry. ma Foor virl, every body pities her; and, Gop knows, she suffers enough. But whom the Lorp loveth he chasteneth.” With this prous observation Mr. Ro- BINsON concluded his narration, and Mary and her mother dropt a silent tear to its truth. | G Avcustus { 82 ) - Avcustus returned his thanks. Sup- per was introduced—they partook spar- ingly of it, and all retired to rest. ~ And now, Reader, with thy kind permission, I will give my goose-stump — a respite, and, bidding thee good night, close the Chapter. WITH ALL MY HEART! CHAP. 8s. CHAP. Vuk AUGUSTUS had now perfe€lly re- covered his health, and he only thought of devising some means to colour his protracted stay at Mr. Rosinson’s. Every day told him, that to leave Mary was impossible, and his heart was tormented with doubt and anxiety. The undeviating reserve, and the mo- dest difidence with which Mary ail- ways comported herself, gave many a pang to his bosom, lest there should be arivalin his love. Yet even this sup- position, when tried by the criterion of experience, vanished :. she scarcely ever left her father’s house; no male visitant ever appeared there; unless indeed some | Ginn. oid (oF old GAFFER, or antiquated Hopes, chanced to drink a mug of ale with Mir. RoBinson; and ébese, surely, could not be the favoured admirers of the beauteous Mary! Howthen, thought AuGUSTUS, can any rival cause such maiden coyness to -possess her when | am present? Surely it cannot be, that,” dazzled by MY RANK, her innocent humble heart does not presume to look so high; or that she endeavours to con- ceal a passion which she dreads can never be rewarded. Dear girl! Jet me selze a propitious moment to undeceive her! | : Thus did Aucustus reason to him-_ self, and vainly endeayoured to. assign. a cause for that which is generally with- out any cause-——-A WOMAN'S WILL. Mary, in the meantime, was not, I assure you, Reader, without her con-s jectures. \ (85) yectures. She felt, for the first time, the dawnings of a passion, which was doomed in its maturity to fll with tears her eyes, her heart with grief. She was not, could not be, unconscious of the manly beautiesand the fascinating graces cf Aucustus. Hus'conversation was polite, refined, and interesting ; and when he smiled, every charm seemed sporting on his lip; his person was masculine and well formed; and his de- portment farm and impressive. - To such accomplishments could the tender, unsuspecting heart of Mary be ansensible? Alas !-she fella sad victim’ tothem; yes! she fella vidlim to them,. spite of all ber endeavours to crush in its infancy her love; for AucGustus bad declared himself to be the younger brother of a noble family, and Mary, poor M ARY, W ent at the inequality. Se ea Sac ( 86 ) One morning, while at breakfast, Av- Gustus informed Mr. Ropinson that he had received letters from London, which rendered his presence there now unnecessary, and that as he purposed spending a few months in the country, as it. might be conducive to a periect re-establishment of his health, he should feel peculiarly happy if arrangements could be made so as to make Mr. Ko- 31nson’shousehisabode: he wouldscru- pulously defray every expence incurred. _ Mr. Rogsinson, who in fact had con- ceived a partiality for his manners and conversation, soon agreed to the pro- posal, and Aucustvus now saw nothing to impede his speedy progress in the affection of Mary. She too rejoiced at the event, though perhaps uncon- scious of what was precisely the cause of her joy. | The- ( &7 ) . The days now glided on in unihter- rupted happiness, while the hearts of Mary and Aueustus expanded to- wards each other, and their eyes spoke the language of eternal love. A de- _¢laration had not yet taken place on the part of Aucustus; but his affection had been told a thousand times, in Janguage more energetic than words ; and Mary no longer doubted but that Avcustus alone reigned master of her heart. - ‘One day, while Mary was busily employed at her needle e, the postman rung at the garden bell; he had a letter for Mary: it was from Lovisa. With eager joy she broke the seal, and read-as follows : “‘ MY DEAREST MARY, ‘‘ T hope you will not be offended at my staying ei Seyond my time; as I-promised to be home.at the g 4 | end (88 } end of the week; but really my aunt has been so pressing for me to remain a few days longer, that I could not refuse her, and I thought that you would not be angry. But, upon my word, I shall be back on Sunday next ; ; so you may look for me. «© Give my kind love to your father and mother, and:take my love to my father; and if you see - WILLIAM, you may say I am very well—that’s all, «© Farewell, and believe me to be your affec- tionate ~ gp ‘* Louisa FAULKNER... Mary read with pleasure this inti- mation of her friend’s early return, for now she found more than ever the want of her company. She now, more than ever, sighed for a friend, in whose bosom to repose her secret. The moment, however, at. length’ arrived, when this secret became less’ painful, and Mary. less anxious that it should be concealed. 5” AUGUSTUS One aay solicited her com pany . ‘ ( 89 ) - Fany in a rura! ramble throuzh some. adjoining pleasure-grounds. From the Various petty circumstances which had taken place on both sides, this proposal was assented to with little reluctance on the part of Mary, and they accord- ingly left Mr. Ropinson’s house im- mediately after dinner. - Mary was dressed in white, with a neat straw hat, which shaded her face, and at-the same time gave it an inex-. pressible beauty. Her hair hung over her shoulders 1n graceful negligence, and this villaze Hebe moved with pe- éuliar loveliness by the side of Av-- CUSTUS. ‘ During their peregrination Aucustus. urged, with all the delicacy he possessed, kis tender suit. ! “‘ Believe me, adored gril!’ -he ex- tlaimed, “I spéak not the language of. Prin s seduction ( 90 ) seduction or flattery; it 1s the pure emanation of my heart, and the dic-. tates of the most refined honour. Do not, then, from any false motives, re- ject my love; return it with ardour; and let us join in vows of eternal affec- tion before the sacred throne of Gop!” Overwhelmed with confusion, MARY knew not what to reply: with a tre- mulous voice, and unaffected modesty, she observed, ** That Aueustus would bemean himself too much, in taking to his bosom an humble village maiden, who, unpractised in. the minutiz of con- «duct prescribed by fashion, and by the tules of society, would prove a very un- fit companion for the yoUNGER BRo- THER OF A NOBLEMAN!” *¢ How!” rephed Aucusrus, “ can you for a moment suppose me in- Huenced by such narrow prejudices? think’st ( 91 ) think’st thou not that I value innocence and virtue before pageantry and splen- dour; that I prefer the genuine affec- tion of a pure heart, to the artificial sentiments of a corrupt one? Qh, Mary wrong me not so much as to suppose, that I would place in com- petition thy simple unadorned virtue, with the meretricious affectation of a town-bred belle!” © Ah, Sirt excuse me, when I say, that. woman cannot doubt too much the professions of man! London I never saw, but I have read with tears, of unfortunate wretches who there nightly haunt the streets, to purchase life by the basest prostitution. I have. reac of them in their nocturnal mi- series! {n fancy have I seen them, eat- ing the bread of tears, which their guilt has — ( 92 ) has purchased! Oh, Aucustus! and are not. these the victims of cruel. man!’ ° “© Mary !:I cannot think you mean to apply this dreadful picture to myself. My jove is too pure, too honourable, to seek thy -ruin! My happiness is built on THINE: surely then | would shelter thy.tender form from every :in- jurious blast.” .** Alas! Sir, think fora moment how wide the distance 1s betwixt us. Itis ir-- remediable!—Aucustrus,the YOUNGER ° BROTHER OF A NOBLE FAMILY, and Mary, poor Mary, the humble daugh- ter of avillaser! Oh, Sir! forget me; think not of me; Nature seems to have placed a rata which - custom forbids us to. o’erleap.”” - As she. uttered these words, she burst. | into (93 } into teats ; her heart was too fall. Av- custTus, for the first time, pressed her lips to his, and continued— | «© Why these vain alarms? why these jmaginary impossibilities ? 1 am the sole master of my. own actions, and the judge of their propriety. My heart tells me, that, separated from you, my exist- ence must be miserable; can you, then, devote to such affliction one whose only fault is loving you?” PsONe. Sir, it bea fault tol love, ‘alas! how easily is it. forgiven. I respect your virtues, and.am grateful for the honour of your affection. More | cannot do, I cannot, in justice to my own feelings, to those of my dear parents, foster a passion which reason pronounces to bé improper; yet, Sir, in my heart you will forever live—yes, the name of j AUGUSTUS ( 94 ) Avcustus will forever be dear to Many !2>>., ‘© Amiable girl ! how do you shew nte the virtue which I lose in foregoing thee ? Yet talk not of love! You feel it not; itis a stranger to thy bosom! Oh! if thou but felt half the ardour which animates my heart, how soon would all these idle scruples vanish ! But, no, Aveusrus is nought to thee f Another is the favoured object of thy love ! Be it so: J will fly from thee! Iwill bury in the depth of woods, my fatal passion, or, still more desperate, with life (ll tear thee from my heart !” “ Oh, Aueusrus, talk not thus !’” “Yes! far from thee will I transport: this wretched body. No longer shall _ my presence offend thee. And when, perchance, thou’it revelling in the arms Or t og.) of love, and giving unbounded transport to thy sou!, a thought of me may rush athwart thy mind, and even in the midst of joy, suffuse thine eyes with tears.” ‘© For God’s sake hold,” exclaimed Mary: “Ohwound not thus my heart,. which never yet wronged ought that e’er existed. Oh, Aucustus, you have wrung from me an unwilling secret. Yes, for with tears, with blushes I speak it—Aucustus,I love you! Ohdo not, do not wrong me.” _ She wept, while Auvevstus, tran- sported with rapture, pressed her to his. bosom in a fervent embrace. ‘S- Dear: oul,” ‘he exclanmed,’ ‘* :for- give my barbarity |! Pardon me, that eer 1 drew from those beauteous eyes one single tear! And art thou mine?” He embraced her again, and covered with a profusion of kisses, her crimson- ed ( 96 j ed face. Having disengaged herself, she continued — | , < Now Aveustus, that I have con- fessed to thee my love, promise me that from this hour we meet no more, until you have obtained my parents’ approba- tion. Muchas confess thy virtues have interested my heart, yet would I not for days of endless happiness, proceed clan< destinely : if thou wouidst continue to merit that love thou hast excited, adi as ] bid thee, and then we may be happy.”’