IT is a maxim recognized by every observer of depraved human nature, "that he who has been base enough essentially to injure the inno­cent, never forgives them." We may add, that miscreants of this description frequently pursue, with relentless hatred, even the posterity of those whom they have thus offended. Yet let it be re­membered, that if implacable villany kindles with malice against the injured victims; it is be­cause their presence, and even their existence, reminds him of his guilt, and makes him tremble for the dreaded retribution.

David Sinister had been forty years stewar [...] and solicitor to Henry Oldfield, Esq one of th [...] richest and most respectable families in the county of Hereford; and, at the time of that gentle­man's decease, he had contrived to amass a for­tune of about as many thousand pounds. This ample sum however, served only to inspire him [Page 2] with the diabolical desire of compleatly plun­dering his master's heir of the family-estate, a desing which he soon found means effectually to execute. To enumerate the various artifices by which this abominable plan was accomplish­ed, would be but to lay open those dreadful scenes of iniquity which are every day practising, and against which no human laws can possibly protect, with certainty, the hapless victims of an infernal confederation.

The young man struggled but a short time with his hard fate; but he lived long enough to leave behind, at the age of twenty-five, a fine boy on­ly two years old, whose mother had, about three months before, fallen the victim of a pulmonary complaint.

Her father, the curate of a small village, in the county of Cambridge, took the infant under his protection: and not only made him acquainted with the rudiments of learning; but, what was of far higher value, implanted in his tender mind, the unfeigned love of virtue, and a firm reliance on Providence. He was himself of a consump­tive habit; and had long looked forward to the event which was to send the poor heir of the house of Oldfield houseless into the world. Yet he would suddenly check the tear of apprehen­sion, which his pious soul deemed sinful; and pressing the poor youth to his breast, as he sus­tained him on his trembling knees, he would sing with the most celestial sweetness and fervour [Page 3] as if under the immediate inspiration of Hea­ven—

The fatal hour at length arrived; and Harry, then little more than fifteen years of age, having wept over the grave of his last earthly friend, bowed to the will of the Father of the fatherless, with astonishing resignation. The effects of the worthy old gentleman were barely sufficient to discharge his trifling debts, and defray the fune­ral expences; and with something less than ten pounds in his pocket, this well-educated little orphan had the prudence to consider by what means he should obtain more, before this small sum became exhausted. At first, he thought of trying his fortune in London; but this design was abandoned, the instant he recollected what his grandfather had said respecting the vices of the metropolis, and the many dangers to which friend­less innocence and inexperienced youth are there exposed. Some employ, however, he resolved, to seek; and his heart sighed to visit the family state of Oldfield Hall, which he had heard so frequently and so feelingly described. He was sensible of the height from which his poor father had fallen; and felt an ardent desire to visit the [Page 4] cene of his family's prosperous days. He flat­tered himself, some person might be left in the neighbourhood, who would kindly afford him food for his labour; and, at any rate, he con­ceived that he could sustain every hardship, on the spot where Heaven had formerly showered for them so many blessings. "Surely," thought he, "I shall not be driven from fields, that were once theirs, without a few scattered ears of corn! I shall not be denied some small portion of the fruits that are free for "Nature's commoners." Not Heaven, that has hitherto provided for me, will not there forsake me! My footsteps may sometimes press the paths where they have trod; my eyes will behold views with which they have been delighted. I shall there eat the bread of health, I shall there drink the waters of tempe­rance, and be happy!" These were the reflec­tions that impelled him to set out for Hereford­shire; and that enabled him to "go on his way rejoicing," during a tedious journey of near a hundred and fifty miles.

He reached the abode of his ancestors late in the evening; and crept, unperceived, into [...] outhouse, where he slept peacefully till the morn­ing.

He arose soon after the sun; and walked mus­ing over the delightful grounds; and his eyes now suffused with tears, and now brightening with pleasure, surveyed every object with a secret but melancholy satisfaction. Ardently di [...] [Page 5] he long to behold the internal parts of the fami­ly mansion! but this was a gratification not to be expected; at least for the present.

In this manner did he wander several days; sometimes sleeping in the shed where he had re­posed the first night, and sometimes reaching a small and lonely alehouse, about a mile distant, the only habitation he could find in the neighbor­hood.

The present owner of Oldfield Hall, he knew, had been the former steward of the family; and he knew that his grandfather could never bear to hear the name of Sinister mentioned, without visible emotion; But he little thought that his father had been robbed of his inheritance by the machinations of the cruel monster, and his heart entertained not the smallest prejudice against a man who he supposed had become the legal pur­chaser of the estate.

David Sinister happened at this time to be from home. He was attending the assizes at Hereford, where he had been to convict a man for sheep [...] stealing; and who, though he had a wife and seven children almost starving, and it was his first offence, immediately received sentence of death, and was ordered for execution.

Having performed this act of justice, he re­turned with great satisfaction. It was a fine sum­mer's evening; and, as he drew near home, he expatiated largely, to his servant, on the value [Page 6] of honesty; and on the turpitude of criminally appropriating another's property, however tri­vial, even from the absurd plea of necessity, which the malefactor had alone urged in his defence— "Property," cried he, "is so sacred that I would hang my own brother, were he living, if he rob­bed me of a shilling to save himself from starv­ing!"

Scarcely had he uttered these words, when Har­ry Oldfield, who happened to be in the field next the road, where he was at that moment de­bating with his conscience the propriety of draw­ing a turnip for his supper, and who now resolv­ed to run away from the temptation, hastily as­cending the stile, presented, across the road, the shadow of his father, to the astonished eyes of this stern dispenser of justice. The glance was transitory, as the electrick stroke; but, like the stroke of electricity, it thrilled through eve­ry fibre of his frame. The momentary check which it occasioned to his horse, and the depri­vation of his speech which it instantaneously ef­fected, gave the youth time to leap over the op­posite stile, before Sinister could be thoroughly satisfied whether what he beheld was reality, or the effect of some supernatural appearance, the possibility of which he had never till that instant believed. As soon as he regained the power of utterance, though he feared to look back, he ventured to ask his servant if he had seen any thing, and desired him now to ride a little before. [Page 7] The servant had been surprized at his master's sudden taciturnity; and he was now astonished at his question, as well as his request: advancing his horse, however, he instantly replied, that he had seen nothing but a poor boy, who had just hastily crossed the road. "Are you sure it was a boy?" said Sinister: "the shade appeared like that of a very tall man."—"La! Sir," replied the servant; "our shadows, you know, always grow longer at sunset!"—"That's true," repli­ed Sinister: "but still—"

Here he paused—to consider whether he was not about to say, what he might afterwards wish retracted: and, as they had now approached within a half a mile of the house, not another syllable did he risque till they arrived there.

At home, though he was surrounded with ele­gance, he had never possessed any other enjoy­ment than that of amassing wealth, which he had not the spirit to enjoy. For innocent amusements he had no relish; reading was a waste of time; and reflection was death. He was beloved by no human being: even his son, whom he waded through iniquity, and even blood itself, to enno­ble, at once dreaded and despised him. His wife had long since fallen the victim to his cruelty; if, indeed, her death had not been hastened by an artful strumpet whom she had indiscreetly made [...]her companion, and with whom he now openly cohabited. She, indeed, it is true, produced him a couple of children; but, if he had not [Page 8] been blinded by his absurd attachment, he might have beheld what every one else plainly perceiv­ed, that in the countenance of his French valet, and not in his own looking-glass, their resem­blance was to be discovered. Monsieur's features were large, and his face was the rouged bronze of his country; his master's unpleasingly dime­nutive, and his countenance the palid hue of con­demned guilt. With this base woman did Sinis­ter spend most of his time; and, though her fea­tures were coarse, her sentiments grosly vulgar, and her voice harsh as the raven's; so that it was impossible he could have loved her, had he beca [...] susceptible of love; by submitting to the tyran­ny of his temper, and pretending to an excess of affection for his person, she entertaining hop [...] that her children would in the end possess Old­field Hall, in spite even of his son, who might full a victim to the dissipation into which she had provided he should be tempted, while he wa [...] now making the tour of Europe.

To such a companion, with all his weakness, he was much too cunning to unbosom himself. He had no appetite for the provision that was set before him; and, having laboured to drow [...] reflection, by swallowing a plentiful quantity o [...] brandy and water, he retired to his chamber.

It was in vain, however, that he endeavor [...] to compose himself to rest: his eyes were [...] sooner closed, than the shadow of Harry Oldfield appeared before him. He opened them, [Page 9] fancy conducted to his ear sounds of criminal accusation, and of menaced vengeance. He clo­sed both his ears and eyes, yet voices seemed to speak from within him; and the cries of the sheep-stealer's wife and children, now imploring pardon, and now reproaching him with superior guilt, while to his mind's eye they seemed shriek­ing around the agonized man, who was about to be launched into eternity; proved together too powerful for him; and leaping out of bed, with a loud cry he fell down in a swoon.

Though his housekeeper lay in the next room, and neither she nor Monsieur were asleep, they did not think proper to hear him: weltering, therefore, in his blood, for he had cut his tem­ples by the fall, he continued till nature gave him strength sufficiently recruited to reach the bell; when he immediately gave an alarm, to which they knew the certain consequence of being deaf.

Having put some balsam to the wound, which appeared trifling, notwithstanding the effusion of blood was great, his tender housekeeper now af­fectionately intreated permission to sit up with him for the remainder of the night. But, tho' her presence took off much of the horror he had before felt, it was in vain that he endeavored to procure sleep; and in a state of restless stupefac­tion he continued till the welcome appearance of morning.

[Page 10]The morning, however, broke out with the splendor of the proceeding day. The cloud [...] were heavy, there was a brisk wind, and th [...] dawn was quickly overcast. The rain soon began to descend; and, though not violent, seemed likely to prove lasting: so that Sinister, instead of taking an early ride, as he had intended according to his usual practice, was under th [...] necossity of remaining at home.

But the rain, which had prevented his ride could not prevent the wife of the unhappy male­factor and their seven children from visiting th [...] stern prosecutor of their too anxious protector, and imploring him to sign their petition for a pardon before the judge quitted the city. He had just raised to his lips the first morsal of his breakfast, when the whole groupe, having been refused admission, knelt at his gate, and with their affecting cries began to realize what i [...] had so recently been tormented with by imagination.

He began now to conceive, that the appear­ance of Harry Oldfield's ghost the preceding evening—for such he had now made up in [...] mind it must necessarily be—was merely to wan [...] him against putting to death a man who was b [...] no means so criminal as himself; and that, there­fore his peace of mind would return the moun [...] he had forgiven this man. In fact there was b [...] little for him to forgive; since he not lost a sin­gle shilling on the occasion. The imprudent [Page 11] fellow was detected in selling this solitary sheep, which he had met with straying in the road, at a time when he had neither money, nor work, nor food for his family. He had, therefore, for the first time of his life, yielded to the tempta­tion; but he would not for the universe, have taken it home to his family, or have let them know that he had by improper means procured the value of a farthing. In this frame of mind, Sinister desired the petition might be brought in; and to the surprize of the servants, whose tears ran down their faces for joy, he immediately signed it. At the transporting, but unexpected intelligence, the poor woman faiinted away; for a pardon had been promised by the judge, pro­vided the prosecutor would sign the petition: and, when she recovered, the fervor with which she prayed to Heaven for blessings on her hus­band's preserver, and the artless manner in which she was joined by her little ones, had an effect far beyond any conception.

Sinister, having thus cheaply satisfied his con­science, spent the remainder of the day in chear­fulness; and, at night, enjoyed a more calm and delightful repose than he had for many years ex­perienced.

In the morning he rose early; and looking out at a window, while his horse was getting ready, what was his astonishment, on perceiving the ve­ry boy issue from a little shed, whose shadow, [Page 12] as he was now fully persuaded, had occasioned him so much alarm!

He had but a few minutes to reflect on this in­cident, before he was informed that the horse waited; and, immediately mounting, he thought he would direct his ride to that part of the park in which he had lost sight of the boy. Having proceeded about a quarter of a mile, he discri­ed him at a distance, near a wood on the verge of the park; and, calling to his servant—"Look there, (said he) is not that the boy you saw the other evening?"—"Where, Sir?" replied the man, looking in a different direction. "There, blockhead!" cried his master, pointing to just spot. But it was too late, for the youth had th [...] just entered the wood; and the servant began to think his master's senses had taken leave of him.

It is astonishing what trifles alarm a guilty mind! Sinister's happiness was again fled; all his terrors returned. Yet the object that excited this commotion was but a child; a poor friendless child! who had a heart too tender to trample wantonly on a worm.

Young Harry had seen Sinister at the window; and he was persuaded that he had been seen by him when he quitted the shed. He now began to fear, that he had taken an unwelcome, and perhaps an unjust liberty, in lodging without ex­press permission, where certainly any animal in the creation might ungrudgingly been suffered to repose: anduch was the delicate propriety of [Page 13] his mind, that he would have disdained even the shelter of a hedge, if he felt the smallest indica­tion that he might possibly be acting wrong.

Alas! he could feelingly say, with the only "perfect Being" ever on earth—"Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the son of man hath not where to lay his head!"

For several days he remained concealed in the woods, subsisting merely on the nuts and berries he found there: and, each night, climbing a thick tree, he fastened his body, with a handker­chief, to one of the firmest branches, where he fearlessly reposed till awakened by the chear­ful harmony of his early and innocent neigh­bours.

Sinister, during all this time, was suffering e­very horror of a mind awakened to a sense of it's guilt. Each day was spent in anticipating the terrors of the coming night; and such were his augmented apprehensions, that he could not endure to be left a moment in the dark, and had a servant constantly awake in his chamber. The wound on his temples too, either from the agi­tation of his animal spirits, or in consequence of his tender housekeeper's balsam, a secret compo­sition of her own began to exhibit alarming ap­pearances: but she persuaded him that her infal­lible plaister must soon do the business; and his mental wound gave him a thousand times more [Page 14] pain, than he either felt or dreaded from so insig­nificant a hurt.

The servant, who accompanied him from Here­ford, and on his airing in Oldfield park, endea­voured to assist the kitchen council's enquiry into the cause of their master's malady, by relating what he had witnessed respecting the boy; who had been observed looking earnestly towards the house and contemplatively traversing the grounds, several times. But there was, they all agreed, so much of the gentleman in the little fellow and he looked so innocent, good-natured, and handsome; that they were certain he could nei­ther have any bad design, nor belong to any per­sons who had; and they would have invited hi [...] into the house, even at the risque of their m [...] tor's displeasure, if they had not thought tha [...] they might disturb him, as he seemed shy, an [...] desirous of avoiding company. They had no [...] however, the smallest idea of the youth; though they thought they had seen somebody like hi [...] and they ended, as they began, with many nod [...] winks, and deep sighs of selfgratulation, th [...] though they had not some folk's money, they [...] not, they thanked God, some folk's conscienc [...] Monsieur, who was of this party, in his tèt [...] tète with the housekeeper, the same evening mentioned what had passed in the kitchen: and [...] who had heard more of her master's moans a [...] half-uttered expressions, than any of the oth [...] servants, began to spell and put together; [...] [Page 15] last she guessed, rightly enough, what was at the bottom. To satisfy herself, she fetched from the lumber garret, where a large collection of fami­ly portraits had been long locked up, the por­traits of the two last Oldfields; and, sum [...]oning into her apartment the servant who had oftenest seen the youth, she began, first bribing his secre­cy with a glass of cherry-brandy, to enquire if the boy he had seen was like either of those pic­tures. The fellow, at the sight of the youngest, which was in fact Harry Oldfield, (the father) started back with affright; his eyes seemed incli­ned to quit their sockets, and his hair standing erect—"'Tis as like, 'tis as like, madam, (he stammered out) as, as, as—are you sure it is not him himself?" This was sufficient. She car­ried the portraits again up stairs; and, giving him another glass of her favorite cordial, to re­store his spirits, with a few hints of what he [...]ight expect if he was wise enough to hold his tongue, she dismissed him back to the kitchen: where, though certainly he did not utter a sin­gle word on the subject, with his tongue, he took [...] literally to hold that member between his [...]mb and finger, and to practice many signif­ [...]nt contortions of his face, elevations of his hand; and eye, shrugs of his shoulders, and other plea­ [...]nt pantomimical contrivances, all tending plain­ [...] to demonstrate that he could say a great deal [...] he d [...]red.

[Page 16]Sinister being retired to his chamber, the housekeeper soon began to administer her con­solation. She represented the cruelty to him­self in smothering any secret that oppressed him, and mildly reproached his want of confidence inner so long experienced affection. There was nothing, not even her life, that she would hesi­tate to sacrifice for the dear object to whom she had already forfeited what was to a woman of her honor and breeding so much more precious than life itself. What would become of her, what would become of his sweet babes, if he gave way to such causeless but ruinous regrets! If he died, Heaven knew, they must all go to the work-house; for, to be sure, his fine son would soon turn them out of doors, and perhaps not long have a house over his own head! With this kind of language, to which he but little at­tended, she contrived to keep her tongue in mo­tion for some hours; and he who was all the time pondering on the means by which he should ef­fectually get rid of the last heir of the house of Oldfield, began to ask what she thought of Mon­sieur. Conscience hastily interpreting this ques­tion; she tartly replied, that he was an ugly wretch, and that she could never abide him. "I do not mean, (says Sinister) to ask your opinion of his beauty: But do you think his fidelity can be depended on! Can he keep a secret?"—"O, yes! (replied she, glad to find there was no jea­lousy): I have tried him many and many's the [Page 17] time; and you would be really astonished, if I were to tell you how well he can keep a secret! No, hang him! though he is certainly not hand­some, to give the man his due, I must say, he is as fit to be trusted with secrets as any fellow I ever knew, and I have known many in my time."—"Not so fast; not so fast! (interrupted Sinister) I have been thinking of a plan. If this boy could be privately secured, and sent some­where abroad, so that I might never see him a­gain, cost what it would, I should be happy e­nough."—"Give yourself no more trouble about it, (said she) you may reckon the thing done, and sleep in peace."

She told Monsieur, in the morning, what had passed between her and her master; and he con­sented, though with some reluctance, to under­take the task. Accordingly, he spent the whole of that day, in making minute enquiries after the youth. He even traced him to the little alehouse, where he had been refreshed; but the land­lord and his wife protested they had seen nothing of him for several days, and they were anxious to know what could be become of him. They declared he was the gentlest and best creature in the world: and they never loved so well a child of their own, for they believed he was an angel. Monsieur now told them, that if he came again, he begged they would send him word; and, if they would promise to keep the secret, he would tell [Page 18] them the truth. The boy, he said, was his own son; and had run away from his mother, in France, who was breaking her heart at his absence. All he wanted was, to secure the young rogue, and send him back to his mother, till his own father died; when he should return to his dear wife, and live like a gentleman, on his own family es­tate. The good souls, who believed every syl­lable Monsieur said, promised to do as he had told them; and they would have religiously kept their word, had Harry unfortunately furnished them with any opportunity. But Providence was pleased to dispose of him in a different way.

He was, one morning, descending from a tree in which he had all night reposed, when he was perceived by an old man, sitting on the ground at a little distance, who was binding together a few sticks, to form a small faggot. There was something wonderfully benign and attractive in the countenance of the old man: Whose silver beard swept his bosom; and whose head, though rendered bald by age, still retained a few scat­tered locks of snowy hair. His whole form was manly; and his dress, though coarse, clean and neat in the extreme. He was a man of whom no stranger could hesitate to say, that he had seen more prosperous days. Harry, though natural­ly diffident and distant, was attracted, as it were involuntarily towards the old man; who while the youth approached, looking stedfastly in his [Page 19] face, with a union of surprise, of doubt, and of transport, no sooner saw features once so famil­iar to his eye, than he rose on one knee, and ex­claimed—"Gracious Heaven, I am not deceiv­ed; this is surely my dear young master! it must, it must be, Harry Oldfield!"

Harry acknowledged that his name was Old­field; and a few minutes acquaintance endeared them to each other. The good old man had in his youth been valet to Harry's grandfather. He afterwards rented for many years, a respectable farm, on the Oldfield estate, from which he was cruelly ejected by Sinister, who had laid six farms into one, and thus driven so many families into distress and obscurity.

When the poor man understood the situation of Harry, from his simple narrative, his aged [...]yes rained a shower of tears; and he sobbed as [...] his heart were breaking. "O, my young master, (said he) live with me: I have a small [...]ottage which I can call my own; and I have a [...]od or two of ground, which I cultivate. In [...]y best days, I took little heed for the future: [...]nd much sickness in my family; I had many [...]sses; and I endeavored to do some good, for [...]o is there that has never done some evil? [...]et, on being turned out of my farm, with the p [...]duce of my stock I purchased a spot of ground, [...]d built my little hut; the remainder bought a­ [...]ut seven hundred pounds in the funds, which [...]ings me twenty guineas a year; and with this [Page 20] I and my little girl contrive to live comfortably enough." To this generous offer, Harry could only reply, that he believed Heaven had brought them together; and if it pleased the same graci­ous Power, he could wish nothing might ever di­vide them.

Harry lived for some weeks in this retreat; and, by the advice of the old man, they seldom approached Sinister's grounds. He knew the malice and implacability of the wretch, by sad experience; and he dreaded the lengths to which the villain might proceed against the heir of Old­field estate. They had, however been seen to­gether; and, one evening, just after they had retired to rest, three men in soldiers cloaths came to the door and demanded admittance. The old man told them, from a small window, that his family were in bed; that he knew nothing of them; and that they could clearly have no busi­ness there. One of them replied, that they be­longed to a recruiting-party; and that, having come from Hereford, after a deserter, whom he harboured, they were resolved not to go away without him. The young man, they swore, was about five and twenty: He was one of the finest fellows in their regiment, being full six feet without his shoes; much scarred with the small pox; and had red hair: he was, therefore remarkable enough, and they were not to be de­ceived in the person, though they well knew h [...] went by different names. Harry, the old man, [Page 21] and his daughter, having slipped on their cloaths, and agreeing there would be no harm in permit­ting the soldiers to search for the person they described, the door was unsuspectingly open­ed by Harry, whom two of the soldiers immedi­ately dragged away, crying out—"This is him; this is him, safe enough! I thought we should be too cunning for the old fox, and the young cub too!" The old man, in a state of distraction, rushed out of the house, and pursued after them; but it was with difficulty he could discover even the road they had taken. That discovery how­ever inspired him with hope; for he went a­cross the fields, of which they were clearly ig­norant, and was thus enabled to get into the pub­lic road, and porcure assistance from two or three farm-houses, full a quarter of an hour before they reached the end of the lane. Ten stout men with guns and pitchforks, therefore, lay in am­bush for their arrival; and suddenly bursting out surrounded and disarmed the three villains, and safely delivered Harry into the arms of his old friend. The fellows being thus taken and secured, soon came to a confession: from which it appeared that Sinister's French valet had em­ployed and instructed them; and that they re­ceived twenty pounds a piece for undertaking the business, and where to have these sums made up by five hundred whenever it should be com­pleated. They owned they were smugglers, and not soldiers; and the design was first to carry him [Page 22] into Wales, and from thence to transport him to the continent, where he was to be left without a shilling in his pocket, and consequently there would have been no great chance of his ever get­ting back again. The old man went next day to Hereford, with the three soldiers, and Harry Oldfield; and obtained from the majistrates, a warrant for the apprehension of Sinister, as well as his valet. But Monsieur had just taken leave of Oldfield Hall; and his master had, a few hours before, set out to appear before the bar of a still more tremendous tribunal! It appeared that, for some days, either in spite or in conse­quence of his skilful housekeeper's infalible plais­ter, a gangrene had evidently taken place; and, while she and Monsieur were gone to instruct the ruffians, old Sinister, beginning to suspect the truth, called his servants together, and taking his will, which contained a legacy to the house­keeper and her children, of ten thousand pounds, immediately thrust it in the fire; declaring that the law would dispose of his property exactly as he wished, by giving every shilling to his son. Notwithstanding the injunctions of secrecy, this intelligence reached the ears of the copartners in iniquity, within half an hour after their return; and they accordingly took care, in the course of the night, to make ample preparation for the e­vent. Long before daylight, every thing of va­lue, that was easy to be concealed, found its way to a distant secret depository; and old Sinister, [Page 23] whose dreadful groans for a great part of the night kept most of the family awake, was in the morning discovered to have breathed his last. It was the intention of Monsieur, and his tender housekeeper, to carry their depredations still far­ther; but, in consequence of a letter, which at noon arrived from young Sinister, mentioning that he had just landed in England, and would be at Oldfield Hall the next day, they judged it most expedient for Monsieur immediately to de­camp into Wales; whither she was to follow him, the moment she could prevail on young Si­nister to make her the handsome legal settlement, she entertained no doubt of obtaining from his generous and unsuspecting disposition.

Harry Sinister reached Oldfield Castle the fol­lowing day; and soon learned the most import­ant particulars of the various transactions. For the miserable death of his wretched father— ‘"Some natural tears he dropp'd, but wip'd them soon."’

But when he heard, from all tongues, the pi­teous story of Harry Oldfield's sufferings; and, from the perusal of some of his father's papers, became completely satisfied that the estate had been obtained by the most infernal practices; though a young man of a gay turn, and a stran­ger to what are softened by the appelation of fashionable follies and youthful dissipation, he dropped on one knee, and with his expres­sive eyes lifted to Heaven, energetically depre­cated [Page 24] it's vengeance; and solemnly vowed never to possess, what it was impossible to enjoy, a sin­gle shilling of that property which his father had, as he dreaded to reflect, purchased at the price of his immortal soul!

In this just resolve he was strengthened by the Power to whom he had wisely appealed; and, filled with a transport, which no vicious gratifi­cation had for a moment ever conveyed to his bosom, he hastened to fetch Harry Oldfield to the mansion of his forefathers.

The interview which now took place, was a spectacle for angels: presumptuous, indeed, must be the pen which attempted to give it tongue. It was the celestial communication of kindred souls, purged from every terrene gross­ness; in which each look, each motion, each feature, each accent, and even silence itself, spoke a language beyond the highest flights of human rhetoric.

Let it suffice to add, that from this moment all the wealth of old Sinister was at the dis­posal of Harry Oldfield. Every argument that could be adduced proved insufficient to pre­vail on the son to acceet the smallest portion of what he insisted would, in his custody, contam­inate every penny he might hereafter honestly acquire, and carry with it a curse to the latest posterity. It was by these participations, he was convinced that Heaven chiefly "visited the sins of the fathers, upon the children from generation [Page 25] to generation." Nor would he consent that a shilling should be given to his father's infamous housekeeper, which he insisted would only be en­couraging vice; and she was dismissed, with her children, to follow him whose duty it was to sup­port them. It turned out, however, that Mon­sieur had gone off for America, with the whole booty.

At his own earnest request, Harry Sinister was appointed to his father's original situation, as steward of the estate; and never was that import­ant trust confided to more able or faithful hands. Harry Oldfield built for him a noble house in his park; and, erecting another for his adored old man, he procured the widow of a worthy cler­gyman to educate the daughter: and, it is gen­erally thought, as he now usually calls her his little wife, that this good old domestic's daugh­ter, notwithstanding her father's delicate scru­ples and remonstrances, will probably become the happy partner of the Heir of the House of Old­field.

LET not the proud look with a scornful eye on the humble heroine whose story solicits attention. Though nurtered in indigence, and educated but in the school of sorrow; she was the care of Heaven, and man cannot be degra­ded by tracing it's wonderful hand in her preser­vation from irremediable misery.

Patty Ashford's parents were two of those thoughtless young people, who enter early into the cares of life, without sufficiently reflecting on the consequence. They knew, that their in­tentions were virtuous; and, whatever they might suffer, they determined to suffer together. Their union, though honorable, was a stolen one; and Patty, before her entrance into life, betrayed the secret of her parents. They were both, on this discovery, rendered destitute of a home. Her father was dismissed by the uncle who had brought him up: her mother, by a rich, but cruel father; who cut her off with a shilling, and left the whole of his property to her brother, whom his brutality had driven a­broad [Page 27] in the capacity of a common sailor. Thus, like our first parents, but with the superior con­solation of innocence in their bosoms—

With a few shillings in their pockets, and their whole wardrobe in a couple of handkerchiefs, they set off they knew not whither. After tra­velling many miles, and furmounting innumera­ble hardships, a worthy farmer compassionated their distress; employed the husband as a labour­er; and gave them a little shed to live in, which their industry soon rendered a comfortable resi­dence. In this shed Patty Ashford was born. But, as if life had been retained by the mother, only that she might give it to her infant; the fa­ther was no sooner told he had got a daughter, than it was added, he had lost his wife. This was too severe a stroke. His agony was beyond all description; and, in three days, a fever at once closed his miseries and his existence.

The farmer was worthy, but he was not rich. His rent had been nearly doubled, by the offers of manopolizing neighbours, eager to "lay field to field:" and, with a heart feelingly alive to the sufferings of others, he had often been plung­ed in difficulties which rendered himself a genu­ine object of compassion. His wife was his true counterpart: she was, in humble life, the Lady Bountiful of the surrounding country; a primi­tive [Page 28] practiser of physic. She had a balsa [...], for every wound; and a diet-drink for every disease; and they were literally given to all who needed them. This worthy couple laid their heads to­gether. The result was, that they buried the unhappy pair in the same grave; and agreed to bring up, with their only surviving son, an in­fant not a year old, the tender orphan whom they were persuaded Heaven had sent to claim their protection, and whom they named after her mother.

Little Patty, as she grew up, was admired much for her beauty, but still more for the ami­able mildness of her disposition. Her bosom was the sent of all that is tender and good; and she began to make considerable progress in the vari­ous domestic employments, though only about eleven years of age, when the f [...]rmer, who had suffered by becoming security for a friend, had his goods seized, and was himself sent to the county-g [...]o [...]. This event broke his wife's heart; their son was taken by a poor relation, for the rich would have nothing to do with a person so extremely weak; and little Patty having no friend in the world, was conveyed to the parish work-house.

In this miserable place, she remained untill a­bout fifteen; when she was taken out by a lady, then on a visit to her relations in the neighbor­hood, but who had married in London, and who wanted, a neat girl to assist in the nursery.

[Page 29]Poor Patty had been treated but indifferently by the unfeeling mercenaries who kept the poor-house. She had been made to labour much, and permitted to eat but little: yet, at the thought of parting from those with whom she had been long accustomed to live, and probably reflecting on what she knew of her past history, she shed many tears.

Her mistress, however, was a woman of good character, and of a very affable disposition. She took pains to comfort her; told her of the ma­ny fine things she would see in town; how well prudent young women frequently did there; and above all cheared her by the reflection, that she was going to the place which had given birth to her deceased parents. This was at once a solace and a shock. The gleam of sunshine it convey­ed to her bosom, was that of April; it darted through a gloomy cloud and was accompanied by a copious shower of tears.

In her new situation, she was universally belo­ved. The children, in particular, were as fond of her as of their parents; and she began to en­joy comfort, at least, if not felicity. She could not but occasionally reflect on her lot, in being deprived of both parents at her birth; and the cruel circumstances which had deprived her for ever from her kind foster-father, who was all this time languishing in confinement. From the first moment in which she could pen a letter, [Page 30] she had corresponded with him. She now sent him every shilling she could scrape together, and his truly parental letters were her chief consola­tions. He murmured at nothing; he was thank­ful for every thing: and still, with pious and a patient eye, contemnplated hope through the bars of his prison. "Alas! alas! should any prison in a civilized country confine such a man?"

Patty had lived two years in town, when her mistress, who had long been ill, died in a de­cline. This was a new calamity: it was, in­deed, a greater one than she imagined. Her ma­ster had for some time cast a criminal eye on her beauties; and scarcely had his deceased lady been a month deposited in her tomb, when his cruel intentions became abundantly manifest even to the unsuspicious innocent whose destruction he meditated. On the first insult, she prudently rushed out of the house; and nothing could ever induce her again to enter it. She sent for her cloaths, which the bounty of her mistress had made considerable, as soon as she had taken a lodging; and, with the small part of her wages due, resolved to live with the greatest frugality, till she should be able to procure another place. What she felt, on contemplating her forlorn state, is easier conceived than expressed; but the out­rage she had suffered, with the reflection of what she had so narrowly escaped, brought on a fever.