- Dear: girly’ replied Aveustus, ‘* “how easy are the terms on which you hold out to me eternal bliss. Let. us instantly return, and I will lead thee to. the feet of thy father and mother; and implore their benediction ; nor will they. refuse it to'so kind a daughter.” _ Towards home they now bent their way with eager steps.’ On their arrival,’ | they ( 97.) they found Mr. and Mrs. Rostnson in the parlour. Aucustus led in Mary with a firm and impressive manner ; then addressing himself to Mr. Rozginson, while. Mary rested her head on the bosom of her mother,. he spoke as fol- lows : “ With all that.confidence of success, which virtue and integrity.can inspire, ].now solicit your concurrence to a step on which my future happiness depends. oe 1. OUr daughter’s virtues and her beauty have inspired me with an esteem founded onthe most ardent love. From the moment I beheld her I felt that she was necessary to my happiness; that conviction has since become strength- ened by subsequent manifestations of excellence: need I then say, that I now wish your approbation, of my soon lead- ing her to the altar, where, in the sacred ic presence (98). presence of Gon, the Priest may jor our hands: Nature has already joined our hearts.” - Mr. Rosinsown heard this proposal with the highest satisfaction; he was not surprised, for he had long beheld their growing attachment, and. this honourable avowal of it was supremely eratifying. | He replied in general, that, as a father, he could not but feel delighted at the prospe& of so advantageous and happy an union, and that he could not tm justice to himself and his daughter put a negative on a request so essential to her future comfort; but, added he, “‘ when I give Mary to thy arms as a wife, I give thee a gem which kings might be proud to own. - Though her - birth be humble, she is virtuous; and I thank Gop, she has never, from the Wa hour | (99 ) hour she was born, given me or her mo- ther one moment’s disquiet; atid, let an old man tell thee, that a dutiful and affectionate daughter cannot fail to make an obedient and faithful wife.” ara So saying, this worthy man rose, arid taking the relu@tant hand of his beauti- ful hali-complying daughter, placed it in that of Aueustwts, exclaiming, at the ‘same’ ‘time? “Uda protec thee, _-and make thee happy !” | Reader! hast thou a heart? IF so, dowill spare my pen the labour of at- tempting to depict what no language -can do justice to—the feelings of M ARY and Auecustus. Picture to thyself an innocent and artless gul, lovely as hea- ven, and pure and unsullied as the lilly, bestowed upon Aucustus! Oh, what at easure must he possess! And how eloquent is Nature! for see, in her Be G2 sparkling ( 100 ) sparkling eyes, I read all the raptures of her soul; and in those glistening dew- drops which suffuse them, 1 see the pure emanation .of love and gratitude! In- © estimable girl! I weep over thy fate : with tears I pursue thy narrative! Oh, may the great Gop of Nature soothe to silence all thy troubles; may he pour balm into thy bleeding wounds, and reward with a crown of glory thy ex- alted virtue! Farewell! | aS HAP © ( ror } CHAP. VE: SUNDAY came, and with it the much desired Louisa, who rejoiced once more to hold in her embrace her dear Mary. After a few questions on either side, and some other efc.eleras, which usually take place when two friends meet, they both retired to the apart- ment of Mary, when the latter un- bosomed her whole secret to Lovisa. “My dear oir,” sad she, “ Tam. the happiest of creatures. My father and mother have given their consent ;. and Iam loved by a man, amiable in his qualities, and exalted in his birth.” © Ah, my dearest Mary!’ replied Louisa, pensively—** I suppose when you are the Honourable Mrs. , you. | G3 will / bs1os ) will not deign to think of your old companion, when she is plain Mrs. STITCHEM.” | “ Unkind Louisa! do you think that all the olitter of fortune, all the pageantry” of wealth, can efface thee from my me- mory. Ah, no! amid all the splendour which title can bestow, my heart will. often fondly retrace the scenes of my childhood ; wander with thee through the fields of my native village, and pause, with solemn raptu@, on the man- sion where first [drew my breath! And. what can wealth bestow equal to the bosom friend of my youth? With thee I can again live o’er my life, and sport with thee in imagination on all those spots endeared to us by infantine plea- sures! Surely, Lovisa, you cannot think I would forget thee.’’ © Ob, no! Ido not think that you will | —_ ‘ 4 > z - =~ . 5 te en a ( 103.) will. forget me. But, perhaps, when you have got new friends, and those . great folks too, you will blush to own me, in my humble sphere of isfe? «¢ Shame on thee, Lovisa! what have EF done that should give thee cause for so unjust a suspicion. I thought you knew my heart better, than to harbour such an idea. How unkind it 1s, that at a moment when every happiness seemed within my reach, you should damp the general felicity by cruel and ungenerous reproaches.”, These last words. were spoken so gently affectionate by Mary, that Lovisa could no longer refrain from: throwing herself on the neck of her in- jured friend, and begging her pardon. ' Forgive me, Mary,” she exclaimed,. “ for I have wronged you.” | H 4 66. Hor- ( 104 ) ‘““ Forgiveness it needs not,” replied ‘Mary. ‘* Let us, however, change the topic, and by way of making some ‘amends for your fault, tell me when you intend to be married.” “« Married! lack-a-day, I don’t know. WILLIAM says that he can’t marry while he remains with "Squire Love- poc; and-so he intends, he says, to leave him soon, and go up to London and take a shop; for, he says, he has got quite money enough, he says.” “« Sincerely do [ rejoice, Lovisa, at your prospects. Check, if you can, his ill-directed propensity for reading sen-. timental trash, and you will find his heart improve. He is young, and in- dustrious, and I doubt not but he will make you a good husband.” ‘‘ | hope so I’m sure, for I have got no mother to protect me, and if W1L- , | LIAM ( 105 ) L1&M proves unkind, I shall be wretched. indeed.” << Oh, doult it not,” replied Mary. ‘© No, | don’t doubt it, for I am sure he writes so pretty and so tender to me, that nobody can doubt him. — See, here, I have another letter from him while I was at my aunt’s, and now you.» read it, and see if you don’t think he speaks truth.” Mary .received. from. her the letter,. and, opening it, read as follows : TO MISS LOUISA FAULKNER, FROM WILLIAM STITCHEM, Esourre. ‘MY DEAR MISS LOUISA, ~ © @h! how I pant for your return, Like a fish, out of water, I flounder about, and am ready to die. Like.a traveller, 1 walk in the valleys of fiiion, and on the mountains of imagination, but ~ I cannot ( 106 ) f cannot find the object of my travels. Alas! how can I when you are away ? «“ Ah, Miss! as the Poet says; ‘ Where’er I roam; whatever realms I see, © My heart, untravell’d, fondly turns to thee ; ‘ Stull to Louisa turns with ceaseless pain, “And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.’ “© In the words of adoration, in the language: of excessive sensibility, I presume to tell my tale of love! When last thy fair hand vouchsafed to deien to throw upon spotless paper, spotless as thy own mind, thy innocent virgin thoughts; oh,. how they thrilled through my heart in rapturous. extatics! Oh how they boiled through my veins. in bubbling harmony! I thought them words of gsold—alas! they were of ink. ' « Heavenly Venus of the Gods! Thou whose expanding charms, with beams of strongest beauty, dazzles my eyés, indulge thy soft sentiment and -hearme. Yes, hear me, for-I speak a tale of | love; of Jove compounded of marriage—I mean — of marriage that is to be. “ Venus Louisa! I intend to leave ‘Squire Lovepoc, No genius expands beneath him—no sensi- — © 'Thatifyou will marry me, [’ll fix the wedding-day. ( 7 9 sensibility emanates in his-service. My powers: are cramped! Oh, the degrading thought! when loftiest rapture thrills the concatenation of my _ thoughts, and I would indulge all the sublime beauties of my Muse—how is it—am I not, per- haps, sent to saddle the mMare!—Yes, by the gods, to saddle the manz!—TI will not, cannot, must not brook it. «My genius must have food! so it shall! if shall have food! I will go to London, and take abookseller’s shop; yes, a bookseller’s shop! «Then may I roam through fields of poetry, through groves of history, through woods of. science, and over mountains of metaphysics ;. sail on rivers of sensibility, and fish in ponds of: rapttire ! | « Such is my resolye, and, “Oh! Miss Louisa, I have only got to say, ‘« Kver-adored charmer, and never enough to be loved girl, adieu! adieu! adieu! Remember, ‘Thatif you wilkmarry me, I'll fix the wedding-day.’ «© Your’s till death, . ‘ WILDIAM.STITCGHEM,.” | * Well, ee , vfs of t A eaey |? ( ros J « Well, Lovisa,” observed Mary,,. returning the letter—‘ pursue my ad- vice : check if you can his ill directed partiality for reading. But I fear he. has chosen a trade which, of all others, will render this attempt the most in- effectual. “However, persevere, for de- pend upon it. you will find it essential to your happiness.” Lovisa promised she would, and as I have no reason to doubt her promise, however simply afirmed, I will not, Reader, tire thee with her assurances. of perseverance, but, with thy per- mission, close the Chapter. CHAP. - and keep.a bookseller’s shop. A 109 j CHAP. VIII. EVERY thing now was prosper ous 1n the family of Mr. Roginson. Mary daily discovered new accom- plishments in her future husband, which seemed to promise unmixed felicity ; and Aucustus sought, by every means in his power, to render himself amiable in the eyes of his adored mistress. Nor was Lovisa without a share in -the general happiness. She looked for- ward, with simple joy, tothe hourwhen - the parson should pronounce W1LLIAM and herself man and wife, and when she should leave the village and go upto London, and be called Mrs. StitcHem, I will U6}. I will not here retail all the insipid ‘love scenes, and frivolous colloquies, which may be supposed to have passed between Aucustusand Mary. No: the public have a sufficient quantum of ‘these in the deleGtable pages of Mrs. CHARLOTTESMITH, orthe moresombre -delineations of the horrific Mrs. Ann © RADCLIFFE. ‘Suffice it then. to say, that the wed- -ding-day arrived, when the venerable - father joined their hands and pronounc- ‘ed upon them the benediction of Gop; that Mr. and Mrs. Rozinson were supremely happy 3 that Mary looked lovely as Nature, and blooming as the, morn; that Louisa was bride’s-maid ; -that the village bells were rune on the -occasion ; and that— | » Inshort, Reader, you must conceive, -as easily as you can, what took place on 50 -» . —— ae, + = OG TUT “$0 Joyous an occasion, and not require of me to narrate a dry detail of circum- stances, neither novel nor interesting. So, relying upon thy good-nature, I will proceed with my narrative, request- ing thy attention to Aucustus and Mary three days after marriage. On the third day subsequent to the ‘consummation of their union, we find them sitting alone in the parlour, ad- miring the distant prospect: the sun was declining behind a range of moun- tains, and his oblique rays, which yet iluminated the sky, threw a beautiful tinge on the surrounding objeéts ; the stillness of the evening, together with the picturesque scenery which presented it- self, insensibly led the mind of Auvcus- Tus into a pensive strain of thought : and winle Mary reclined upon his : shoulder, shoulder, he wrote with a pencil the _ following “ODE ‘TO EVENING. “© Now along the Evening sky ~Twilght leads her sombre train, Now the hills in shadow lie, Now the forest, now the plain. «* See the Sun’s occiduous rays -Quiver.on yon dimpled stream, And from yonder bloomy sprays Sweet birds warble, glow-worms gleam. « Now the shepherd: tunes his reed, Now the sturdy woodman yields ; Now the steers forsake the glebe, And lowing, cross the verdant fields. © “« Sweet's the sound of rustic joy, - As they lightly dance along ; Dimpl'd mirth their cares destroy, Sorrows vanish with a song. ‘« Pleasure beams in every eye, Joys extatic heave each breast ; Bland contentment hovers -nigh, Cheerful ever-welcome guest. ae Sweet, ( KI3 4) ** Sweet, OEve’s thy silent hour, » “ Solitude’s sedate compeer cy | . Fancy roves beneath thy power, ‘Sympathy beguiles the tear. «« With thee, the churchway path I’ I tread, And pensive read the moral lay ; Ponder o’er the silent dead, . Nor rouse me till th’ approach of day. Then hither come, O pensive Maid! | ‘Steal along the liquid sky ; Waft me to some silent shade, - ‘Where streamlets softly murmur by.” When he had finished them, he gave the paper to Mary, observing at the same time, ** that as his maiden effort, he hoped she would judge it with leniency.” Ni ‘* In sooth,” replied Mary, “Jam but ill qualified to decide on the merits of a poetical composition, yet it isa ‘species of writing which I read with “great pleasure; my favourite Poets are ma * ¥ I GOLD- (4 414 ) GoLpsMITH, Burns, BEATTIE, and that sweet tural Poet BLOOMFIELD.” ‘< BLOOMFIELD, said, AUGUSTUS, ‘¢ is entitled to high commendation, for he has been original where originality could hardly have been expected; and he has imparted dignity and pathos to subjects which are in themselves mean and trivial.” ‘© Oh! how delightful is his descrip- tion of the maniac, in his Harmer’s Boy,” responded Mary. — ‘Tt is, and may be adduced as an- other instance of the fertility of his mind; for, after the pathetic tale of CowPer, it might have been supposed nothing similar could have been pro- duced, so as to possess any Interest.” — ‘* I wonder,” replied Mary, ‘* that situated as he was in life, he was-able to cultivate his mind, or to acquire that al@ness «3 ( 115 } neatness of expression, and that har- mony of versification which he so fre- ‘quently displays. One would have thought, tnat a fourneyman Shoemaker would have had few opportunities for improvement, which could be justly de- ducted from his exertions for subsist- cies *¢ Genius, my dear: girl,”?. sardy Au custus, “is of no clime nor, it may be said, is it peculiar to any situation of life: its powers cannot be extin- ~ guished, though circumstances may con- eur to produce a total want of enerey ; yet a man of strong genius will often surmount the greatest obstacles, and -by its force alone, rise from humble - obscurity to the first ranks of fame. Witness Burns, CHATTERTON, SA- VAGE, BLOOMFIELD, and many others; _ » they were all men of obscure situations — 12 in ( 116 ) in life, yet by the mere force of ‘their genius alone, they have justly risen to the highest celebrity.” “Many, I dare say,’ ; replied Mary, “who now fill the lowest offices in society, had they been capable of re- ceiving a proper education, would have been very shining men.” ** Of that there can be no ‘doubt’: how frequently may we meet with in- stances of shrewd remark, and solid teasonings, though rudely expressed, in the man who cleans your shoes or sad- dles your horse: who, for instance (till his powers were known), would have conceived that BLoomF1EeLp hada mind capable of producing ‘the most exqui- site specimens of rural poetry; hew often, perhaps, have the ignorant and the brutal, wounded, by unmanly re- prehension or unmerited reproach, his humble ( 117 ) humble yet feeling mind; how often, perhaps, have those who now admire his eenius, censured him as dull, or despised him as ignorant.—Alas! how were it to be wished, that merit could. be sheltered from the rude breath of debasing, and — _contumelious pride.” “* Yet while society continues in its present state it must be so. Wealth and power will always usurp the province of justice and candour ;.and men. who want money will, ume 1 fear, be found to want every th bing-elsee” . ‘¢ Your remark is just,” replied Av- Gustus; ‘* the needy wretch, whose existence depends upon the smile of his patron, or the humour of his master, must forego every privilege of human nature; and even those hired animais, classed under the different names of. tutor or companion, even they become ond the ee the mere echo of every obscene jest or stupid remark which their wealthy mas- ters choose to utter; must laugh when they laugh, and frown when they frown.” | : The conversation was now i nterrupted by the entrance of Lovisa, and who was shortly after followed by Mr. and Mrs. Rozsinson; and when they were all seated, Mary, with innocent de- light, read aloud the Ode to Evening, which her dear Aucusrtuws had put into her hands, They all praised it, though much I fear, it was rather partiality for the writer than real admiration of the poetry, which extorted the approbation ; however, be that as it may, praise 1s seldom disgusting, even from ‘the illi- terate, and therefore Augustus was, I dare say; very well pleased. But if, Reader, ( ita.) iy f ise, why think ates ess : = on i . at will keep ot Seep an o keep your of CO mine. I es CHAP, Bee § Fo } AG Tae TS THIs day AucustTus entered the parlour with a letter in his hand, which, | he coolly observed, would inevitably require his absence for a short time. But, his countenance . betrayed. that something uncommon had occurred ; and Mary read with anxiety a con- firmation of her fears in his disordered and desultory conversation. As soon as they were alone, she pressed him to reveal the cause of his sudden departure ; but Aucusrus endeavoured to evade her inquiries by an assurance of his speedy return. Mary, however, was not to be trifled with in an affair of so much importance to her happiness ; Lt 3 she ; ( 421 ) she conjured him with tears to confide in her bosom the secret—she knelt to him : ‘* Vell me, Aucusrus,. whence your intended absence ; if you ever lov- ed me, or if | am not now grown hate- ful to you, disclose it to me; do not, do not leave me! as your wife, make me the pavtner of your grieis ; by that sacred title, let me enjoin thee not to deceive me.’’ _ Aucustus still evaded a decisive an- swer, and replied in general, that his ab-~ sence was merely owing to some mer- cantile concerns which required his pré= sence, but which would not detain him. at most above a month. He endeavour- -ed to console her, by an assurance of an uninterrupted epistolary correspond- ence, and that as soon as he returned they would remove to London. Since then,” replied Mary, ‘I | am. { 122 } am not worthy to be made thy confi-. dent, allow me at least the sad privilege of acting as thy friend. Oh, Aucustus, can you suppose my heart is not trem- blingly alive to all that concerns. thy wel- fare ;. can you. suppose,. but. that I am conscious something of importance now actuates you; else why leave me?. Why. not let me go with thee, where’er it 1s ¢ Ah no! Iam no longerthe innocent and simple girl which first inspired thy love 5 possession has cloyed thy heart, and now. you throw me from you like a noisome. - weed.” She burst into a flood of tears, and. throwing herself on. the neck of Au- GusTUS, wept aloud ;. she implored him - by the holy ties of religion,. not to for- sake her, not to leave her a prey to grief and anguish. peti! «© Forsake thee,’’ echoed Aucustwus, with with astonishment—* Forsake thee !