[Page 31]A nurse was now necessary, and a nurse was obtained. But this cruel wretch, while the poor unhappy girl lay insensible, purloined most of her little property; so that on her reco­very, she had scarcely a decent change of appa­rel; and the apothecary, as well as her landlady, though no strangers to her misfortunes, were both clamorous for their bills. Thus was this poor young creature, by the brutality of him whose children she was rearing not only to health but to virtue, torn from every gleam of comfort, and plunged in the depths of distress. She was soon instructed in the shocking practice of pledg­ing her cloaths for trifling sums, to appease her unfeeling creditors; and it now became necessary for the supply of sustenance. Ten days did she pass with no other food than bread and water, before she would consent to part with the only gown she had that was not on her back; nor could she even then have been brought to acqui­esce, but that her landlady significantly intima­ted, that she could not pay her rent with such lodgers. It was therefore the dread of being houseless, more than that of death, which finally prevailed; nor did a morsal thus dearly purchas­ed ever reach her lips, that was not first bathed with her tears. At length, all that modesty could spare, was by degrees disposed of; and it was suggested by her landlady, that she must part even with modesty itself. The specious ar­guments she used to lessen the value of virtue, [Page 32] were lost on her miserable inmate; who petrified with horror at her infamous proposal; became instantly motionless as a statue. This dreadful shock cost her another sit of illness; in which she languished without food, without medicine, and without attendance. Nature, or rather the God of Nature did every thing for her. She recover­ed slowly; but it was soon enough to be told, that she must eat the bread of infamy, as ten thousand women, once her betters, every day did, or be content to rot in a prison, where she would, after all, no doubt, suffer by compulsion, the evil she so greatly dreaded.

Partly by persuasion, and partly by force, was this miserable creature, tottering with her own weight, led out to the street, in the gloom of the evening, and told that she must bring money, or not expect re-admission. As the door closed up­on her, she wrung her hands in agony; but the fountains of grief refused to flow. Her soul was poured out to Heaven; and she prayed with fer­vor to be delivered from life's direst calamity. But, alas! she seemed destined to experience ev­ery horror. The thunder began to roll, and the lightning fl [...]shed around her. The heavy clouds, thus divided, poured down in torrents: she durst not return home; a dark unfrequented passage at a little distance, she recollected to have seen, and thither she hastened for shelter. It was at the same moment occupied by a plain man; who see­ing her a cleanly looking girl, and taking her [Page 33] for a common prostitute, accosted her in lan­guage which happily she did not comprehend; and to which she returned no answer, but seemed inclined rather to brave the storm, than continue in such company. He seized her with ardour, but not with roughness; and began to address her in more soothing accents. But her trembling and agitated frame, and her pathetic voice, soon convinced him that she was no daughter of infa­my; and, though a man of frailties, he would not for the universe have loaded his soul with the guilt of a deliberate seduction. He told her frankly what was his first design, but added, that he would endeavor to make her amends for the insolence of his intentions. As the storm still continued, he began to enquire into her his­tory; of which she candidly told him all she knew. He appeared greatly affected by her nar­rative; and soothed her with the attentions of a parent. She had no sooner brought her sad tale to a conclusion, than he exclaimed—"And is not your name Patty A [...]ford?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Be not alarmed, (cried he) my love! my child! (clasping her with vehemence to his breast)—This is the work of Heaven! for I am your uncle; the brother of that dear saint, your mother."

She became lifeless in his arms; and it was long before she was restored to animation. The [Page 34] instant she revived, he procured a coach, and that evening conveyed her home to his house.

In a few days, she began to recover health; and her uncle being a widower, and having lost all his children, assured her that she should, at his death, have the whole of his very ample for­tune.

In the mean time, they agreed to visit instant­ly the poor farmer, and liberate him from his cruel confinement.

They found him with his Bible before him; and his son by his side, an elegant and manly youth. Patty could not refrain from embracing them both: she knew, she said, their worth; and with her uncle's permission, if the young man had no objection, he should be her husband.

To describe the joy of all the parties is im­possible: from that day they constantly lived to­gether, and their posterity inherit their virtues.

BEING on a tour to the North, I was one evening arrested in my progress at the en­trance of a small hamlet, by breaking the fore­wheel of my ph [...]ton. This accident rendering it impracticable for me to proceed to the next town, from which I was now sixteen miles distant, I directed my steps to a small cottage, at the door of which, in a woodbine arbor, sat a man of about sixty, who was solacing himself with a pipe. In the front of his house was affixed a small board, which I conceived to contain an in­timation, that travellers might there be accom­modated. Addressing myself therefore to the old man, I requested his assistance, which he readily granted; but on my mentioning an inten­tion of remaining at his house all night, he re­gretted that it was not in his power to receive me, and the more so, as there was no inn in the village. It was not till now that I discovered my [Page 36] error concerning the board over the door, which contained a notification, that there was taught that useful art, of which, if we credit Mrs. Bad­deley's Memoirs, a certain noble lord was so grossly ignorant. In short, my friend proved to be the schoolmaster, and probably the secreaty to the hamlet. Affairs were in this situation when the Vicar made his appearance. He was one of the most venerable figures I had ever seen; his time-silvered locks shaded his temples, whilst the lines of misfortune were, alas! but too visible in his countenance. Time had softened, but could not efface them. On seeing my broken equipage, he addressed me; and when he began to speak, his countenance was illumined by a smile.—"I presume, sir, said he, that the accident you have just experienced, will render it impossible for you to proceed. Should that be the case, you will be much distressed for lodgings, the place affording no accommodations for travellers, as my parisho­ners are neither willing nor able to support an alehouse; and as we have few travellers, we have little need of one; but if you will accept the best accommodation my cottage affords, it is much at your service." After expressing the sense I en­tertained of his goodness, I joyfully accepted so desirable an offer. As we entered the hamlet, the sun was gilding with his [...]eparting beams the vil­age spire, whilst a gentle breeze refreshed the weary hinds, who, seated be [...]th the venerable oaks that overshadowed their cottages, were re­posing [Page 35] themselves after the labours of the day, and listening attentively to the tale of an old soldier, who, like myself, had wandered thus far, and was now distressed for a lodging. He had been in several actions, in one of which he had lost a leg: and was now, like many other brave fel­lows,

My kind host invited me to join the croud, and listen to his tale. With this request I readily complied. No sooner did we make our appear­ance, than I attracted the attention of every one. The appearance of a stranger in a hamlet, two hundred miles from the capital, is generally pro­ductive of surprise; and every one examines the next comer with the most attentive observation. So wholly did my arrival engross the villagers, that the veteran was obliged to defer the conti­nuation of his narrative, till their curiosity should be gratified. Every one there took an opportu­nity of testifying the good will they bore my ve­nerable host, by offering him a seat on the grass. The good man and myself were soon seated, and the brave veteran resumed his narrative, in the following words:—"After, continued he, I had been intoxicated, I was carried before a justice, who was intimate with the captain, at whose request [Page 38] he attested me before I had sufficiently re­covered my senses to see the danger I was encountering. In the morning when I came to myself, I found I was in custody of three or four soldiers, who, after telling me what had happened, in spite of all I could say, carried me to the next town, without permitting me to take leave of one of my neighbors. When they reached the town it was market day, and I saw several of the people from our village, who were all sorry to hear what had happened, and endeavored to procure my release, but in vain, after taking an affecting leave of my neighbors, I was marched to Portsmouth, together with 100 more, and there embarked for the coast of Af­rica. During the voyage, most of our number died, or became so enfeebled by sickness, as to make them unfit for service. This was owing partly to the climate, partly to the want of wa­ter, and to confinement in the ship. When we reached the coast of Africa, we were landed, and experienced every possible cruelty from our offi­cers. At length, however, a man of war arriv­ed, who had lost several marines in a late action, and I, with some others, was sent on board to serve in that station. Soon after we put to sea, we fell in with a French man of war. In the action I lost my leg, and was near being thrown overboard; but the humanity of the clergyman preserved my life, and on my return to England procured my discharge. I applied for the Chel­sea [Page 39] bounty, but it was refused me, because I lost my limb when acting as a marine: and as I was not a regular marine, I was not entitled to any protection from the Admiralty: Therefore I am reduced to live on the good will of those who pity my misfortunes."

The village clock now striking eight, the worthy Vicar rose, and slipping something in the old man's hand, desired me to follow him. At our departure the villagers promised to take care of the old man. We returned the farewell civilities of the rustics, and directed our steps to the vicarage. It was small, with a thatched roof. The front was entirely covered with woodbine and honeysuckle, which strongly scent­ed the circumambient air. A grove of ancient oaks, that surrounded the house, cast a solemn shade over, and preserved the verdure of the ad­jacent lawn, through the midst of which ran a small brook, that gently murmured as it flowed. This, together with the bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the herds, the village murmurs, and the distant barkings of the trusty curs, who were now entering on their office as guardians of the hamlet, formed a concert, at least equal to that on Tottenham-court-road. On entering the wicket we were met by a little girl of six years old. Her dress was simple, but elegant; and her appearance such at spoke her destined for a higher sphere. As soon as she had informed her grandfather that supper was ready, she dropped [Page 40] a curtesey, and retired. I delayed not a moment to congratulate the good old man on possessing so great a treasure. He replied, but with a sigh, and we entered the house, where every thing was distinguished with an air of elegant simplici­ty that surprised me. On our entrance, he in­troduced me to his wife; a woman turned of for­ty, who, still possessed great remains of beauty, and had much the appearance of a wo­man of fashion. She received me with easy po­liteness, and regretted that she had it not in her power to entertain me better. I requested her not to distress me with unnecessary apologies, and we sat down to supper. The little angel, who welcomed us at the door, now seating her­self opposite to me, afforded me an opportunity of contemplating one of the finest faces I had ever beheld. My worthy host, observing how much I was struck with her appearance, directed my at­tention to a picture which hung over the mantle. It was a striking likeness of my little neighbor, only on a larger scale. That, sir, said he, is Harriet's mother. Do you not think there is a vast resemblance? To this I assented, when the old man put up a prayer to Heaven, that she might resemble her mother in every thing but her unhappy fate. He then started another topic of conversation, without gratifying the curiosity he had excited concerning the fate of Harriet's mo­ther, for whom I had already felt myself much interested.

[Page 41]Supper being removed, after chatting some time, my worthy host conducted me to my bed-chamber, which was in the ground-floor, and lined with jessemin, that was conducted in at the windows. After wishing me good night, he re­tired, leaving me to rest. The beauty of the scenery, however, and my usual propensity to walk by moon-light, induced me to leave my fragrant cell. When I sallied forth, the moon was darting forth her temperated rays through the shade that surrounded the cottage, tipping the tops of the venerable oaks with silver. Af­ter taking a turn or two on the lawn, I wander­ed to the spot,

"Where the rude forefathers of the hamlet slept."

It was small, and for the most part surrounded with yew trees of an ancient date, beneath whose solemn shade many generations had mouldered in the dust. No sooner did I enter, than my at­tention was caught by a pillar of white marble, placed on the summit of a small eminence, the base of which was surrounded with honeysuckles and woodbines, whilst a large willow oversha­dowed the pillar. As I was with attention pe­rusing the epitaph, I was not a little alarmed by the approach of a figure, cloathed in a long robe. The apparition continued advancing to­wards me with a slow a step, and its eyes fixed on [Page 42] the ground, which prevented it observing me till we were within ro [...] of each other. Great was my wonder at recognizing my worthy host in this situation; nor was his astonishment less at finding his guest thus courting the appearance of goblins and faries. After each had expressed the surpise he felt, I proceeded to enquire whose dust was there enshrined? To my questions he returned answer—There, sir, sleeps Harriet's mother, an innocent, but unfortunate woman. Pardon me, sir, said he, if for a moment I in­dulge my sorrow, and bedew my Harriet's grave with tears—a tribute that I often pay her much lov'd memory, when the rest of the world are lost in sleep. Here he paused, and seemed much agitated. At length he requested my permission to defer the recital of Harriet's woes till the next day, as he found himself unequal to the task of proceeding in the painful detail. To this proposal I readily acceded, and we returned home. I retired to my room, but every attempt to procure sleep proved ineffectual. Harriet had so wholly occupied my thoughts, that no moment of the night was suffered to pass unnoticed. At length, "when soared the warbling lark on high," I left my couch, and rejoined my worthy land­lord, who was busily employed in the arrange­ment of his garden. Though I declined men­tioning the subject of our last night's adventure, yet he saw the marks of anxious expectation in my countenance, and proceeded to gratify the [Page 43] curiosity he had inspired. It will be necessary, said he, before I proceed to relate the woes that befel my daughter, to give a short sketch of my own life.—Six and twenty years ago, Mrs. — came hither for the benefit of her health, the air being recommended as highly salubrious. On her arrival, she gave out that she was the daughter of a clergyman, who was lately dead, and had left her in narrow circumstances. I thought it my duty to visit her, and offer her a­ny little attention in my power. She received me with politeness, and expressed a wish to culti­vate my acquaintance. I continued to repeat my visits for some time without suspecting that there was any thing particular in her history, till one morning I found her in tears reading a letter she had just received. On my entrance she gave it to me: it contained a notfication from Lord B—'s agent, that her usual remittances would no longer be continued. On opening this letter, I was led to suppose that her connexion with Lord B— was not of the most honorable nature. But all my suspicion vanished on her producing several let­ters from Lord B— to her mother, with whom he had been long connected.—From these letters I learnt, that Mrs.— was the daughter of Lord B— by Miss M—, sister to a Scotch baronet, whom he had seduced and supported during the remainder of her life. But he had, [...]t seems, determined to withdraw his protection from the fruit of their connexion. Mrs. — [Page 44] declared she new not what step to take, as her fi­nances were nearly exhausted. I endeavored to comfort her, assuring her that she should com­mand every assistance in my power:—On hearing this she seemed a little satisfied, and became more composed. After fitting with her some time, I returned home to consider in what manner I might most easily afford protection to the young or­phan, whose whole dependence was on my sup­port.—If I took her home to live with me, as I was unmarried, it would give offence to my pa­rishioners.

My income was too confined to admit of my affording her a seperate establishment. Thus circumstanced, I determined to offer her my hand. You will, no doubt, say it was rather an imprudent step for a man who had seen his fortieth year to connect himself with youth and beauty: but as my brother was then living, it was impossible for me to render her the least as­sistance on any other plan. She received my pro­posal with grateful surprise, and accepted it without hesitation.—In a few days we were mar­ried, and have now lived together six and twen­ty years in a state, the felicity of which has never been interrupted by those discordant jars which are so frequently the concomitants of ma­trimony: though, alas! our peace has received a mortal wound from one, the bare mention of whose name fills me with horror! But not to di­gress: Before the return of that day which few [Page 45] me blessed with the hand of Emily, my happi­ness received an important addition, by the birth of a daughter, who inherited all her mother's charms. It is superfluous to add, that she was equally the idol of both her parents; and as she was the only fruit of our marriage, she became every day a greater favorite. My wife had re­ceived such an education as rendered her fully capable of accomplishing her daughter in a man­ner far superior to any thing her situation requi­red, or perhaps could justify. To this agreeable employment, however, she devoted her whole time, and when Harriet had reached her eigh­teenth year, she was in every respect a highly accomplished woman. She was become what that picture represents her. With an amiable temper and gentle manners, she was the idol of the village. Hitherto she had experienced a state of felicity unknown in the more exalted stations of life unconscious, alas! of the ills that await­ed her future years.

It is with reluctance I proceed in the melan­choly narrative.—One evening, as a young man, attended by a servant, was passing through the village, his horse startled, and threw him. Hap­pening to be on the spot at the time, I offered every assistance in my power, and conveying him to my cottage, dispatch [...]d his servant in quest of a surgeon, who declared our patient was not in any danger, but recommended it to him to delay [Page 46] his departure for a day or two. His health, however, or rather his love, did not admit of his travelling for near a fortnight; daring which time he established his interest with Harriet by the most pleasing and unremitting attention to her slightest wishes. When about to depart, he re­quested leave to repeat his visit on his return from his intended tour, dropping, at the same time, some distant hints of his affection for Har­riet, to whom she was by no means indifferent.

Mr. H— (for so our guest was named) inform­ed us, previous to his departure, that he had a small independent fortune; but that from a dis­tant relation he had considerable expectation.— After bidding an affectionate adieu to Harriet, he set out on his intended tour which lasted for a month.