— Oh, Mary, when I do,. may Heaven cease to let me live; or rather, may L exist a wretched spectacle of. beggary,. disease, and remorse. Never, dear girl,. will thy image be torn from my heart 5 never will ae virtues be effaced.from ny. nemory.’ ‘< Why then, Oh Gon, dost thou deny me the participation. of all that concerns thee r”’ | ‘¢ Believe me,. when I assure’ you,’” replied he, ‘* that it proceeds neither from want of confidence nor from want of love ; but it is of a. nature too re- mote, too abstruse, to interest thee or deserve thy attention. Rest confident in my affection, and be assured that the first great object of my life shall be hte render thee happy...’ * But that letter,’ responded Mary.” eae hg ( 424 ) That letter,” ‘said Aueusrnes, ‘tis of no import ;.it concerns me very little 5 and as to yourself, cannot in. the least affect you. It is, however, of a private nature, and respecting an event of my former days, with which 1 would wish you to be unacquainted.”’ Mary was silent. She saw no en- treaties could prevail, and therefore for- bore to 1mportune him. But her heart was oppressed with a thousand doubts which she could neither qualify nor ex- pel. Her mind too, forboded some melancholy catastrophe, which reason in vain endeavoured to subdue. Of her indeed it might be said, in the words of SHAKSPEARE, that her heart suffered there, « Like to a little Kingdom, ‘© The nature of an insurection.”— AvGustTus meanwhile was preparing : | for ( in5 ) ‘for his departure, while Mary sought, in the company of Lovtsa, a solace to her grief. On the following morning, after breakfast, he took his leave, and Mary, overwhelmed with sorrow, re- tired to her chamber to vent her tears in silence. ; But when the first éffervescence of her erief had subsided, she began to pic- ture to herself the raptures of their meet- inc; and would sit whole hours in| — fancying the happiness of that much wished-for moment. On these occa- sions she would sometimes pour her thouchts into ‘the friendly bosom of Lovuts‘a, ‘and having pursued the track of imagination till they became bewil- dered, a flood of tears would often suc- céed., Time, however, subdued the acri- mony of her grief, and the hours now glided { 726. } slided on with increased composure, while her father and mother rejoiced to behold the rose of health once more bloom upon her cheek. But this joy was soon to be blighted. The clouds of misfortune were gather- ing fast around, and the distant thun- der threatened an awful dissolution. Soon were these air-built schemes of future happiness to be blasted by the lightning of TRUTH, which now pre- pared to-unveil to them a dreadful se- Chet a Let us, however, leave for-awhile this approaching tempest, and turn with joy to the halcyon prospects of the innocent Lovisa, who 1s now going to take, ‘“< for betier for worse, fer poorer,” her inspired swain WiL- LIAM STITCHEM. Mary was-to return.the compliment Gf and ‘* for richer Ley } of being bride’s-maid, and her venerable father was to give her to W1LL1aAM, thus bestowing on him ‘what in ‘these days 1s most invaluable, an innocent, un- corrupt, and affectionate heart. WiLitaM indulged himself on this occasion in one more effort of his genius. Hercould not behoid with fri- eid composure the approach of an event so important to him. Huis whole soul was on the alert ; and the combustibility of its nature was easily fanndf into a ‘flame ; a flame much more ardent than that which was excited on the marriage of Miss. Ewippte:to Mr. CAareur : for now propria persone was in the case, and consequently, as no stimulus: is equal to that of self-love, it may be expected he even went beyond himself. Be that, however, as it may, certain at is, that a few days previous to his as mystical » (-eep ) ** mystical union,” the full tide of poetic rapture poured in upon him, and in a noble frenzy of thought he penned the following | -HYMENEAL,. I. Arise, great God of Day, and light the world” I]lume the skies, and vivify the earth: “Let darkness to her midnight cell be hurl'd, And all creation spring into new birth! And see he comes! His head he rears ; _ Sound sound the drums, And wake the spheres ! ‘Ah, gentle Sun! obedient to my call, Emerge thy rays with gentle power ; Scorch not, but Jet thy heat so fall, That all may bear it at the mid-day hour. Wi rl. Lo! my Louisa like a lilly fair, Bursts on my view—Ah, Gods! ’tis she ! ‘Her fine blue eyes and auburn hair ‘Make all that see her envy Mz ! Ah; ( 129 ) Ah me! is she mine! The adorable Lass ; _ How sweet will my time In her company pass. And then, when a pledge of our love does appear, A boy or a girl, I care not for that, Oh, the raptures, when first we begin for to hear he duckling exclaim, Papa, and all that 1 Pt And Marriage holy! are these thy pleasures sweet ! To live in joys that nothing can exceed, Lopart with smiles, and with sweet smiles to meet; Lo laugh together, and together feed. ‘Yes! these are thy joys ! I come, them to seize ; Away with the toys Which batchelor’s please. Then, arise great God of Day, and light the world! I!lume the skies, and vivify the earth ! Let darkness to her midnight cell be hurl’ d, And all Creation spring into new birth! These delectable Verses (another nio- -nument to the fame of Witiram Srirc#em’s first inspirer), which, how- kK : ever, ( 230 ) ever, [am unable to assign to any par- | ticular class of composition, unless they be of the salmagundi order, were pre- sented to Louisa on the eve of her marriage, asa fit homage to so much excellence. But see! the procession moves on- wards : and first behold, the venerable orey-headed sire, supported on one side by his blooming daughter, and on the other by his future son ; while he with mellow voice and feeble articulation, 1s ‘relating to Louisa all the duties she will shortly have to periorm ; and each duty is reverently supported by the good old man, from the authority of her departed mother: next comes Mary, on whose pensive countenance gleams a ray of joy, which well declares the feel- ings of her heart: she supports her- selfon the arm of her mother, who 1S recounting ( “ta }) recounting to her the happy day when her father led her.to church: then fol- low four neatly attired village maidens, companions of Loursa, in whose coun- tenances is expressed the most lively satisfaction; and lastly, the whole closes with a numerous retinue of boys, girls, men, women, dogs, &c. &c. &c. who are only following the others, because. the others are going first. MA Arrived at church, the ceremony is performed, and Louisa dropt a silent tear as the ring was placed upon her finger : Oh! what a hell of witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear :”- ; that tear, more eloquent than -words, more powerful than reason, what does it not express to the feeling heart! .Me- thinks 1 read in it, all the tenderest sentiments of the soul: Regret, affec- Reo tion, (ee tion, love, fear, and hope! all conspir- ed to suffuse with this pearly drop the azure eye of Louisa. Oh, may it sink into the earth and be forgotten! Ne- ver, amiable girl, may it be followed by another! As soon as the rites were solemnized, the happy party all returned to the house of Mr. Rosinson, where mirth, temperance, and good humour pre- vailed till the hour of separation, when Louisa, affectionately embrac- ing Mary, exclaigned, with tears, Farewell, I am. ‘now saing to leave you, perhaps for ever, Ob, Mary! if - the wishes of my heart could avail, where is the happiness you should not enjoy! But write to me—write to me constantly ; and if ever you should visit London with Aucustus, do not think me unworthy of your notice. * Dears : GAB 3) - © Dear Louisa,” replied Mary, * think not so harshly of thy friend. When I lose you, I lose what can never be replaced. The bosom-friend of my youth. We have trodden together the paths of infancy ; together have we grown up to woman-hood ; no cares but what were mutual; no joys but what were ae participated. Such a friendship can “never be replaced ; but though circum- stances deny us ‘the happiness of per- sonal intercourse, yet, shall we still by letters, keep alive the flame, which | trust, will never cease but with life ; and let us hope, that chance may yet unite us again, and that we may yet enjoy the endearing pleasures of each other’s society pure and undisturbed. Farewell then, for the present, and til | we meet once more, may every joy be thine.” | A ae. They ( Hay) They embraced again, and both once more ejaculated, ‘* Farewell!’ when | WILLIAM led his blushing bride home to her father’ s, from whence, on the following morning, they departed early for London. But stop; allow me, good Sir, for I see there is room, to take a seat along with thee in the stage-coach, and listen .awhule to my dictates, ere ye both, | young and thoughtless, launch upon the ocean of.lite, without a pilot and with- out a compass. .—And, First, let Temperance be thy tutelary angel. Remember, that drunkenness is not only the most dangerous, but it 1s the most abject of vices; and he who 1n- _ dulges it wil] soon find, that 1t proves the parent of a, thousand others. Be-~ sides, if you have a wife whom you love, think how degrading an object must Uao65 must you appear in her eyes! Can she esteem your Can she look up to you as her protector? .Can she regard you as a fit object of her solicitude P—No. She must despise you, pity you—rank you with the lowest wretches of your _ . SEX. And again, young man, learn to mo- derate your hopes. Life is not a per- petual sunshine, nor is domestic felicity uninterrupted. Assume not the dis- gusting superiority of unerring rect- tude, nor throw the consequences of thy foibles, or thy follies, upon thy amiable helpmate. Always prefer gentle re- monstrance to imperious commands; for it is a poor spirit which can oppress the weak, merely because they are 1n its power. Besides, the mildest nature may revolt, and the strongest affection be alienated by constant bickerings and K 4 endless endless censures: and if thy dinner:be not ready, or thy apartinent not ar- ranged, or thy linen uncleaned, fly not into a passion, and storm, and rave, and swear; rather frame to thyself some sood-natured excuse, that thy wife might have a head-ache, or thy infant (if you have one) might have been peevish, or the coals would not bura well, or the water was not come in; or, in short, 1f you must be ina pet, !et it evaporate coolly in whistling. And rely upon it, you will find this more conducive to thy domestic comfort than ‘all the oaths you may pronounce, or commands you may. enjoin; and you will feel a greater satisfaction in the active, willing attentions of thy wite, thus treated, thanin the silent, crouch- _gng obedience of a broken and passive mind. As (ray) As to you, Madam, I have a very few words to offer; but tew as they are, they cannot be neglected if you would wish to live happy. Think not, that because you are now a wife, all attention to those various graces by which you first attracted your husband are to be laid aside. ‘That neatness of dress, that willingness to oblige, that urbanity of temper, which in the days of courtship were played off, let them still be retained; for they can never be abandoned with ‘safety. Besides, if you thought them requisite to attraét your sweetheart, while com- bined with the charms of novelty and_ the hope of possession, how much more so must they now be, to captivate your husband; when that novelty 1s worn off, and that hope perhaps cloyed. Never think it beneath thy attention to study to ( &38 } to retain the affections of thy husband, for they are essential to thy happiness. One word more. Let patience be: your constant at-. tendant, for you will find it indispensa- ble. Many will be the occasions in which that virtue will be called into action. If thy husband frown, do not thou frown also; that will produce no- thing but rage and tempest. Try rather to chace the deformuty from off his brow, by the smiling hilarity of thy own. Refle&t, that a man has many things to attend to which never occupy a woman's thoughts; the great objet of—how to five, devolves upon him: he 1s respon- sible for all the various occurrences of trade; loss of money, unexpected claims, decay of business, and a thousand other things may occur to thwart his temper, and render it temporarily peevish; in that ( 139 ) that case it 1s thy office, to endeavour by all the arts of affection to soothe him into peace. But the coach stops, and warns me to depart. Farewell! may these pre- cepts be engraven on thy hearts, and may the union of thy virtues, with the industry, sobriety, and temperance of thy husband, yield thee all the happ1- ness which this feverish state of man is capable of producing. Farewell! . CHAP. (140 ) CHAP ix: MARY was inconsolable for the loss of Louisa, and she felt a regret in no respect inferior to that which the departure of Aueustus had occasioned. ~The ties of friendship indeed, in in- genuous minds, are often superior to those of love; and the object of sexual affection, may often easier be forgotten or negleéted than a dear friend, whom congeniality of sentiment, age, and con- . dition, has endeared totheheart. Mary, in her retired life, had few even of ac- quaintances in the most rigid sense of the word, and now she felt peculiarly forlorn in the absence of AucusTus and LovIsaA. Bocks, ( 141 ) Books, however, formed a chief part of her recreation, and which she had an opportunity of selecting from the judi- cious and well-chosen colle€tion of Av- custus, who had left them with her, - Sentimental poetry was her favourite study, inasmuch as ,1t was a species of composition best calculated to awaken » the native sentiments of herheart, which, as they were pure and undisguised, easily received the impressions excited by that kind of writing. The Della Cruscan School, who have been so severely lashed _ by the masterly pen of G1FForD, offered to her mind many congenial composi- ~ tions; and the plaintive Muse of Laura Maria often awakened the sigh of remembrance, or excited the tear of reoret. Jn this manner did she pass her days, and ( 142 ) and in an exemplary attention to her parents ; for they were ever the first ob- ject -of ‘her’ ‘solicitude: -fo them ‘she was unceasing in her duty; and the flial love which animated her bosom, be- came chastened intoa reverence amiable and undeviating. ‘They too knew how to appreciate so great a gift, and only prayed that Gop might grant their dear child health and life to close their aged eyes, and see them decently de- posited in the earth. Thus, in the mu- tual reciprocation of benefit, and in the ‘possession of the most undisturbed re- pose, did this happy family pass their days; , ‘ For them no wretches born to work and weep, “« Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; ‘« No surly porter stands in guilty state, ©© To spurn imploring famine from the gate, ‘‘ But (143 *« But on they move to meet their latter end, ** Angels around, befriending V irtue’s friend ; «Sink to the grave with unperceiv’d decay, «* While Resignation gently slopes the way ; «« And, all their prospects bright’ning to the last, «¢ Their heaven commences e’er the world be past.” Unconscious were they of the evils which had hitherto lurked in the shade of Falsehood ; but the moment 1s ar- rived when they stand confessed, and strike their souls with horror. | One day as Mary was arranging the little cabinet which Aucusrus had left behind, a small piece of paper, curiously foided up, and deposited in oné corner of the drawer, attracted her attention. She took hold of it, and opening it carelessly, perceived it was a letter ad- dressed to her husband. imagining it to be of small importance, she threw it on the table, purposing to peruse it as soon ( 144 ) soon as she should have completed her task. With increased alacrity she plyed her labour, and having disposed of every — thing precisely to her approbation, she seated herself at the table with the letter in her hand. She opened it—the first words alarmed her—she perused itthrough. She arose ~ to go down stairs—her limbs trembled under her, and she fell liteless to the eround. Her mother, who was ; seater; in the parlour, heard the noise, and flew to her chamber to learn the cause of it. There she perceived her daugh- ter stretched upon the floor, without life, and grasping a letter in her hand. The affrighted mother ‘knew not what to do. She lifted her towards the bed, and immediately applied sal volatile to her temples: she threw open the win- 7 dow ( 145 ) dow, she bathed her face with cold wa- ter, but nothing would avail. Distracted, she left the room to call - in the assistance of a neighbour, for Mr. Rosinson was out. Whenshe re- turned, some faint signs of re-animation appeared, and in a few minutes after- wards, she unclosed her eyes.) lyirs: Rosinson embraced her, and inquired with tears, the cause of her fainting. | “ Oh mother! read there,’”’ said she, putting the letter into her hand—* read. there the cause ‘of all my woe. Thy poor unfortunate Mary is now ruined for ever !”’ | Mrs. Ropinsown read-the letter with. astonishment and grief. It was as fol- Hick Bas goes “MY DEAR AUGUSTUS, Once more I make my appeal to thy heart; once more A strive Mg rouse thy feclings as a hus- L | band (146 ) band anda father. This one effort, and I have done—no more shall you hear from your distract- ed ELIZA. : | «Oh Avucustus! how can you reconcile to thy heart, such cruel treatment? What have I ‘done that should deserve it? If Iam no longer worthy of thy love, think of your helpless babes !: —do not abandon them. They are innocent, and claim thy affection. Take them, protect them, nourish them, and I will for ever gladly retire from the world and from thee; I will joyfully forsake every endearment of society if, Oh, Av- GusTus, you will but shelter those dear innocents from the rude storms of poverty. «When I look upon them, what agonizing fecl- ings rend my heart !—When Cuarves in playful innocence reclines upon my bosom, tears of sor- row gush from mine eyes and bedew his cheek ; and Eurza, too, whom thou so fondly used to earess and call thy darling, she is grown a beauti- ful girl. Often when she hears me weeping in the silence of the night, with infantine artlessuess does she strive to soothe my grief, by pronouncing thy name. But that, alas! awakens all my woes sfresh !—for, Oh! Avcusrus, cruel that thou art, ( 147 ) art, another bride enjoys thy love !—wretched !: wretched Exiza! «“ Whoe'er she is, I wish her happy: report speaks loudly of her innocence and beauty: was it for thee, AUGustTus, to betray that innocence, to destroy that beauty? could not one victim suf- fice ; and were not my tears sufficient ? « But why do I write any more? the name of Fiza must be hateful to you! every thing that belongs to her must excite disgust !—T'arewell then! farewell !—Protect. thy helpless infants, let them not languish in poverty; and, Oh! forget me, and let me retire from the world.—An eter-: nal farewell! 