During the time of Mr. H—'s absence, Harriet appeared pensive; and I observed with pain, that he had made no slight impression on her heart. At length Mr. H— returned, and Harriet's reception of him left us no room to doubt her attachment. During his second visit he was very affiduous to secure the favour of all the family: with Harriet he easily succeeded; nor was Mrs T— nor myself disposed to dislike him. His manners were elegant, and his wit lively. At length he obtained from Harriet the promise of her hand, provided her parents should not object. Hitherto I had never been induced to make any inquiries concerning his circumstances and cha­racter. [Page 47] Now, however, by his direction, I ap­plied to a Mr. E—ns, a clergyman of his ac­quaintance. This gentleman, now in an exalted station in the church, then chaplin to Lord C—, informed me, that Mr. H— was in every respect a desirable march for my daughter; and that whenever his cousin should die, he would be en­abled to maintain her in affluence and splendor; he added, that his character was unexceptionable. Little suspecting the villainous part Mr. E—ns was acting, I readily consented to the proposed union, and performed the ceremony myself. Mr. H— requested that their marriage might be kept a secret, till the birth of a son and heir. This proposal rather alarmed me, but it was too late to retreat, and knowing no one in the great world, it was impossible for me, previous to the marriage, to procure any account of Mr. H—, but such as his friend cammunicated to me. Thus circumstanced, I could only consent; and as Har­riet readily adopted every proposal that came from one she so tenderly loved, the matter was finally agreed on.

After staying a few days, he set off for Lon­don, but soon returned, and passed the whole [...]rinter with us; and in the spring Harriet was de­ [...]ivered of that little girl you so much admire. I now pressed him to acknowledge my daughter as his wife. To this he answered, Had she brought him a son he would readily have complied with my request; but that his cousin was so great an [Page 48] oddity, that he could not bear the idea (to use his own expression) "of having his fortune lavished in a milliner's shop:" But, added he, if you in­sist upon it, I will now risk the loss of all his for­tune, and introduce my Harriet to his presence. Harriet, however, again interfered, and desired that Mr. H— might not be forced into measures that might in the end prove destructive of his fu­ture prospect, and induce him to regret the day he ever saw her. These arguments prevailed, and Mr. H— was suffered to continue as a member of the family without any farther notice being taken of the subject.

In this manner had three years elapsed, undi­stinguished by any remarkable event, Mr. H— generally passing half a year with us, and the remainder in London, attending, as he said on his cousin; when one day, as he was sitting with us at dinner, a chaise and four drove up to the house. The servants enquired for Mr. H—, and on hearing he was there, opened the carriage-door. A gentleman, dressed like an officer, jumped out, followed by a lady in a travelling dress; they rushed immediately into the room. Their appearance amazed us; but Mr. H— be­trayed the most visible marks of consternation. The lady appeared to be about thirty. She was a woman by no means destitute of personal char [...]s. The moment she entered the room she seized upon Harriet, and loading her with every ho [...]ble [...]pithet, proceeded to indulge her passion [Page 94] by striking her innocent rival. On seeing this, an old servant of mine seized the lady, and forcibly turned her out of the house, then fastened the door. It was not till now that we perceived the ab­sence of Mr. H—, who had, it seems, retired with the lady's companion. Whilst we were still lost in amazement at the transaction we had just witness­ed, we were alarmed to the highest pitch by the report of a pistol. Harriet instantly fainted. Whilst Mrs. T— was recovering her, I flew to the spot from whence the sound proceeded, and there found Mr. H— weltering in his blood, with a pi­stol lying by him. I approached, and found him still sensible. He informed me, that the lady's brother and he had fought, and that seeing him fall, they had both escaped as fast as possible. I instantly procured assistance, and conveyed him to the house, where he was put to bed, and a sur­geon was sent for. Mean time, Harriet had sev­eral fits, and we were apprehensive that the hour of her fate was approaching. On the arrival of the surgeon, he declared the wound Mr. H— had received would probably prove mortal, and recommended the arrangement of his affairs. Mr. H— received the news with great agony, and desired that I might be left alone with him. No sooner was this request granted, than he adressed me in the following terms:

"In me, sir, behold the most unfortunate, and, alas! the most guilty of men. The lady, [Page 50] whose ill-timed visit has lost me my life, is—I tremble to pronouce the word—my wife! (See­ing me pale with horror, he proceeded.) No wonder, sir, that you should behold with horror one who has repaid unbounded hospitality by unequal­led villainy. The bare remembrance of my own guilt distracts me. The awful hour is now fast appreaching, when I must receive my final doom from that Heaven whose laws I have so daringly violated. To redress the injuries I have com­mitted, is, alas! impossible. My death will be an atonement by no means sufficient. I cannot, however, leave this world till you shall be inform­ed, that ten thousand pounds, the whole of my property that is at my disposal, has long ago been transferred by me into the hands of trustees for the benefit of my much-injured Harriet, and her unhappy infant. In my own defence I have nothing to urge. Suffer me only to remark, that my misfortune arose from the avarice of my father, who forced me into a marriage with the woman you lately saw, and whose brother has been the instrument in the hand of Providence to inflict on me the doom I so much merited. If possible, conceal from Harriet that I was married. Picture, for her sake, an innocent deception, and tell her that I was only engaged to that lady. This will contribute to promote her repose, and the deception may possibly plead the merit of prolonging a life so dear to you. For the ele­vated mind of my Harriet would never survive [Page 51] the fatal discovery of my villainy. But, oh! when my unhappy child shall ask the fate of him who gave her being, in pity draw a veil over that guilt which can scarcely hope to obtain the pardon of Heaven."

There he ceased, and uttering a short prayer, expired. Happily for Harriet, she continued in a state of insensibility for three days, during which time I had the body removed to a neigh­boring house, there to wait for interment. Having addressed a letter to Mr. H—'s agent in town, he sent orders for the body to be removed to the family-burying-place, where it was accordingly interred. Harriet recovered by slow degrees from the happy insensibility, into which the death of Mr. H— had plunged her. Her grief became silent and settled. Groans and exclamations now gave way to sighs, and the bitter tears of desponding grief. She seldom or ever spoke, but would cry for hours together o­ver her hapless infant, then call on the shade of her departed Henry, little suspecting the irrepa­rable injury he had done her. It was with infi­nite anxiety I beheld the decline of Harriet's health. Prone as we ever are to hope what we ardently desire, I now despaired of her recove­ry. Whilst in a state of hopeless inactivity, I was doomed to witness the lingering death of my lamented Harriet, I received a visit from an old friend. On his arrival I allotted him the apart­ment formerly occupied by Mr. H— and Harriet. [Page 52] About midnight he was awakened by some one entering the apartment. On removing the curtain, he discovered by the light of the moon, my adored Harriet in a white dress. Her eyes were open, but had a vacant look that pl [...]inly proved she was not awake. She advanced with a slow step; then seating herself near the bed, remained there an hour, weeping bitterly the whole time, but without uttering a word. My friend, fearful of the consequences, forbore to awake her, and she retired with the same de­liberate step she had, entered. This intelligence alarmed me excessively. On the next night she was watched, and the same scene was repeated, with this difference, that after quitting the fa­tal apartment, she went to the room were her daughter usually slept; and laying herself down on the bed, wept over her child for some time; then returned her to apartment. The next morning we waited with anxiety for her appearance [...]t breakfast; but, alas!—Here a flood of tears af­forded to my friend that relief which he so much needed; and we returned to the house. After passing some days with this worthy couple, I proceeded on my tour, quitting, with relectance, the abode of sorrow and resignation.

Those whom the perusal of this tale may in­terest, will, if ever they visit the banks of the Al [...]a, find that the author has copied his cha­racters from nature.

****** IT was evening when Wolkmar and his dog, almost spent with fatigue, descended one of the mountains in Switzerland: the sun was dilated in the horizon, and threw a tint of rich crimson over the waters of a neigh­bouring like; on each side rocks of varied form, their green heads glowing in the beam, were, [Page 54] swarded with shrubs that hung feathering from their summits, and at intervals was heard the rush­ing of a troubled stream.

Amid this scenery, our traveller, far from any habitation, wearied, and uncertain of the road, sought for some excavation in the rocks, where­in he might repose himself; and having at length discovered such a situation, fell fast asleep upon some withered leaves. His dog sat watching at his feet, a small bundle of linen and a staff were placed beside him, and the red ray of the declin­ing sun, having pierced through the shrubs that concealed the retreat, gleamed on the languid features of his beloved master.

And long be thy rest, O Wolkmar! may sleep fit pleasant on thy soul! Unhappy man! war hath estranged thee from thy native village; war, unnatural war, snatched thee from thy Fanny and her infant. Where art thou, best of wives? thy Wolkmar lives! 'twas error spread his death. Thou fled'st; thy beauty caught the eye of pow­er; thou fled'st with thy infant and thy aged fa­ther. Unhappy woman? thy husband seeketh thee over the wilds of Switzerland. Long be thy rest, O Wolkmar! may sleep sit pleasant on thy soul!

Yet not long did Wolkmar rest; starting, he beheld the dog, who, seizing his coat, had [Page 55] shook it with violence; and having thoroughly awakened him, whining, licked his face, and sprang through the thicket. Wolkmar, eagerly following, discerned at some distance a man gent­ly walking down the declivity of the opposite hill, and his own dog running with full speed to­wards him. The sun yet threw athwart the vale rays of a blood-red hue, the sky was over­cast, and a few big round drops rustled through the drooping leaves. Wolkmar sat him down, the dog now fawned upon the man, then bound­ing ran before him. The curiosity of Wolkmar was roused, he rose to meet the stranger, who, as he drew near, appeared old, very old, his steps scarce supporting with a staff; a blue man­tle was wrapped around him, and his hair and beard, white as snow, waving to the breeze of the hill, received from beneath a dark cloud, the last deep crimson of the setting sun.

The dog now ran wagging his tail, first to his master, and then to the stranger, leaping upon each with marks of the utmost rapture, till too rudely expressing his joy, the old man tottering, fell at the foot of a blasted beech, that stood at the bottom of the hill. Wolkmar hastened to hi [...] relief, and had just reached the spot, when start­ing back, he exclaimed, "My father, O my fa­ther!" Gothre, for so the old man was called, saw and knew his son, a smile of ecstacy lighted up his features, a hectic flushed his cheek, his [Page 56] eyes beamed transport through the waters that suf­fused them, and stretching forth his arms, he faintly uttered, "My beloved son!" Nature could no more: The bloom upon his withered cheek fled fast away, the dewy lustre of his eye grew dim, and straining Wolkmar with convul­sive energy, the last long breath of aged Gothre fled cold across the cheek of his son.

The night grew dark and unlovely, the moon struggled to appear, and by fits her pale light streamed across the lake, a silence deep and ter­rible prevailed, unbroken but by a shriek, that at intervals died along the valley. Wolkmar lay entrance upon the dead body of his father, the dog stood motionless by his side; but at last a­larmed, he licked their faces, and pulled his master by the coat, till having in vain endeavour­ed to awaken them, he ran howling dreadfully along the valley; the demon of the night trem­bled on his hill of storms, and the rocks returned a deepening echo.

Wolkmar at last awoke, a cold sweat trickled over his forehead, every muscle shook with hor­ror, and, kneeling by the body of Gothre, he wept aloud. "Where is my Fanny," he ex­claimed, "Where shall I find her; oh! that thou had'st told me she yet lived, good old man! if alive, my God, she must be near; The night is dark, these mountains are unknown to me." As [Page 57] he spoke, the illumined edge of a cloud shone on the face of Gothre, a smile yet dwelt upon his features; "Smilest thou, my father," said Wolk­man, "I feel it at my heart; all shall yet be well." Wolkmar, retiring a few paces from his father, threw himself on the ground.

He had not continued many minutes in this si­tuation, before the distant sound of voices struck his ear; they seemed to issue from different parts of the valley, and two or three evidently ap­proached the spot wh [...]re Gothre lay; the name of Gothre was at length loudly repeated, and Gothre! Gothre! mournfully ran from rock to rock. Wolkmar, starting from the ground sighed with anxiety and apprehension, leaning forward he listened with fearful apprehension, but the beating of his heart appalied him. The dog who, at first alarmed had crept to his master's feet, began now to beark with vehemence; sud­denly the voices ceased, and Wolkmar thought he heard the soft and quick tread of people fast approaching. At this moment the moon burst from behind a dark cloud and shone full on the dead body of Gothre. A shrill shriek pierced the air, and a young woman rushing forward fell on the body of Gothre. "Oh, my Billy," she exclaimed to a little boy, who ran up to her out of breath, "see your beloved Gothre! he is gone for ever, gone to Heaven and left us: O my poor child! (clasping the boy, who cried [Page 58] most bitterly) what shall we do without him, what will become of us, we will die also, my Billy! Gothre is gone to your own dear father, and they are both happy yonder, my Billy," pointing to the moon.

Wolkmar, in the mean time, stood enveloped with shade, his arms stretched out, motionless, and fixed in silent astonishment; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he faintly and with difficulty uttered, "My Fanny, my child!" His accents reached her ear, she sprang wildly from the ground, "It is my Wolkmar's "spirit," she ex­claimed▪ The sky instantly cleared all around, and Wolkmar [...] upon her sight. They rush­ed together, she fainted. "God of mercies!" cried Wolkmar, "if thou wilt not drive me mad, restore her to life: She breathes, I thank thee, O my God, she breathes! the wife of Wolkmar lives!" Fanny recovering, felt the warm em­brace of her beloved husband; "Dear, dear Wolkmar," she faintly whispered, "Thy Fan­ny—I cannot speak; my Wolkmar, I am too happy; see our Billy!" The boy had crept close to his father, and was clasping him round the knees. The tide of affection rushed impe­tuously through the bosom of Wolkmar, "it presses on my heart," he said, "I cannot bear it. The domestics, whom Fanny had brought with her, crouded round: "Let us kneel," said Wolkmar, round the body of aged Gothre:" [Page 59] They knelt around, the moon shone sweetly on the earth, and the spirit of Gothre passed by; he saw his childern, and was happy.

THRASIMEDES, a young Athenian, had the audacity to force a kiss upon the daugh­ter of Pisistratus his king, as she was walking in public procession at a religious solemnity; trans­ported by the violence of his passion, and consi­dering that he had already committed an unpar­donable offence, he seized her person, and for­cibly conveying her on board a ship, put to sea with her on his passage to Aegina; the sons of Pisistratus pursued and overtook him, bringing him in person before her father. Thrasimedes, without betraying any marks of fear, immedi­ately declared himself perfectly prepared to meet any punishment Pisistratus should think fit to de­cree; for having miscarried in his attempt, and lost the object for which alone he wished to live, all consequences became indifferent; disappoint­ment, not death, was his punishment; and when the greater evil had been suffered, he had little apprehension for the less. Having said this, he waited his sentence: When Pisistratus, after long silence, breaking out into admiration at the resolution of Thrasimedes, instead of punish­ing his audacity, rewarded his passion by be­stowing his daughter upon him in marriage.

AMONG the Italian Nobles who embraced the French interest, and along with it were banished from Lombardy, the Count de Constan­zo was of the first distinction. On the establish­ment of the Imperial arms there, his estate fell to the Duke of Modena, and himself, with an on­ly child, withdrew into France, where he remain­ed until he introduced Nicolo his son into the French army.

Nicolo, by gallantry and conduct equal to his birth, ran a considerable length in the career of military advancement, till his progress was pre­maturely stopped, by a wound he received in one of the Flemish campaigns, which disabled him from the exercise of his commission. Upon this he retires, with a wife and daughter, into an ho­nourable privacy in a village of Auvergne, where he lived upon a provision allowed him by the [Page 62] King for some years, until the death of his wife, combining with other circumstances, induced him at length to remove at the age of 50 to the place of his birth.

On his arrival there under another name, which he assumed to prevent suspicion or distur­bance, he found the possessions of his father oc­cupied by Manfredi, an officer placed over them by the Duke of Modena; and not far from the castle of Constanzo, in a small and solitary house, he and his daughter took up their residence.

His delight, his employment, his consolation, centered in Leonora. To trace the dawning of her charms, and to assist the growth of her vir­tues, were his only relief from that dejection, which the idea of a lost wife, and the sight of a forfeited inheritance hourly inspired. Often would he take her through the woods of Costan­zo—but the scene was still too powerful for him. At every object he would gaze in pathe­tic silence, or break into mysterious ejaculation— "But what do we here, Leonora!" would he ex­claim—"these are not our grounds—O cruel usurpers! have ye robbed her too? what had she done? Unborn innocent! was she also your ene­my?" Alarmed, his lovely companion would inquire the meaning, but the fate of his family was still concealed from her.

[Page 63]Their mode of living was as recluse as their situation. Leonora never went abroad without her father, except to a neighbouring convent, where she learnt of the Nuns some female accom­plishments; nor did she ever appear in public, except at church. However, it was her fate to catch the greedy eye of Manfredi. She was then scarce fifteen, and though her beauty was not ripened into its full luxuriance, yet then it appeared a most alluring blossom.

Manfredi, though enslaved to lust and revenge (for these were the two most forward features of his character) was nevertheless both able and o­bliged to maintain in his conduct the utmost ri­gour of decorum. 'Twas by such an appearance, that he at first won the esteem of his Prince, and to such he then owed his situation at Cos­tanzo; for the Duke, generous to romantic ex­cess, thinking that the welfare of his vassals, which was the ruling object of his life, would be promoted by [...]ng such a character as Manfredi over that part of his domain, sacrificed an umb­rage he entertained against him, to such a noble consideration.

Stung by the fascinating eyes of Leonora, which, in spite of her purity, could look nothing but love, Manfredi at first conceived the base [...]t designs on her innocence, and made some clan­destine efforts to accomplish them; but by the [Page 64] fond vigilance of her father, he was always baf­fled, though never detected. At length his ap­petite (for it was not love) grew too unruly for constraint; and one night he went in disguise to Costanzo's house, where reconnoitering the window of Leonora's apartment, he attempted through it to gain admission to her bed. The window was in the upper story, and looked into a small inclosure behind the house, which served for a garden. The wall, on that side, was cover­ed to the top with i [...]ies, which on his applying the ladder whereby he was to get up, made such a sudden rustling as roused Leonora from sleep. She remained, however, trembling in her bed, till she heard and saw a person breaking open her casement. Alarmed, she sprung up, flew to the window, and, by an impulse of desperation, thrust the ruffian and his ladder down together. But the exertion exhausted he [...], and she sunk on the floor in a swoon, during which Manfredi, though miserably bruised, made shift to escape.

The disturbance awoke Costanzo—Leonora rushed into his thoughts; he rose up, went into her apartment, and there, with unutterable ter­ror, found her extended, senseless, at the soot of her bed. By his tender aid, however, she in a short time recovered, and satisfied him with re­gard to the occasion of her fright; but who the person was, or how she delivered herself from him remained inexplicable. The affair, at length, [Page 65] was costrued into a purpose of robbery—things were set in security; she removed into her fa­ther's apartment, and the remainder of the night was spent in repose.

Next day Leonora, as usual, repaired to the convent, and was engaged among the holy sisters till evening; but then, when she returned home, what was her horror to find the house desolate and empty, no father, no furniture there—the doors torn off their hinges, and the wind whilst­ling dolefully through the dismantled windows! The poor young forlorn, ran distractedly through every room, calling on her father; and shricking unregarded, till a monk, who was passing that way to the convent, heard her, and drew nigh, when learning the circumstances of her distress, he endeavoured to appease her anguish,

He went with her to all the cottages around, but nobody could give them any tidings of Cos­tanzo, or account for the strange calamity. The Peasants declared, some with looks of suspicion, others of surprise, and all of pity, that they had not seen that day any glimpse of such an affair. Their search continued till midnight? and Leo­nora would have traversed every inch of ground in the Duchy, ere she stopped unsatisfied, had not the benevolent father insisted on her accom­panying him to the convent.

[Page 66]When she arrived there, her affliction assumed a new form. Such terror and exertion brought on a fever of the most dangerous aspect, during which she raved, day and night, about her father and her misery. The efforts of medicine, how­ever, promoted by her youth, overcame the dis­ease; but though her health was in some mea­sure restored, the wound of sorrow was still fresh in her heart, for nothing as yet had been heard of Costanzo.

As soon as her enfeebled body could reach the distance, and her religious protectors would al­low her, she ventured forth to the desolate house. There was something so dismal in the air of that premature ruin, as would damp the most indiffer­ent spectator; what then must its effect have been on Leonora? Her heart sickened within her, when on entering, she behold the lower apart­ments employed in penning a few sheep, and the floors of the upper defiled by the feathers and excrements of crows. But when she entered her father's chamber, the shock became too mighty for her feelings. Recollection furnished its empty walls with every thing they once con­tained: her eye, in a frenzy of sorrow, seemed to devour the melancholy blank: when it came to that corner where Constanzo's bed used to lie, a thousand thoughts crouded into her fancy —she thought she saw him expiring there—mur­derers and poignards, and blood aggravated the [Page 67] idea—she recoiled from the phantom which she formed; and ran down stairs, trembling at the echo of her own footsteps.

At the threshold she sunk down, and there gave vent to an accumilation of tears, till inter­rupted by the approach of a stranger on horse­back. This was no lower a personage than the Duke of Modena, who being then on an annual visit to that part of his dominions, resided at the castle of Costanzo, where Manfredi still lay con­fined by his bruises. The Duke happened that day to be hunting in the neighbourhood; and observing at some distance, the beautiful young creature in a posture of picturesque affliction, rode up to her. An heart, so humanely noble as his, must be a party at such a spectacle. He enquired her story, and she told it with such melancholy sweetness, as both wet his eyes, and warmed his heart. The circumstance of the noc­turnal assault drew his keenest attention—"a thought has struck me" said he "pray, was the window high?" Alas! so high Sir, "she replied, I tremble at the mischief the person may have received—but, if you please, I'll show it you." They went round; and, as they were surveying the window, one of the Duke's hounds, that had overleap'd the hedge of the enclosure, returned, bearing in his teeth a scabbard enclosing half the blade of a sword. The Duke's suspicions were strengthened. He went with Leonora into [Page 68] the garden, and found, under the window that had been assailed, the remaining part of the sword lying among some shurbs. Snatching it up, and observing a crest, engraved on the hilt, "ha! I am righ—it was, it was Manfredi—This is the ruffian's sword broken in the fall—his bruises confirm it. Courage, thou lovely sufferer! thy father may yet be restored to thee. The monster that could attempt thy ruin, would not shrink from his. Not a hole in Costanzo but shall be ransacked, till we find him—let us go thither instantly—deliberation were now madness." Leo­nora, lost in astonishment and hope, suffered her­self to be placed on the Duke's horse, who at­tended her on foot to the castle.

When they arrived there, he instantly repair­ed to Manfredi's chamber; and introducing Leo­nora, asked him whether he knew that lady— "No, (replied the alarmed criminal)—nor this sword?"—"What? that sword:—why"—but guilt shackled his tongue, and unhinged his dis­simulation. "Attrocious wretch!" cried the Duke, "is this the honor, that the humanity that won my favor?—But where is her father? —Monster of revenge!—that he should suffer for the hurt his daughter occasioned, a hurt you more than deserved!—But where is he.—On your life produce him safe." Manfredi, having by this time recollected himself, hardily denied any knowledge or concern in the affair; but, on [Page 69] the demand of his Prince, was obliged to deli­ver up the keys of the castle.

The Duke went himself, with Leonora and two officers, through every apartment, but could not find Costanzo. Hope shrunk away from their bosoms, and suspicion began to follow it. Returning, however, through a passage under ground, they heard a deep groan proceeding from a contiguous vault which had escaped their search. The door, though curiously concealed, they at last found out; but as none of the keys that were given them, could unlock it, the Duke impatiently ordered it to be forced open with a crow; and, entering with lights, found the ghast­ly figure of Costanzo stretched on the floor, he could scarce lift up his emaciated form ere it was clasped in his daughter's arms;—"my father," —"ha, my Leonora!—but the tears and trans­ports of the interview description must not at­tempt. At last, says Costanzo, art thou come, my child to see me dying in a dungeon of my fa­ther's castle,—"what, interrupted the Duke, art thou Costanzo, thou the son of that unfortunate nobleman whose estate my father seized?—Yes, yes, the same, the companion of my youthful studies at Ferrara—every feature of Nicoli still languishes in that visage, in spite of years and distress I can trace them; let me share with thee, Leonora, in that embrace. They immediately left that place of horror, and repaired to Man­fredi. [Page 70] The Duke could not speak the tumult of his benevolent joy; what angel, cried he, has put so much of Heaven in my power, as to re­store a parent from the jaws of murder to the embrace of his child, to restore an Earldom, from the custody of a villain, to the possession of its heir. Costanzo, you are henceforth master here; I quit all property in whatever you were born to enjoy; your sufferings have atoned for your father's hostility to our house. Costanzo, in amazement, threw himself at his feet—"my sovereign," cried he—"my friend," interrupted the Duke—stifle these acknowledgments; and, it you would be grateful to your Prince, be a fa­ther to your vassals,—As for thee lustful revenge­ful hypocrite, but thy punishment is within thee —Duty, however, demands me to disburden my dominions instantly of thy guilt,—hence,—and hereafter avoid these regions, as thy life shall an­swer it—hence, and let thy detection and de­basement declare to other states, as well as this, that providence, can draw good from the depths of vice, for thy lust hath rent the veil of dissimu­lotion, and thy revenge stopped the abuse of au­thority.

IN a pleasant valley of Mesopotamia, on the banks of the Irwin, lived Solyman, son of Ardavan, the sage. He was early instructed in all the oriential languages; but, as his under­standing opened, like the flower in the morning, when Aurora dawns in the east, he thirsted only for the knowledge of mankind. He prevailed on his father, with much importunity, to per­mit him to travel. The morning was spread up­on the mountains, and Solyman prepared to de­part; but first prostrating himself towards the sun, he addressed that glorious luminary in devo­tion, and then passed over the Tigris, into the kingdom of Persia.

There is some secret attraction in the place, where we have passed the chearful innocence of childhood. No sooner had Solyman ascended an eminence which gave him a retrospective view of the valley of Irwin, than he turned his eyes on [Page 72] his native fields, and gazed on them with a kind of pensive complacency, till the declining day called him to proceed.

When he had reached the foot of Mount Tau­rus, he sought to repose himself in the valley of Abdat; but he was stopped by an exclamation of sorrow which proceeded from an ajacent wood. As he was in hopes of relieving some distress, he drew near, and discovering two lovers, who had stolen a secret interview before their final se­paration. Being made acquainted with the cause of their sorrow, and finding it proceeded from the avariciousness of the lady's father, who had sold his daughter to a Khan of Buckharia, he of­fered them his assistance, which being accepted, he conducted them back to the banks of the Ti­gris; and, recommending them to his father, continued his travels, till he arrived at Ispahan.

The beauty and magnificence of that city en­gaged his attention for many days; but his great­est pleasure derived from the conversation of an English merchant, from whom he learnt many things relating to the manners and pursuits of men in different countries, particularly in Great Britain. With this merchant, he afterwards set out for the court of Bassora; but, being driven by the heat of the sun to seek for shelter on the declivity of a neighbouring mountain, they were led by accident to the cave of a hermit. The [Page 73] good old father at first retreated from them, fear­ful of the effects of human ferocity; but being soon convinced they were only inoffensive travel­lers, he afterwards acquainted them with the history of his life.

The hermit told them that he was born of competent fortune; but, being left an orphan, was deprived of it, partly by the chicanery of a court of equity, and of the rest through the treachery of a friend. This obliged him to en­ter as a common soldier in the army of the Sophy, where he fell in love with the daughter of the commanding officer, which plunged him again into new misfortunes, and at last ended in his betaking himself to those solitary mountains for a retreat.

After having finished his tale, the travellers took their leave, and, about the close of the day, arrived at the village of Arden. At their entrance, they were met by a person in a plain dress, who invited them to partake of his house and table that night. The hospitality they re­ceived from him, gave Solyman very different ideas of the dispositions of mankind, from what his own partial observation, aided by the ad­ventures of the two lovers, and the tale of the hermit, had enabled him to form. When the dawn of the morning broke, Solyman and the [Page 74] merchant left the village of Arden, and after a few days travel, arrived on the plain, on which stood the once glorious Persepolis. The con­templation of its ruins filled their minds with proper reflections on the instability of human grandieur, and from thence they proceeded to the court of Bassora.

The merchant here finding the vessel he ex­pected, told Solyman he could accommodate him, if he pleased, with a passage to Europe, which the desire the latter had of seeing foreign countries induced him to accept: but as the ship was to remain some time in the gulph, he took that opportunity to make the tour of India, and, in his way visited the isle of Ormus. There he met with an exile from Isp [...]an, who had been doomed to spend his life in that dreary spot, for no other crime, than that he had said at court, he thought the Sultana Moratte extremely beau­tiful. The unmerited severity of his sentence moved the tender heart of Solyman. He pro­mised him his liberty, at his return from the excursion he was making, and continued his route for India.

Being come to Delhi, the capital of the Mo­gul's empire, his heart, which had hitherto been a stranger to love, fell a victim to the charms of the accomplished Almena. He thought no more of performing his voyage to Europe; but the [Page 75] unhappy fate of the exile at Ormus recurring to his mind, he determined to fulfil the promises he had made him, and, quitting Almena, return­ed to Bassora. Having settled every thing rela­tive to the departure of the exile, he took the opportunity of the ship's delay in setting out, to vi­sit his father, from whom he learned the sequel of the adventures of the two lovers who had been recommended by him to his care. Almena, how­ever, still continuing uppermost in his mind, and the time for the departure of the vessel drawing near, he again left Arden, and, having seen the exile safely embarked at Bassora, proceeded to Delhi.

Solyman and Almena, being now a second time together, mutual professions of love and friendship ensued, in consequence of which they agreed to quit Delhi, and to retire for the re­mainder of their days to the valley of Irwan. But a war at that time raging in India, and the lovers unhappily taking their passage in a vessel belonging to one of the contending parties, they had scarcely got five leagues out to sea, before they were pursued by the foe, and after an ob­stinate engagement, made prisoners. The enemy stripped the vessel of every thing va­luable, then dismissed it; but they carried off Almena.

What pen can describe the grief of Solyman! his fair one carried he knew not whither, and [Page 76] the ship, unable [...]o proceed on her intended voy­age, obliged to return to the coast of India. Here he was told, that the vessel, which had ta­ken them, belonged to the King of Sund [...]h; and having informed himself of the situation of that country, he went in quest of Almena. For a long time he continued his miserable search in vain; but at length discovered by accident, that she was confined in the castle of Sevasor. This discovery only served to increase his misery. The governor, who was in love with Almena, finding him to be the person whom she had long lan­guished after, and considering him, of course, as the principal obstacle to his wishes, ordered him to be confined. He found means to break from this confinement just in time to rescue Al­mena from the brutality of the tyrant, whom he killed; but the guards coming upon him in that instant, they were both made prisoners, and shut up in the castle, till it was taken by a party of the King of the Kanarians.

This incident, from which the two lovers might have hoped for deliverance, only added to their woes. They were again separated, and Almena selected for the pleasures of the King of Kanaria. Solyman, however, having found means to introduce himself into the King's ser­vice, repaired to the palace, and acquainted him with the whole story of their passion. A violent struggle at first arose in the King's breast between [Page 77] love and virtue; but the latter triumphed, and Almena was restored to Solyman.

The two lovers being thus, once more, mi­raculously brought together, and unwilling to risque their happiness again upon the seas, de­determined to travel by land for the valley of Irwan. After many days tedious journey, they arrived at Delhi, from whence they continued their route to Ispahan, where Solyman found his old friend the merchant. The customary congratulations over, and the merchant being informed of the particu­lars of their adventures, Solyman then gave him an invitation to accompany him to the valley of Irwan, which was accordingly accepted. In their way, they visited the two lovers mention­ed in the preceding part of the story, whom they found completely happy. Having been witnesses of their felicity, they proceeded to the valley of Irwan, where Ardavan received them with the greatest tenderness; and Solyman and Almena, happy in themselves, and in each o­ther, closed the returning day with prayer and praise to that Providence, which had pre­served them in all their dangers.

AMONG the dancers of the palace, in the reign of Abbas the Great, King of Persia, there was a young maid, named Idris, whom the master of the revels, on the report of her charms, had sent for from Casbin to Ispahan. Her mother being of the same profession, she had followed the same way of life; but as she honorably distinguished herself from her female-companions, she demonstrated that virtue is prac­ticable in every situation of life, however slip­pery or dangerous it may be.