39 Oe EMIT Zak Mrs. Roginson burst into tears as soon as she had concluded this epistle, and embracing her now helpless and forlorn: child, endeavoured to soothe her mind. “Oh my dear mother,” exclaimed Mary, ‘* where shall 1 now find com- fort ? bereft of my husband, a wife and bg. VC ( 148 ) yet no wife; I must fly from the world and from thee; or rather, would to heaven death might draw a veil over my misfortunes.” ‘“* Resign not thyself to fruitless sor- row,” replied her mother, ‘ rather bow submissive to the will of God, and ac quiesce with humility in his high dis- pensations. We cannot fathom his de- crees ; we can only humbly hope they are tor the best.” ‘© Grucl, faithless- man,’ exclaimed Mary: ‘* Ob more than villain, to de- sert a wife and children; to leave them exposed to all the horrors of want! Compared, indeed, to thy situation, Eiv1za, my eriefs are trivial; but I-ac- cuse myself as the cause of chine’: I once possessed that, innocence thou wishest happy ; I was once that simple unsuspecting gi:l whom malice itself: | could ( 149 ) could not stain with slander. Alas, how fallen, how degraded! would I had while an infant, sunk into the grave; Oh my dear mother, never, never can I again be happy.” At this moment Mr. Ropinson en- tered the room. Amazed,. he beheld his wretched daughter stretched on the bed, ghastly and comfortless ; tears roll- ing down her faded cheek in piteous succession : her more wretched mo- ther on her knees beside her, begging her to be calm. Every thing around in confusion, and himself unnoticed till he approached towards then. But if the first feelings of his mind were those of astonishment and fear, oh, what a conflict of contending pas- sion stormed his breast, when his dis- consolate daughter revealed the cause of what he saw. At first he was mute ; | L 3 os the ( 150 ) the struggling emotions of his breast could not find vent, and half-formed words died away upon his lips. He read the letter with a trembling frame, and touched in the strongest manner by the united miseries of Exiza and Mary, tears chased each other down his furrowed cheek ; unable to give ut- terance to the painful throbbings of his heart; he stood «© Tn all the silent manliness of grief.” Irs. RoBinsow arose and took hold of his hand. She read in his counte-: nance the silent workings of his bosom, and vainly endeavoured to assuage them. “<. You. see,! said she, { the hall extent of our misery. But it may be over- come. Our dear Mary can remain with us as heretofore, and we can ale. ways nourish and protect her. And ra- 3 ther ( 457 ) ther let us rejoice, as things be, that he has not deprived us of her.’ Mr. Rozginson had hitherto reinain- ed silent ; but the remarks of his wife seemed to recal again the powers of ut- terance. Releasing himself from her hold, he fiew to the bed-side, and drop-_ ping on his knees, exclaimed with un- common energy, “ Thou Great Gop of Nature, in whom for ever reigns mercy and eternal justice, o’ertake the villain with thy vengeance.” This exclamation seemed to relieve the boiling fury of his first sensations, and insensibdly softening into tears, he pressed the hand of Mary to his lips and kissed itfervently. ‘* Fear not, my dear,” said he, ** you will still be happy. At the throne of Gop the broken heart will always find relief, and its wounds hd) wil (tke ) will be healed by the pure emanation of religion, and the joyous confidence of implicit: faith.” But the grief of Mary was yet tco pungent to admit of consolation. The dark waste of tears and misery, alone stood before her sight, and so engrossed it, that she could not for a moment look forward to behold on the confines of her present calamity, the blissful and renovating regions of hope. ‘«¢ Hope springs eternal in the human breast ;. _ © Man never 1s, but always To BE blest.” It was therefore in vain that every - argument which affection could sug- gest, was urged to moderate her dis- tress; they were exhausted, and she still . remained disconsolate; to the effacing hand of time, therefore, must we leave se ( 253} it to be softened : and may the lenient balm of resignation heal that wound which however can never be forgotten,. and which will cry aloud: for vengeance at the awful moment of retribution. CHAP. ( 154 } CHAP. XI. SHOULD this “ Tale,” as perhaps it may, chance’ to decorate the toilet of - some fashionable belle, or amuse the — listlessness of a rainy morning in those who know only to walk, eat, and sleep, it may not perchance be unproductive of some good, if I dedicate this short Chapter to dull morality. Oh ye, whom flattery has dignified with the appellation of ‘* superior,” and whom vanity prompts to suppose that appellation just, learn that wealth makes no distinétion but when allied to vir- tue. But ‘virtue, alas ! has now be- come an antiquated word, and 1s ex- pelled with severity from the vocabu- lary f e355 ) lary of fashion. The pra@ice of it, sunk even unto an empty name, has long since fled from thy palaces of splendor, and from thy orgies of guilt and intem- perance. If the Roman Emperor, reflecting with regret, that a day had passed in ' which he had performed no good to so- ciety, exclaimed to his friends around, that ** he had lost a day,” how bitter then must thy reflections be (if thou dost ever reflect), when they tell thee that thou hast lost years in supineness ~and in guilty inactivity | Among the ** superior” orders of so- ciety, where seduction 1s gallantry, adul- tery fashionable, and murder the test of honour, it will, I doubt not, be agreed, that the conduct of AucustTus was ve- nial; that it was ‘at least only a wild trick, which the graces of his person, and the (156 ) the accomplishments of his mind, en- abled him to play. But deceive not yourselves—Look farther than the mere action ; trace it in its consequences, for it is easy ; and then decide upon its culpability. | Figure to thyself his wife and chil- dren bereft of conjugal and parental support. Count 'the tears she has wept, the sleepless nights she has passed, the miseries she has endured. View her at home, obnoxious to the dreadful. con- flict of fear,. pity, hope, and despair. Think on her anxious Inquiries and her bitter disappointments ; on her fervent hopes. cruelly. betrayed; and: on. her unceasing prayers. All this, and much, ‘much more, passes in the obscurity of domestic grief, but reach not the no- tice of the busy world. Or, if this be not sufficient, paint to | thy ( 937) thy imagination her feelings, when the dreadful secret was unveiled to her; when ber husband—no longer hus- band—had betrothed himself to an- other.” Oh? if thou: art’a wife,’or a mother, then may’st thou pursue, with -all the sympathy of maternal, of conju- gal affection, the feelings of Exiza. Of the situation of the innocent, the unfortunate Mary, I will be silent. The peculiar circumstances which have attended her : utter ruin, were all cal- culated to arouse the most latent springs * of commiseration in the most obdurate bosoms. There is not, there cannot be, a breast so dead to common humanity, | so obtuse In its primary energies, as not to pity, and condemn. | Learn then, even from the pages of a“ Tale,” that sedudion never is, nor never can be, veniul. It is a crime of the ( 158 ) the blackest die, for it involves an end- less series of others. The seducer knows not at what point the effects of his guilt may stop ; he is perhaps the source of murder, of incest, and of debauchery. But how trebly guilty is he, who for-. sakes the arms of an amiable wife ; who. abandons his tender offspring to the storms of poverty, and to the obscurity of want; who plunges them in a sea of. misery, from which human aid can sel- dom extricate them; who perpetrates. all these, not.ta lead a life of celibacy ; not to be free from monotonous :mpor- tunities, which prevent him from the exercise of virtue; not to escape tem- poral duties, which may impede those of religion; but to add crime to crime; like a pestilence, to breathe infection. on the paths of innocence, of virtue, and domestic happiness ; to darken with | | SOITOW | ( 159 ) sorrow the declining steps of age; to fill a parent’s bosom with anguish and despair; and lastly, to blight the fair prospects of unsullied virtue; to dash to earth for ever, the cup of happiness from the unsuspecting hand of an un- happy girl, who “loved not wisely, but too well,”’ and whose future days must be days of sorrow ! Take this picture to thy bosoms, oh ye, in whom the dread of law 1s ex- tinct ; in whom the blush of ingenuous shame is quenched by the meretricious aids of vice and fashion; and who smile with complacency on the publicity of thy deeds! If ye have feeling, shew it ; if ye are men, act as such. CHAP « ( i60 ) CHAP. St TURN we now our thoughts for a short time to the progress of WIL- LIAM and Louies. who have taken a very pretty shop, and well-furnished it, within the purlicus of famed Pater- noster. Here the Inspired youth has found fresh subjects for the exercise of his Muse, and is now familiarly ‘Known by the appellation of the ‘* Poz- TICAL BooksELLER.” His windows speak their master’s power; and even his street-door blazons forth his genius in the following distich : *« Stop, passenger, before you turn the corner: cs A his house is NumBER pou and WuiLLiaM StitcHemM is the owner. Every ( Pei.) Every pane of glass is illuminated with the splendor of his abilities : on. one.we read, | «“ Here newspapers are served in country and im in town, ma yeee ee ‘ But mark, before you get em, you must pay the money down.” On another immediately under, “ Books bound-in ealf, sheep-skin, and morocco, ** In vellum, and in boards the colour of my knocker.” ceo NT N. B. Witriiam Stircuem’s Knocker. 