Scarcely had Idris appeared in the theatre of the capital, but she found herself beset by the grandees, who strove to please her by the same means that had won others in that station. One exhausted all his rhetoric, in commending her shape and manner; another extolled the form of her face; her complexion, and the regularity of her features.—. third, to give weight to the [Page 79] encomiums he had bestowed upon her voice; re­peated an air he had heard her sing, and decla­red his distraction to arive at that grace with which she gave life to her words.—A fourth, boasting his precision and skill in dancing, ex­hibited instantly some of the attitudes he had learned of her. A first-rate Sir Fopling, gave her a list of the pretty women he had deserted, from the moment he first saw her. A young Iman, by birth intitled to become a Mollah, si­lently displayed his figure and his dress. And old fingerer of the public money, dazzled her eyes with a diamond of the first water, and offered it, besides the perquisites of the contracts, which it was his custom to bestow upon his mistress.—An officer of the crown made pompous descriptions of the presents with which he had recompensed the friendship of the little Zazi. In fine, every one exerted his faculties, and his address, in or­der to gain the preference over his rivals.

But Idris was not to be caught by such baits. At the palace, at assemblies, in the public walks; and in all places, the discourse turned upon the new dancer, every one talked of her beauty, her wit, her engaging behaviour; and, which was more than they had said of any other of her profession; they agreed in acknowledging her to be very virtuous. It is the property of none but the most exalted virtue to gain the res­pect and admiration of young courtiers. Mah­mut [Page 80] concieved a high opinion of Idris's virtue, from the extraordinary effect it produced.

Mahmut bore among the lords of the court, the same character which Idris maintained among the dancers of her sex; proof against the defects of his equals, and the vices of his station.

As soon as he began to appear in the world, he became sensible of the ridiculousness of that noi­sy obstreperous giddiness, which most young peo­ple of quality affect; and being happily prejudi­ced against the idle life he saw them lead, he took care not to follow their example, yet with­out seeming to condemn them. While their days were divided between the toilet, the table, visits, and gaming, he spent the morning in the closet among his books; or, with those whose conver­sation could instruct him better.

In the afternoon he frequented the manufacto­ries, and working places about the palace; talk­ed with the ablest hands in the several arts; and observed, with the utmost attention, how they proceeded in their works.

In the evening was at some or other of the public entertainments, which he enjoyed with a moderation that is ever inseparable from taste and discernment. After which he repaired to some of the most brilliant assemblies of Ispahan, [Page 81] as well to avoid a singularity that would have rendered him odious as to acquire a greater share of the complaisance and politeness which reigned in them.

Mahmut's wit, and the use he made of it, rendered him superior to those who were his e­quals in birth; and, besides the advantage of a good figure and graceful air, he distinguished himself no less among them by his natural and acquired talents. Idris could not behold this amiable Persian without emotion—she shunned all her importunate suitors, and complacently fancying him free from all their faults, she se­cretly wished that the beauty which they so highly extolled, might make an impression on him. Her wishes were met more than half way. Mahmut soon let her know that he loved her most passionately; and her answer to his declara­tion, on account of its singularity, deserves to be given entire.

"Doubtless you give the name of love, (said she, with a charming smile) to that which is on­ly an effect of your taste for novelty: I will not, my lord, go farther, at present, on this head; it is your business to fix my judgment. I will ingeniously confess, though it will give you some unfavorable opinion of me, if you are not the man I take you to be, that I am not displeased at your liking me: but if ever I see occasion to al­ter [Page 82] the idea I have conceived of you, hope not that I shall, in the least, indulge my inclination. I shall not take it ill if you give your heart to a woman more virtuous hand, therefore, do not complain of your lot, if I dispose of mine, in fa­vor of any man whom I may find superior to you in virtue."

Mahmut, struck with admiration, and over­flowing with joy, laboured to rise to such a pitch as might oblige Idris to be constant to him. He applied himself, with fresh vigor, to ac­quire the arts and sciences necessary for a man in his station. He made it his business to relieve indigent merit and unfortunate virtue. His hu­manity, generosity, capacity, and modesty, were equally conspicuous; and Idris abundantly re­warded him for all the pains he took to please her. Praise grounded on truth, and coming from the mouth of so charming a person, filled the tender Mahmut's heart with joy and satisfac­tion. He read, in the eyes of his beauteous mistress, how dear he was to her. He talked of his passion, and described its violence. Idris listened to him with pleasure, vowed she would make him a just return; and thus animated him to give her no occasion to repent her engage­ment. In these overflowings of their hearts, which none but true lovers can know, and feel the sweetness of, they laid open to each other the most secret recesses of their souls. Mahmut was grieved when he took leave of Idris, nor could [Page 83] she bear his absence without a visible concern.— They always parted under the greatest impatience to meet again.

Between two neighbors, so powerful, as the Grand Signor and the King of Persia, there can be no long peace, a war soon broke out, and Mahmut was obliged to set out for the army. He waited upon Idris to deplore with her the dire necessity that forced them assunder; but whilst he lay at her feet, he durst not disclose to her all his grief. The fortitude of the fair-one daunted him. He was afraid of lessening himself in her esteem, by discovering any weakness.— Idris perceived the sore conflict in his breast, and loved him for it more intensely.

Mahmut had not been gone a month when he gave way to his desire of an interview with Idris. He slipped away privately from the army, and with the help of relays, which he had got ready on the road, he was at the gates of Ispahan be­fore they missed him in the camp. Alighting at the house of one of his old servants, he disgui­sed himself in the habit of a peasant, that he might not be known in the city; and, impatient for an interview with his Idris, he slew to her house.

The charming maid was sitting at a balcony, as Mahmut was advancing, and knew him, not­withstanding [Page 84] his disguise. Grieved to see him thus neglect his glory, and his duty, she ran di­rectly to her closet, charging her slave to admit no visitor whatever. She melted into tears at the weakness of her lover; but soon recovered her­self, and wrote him the following billet:

Mahmut was too much confounded with these words to ask any questions of the slave that deli­vered him the billet. He went back to his do­mestic's house, to put off his disguise; and fluc­tuating between admiration, grief, and fear, he repaired again to the army with as much haste as he had travelled up to Ispahan, his chief study being to make amends for the fault he had com­mitted: he behaved the rest of the campaign with so much ardor, bravery, and conduct, that he was deservedly promoted to a higher post, which the King conferred on him with the most honorable eulogies at the head of the army. Idris wrote him a congratulatory letter on his promotion, in which, without mentioning his weakness, she gave him to understand that she had forgiven him.

[Page 85]Mahmut, transported with joy, hastened back to Ispahan, as soon as the army was ordered in­to winter-quarters, and listened to no other con­siderations but his esteem for this virtuous girl. He intreated her to complete his happiness in becoming his wife. "Your wife, my lord, (cried Idris, with an emotion that once discover­ed the tenderest passion and concern for the glo­ry of her lover;) what! would Mahmut forget himself so far? In disposing of your heart you may, indeed, consult nothing but your inclina­tions; but when the question is to chuse a part­ner in your dignity and fortune, you are ac­countable to those of whom you hold both. I have the deepest sense of gratitude for this signal testimony of your esteem; but what will your relations say? What will all Persia say, whose eyes are upon you, and who see nothing in me but the mean profession I was bred to?—No; Mahmut, it must not be!—I see my error; I am ashamed of my weakness.—I that am ready to sacrifice my life, were it necessary, to preserve your glory, cannot be instrumental myself in sul­lying it."

Sentiments like these made the passionate Mah­mut only more pressing.—"What are those things, (said he) which create so great a dispa­rity between us? An instant may deprive us of them; but the dowry which you will bring me, [Page 86] charming Idris, is a blessing that depends not on men, nor fortune." In uttering these words, his countenance began to be clouded with grief: fresh denials drove him to dispair.—He drew his poignard, and was going to plunge it into his breast. The tender Idris could hold out no longer. "Ah! Mahmut, (cried she) stop your hand and live.—To-morrow I shall be yours.— Grant me this short respite!" She could utter no more.—Tears put an end to her surprise, and stopped her breath!

The news of their marriage soon took wind; and those who envied him the possession of so much beauty, abused him for his meanness, while the sober and thinking part of the world extolled their virtues; and only lamented that her birth and fortune had not rendered them more conspicuous and attracting. She was pre­sented to the king, who was charmed with her person! and finding her heart, and her senti­ments would not disgrace the highest quality, added that which reconciled all parties—a title and place at court.

MADAME de Randan, of the illustrious house of Miranda, became a widow at twenty years of age, and was inconsolable. What grief was ever like her's, and whose eyes, so young and so charming, ever shed so many tears for a dead husband! The whole talk at court was of the mourning of the young widow. She no lon­ger consulted her mirror; she despised the deco­rations of dress, and vowed to the shade of her husband that she would never more use them: she muffled herself up in a hood like a nun; and yet, in that disadvantageous attire, Madame de Ran­dan was the loveliest of all the women of her time.

The Chevalier Bayard, at the age of thirty, had already attained the appellation, of Bayard, [Page 88] the dauntless and irreproachable. Palice was proud of having been named with universal ap­plause to the command of the army at Ravenna. These two preux chevaliers, who acted a conspi­cuous part in the field, were hardly known at court, and they resigned to the gentle Bonnivet and many others, the entire possession of court favour, content themselves with military fame. Bonnivet, however, sometimes courted the con­versation of Palice and Bayard; his frigid soul came to warm itself at the fire which animated them when they talked of honour, and royalty, and deeds of arms. Bonnivet repayed them with tales of gallantry, with the news and anecdotes of the court. The fair widow had her turn. "What think you," said he one day to the knights, "of Madame de Randan?" "By this hand, said Bayard, I never saw so fair a dame." "Beshrew me, added Palice, but it is too much to weep so long for the dead." "Don't you know, replied Bonnivet, that I have undertaken to put a speedy termination to her widow hood? yes, indeed, the fair widow, let me tell you in confidence, will not be displeased when I attempt to dry her tears." "Thou art a vain creature, said Palice," "He is a braggart," rejoined Bay­ard. "Very well gentlemen, said Bonnivet, observe the end," and he took his leave.

What a strange man, said Palice, is this Ad­miral Bonnivet! When I consider, replied Bay­ard, [Page 89] his behaviour to a lady of high rank, into whose chamber he introduced himself by a strata­gem I am convinced he is enterprising.

After these short reflections, the two knights sat for some time silent; strange thoughts were passing in their minds, for they were both in love. It was the first instant of their passion, and that instant is certainly sometimes very embarrassing. "It would be a meritorious act, said Palice, to touch the heart of so fair and accomplished a lady." "Certainly, said Bayard, and highly honourable:" and they relapsed again into silence. They looked at each other, and perceived that they were rivals. "Let there, however, be no difference between us, said Palice. Let us swear by St. Dennis, that whosoever shall be the unsuc­cessful lover, shall immediately yield without complaint; and that if a third shall enter the lists, the discared candidate shall assist the other, and be his companion in arms. Let us promise, on the faith of true knights, to relate our success with­out reserve." "I swear," said Bayard. They embraced and separated.

The one took the road on the right hand, the other that on the left, but both directed their steps to the hotel of the fair widow. Bayard had already set his foot within the threshold of her gate, when he saw Palice coming. He had all [Page 90] his life been above suspicion or reproach. "En­ter, my friend, said he to Palice, you are my se­nior; good night and success to you; I will re­turn to-morrow." At these words he retired, and Palice was to be announced to the widow.

How shall I describe Madame de Randan.— She wore a grey robe; her hair was unpowdered, and concealed beneath an immense hood which covered her face. A small machine for weaving silk lace stood before her, and a young girl, who was reading certain select pages from the story of Godfrey of Boulogne, was often interupted by the widow with many a sigh. This was the Helen for whom these two brave chevaliers were about to contend. She acknowledged the honor of the Captian's visit, but it made her neither more talkative nor more at ease. "You see be­fore you," said Palice, "a true knight, who has just devoted himself wholly to your service." "How say you?" said she, with surprise. "It is true, fair lady: My hand, my heart, I lay at your feet." At this the widow wept and was si­lent. Palice was affected, and had almost shed tears. The girl, by a sign, brought forth the picture of M. de Randan, and the widow, as her only answer, pointed with her finger to this inscription, I LOVE HIM STILL. Palice inter­preted this dumb refusal, and took his leave for that time by declaring that he would never cease imploring God to dispose her heart to forget the dead, and to have pity on the living.

[Page 91]Bayard waited his return with a degree of im­patience. "Alas!" said Palice, "she was all in tears, she shewed me the portrait of her hus­band, and I have been obliged to retire without hope!" Bayard knew the worth of Palice, and did not flatter himself. "I will however go to-morrow, said he, and you shall know the event."

The interview between our chevalier and the widow was not altogether the same. Bayard was younger than Palice, and his fame was grea­ter. The beauteous widow wept; she shewed the portrait, but she listened to Bayard; and when he said to her, "Madam, I will return," she replied, in a low voice; "You will do me a great kindness.'

The chevalier related to Palice the conversa­tion faithfully. "You will be the happy man," said the Captain;" she did not speak half so much to me." Palice made another attempt.— The widow was still in tears; the picture was a­gain presented. Bayard returned; and while Palice was always treated in the same way, the Chevalier was making advances daily. The fair widow began to turn her eyes now and then to her mirror. There was however no change of dress, no kind looks; but she wept no more, and always prolonged the conversation by ques­tions that demanded long answers, which the Chevalier never gave with sufficient precision.— [Page 92] "Tell me," said she, one day, "the story of your being made prisoner in Milan, by Ludovic." I was, said Bayard, at the head of a party of French; we were met by a party of Italians who attacked us vigorously; both sides were so animated that the one did not know they were retreating, nor the other that they were advanc­ing, till we were at the gates of Milan, where the cry of turn, turn, was repeatedly and eagerly uttered. I, who was intent upon victory, was deaf to the cry, and thoughtlessly pursued into the heart of the city. Immediately soldiers and citizens, and the very women attacked me; but a brave fellow, who had always defended himself from my strokes, surrounded me with his party, and took me prisoner. Ludovic had seen my behaviour from his window and sent for me. "What brought you hither, Chevalier?" said he, "The desire of victory," I answered. "And did you expect to take Milan alone?"— No, my Lord, but I thought I had been fol­lowed by my comrades." "Though you had, you could not have succeeded."—"They were wiser than I; they are free, and I am a prison­er."—"What is the strength of the French ar­my"—"We never reckon by numbers; but I can assure you the soldiers are all chosen men, before whom your's will never stand."—"That time will determine; a battle will prove their valour."—"Would to God it were to-morrow, and that I were free."—"You are free; I like [Page 93] your freedom, and your courage; if you have any thing further to ask of me, it shall be grant­ed."—I fell at his feet and besought him to par­don the rudeness of my replies. I begged my horse and my arms and took leave. Thus ended my adventure at Milan. It was easy for Ludovic to give me back my liberty; but that which I have lost with you it is impossible to re­cover.

Palice was informed of this long conversation; for Bayard, faithful to his oath, concealed no­thing from him. The next visit he paid the wi­dow he thought to make his court by detailing the circumstances of the battles he had fought from Marignan to Ravenna; but his labour was lost; what interested the fair widow when told by Bayard, was insiped when related by Palice. This at last he perceived. "The honor of this conquest," said he, "is your's, Chevalier; I yield and retire. If a third rival appears, behold me your companion in arms."

The fair widow grew insensibly enamoured of Bayard; and his conversation, which at first was only a pleasure, became at last a necessity. She had quitted her grey attire, and had gradually resumed her former dress. One would have said that the certainty of being beloved inspired her with the wish to please. She took a fancy to re­appear at court, with a view of observing whe­ther [Page 94] she did not still retain the pre-eminence over all the beauties there. Bayard was the only man who forgave the widow her return to the world, and she was accordingly always called at court the lady of the Chevalier.

Spain having at that time renewed a truce with France, the ambassadors of that power were re­ceived at Paris with the greatest pomp. The en­tertainments given by Francis corresponded with the idea which the Spaniards entertained of his magnificence. The widow was one of those who were chosen to figure in the ballets, and she was always the most applauded. One of the noble Spaniards who attended the embassy, became e­namoured of her. But all his serenades, and o­ther efforts of gallantry, were fruitless; and Don Alonzo soon learnt, that the heart, which ap­peared to him imprognable, had a weak side which lay open to Bayard. The high reputation of his rival did not intimidate him. The more of difficulty and of danger that appeared, but stimulated him the more to the attempt.

Don Alonzo according challenged Bayard to single combat, which the latter did not refuse. Judges were appointed, and Palice had the guard of the lists. The news of the duel was soon spread, and the Spaniards, considering Don A­lonzo was the champion of their country, were anxious for his fate; while the French made [Page 95] vows for the triumph of Bayard; and thus a pri­vate quarrel became almost a national concern.

But who can describe the grief of the widow? She was the innocent cause of the combat, and accused herself for having appeared beautiful in the eyes of Don Alonzo. How interesting a moment was this for the soul of our Chevalier, who heard the soft confession which he had ne­ver dared to ask for, now uttered amidst a pro­fusion of tears, of sighs and sobbings! He wip­ed away her tears, and spoke comfort to her. As a pledge of love she tied round his arm a rib­band and gave him a picture. It was a Cupid re­moving a widow's veil and wiping off her tears with leaves of roses. The Chevilier received this picture on his knees, and after having kissed it a thousand times, and a thousand times kissed the fair hand that gave it, he placed it in his bosom, and took his leave.

Palice led his friend to the lists, mounted on a stately courser; but the Spaniard chusing to fight on foot, the Chevalier dismounted; the judges distributed the arms to each, and both before engaging recommended themselves to God.— Then rising and making the sign of the cross, they proceeded to combat.

I shall not detain the reader with a particular account of the prowess and address of the re­spective [Page 96] combatants, nor with a description of the hopes and fears that agitated their friends.— Let it be sufficient to say, that, after an obsti­nate and bloody encounter, the Chevalier Bay­ard slew his opponent and came off victorious. He immediately threw himself upon his knees, and returned thanks to God, three times kissing the ground. He was led away in triumph with the sound of trumpets to the church, again to give thanks for his victory, and thence he pro­ceeded to the fair widow.

No one can paint the joy of this lady, but one who could paint her charming eyes, and her whole person. All was soul, and all, even her very sighs, was joy. From this moment love united their hearts with his strongest bonds.

Madame de Randan, surrounded with a crowd of importunate lovers, now began to dread the effects of her beauty. The life of Bayard was become so dear to her that she could not think of exposing it again to another hazard.

She therefore resolved to retire to a sequester­ed mansion that belonged to her in the country. She did not however inform Bayard of her reso­lution, but she said to herself, HE WILL PER­HAPS COME; and she furnished a magnificent a­partment for him in the castle.

[Page 97]The ladies of our age, so decent and so deli­cate, will perhaps be astonished that the widow should provide an apartment in her house for one not a husband: but this was the custom, in days of old, preux Chevaliers were discreet and respectful lovers, and never failed to say, honni soit qui mal [...]y pence.

Our widow was occupied with Bayard alone: the ladies of these times are distracted with so many lovers that they can afford to one but a small portion of sensibility; and this distraction no doubt is the safeguard of their honour. But alas! when one thinks of none but one, how ne­cessary does that one become! especially when that one is a Bayard!

The lady departed for her retirement in the country, and the Chevalier, it is needless to say, did not remain behind. They arrived in great state at Ferte, where magnificent preparations had been made for their reception; the old sol­diers welcomed the gallant Chevalier with honest hearts and military honours, while the young girls, of all the neighbouring villages, in their best array, came out to meet the widow, and pre­sented her with flowers.

How happy were our two lovers! How short did the days appear to them, those days which [Page 98] others think so tedious in the country! Reading, and rural amusements were their most serious bu­siness. In short, the widow consented to be a wi­dow no longer. She had sworn never to relin­quish the name of Mons. de Randan.—She could not break her oath. Her marriage therefore with Bayard was performed in private, and long remained a secret.

To judge of the happiness of this fond pair, is it necessary to have seen them. Madame de Ran­dan had brought the Chevalier a daughter, des­tined to inherit her mother's beauty, and her fa­ther's honour. To see Bayard, like another Hector, take of his helmet not to frighten with its black and spreading plumes, the little infant which his wife, in an ecstacy of conjugal love and maternal affection, held out to him; to see Bayard, the flower of chivalry, and the dread of the foes of France, lying on the green sod, with a little child on his knees, playing with the hilt of his sword; one must be a father one's self to conceive it.

One day as he was amusing himself in this way, his friend Palice came to summon him to the field. He was not surprised to find Bayard thus employed. People in those days had not deviated from nature so far as we have, and there is a pe­netrating charm which attends every action re­ferable to her. The captain saw at once how [Page 99] matters stood. "This is your daughter, Cheva­ier, said he: what a charming little innocent!" and he lifted her up, and pressed her to his heart. Bayard blushed, "I give you joy, my brave friend, said Palice; allow me to pay my respects to your wife.—Madame de Randan, was in some confusion, but she soon recovered herself, and accepted the salutations of the Captain with a good grace. "You are going, said she to take the Chevalier from me, and to lead him to the field of danger." "To the field of honour, Ma­dame." "The King's will shall be obeyed," re­turned she with a sigh. She went immediately and prepared with her own hands the field equipage of the Chevalier; and she communicated to Bou­din, his faithful squire, the secret of dressing all sorts of wounds: with a box of medicines care­fully made up from herbs of sovereign virtue by herself.

Bayard departed. Let us pass over the adieus. In the first battle he was wounded at the be­ginning of the action: he was carried off the field and taken to the house of persons of quali­ty, whose fears he calmed by his discourse, and by the precaution of placing two soldiers as a guard, to whom he gave a present of eight hun­dred crowns as an indemnification for the pillage of the house to which they were entitled. When his impatience to join the army rather than his cure, which was not compleated, determined [Page 100] him to depart, the mistress of the house threw herself at his feet. "The right of war, said she, makes you master not only of our property but of our lives; and you have saved our honour: we hope however from your generosity, that you will not treat us with rigour, and that you will accept of a present more suited to our fortune than to our gratitude. At the same time, she presented him with a box full of golden ducats. Bayard looked at her, and asked how many there were.

"Two thousand five hundred, my Lord, said she; but if yor are not satisfied, we will do eve­ry thing in our power to procure something more." No, Madame, said Bayard, I will ac­cept of no money; the care you have taken of me is beyond any recompence I can make to you; I only ask your friendship, and beg you to accept of mine." A moderation so unusual affected the lady more with surprise than with joy. She threw herself again at the Chevalier's feet, and said she would not rise if he did not accept of that proof of her gratitude. "Since you will have it so, said Bayard, I will not refuse you; but can­not I have the honour of saluting your daughters before I go?" When they came in he thanked them for their attention to him, for their com­pany and their kind endeavours to amuse him in his distress. "I would willingly testify my ac­knowledgements to you, said he; but military [Page 101] men seldom have any jewels fit for persons of your sex. Your mother has made me a present of two thousand five hundred ducats; I hope each of you will accept of a thousand as an ad­dition to your dowry. I destine the remaining five hundred to the Nuns of this city who have been plundered, and I beg you will take the trouble to see them properly destributed."

It was thus that Bayard endeavoured to soften the horrors of war. But while he thus did ho­nour to his country, and was gloriously shedding his blood for the state, there were not wanting persons at court who were forming plots against his domestic peace. Certain favorites who remain­ed with Francis I, in a shameful inactivity, and who attacked, at their pleasure, the reputations of the brave and the beautiful, did not spare the fair inhabitant of the castle in Forte. Fran­cis chid the calumny of that quarter, but still he believed more of it than he ought to have be­lieved. He loved the sex, and Madame de Ran­dan was so beautiful, that he grew desirous of seeing her; and as he was an amiable, a gallant prince, and a king, was it not natural for him to indulge some pleasing hopes! but as he was ever courteous, he wrote the lady a letter in­forming her of his intention to pay her a visit with only two attendants. The lady answered respectfully, and the monarch soon arrived at the [Page 102] castle, where he found her ready to receive him without the court. As soon as he saw her he dismounted, took off his hat, and coming up, pulled off his glove, then kissing the hand she presented to him, led her into the castle.

After the first compliments had passed and the king had refreshed himself with a slight colla­tion, the two noblemen who attended him, on various pretences, withdrew. Francis immedi­ately began to address the widow in a tone of gallantry, and nobody knew better how to as­sume the monarch or the lover as occasion requir­ed. But on finding in the present case an unex­pected resistence, he threw himself at the lady's feet. "Sire, said she, bursting into tears, you must have a very contemptuous opinion of me when you put yourself in that humble posture before me. Have you forgotten that I am the wi­dow of Mons. de Randan, who formerly render­ed you such signal services?" The king piqued at this unexpected catastrophe, forgot for a mo­ment the respect he always shewed to the sex. "And have you, Madam, said he, not forgot­ten M. de Randan?" These words brought a blush into the cheeks of the lady. "Ah! Sire, said she, what have you been told of me?" Ma­dam, said he, instantly aware of his imprudence, and assuming as much respect as possible, I have been told that you are as virtuous as you are fair." "I know, Sire, returned she, that it is [Page 103] to other reports of me, that I am indebted for the honour of this visit; you have been flattered, you have been imposed upon. Yes, Sire, you have been imposed upon: it is true I have for­gotten M. de Randan; the Chevalier de Bayard is now—my husband." At these words she o­pened a casket and took out the contract of mar­riage written by the Chevalier's own hand. The king read it. "I know, said she, and I am happy in thinking, that it was not the wife of Bayard that you meant to seduce." "No, Ma­dam, replied Francis, no; upon the honour of a gentleman, justice shall be done to your reputa­tion. I own I have been imposed on, but I shall repair my fault. Bayard shall always find a se­cond in me when the honour of his fair spouse is attacked."

So saying he summoned his attendants and mounted his horse: "Gentlemen, said he as he took leave of the lady, I have been paying a visit to the wife of the Chevalier Bayard; Honi soit qui mal y pense."

The lady, satisfied with the manner in which this visit had terminated, waited with impatience for the return of the Chevalier; but alas! she was never to see him more.

Innumerable faults, committed in that cam­paign by Bonnivet, to whom the king had given [Page 104] the command of the army, made it necessary for the troops to abandon their enterprise. The flower of the French army was given in charge to Bayard, in order to secure their retreat, which he effected, but at the expence of his own life. He was mortally wounded by the shot of a mus­quet, then used for the first time; and having fallen from his horse he was carried to a little distance and laid at the foot of a tree.

Here, with his face turned to the enemy and his eyes fixed on the cross of his sword, he re­commended himself to Heaven and patiently waited his end. But did he forget Madame de Randan? No: he dictated a letter to Boudin; his whole soul, tender and full of those virtues that dignified the character of the ancient cava­liers, was poured forth in that letter. "Take, said he, take the name of Bayard, and thus ho­nour the memory of a true knight who has loved you while he lived, and who was all his life without fear and irreproachable, ever zealous for glory, faithful to his king and true to his love."

The constable of Bourbon, as he was in pur­suit of the fugitives, passed by him and was [...]eply affected with his fate. "I am not to be pitied, said this brave man; I die in perform­ance of my duty; but it is you who deserve pi­ty, who are in arms against your country, your king, your friends, your oath, your honour and [Page 105] your interest." At this moment a page arrived from the king with a letter for the Chevalier. By this Francis invited him to return to court that he might acknowledge his wife in public; and in consideration of his marriage, the king conferred on him the government of Burgundy. "Ah! my most gracious liege, cried Bayard; how well do you deserve the love I ever had for you! I would now die content but for the tho't of leaving a widow in despair." Pescaire, the greatest enemy of the French, but full of admi­ration for Bayard, had no sooner learned that he was wounded than he ran to him and cried, "Ah! Chevalier, would to God I had kept you safe and sound as my prisoner, that you might have experienced by the civilities I would have shown you, how much I esteem your valour and high prowess; but since there is no remedy for death, I pray God to receive your great soul in­to his hands, as I am sure he will." He then set a guard over the Chevalier, with orders on pain of death, to defend him, and not to quit him as long as he had life. Bayard soon after expired.

Madame de Randan, in her retirement at Ferte, was wholly employed in thinking on her honoured Lord, whose return she was fondly an­ticipating, without dreaming of the sad tidings that were about to be announced to her.

[Page 106]Francis had been informed by a page of the death of the Chevalier. This considerate prince took measures for preventing the fatal news from reaching her by surprise, and went to pay her a visit that he might weep with her, and endeavor to comfort her when it should arrive.

In a short time Palice suddenly entered the castle; the widow met him with looks of joy which she saw were not returned: "Alas! said she, I know it, my husband is dead." "He is, said Palice; he has fallen in the field of glory; the pride of his friends, the admiration of his enemies. He recommended you to Heaven with his latest breath, and his last request was that you would live for the sake of his child."

The widow made a sign to Palice to leave her alone for a few moments; after which she sent for her child, took her in her arms, and kissed her; then recommending her to the care of the king and of Palice, she fell back in her chair and expired.

CELADON, a young man of fashion and fortune, paid his addresses to the blooming Amelia, and as his character was as unexception­able as his manners were elegant, she made no [Page 108] objection to his proposals, nor were they disap­proved by her friends; they were, indeed, like himself, very worthy of her acceptance; the hymenal rights were performed and the birth of a son in the first year of their union considerably increased their conjugal felicity, all was joy and gladness within their happy habitation, and their rural excursions awakened feelings, so beautiful­ly expressed by the poet—

As they were mutually attached to each other in consequence of the sincerest mutual affection, they reciprocally endeavored to oblige each o­ther on every occasion; but as all sublunary en­joyments must have their alloy, the happiness of this affectionate pair began at last to diminish, and each grew less solicitous to please: They felt the same affectionate regard for each other, but it wanted its first animation! Time, which alleviates afflictions, by rendering them habitual, produces, by making happiness familiar, the di­minution of our pleasures.

Celadon, though amiable, was rather inclined to be suspicious, and could not bear the least tri­fling: Amelia, though in general extremely [Page 109] agreeable, was sometimes rather haughty and ca­pricious. The delicate apprehension of giving offence in the slightest degree, gradually wore off, they took less pains to conceal their respec­tive foibles, and at length, from mere inattention and negligence, suffered them to appear in as strong a light as their good qualities.—This un­pleasant reversion became disgusting to both par­ties, and gave birth to little cavals and disputes, which naturally prompted them to vent their dis­quiets to a third person.

Amelia's confidant was her sister, younger than herself and of a lively pleasant disposition, too much attached to her sister not to condemn her brother's behaviour, she very kindly however, strove to bring about a reconciliation between them. Of a different and an opposite temper was the confidential friend of Celadon—a man of family, nearly of his own age, young, fond of women, (av [...]rse to marriage) artful and design­ing. Of Johnson's real intentions Celadon's frankness harboured not the least idea; but Char­lotte suspected the sincerity of his favored friend. She had resided with her sister from the time of her father's decease; on her Johnson had designs, but his inclination led him first to attempt a con­quest over Amelia. Charlotte with a great share of discretion had also a great share of sagacity, and felt a particular aversion to Johnson on account [Page 110] of his character. And his principal pleasure was to seduce every female who fell in his way, he took no small delight also in corrupting those men whose minds were better framed. Actuated by this propensity, he was at this very time prac­tising upon a young fellow related to Celadon, who had lately come there on a visit.

Neville was not only an agreeable but a wor­thy young man, but not having seen so much of the world as those with whom he now resided, and their acquaintance; he was not at first aware of Johnson's character, he supposed, indeed from the air of gallantry in his behaviour to Char­lotte, that he intended to make honorable propo­sals to her, though he was always ridiculing ma­trimony to him.

Neville soon conceived a violent passion for Charlotte, which made his uneasiness great with [...]egard to Johnson, who had a very attractive ex­ [...]erior, which the general turn of his carriage to [...]he fair-sex, greatly prepossessed them in his fa­vor. Alarmed however, and disquieted as Ne­ [...]i [...]le was, with all the agitations and anxieties of [...] sincere lover, he received some satisfaction [...]om observing, that Charlotte did not discover [...]e slightest par [...]iality for his rival, as he took [...]m to be; but the difference with which he him­ [...]lf was also treated by her, contributed to [...]engthen his apprehension, l [...]d Johnson should, [Page 111] win a heart which he should, he imagined, find it extremely difficult to obtain. However, though Charlotte outwardly discovered no particular favor for Neville, she very clearly distinguished him [...] a moral, view, from Johnson; but she was some­what afraid lest the la [...]er might, from his insinu­ating manners, prevail on the former to become as finished a libertine as himself.

Celadon indeed saw not Johnson in his true co­lours, yet he was far from thinking as he did up­on any subject of a very interesting nature: He still loved his wife with a sincere affection; though their disputes had weakened the force of his first ardour; yet he was sufficiently sensible of the value of domestic felicity, to wish for its re­turn; for that he often sighed, hourly lamented the change discernable in his lady, and the change which he felt in himself.