1s pea-green. And’in the centre, surrounded with a blaze of ‘stained glass, and rays of gold diverging froma head of Apollo, ts the following : , “« Here books are lent to read, one only ata time, Ip philcsophy, in physic, in reason, and 10 rhyme ; M Here's < (2p } Here's Hoxcrort’s sterling wit, and Gov- win’s moral page ; at “Here's Diapin’s genuine sense, the wonder of the age: é¢ ' Here’s Perer’s poems chaste, and Girrorp’s satire strong, ‘© And Hayuey’s nervous line, and Torxam’s easy song ; Heres Cosserr'’s neat avuse, and Proc Nic’s vacant sense, a é€ Here’s Lewts’s virtuous—but pr’ythee Reader hence— And read the conciusion in the next window : 4 ~ Lewss's virtuous Monk, and Sourney’s Epo- yer, . And Canterbury Tales, written by Miss Ler: With Oxp Nicx, which I’m sure would make the Devil smile, And Step-mother, a tragedy by the Earl of CARLISLE: - a6 o¢ * Here's Muprorp upon Jounson, a work but hittle read, | « And b. O2. J And the Antonio of Gopwin, of quicksilver and of lead ; “ In short, here’s poems, plays, morality and LockE, «« And many other books, to be had if you will knock ; «© But as I do not wish to give you useless trouble, « Tts two-pence each oftavo, and for a quarto double ; «¢ And if you pay per quarter, it will not stand you more « Than seven farthings fer a volume, or severi- pence for four.” These notable rhymes, it may be sup- posed, ceneral lly attracted a» sufficient number iol gazers, who did not tail to give applause: Louisa in vain ex- postulated with him; for the example of “‘ his first inspirer,” still led hia for- ward, and he resolved to. equal him, if not in genius, at least in bulk. ‘Their days, however, as sed on hap- piys and they knew the evils of mar- 9 acre Wie eZ, id mas ( 164 ) riage only by name. Whatever were the forbles of WitL1AmM,. they never injured their domestic comfort, and his only crime was that of too frequently ravishing the Poetic Muse, which vio- lence was productive only of unseemly abortions. But if precedent be any ex-. tenuation. of a fault, WruLraM cer- tainly had this to plead, and he might range himself with perfect propriety un- der the banners of our tuneless sonnet- teers, and pointless satirists. The fame of his shop-window reach- ea, however, even unto his native vil- lage, and honest Peter, while he hand- led his awl, warbled most melodiously the sonorous lays of his inspired son. New honours, too, were heaped upon the family, for in consideration of the mellifuence of PeTrrr’s thorax, he was chosen clerk of the parish, in lieu. of ANTHONY { 165 ) AntTuony Srave, defunét; and now most hatmoniously did he trill forth on Sundays the captivating poesy of Messrs. SrERNHOLD and Hopkins; but fortune sometimes delights to sport with mankind, and she now Ina capri- cious moment marked poor PEerer for her object. One Sunday when the church was unusually full, and the *Squire himself was present, our new-fangled clerk pre- pared himself to give a superior speci- men of his voice: after much delibera- tion, as to which Psalm afforded the ereatest scope for the display of his abilities, he resolved upon the 1o4th, which was accordingly given out: but while the organ was tuning its prelimt- nary notes, Perer’s mind uncon- scicusly reverted to bome and all its ap- pendages; this, from the association of M 3 ideas, ( 166 ) ideas, presented to him his inspired son, and then his sublime poetry, which he could not help silently repeating to himself: but the moment Is arrived, the congregation stand up, the organ pays, and Pzrer with stentorian lungs chaunts thus: Books bound in calf, In sheep-skin, and Morocco ; In vellum, and in boards, The colour of my knocker. The people are amazed! some laugh, some groan most piously, and others smile behind their fans; while the par- son, who was seated above our egre- ‘gious clerk, let fall a ponderous bible upon his heaa, to rouse him from his trance > the church 1s in confusion, and the playing of the organ is suspended : here Peter arose, and having adjusted his — « Sas at ( 107 ) his cravat, and given three loud hems, spake as follows ia VV henege. vit appearetl, that I have unwittingly caused much merriment in this congregation, for the which, Parson Luin has thought proper to break my head with a bible; this is to inform the said congregation, that~forasmuch as my head now gives me intolerable pain, Jam thereby prevented from proceed- ing in my clerkly duties, in_ conse- quence of which I find it necessary that IT should sojourn this day in mine own house, to the end that this said pain may be overcome by certain proceed- « ings known unto my wife Dezoran StircHem; and I further inform Par- son Turn, that unless he does so apo- logize unto me, as shall seem meet and fitting to my aforesaid wife, and one peighbour hereafter to be named, I A shall ( noe } shall take the first opportunity to break his head in return.” He then quitted the desk, and eravely marched out of ‘the ‘church. But whether he did requite Parson Pun s by breaking his head, or whether Parson ‘[urn made him an adequate xpology, I know not; however, from that day henceforward, Perer Sritcu- EM was discontinued in the office, which was now bestowed Ee Isaac 'THWACK. The news of this adventure soon tra velled up to his son, who heard it with a mixture of joy and regret; joy when he refleGted that his poetry had been chaunted to music in. public, and re- eret that his father had been dispos- sessed of his’ situation; however, both the one and the other’soon faded off his mind, and left:\Witit1am once ie Pe more ~ A rag 7} more master of his muse. He wrote a letter of condolence to his father, which ] forbear inserting, inasmuch as it con- tains nothing of that originality which _ in general marks the speculations of our poet. His business, however, continues to increase, and Lov1sa promises soon to make him a father, on which occa- sion | have little doubt but he will em- ploy again his pen in celebrating such an important epoch of his life; and the little stranger will be welcomed into Wns world of anxiety, by, at least, the lonest effusions of its father. CHAP, Voge } Citar. xitly . EVERY. thing remained in sus- pense in the family of Mr. Roginson. Vague reports and contradictory ac- counts were all that yet reached. their ears with regard to Auvcustus, and Mary fondly clung to the feeble hope that zs silence might prove to have arisen from the total incredibility of the whole affair. — | Sometimes when she recalled to mind his sacred vows, his fervent love, his kind affection, his language, and every thing that could stamp conviction of the truth, she thought it impossible he could’ be false. Her. simple - heart, which was itself the abode of ‘every vir- tue, ( F71°) tue, could not conceive baseness so con- summate. Judging from herself, and those rustic chara€ters which immedi- ately surrounded her, she thought it preposterous even tosuspect AuGusTUS of deceit, and would often warmly check her mother when she poured forth in- VeCLINES Mts PcLHay.., “ble as,nOb, my dear mother,’’ she would say, ‘* so guilty as you would think him. Some- thing of importance no doubt detains him; he would have written, Iam sure, but his whole time 1s engaged in pur- suits of moment: oh! it.1s impossible so, mmuch.,excellence can. be -umted: to gece it But then, that, letter, from E,iza would again plunge her in doubt. Frequently did she peruse it, and as frequently endeavour to think it false.. But no: something whispered to her heart—she was ruined; she felt, as ( 172 } as it were instinGively, that her peace of mind was for ever gone. ‘Thus did her mind torment itself with conjectures, which were succes- sively reye€ted and approved ; and her countenance bore ample testimony to the internal distress which she felt. But this suspense was soon relreved, though not destroyed; for, so unwilling was she to know all her misery, that no- thing short of a confesston from Av- e6ustus himself could convince her he was false. | | One day her father returned home rather late from his occupations. Mrs. Roginson, who had apprehended some disaster, was gone out to meet him the usual road 3“ but “he, ‘by decrdent; Had: pursued another, so that when he en- tered he found Mary sitting alone, yeading the letter from Exiza, and in tears ; ( 293 } teats; she welcomed, however, her fa- ther’s return by a fond kiss, and, wiping her eyes, informed him of her mother’s departure. He received the intimation coolly, and observed, “ she will find her way back again, that’s all.” He then sat down, folded his arms across, and seemed buried in thought. Mary, surprized at this reserve, could hardly refrain from. again giving vent to her gricf, but reflecting, that perhaps some- thing had happened to hum during his absence, she sat down to her work at the window in silence. In a few minutes afterwards Mrs. Rosinson entered: pleased to find her “¢ cood-man ”’ aa she observed jocularly, ‘“* Why, where hast thee been. to.’ [ have been all across Parson’s- field. to meet thee, bus did not ; and se I came home again.” Mr. (174 ) ‘Mr. Rozinson " spoke. not; and his wite looked at Mary for an explana- tion. She was weeping, and folding up her work: silence reigned for a few minutes, when Mary, taking hold of her father’s hand, inquired, with a . pensive, melancholy voice, ‘* Are you not welly.)" >. This inquiry seemed to rouse him from his reverie, and regarding his daughter oe replied in a solemn manner, “ Unfortunate girl, thy ruin is complete!” Then pressing her to his bosom fervently, he added, ‘ but here 1s a father who will workefor thee, and protect thee; whose last drop of prise should be arial in thy defence, ere it necessary.’ | ‘These words were delivered with so much warmth, and with such a manly energy; which seemed conscious of the rectitude rectitude of its feelings, that Mary, overwhelmed, gave vent to her grief in a flood of tears, as she reclined her head upon the bosom of her father. And Mrs. Rozginson took up the corner of her apron to wipe away something that seemed to hinder her from seeing clear; while her husband let his sorrows eva- porate in the form of a tear-drop. After a short silence he ovserved, “« Why.) never weep, my, gil; never gcieve for the loss of a. man who is not worth thy consideration ; lie has wronged you, | confess; he has torn you from the bosom of that earth where you. vegetated, and now casts you back again; but that girl is not poor, who- —cancalla en, S love and watchiulness her own.’ “Oh, my dear father!” replied Mary, Peo uld [ever be forgetful of thine aad my 176 ) my mother’s affection! Yet do not blame me, if I sometimes weep the loss. of that, which when it dawned upon me, promised a happy maturity. Time, _ with its lenient hand, may soften the pungency of the grief I now feel ; but ah! nothing but the grave can ever raze tt from: my memory.” er No, that it won’t, I’m sure, poor dear soul,’”? responded her mother, sobbing—* that it won’t, for love can never be forgotten ; and if you were ta die, my dear, (addressing herself to Mr. Rosinson), I should never be happy till I died also.” - To this kind assurance he made no reply, but pulling a newspaper from his pocket, put it into her hands— i here,,’ said he, ** read’; and thing as Ido, that thereis a great and good Provi- dence, who watches over all our actions.’ . This C827} This paper did in fa€t, Reader, con- tain something respecting AuGustTus,. but yet, as it was delivered only con- jecturally, Many was resolved to cling to Hope, and not admit conviction of her misery, till no further subterfuge could be found to avail her. ‘So truly. sung a sweet Poet— «The wretch condemned with life to part, < Still, still, on Hove relies ; | “s And every pang that rends the heart, «* Bids expectation rise. “ Hope, like the glimmering taper’s licht, ‘© Adorns and cheers the way; _ _ * And still as darker grows the night, 9? “* Emits a brighter ray. » But, unfortunate girl, that hope will soon be destroyed; truth will come to thee, not adorned in native splendour; not welcomed as the relief from pain- ful doubt ; it will bring with it, alas! hae a con- ( i978 } a conviction so dreadful, that wneer- tainty itself were bliss compared to it; it will tell thee, in accents solemn and impressivey that ruin has come upon thee, which nothing can again restore ; rt will tell thy bleeding bosom, that a woman, wronged, seduced by cruel man, is the most pitiable obje@ which Na- ture can hold up to our pity. All this will it tell thee: but religion must con- clude by adding, that faith and re- sionation can alone support you; and that to hope, and believe a better world, is In reality to possess it. CHAP. ( 179 ) CHAP: XIV. A FEW days after the event just marrated, a letter arrived for Mary. When it was put into her hands by Mrs. Rosinson, the first sensations it excited were so powerful, that she had not resolution to openit. The super- scription she knew to be in the hand- writing of Augustus, and her heart, though sorely oppressed, yet received some faint support from the uncertainty of doubt. This letter she knew would dispel the mystery, and afraid to know the full.extent of her misery, she paused : at length, summoning courage from the reflection that nothing could award the fatal blow, and that sooner or later : | N2 eine (286. ) she must arrive at the truth, she broke the seal, and with a tremulous accent and tearful eye, read as follows: ““ MY DEAR MARY, The hour of retribution is come, and I am now to answet to my country for the infringe- ment of its laws. But amid all the pangs which my present situation can inflict, those are keenest which: flow from the, refie@ion of thy wrongs. Oh, dear, injured girl! what can I plead to avoid thy curse. | “In the gloom of my cell thy avenging form hovers o’er me, and seems to denounce destruc- tion. In the silence of night I hear thy com- plaint, and in my dreams I shudder at thy ac- cusations. Oft when sleep hath closed my eyes, in Imagination I behold thee, as at the moment when first I told my love, Then, yielding to ideal bliss, I press thy lips, and feed upon thy beauties: I hear the melifluous accents of thy voice, and smile in rapture at the innocence of thy heart. Ob, perjured wretch, that could that — innocence destroy ! Lie fT will not, unhappy victim, insult thee with | | a puerile | i * ( 181 ) a puerile attempt to palliate my fault. It is be- yond forgiveness, and most of all, beyond thine. Happy hadst thou been, had chance ne’er threw me in thy way; happy hadst thou been, had that chance proved my destru@ion. I have wronged thee, cruelly wronged thee, and ye pre- sume to ask—thy pity ! «¢Oh, Mary! when death shall have drawn a veil over my guilt, and when this poor body shall have become the fool of wormis:and the tenant of the grave—then wilt thou pity-me! Task no more; nor do I perhaps e’en merit that. « T am interrupted—Receive then, perhaps, my last farewell! Commend me to thy parents, whose pardon and thine I sincerely ask. _ Vareweil! I. am dragged away, and can no more. Oh, fare-— well! farewell! 19 ‘“ AUGUSTUS. The perusal of this letter, it inay be conceived, awakened in paae all the former pungency of grief. She wept and read, and read and wept; till her mother, alarmed for her health, dispos- N 2 sessed ( 182 ) sessed her of it till she should bécome more resigned. The family of Mr. Robinson was now indeed surchargéd with calamity. They who had heretofore been pro- verbial for their undeviating domestic harmony, were now become the subjéct of popular inquity, and of popular con- dolence. There was not, in fa, a heart in the village which did not feel for them; and the juvénile companions of MAry wept as they related her tale tO inquisitive curiosity. She had re- ‘ceived too, an affectionate letter of con- solation from her invaluable friend Lovisa, and who hoped, in a post- script, ‘* that Mary would be able to read it, but that, for her part, she had cried so all the while she was writing, that she could not see whether it was straight or crooked.” | But (483) But as the evils of this life are seldom unattended, but ** tread on each other’s heels,’ so the misfortunesof Mary were yet augmented ; for the pledge of their union now began to appear, and she was shortly to become a mother. This addi- tional calamity, though not altogether at first unexpected, was yet heavierto Mary than any thing she had yet experienced. She looked forward with herror to the tnoment, when she should give birth to the offspring of a man, whom imperious | Jaw forbad to call her husband. But as if every excess 1n nature was counterba- Janced by an opposite one, Mary now began to endeavour to resign herself to her situation; for another sentiment was awakened in her bosom, and all the feelings of a mother seized upon her héart. She resolved to live for her in- fant, and hoped to finda melancholy - CcOn- ( 184 ) consolation in protecting its mind from the rude blasts of vice and impiety. This hope restored the bloom of health to her cheek, and animated again her languid eye. Her parents beheld, with unfeigned joy, this unlooked-for turn, and endea- ~ yvoured by every act which affection could suggest, to beguile her mind from pain- ful retrospections, which however would sometimes arise, and fill her eyes with tears. | One day when she was thus ruminat- ing upon past events, and recalling to her mind scenes of felicity forever gone, she perused once more the letter of Au- —gustus; which, spite of her efforts, awakened all her. woes afresh. But as her grief subsided, and her mind be- came Jess agitated, she resolved to reply to it: retiring therefore to her — chamber, (irae 7) chamber, she penned the following an- SWCI : ‘“¢ T feel that in writing to you, I a& wrong, But alas! how great soe er the fault of those we once have loved, the heart cannot easily resign the object of its passion, «© Fear not, Aucustus, for I will use no re- proach. I will not wound thy feelings, already | torn by conflicting passions. Yet a last farewell, I thought, would ease my heart: nay, perhaps, it may be eratifying even to thee. Enza is thy wife. I havea letter from her to you. It breathes the warmest affection! Oh, Aucustus, you have a wife and children, and yet—Oh, Gop ! let me not name it. «< Soon, alas, will another call thee father ! Oh, in that moment—but it shall never learn its fa- ther’s guilt! I will watch over it as a tender shrub, and nourish it with my tears. I will se- clude it from the world, that it may not know its vices. “ Once I was happy, but that happiness will never return! Sad will be my future path of ui dife! © You P86 \) « You ask my pity. Oh! could you read my heart, there would you find it written in tears of blood! I forgive thee too! I cannot forget what we once were. But it has passed away! it has vanished like a dream! it has faded like the shadows of the morning! «< T feel for Exiza, for thy children, for ruzez! and spend the night in prayer! I am the most wretched of beings, yet I must live—Yes, I must live for my infant, for my honoured parents ! « Farewell, Aucustus! forget me: think not of me: you will for ever live in my heart, and may you be happy! I can say no more—per- haps I am wrong in writing at all—but pardon it—it is the Jast time. An eternal farewell! “MARY ROBINSON.” Here rest my pen. Over the: sub- sequent events I draw the veil of silence. Let them not be fathomed by human ‘inquiry. In the register of the Re- cording Angel are they written, and may he blot them out with a tear! Reader, (087) Reader, farewell! Impress upon thy heart the truth, that though vice in its career may assume the external brilliancy of virtue, yet a dreadful moment awaits it; and that the keenest pangs of suffer- ing virtue, and the sharpest obloquy which the world can throw upon it, will be alleviated and destroyed, by that, for which we all live, submission to AL- micuty Gop, for which we all die, a GLORIOUS IMMORTALITY! Once more, farewell! Goop-BrE, Mr. AuTHor, And I AM GLAD TO SEE THE FINIS OF YOUR BOOK. FINIS. Printed by B. M‘Millan. 2 Bow-street, Covent-garden,. - BY THE SAME AUTHOR, - Just published, a Second Edition, price 4s. Boards, of A CRITICAL INQUIRY into the WRIT- INGS of Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON; contain- ing some Reflections on the. Pictures of Life, as delineated by that Author. To which 3 1S sated. A DIALOGUE in the SHADES, “between BOY and) LOZ. Printed for M. Jones, No. 1, Paternoster- Row. rahe Se Ne ee Be : ls ; we eg aie , rk ny } Dt aC Nie CWE Le aes hie are as Fs a reed > Al dey ‘ are eee es A ety ¥ My balay he 8 ead : ee ON lat to sya (ha CS aaa ay ea aN ate tp y f yf eo oS Dy preys ask % CAE re a aS fis pg Nhe eee Oh nee Ea ag vhs : t KS + z s ’ ae eae ly “ie Ji ets Pie Sie eh ys Ph & A a ae i a ah ce ; ye’ a a (Gpo- OOS OH POT OSODS ae a ers s nS A bie " ee 3 B “eect ott es ee ip, EE ES A Oe mi Pe