By a dispute in which they were one day warm­ly engaged, concerning their little son, the breach between them was considerably widened. Cela­don, in direct opposition to his wife's judgment, took him from her, at an age when boys usually remain under the tuition of the female part of the family, in order to place him at a boarding school, though his own fondness could scarcely brook the seperation—Amelia, on the other hand, who loved her husband's likeness in mini­ature, sighed at the absence of her amiable little [Page 112] Harry, but knew that her solicitations for his return would be to no purpose; domestic debates at length became so frequent, and so fierce, that the former began to drop hints about a separa­tion: Amelia, though she trembled at the sound of that word, was too proud to let him who ut­tered it see that it affected her.

Johnson, who was ever upon the watch, and ever spiriting up his friend to proceed with the greatest violence, determined to seize this very favourable opportunity (as he imagined) to pay his court to Amelia, resolving at the same time, to prevent Neville from forming an alliance with Charlotte. To facilitate the execution of the last design, and prompted also by his consumate vanity, he carelessly hinted one day, that he was sure of the heart of Amelia, and that he had no doubts with regard to the possession of her sister's, whenever he should have leisure to to attempt such a conquest: This bold assertion justly raised Neville's indignation, and he threa­tened to acquaint each party with what he had delivered.

Johnson answered him first with a loud laugh, and then dared him to the commission of so capital a folly, as he called it, assuring him that there was nothing particular in what he had af­firmed, as all people who knew any thing of life, thought and acted precisely in the same manner? [Page 113] adding, that he would make himself appear in the most ridiculous light, by publishing any thing of his rustic and obsolete notions, which were quite contrary to the ton.

Neville, who had by this time formed his plan, made a short reply: He then left him and went in search of Charlotte, whom he found ready to reproach him for his attachment to Johnson, and who declared, that she had a worse opinion of him than of any other man in the world.

Transported at this declaration, which cofim­ed the falsity of Johnson's assertions, he seized that moment to tell every thing he had been say­ing, and to press his suit with more ardour than ever. She gave him in return the most flattering encouragement, but not 'till he had promised her to break off all connexions with Johnson, and to assist her in paving the way for a reconciliation between her brother and sister; vindicating the latter in the warmest terms, and assuring her lo­ver, that whatever faults she had, they all pro­ceeded from an excess of sensibility, and from an uncommon delicacy of disposition, which she was afraid had been carried too far.

Highly pleased with having put things in this promising train, she flew to her sister, and inform­ed her of all she had learnt from Neville, who [Page 114] would, she was certain, endeavour to make her husband sensible of the mistakes into which he he had been led by Johnson, his false friend in every sense of the word.

Amelia thanked her sister for her information: and asked her if she thought the interposition of her little Harry might not also be of considerable service: "Though we have long ceased to be fond of each other," continued she, "we both dote on our child, I will go and fetch him this moment from school; Celadon cannot be offend­ed at my love for my dear boy; when he has made us friends, he may be sent again to school if his father chuses it." Accordingly she set out with her sister, but when she arrived at the school, she was told, that Celadon, accompani­ed by Mr. Neville, had just carried her son away. The latter of these gentlemen, indeed, had pre­vailed on the former to listen to reason, and to be reconciled to his lady, who had been basely mis­represented to him by Johnson, whose infamous designs, both upon her and her sister, were no longer of a questionable nature.

As soon as Celadon was convinced of the fals­hood of his pretended friend, he began to doubt whethe [...] Amelia who had been, he was tho­roughly sensible, very ill treated by him, would ever forgive [...]m. Upon his expressing this ap­prehension, Neville told him that the sight of her [Page 115] son would, in his opinion, disarm her resentment. The little fellow was rejoiced to come home.— On his eagerly flying to look for his mamma, Celadon stopped him, and bade him conceal him­self in the closet till he sent for him; the boy whimpered and obeyed: In the mean while Ame­lia and Charlotte returned very much dissatisfied from the school.

Charlotte, by questioning the servants closely, soon found out the little Harry, and brought him privately to his mother. While she was caressing him, Johnson, who began to suspect that he was found out, but who also believed he had still suf­ficient power to impose on Celadon, came and discovered him with Neville. Very soon af­ter his arrival, Amelia, followed by her sister, led in Harry, and bade him regain his father's heart for her. Celadon could not immediately recover from his surprise and embarrassment, e­specially as Johnson stood close at his elbow, sti­mulating him to reject every offer towards a re­conciliation; but the modest appearance and ten­der behaviour of Amelia, a recollection of eve­ry thing that Neville had told him, and the sight of his engaging child, who discovered the great­est fondness both for him and his mother, quite softened his heart. He embraced his wife and child with unutterable transport, and then turn­ing to Johnson, forbade him the house. He [Page 116] quitted it in a rage, and Charlotte gave her hand to Neville soon after.

Celadon and Amelia, now as sensible of their own errors as of Johnson's criminal conduct, were perfectly reconciled, and the revival pro­mised a lasting source of their connubial happi­ness.

HAIL native stream, said Edmund, setting himself down upon the grassy plot, thy slowery banks invite me here to rest my weary limbs—Thy gentle murmers cannot however sooth my sorrow. Oh! scenes of my juvenile amusements, you bring not along with you your former endearments. An old man approached him, he leaned on his staff, his silvered locks waved to the gentle breeze, experience and be­nignity marked his venerable countenance:—You seem to be faint with travel, said Mr. T—, to [Page 118] Edmund. I am very much so, replied Edmund, If you please to retire to my house, which is just at hand, a little rest and refreshment will enable you more agreeably to pursue your journey. I intended to have gone a few miles farther before I had stopt, but, as I find myself exceedingly fatigued, I cheerfully accept of your friendly invitation. So saying, he rose and followed Mr. T— to his villa.

You are a stranger, I suppose, in this part of the country? said Mr. T—. I was born at a vallage no great distance from this; I believe, however, very few here will now know me, I am much altered, besides I am poor: I have brought nothing home with me but a few scars, re­ceived in the service of my country, looking at: stump, the remains of his left arm. Oh, those are marks of glory, exclaimed the old gentleman infinitely more valuable than riches: May I be allowed to ask your name? My name is R—, if you have resided here any considerable time, you perhaps are not a stranger to my family—Do you know my father? I have often heard of him, but never had the pleasure of his acquaintance. From your parlour window I can see the gently slooping hills where roam his snowy flocks and the spread­ing groves which shelter his little farm; Oh! delightful spot, residence of exalted virtue, place of my nativity, inexpressibly endeared to me by the indulgence of the best of parents—a parent, [Page 119] perhaps ere now intombed in earth—Dreadful thought! Why was I torn from him, in his old age? Torn from him, did you say? Yes in the cruellest basest manner. I feel myself interested in your concerns, do favor me with your com­pany till to-morrow, and a recital of your sto­ry. Edmund yielding to his entreaties proceeded.

My mother died when I was but a boy, my father remained a widower: Though but little acquainted with the world, or the sciences, by a close attention to nature he acquired some of the most important principles of useful knowledge; The cultivation of his little farm afforded him [...]n agreeable exercise, the enjoyment of a select circle of friends sufficiently occupied his leisure hours: He early impressed me with the princi­ples of virtue; my mind, naturally susceptible, from his example, acquired a relish for social enjoyments: As he intended me to succeed him in his property and profession, he took care to give [...]ne an education suitable to such a station. At the grammar-school of our parish I contracted an intimacy with a lad about my own age, the son of a gentleman in our neighbourhood; this connexion in time advanced to a most perfect friendship,

Having one day taken the diversion of hunt­ing, the pursuit of our game carried us f [...]rther from home than we intended; hunger reminded [Page 120] us that it was dinner time; I carried Mr. Willi­ams, which was the name of my friend, to the house of a widow lady in that neighbourhood, where I had before once visited. We were receiv­ed in the politest manner. It was then I was first blessed with a sight of my Maria! Blessed did I say? No surely, it deserves another appel­lation, since it proved the commencement of my misfortunes. I will not attempt to discribe this lovely maid, any representation I could delineate would fall infinitely short of the original. Her charms inspired me with the sincerest passion, and I had every reason to think it mutual. Oh! I was mistaken, she was not sincere; at least, she was not proof against the solicitations of another.

By permission of my father, whom I had made acquaintaned with the whole matter, I went one day to visit her. At my arrival I found the fa­mily in the utmost disorder; Maria was missing! She had gone the day before on a visit to a lady, who resided at a little distance, and had not from that time been heard of. I was so struck with this intelligence, that I remained for some time in a manner insensible; I soon however recollect­ed myself: Concluding she must have been forced away, I resolved not to loose a moment in at­tempting her recovery. I dispatched a short note to my father, and one to my friend, briefly ac­quainting him with what had happened, direct­ing him to take a different route from that which [Page 121] I intended, and appointing a place where to meet. This done, I took leave of the family.

Having spent the day in fruitless inquiries, I arrived late at night at the place of rendezvous, Mr. Williams was not come; I waited with im­patience till next morning. Have you heard any thing of Maria? cried I, as soon as he appeared. —I have—Where is she?—At Mr. Osburn's—I stretched forth my arms to embrace him. Re­press your joy, Edmund, said he this discovery only adds to your misfortunes.—What do you mean?—She is there by her own choice!—Im­possible.—That will but too well convince you of its reality, said he, puting a letter into my hand, which he said he received from herself. I tore it open—its contents informed me, that she had particular reasons for discontinuing her corres­pondence with me, and at the same time advising me to think no more of her. The letter drop­ped from my hand, I stood for some time mo­tionless with surprise: I had, it is true, never before seen her hand writing, but I had the ut­most confidence in my friend. Come, Mr. Wil­liams, said I, I must see the faithless Maria once more; I shall at least have the pleasure of pun­ishing her seducer.—Take care, said he, that in­stead of chastening your rival, you do not re­ceive an additional injury: You know he is a professed libertine; A man who can commit a [Page 122] crime like this, will not hesitate to crown it with another, perhaps of a worse nature. I remain­ed firm to my purpose. Having found I was de­termined, he agreed to accompany me. When we were within a little distance of Mr. Osburn's he said, it was thro' one of the domestics of the family, with whom he had a slight acquaintance, he had got access to Maria; and if I pleased, he would go a little before and endeavour to pro­cure me an interview by the same method. I approved of his proposal. He was hardly out of sight, when several men rushed suddenly from, a concealment, one of them seized my horse by the bridle; while I struck at him with the but end of my whip, I received a blow on my head which brought me senseless to the ground. When I recovered I found myself in a paltry looking apartment, surrounded by a number of fellows, whose countenances told me I had no good to ex­pect from them. I asked them the meaning of all this, and was answered, I should know that in proper time. I was soon after forced into a car­riage, one of the fellows placed on each side of me carried to Portsmouth, and put on board a transport which sailed next day for Germany.

Time will not permit me to relate particularly the various circumstances which happened dur­ing the different campaigns in which I have serv­ed. Surrounded by the enemy, I should certainly have fallen a victim to their ferocity, had [Page 123] not Mr. Douglass, who perceived my situation, come to my relief. The victory was glorious, it was decisive, but I lost my friend: He was cer­tainly killed, or at least taken prisoner, for from that hour to this I never could learn what be­came of him. The loss of so much blood, and a long and tedious recovery, made a return to my native country necessary, in order to re­cruit my debilitated constitution. In the bosom of a parent, in the company of my friend, Mr. Williams, I now expect to find a solace to my affliction: This remaining happiness, how is it embittered by the recollection of Maria, once the sum of my felicity, and scource of my mise­ry; now, as I was long since but too well in­formed, hid in the shades of death for ever from my view!

I see, said Mr. T—, you expect the highest pleasure from the enjoyment of your friend.—I do indeed: Oh, how sweet at this moment is the recollection of our past endearments, how pleas­ing the hope of their revival.—How vain is such a hope! Him you call your friend is the blackest villain.—What do you say? said Edmund, with a look of astonishment and indignation, you cer­tainly do not know him.—I should indeed be ashamed of such an acquaintance; you may how­ever be assured of what I tell you, that he is the basest of villains and the worst enemy you ever had.—My enemy, exclaimed Edmund, what do [Page 124] you mean? Sure I can read sincerity and benevo­lence in your countenance, you would not im­pose upon me, nor willingly make me wretched- Oh! for Heaven's sake explain yourself.

Know then, Williams betrayed you and your Maria! Excited by a guilty passion, and finding her proof against every delusive art, he found means to carry her off by force. The letter he brought you was a base forgery: In case you should be inclined to examine more fully in­to the matter, as he apprehended you would, he hired those ruffians, who carried you away in the manner you have yourself related. I need say no more; this is the truth of the matter; for the confirmation of which I can produce the most undeniable proof, if you demand it.—Edmund trembled and turned pale; a thousand minute circumstances now rushed on his memory, which tended to shake, in some degree, the confidence he had placed in his friend —Mr. T— perceiv­ed his distress, and attempted to soothe the agi­tations of his mind.—May I be allowed, said Edmund, to ask you, by what means you be­came acquainted with those circumstances.—You behold in me the father of the unfortunate Ma­ria.—The father of Maria! cried Edmund, in the utmost astonishment, and can you behold with such a placid countenance, the wretch, who has, tho' unintentionally, been the occasion of her misfortunes?—You was deceived, you was cruel­ly [Page 125] disabled from discovering the deception. The lady with whom Maria resided, continued Mr. T—, is my sister; she wrote me concerning your visits, and her apprehension of the consequences: The day after receiving her letter I set out to see my daughter; I had not got half way when I was alarmed with cries from a carriage which drove past; fortunately I had brought a servant along with me, by whose assistance I rescued my child. We returned home: I questioned Ma­ria concerning your correspondence with her; she gave me a circumstantial detail of the matter, concluding with an account of her being seized and carried off by two men, whom she had nev­er seen before, not a quarter of a mile from her aunt's house. I was inclined to think this to be a contrivance of yours, and not hearing any more of you, confirmed me in that opinion. It was but very lately I was undeceived: A severe illness produced a confession, of the whole affair, from the wretch whom you fondly call your friend.

Oh! how am I disappointed, exclaimed Ed­mund, betrayed by one whom I esteemed as my bosom friend. Maria—lost for ever! Distracting thought—What now remains for me? Oh! hea­venly friendship, soul of happiness, where shall I now find thee? Who shall now lead me to thy abode? Young man, said Mr. T—. you need [Page 126] not go far to find her, she dwells beneath this humble roof; you have yet a friend.—Edmund stretched out his hand to the old gentleman, his feelings were too big for utterance, the tear started in his eye. Look on me as your father, continued Mr. T—, I have yet a daughter, per­haps in her you may find some traces of your Maria. Edmund remained silent, except the sigh which bursted from his agitated bosom.— Mr. T— retired, but soon returned leading in a woman. Heavens, what do I see, exclaimed Edmund, the moment he set his eyes on her.— My Maria—Sure I cannot be mistaken.—You are not, said Mr. T—, it is she herself, though brought indeed by sorrow to the brink of the grave, Heaven was pleased to restore her to her aged parent, to preserve her as a blessing to her Edmund, as the reward of his virtues, as the compensation of his suffering.

Sweet was the embrace of love, beyond the power of words to express; the charming Ma­ria hid her modest face in her Edmund's bosom, while the tears of sensibility flowed plentifully from her eyes. He appeared not now the spright­ly youth she had once beheld him—The bloom of health glowed not on his cheeks—Care had silvered o'er his [...]axe [...] locks, and grief had marked his manly countenance. A messenger was dispatched to Mr. Roberts, who arrived next day. In the midst of a scene which displayed in [Page 127] the strongest, the tenderest manner, the power of parental and filial affection: Edmund was struck with the appearance of a gentleman who accompanied Mr. Roberts, he suddenly quitted the embraces of his father, and rushed with ar­dour into the arms of the stranger. It was Mr. Douglass! He had been taken prisoner, but, on his parole, had returned home, and called on Mr. Roberts in his way. Edmund was united to his Maria, her father removed along with them to Mr. Roberts's, where they where long blessed with every domestic felicity and social en­dearment. Heavenly peace dwelt in the bosom of Edmund, joy ever sparkled in his Maria's eyes; happiness increased with their increasing years, and diffused his richest sweets through their rural habitation.

OLIVIA was born in a remote part of En­gland, and was the eldest daughter of pa­rents who lived in a stile of gentility bespeaking competence indeed, but not affluence. As the family was numerous, much she could not expect to be proportioned with; but if her pecuniary expectations were slender, nature seemed to com­pensate for the want of wealth, by treasuring in her person every female charm, which ought perhaps to be considered rather as a misfortune than an advantage, since it lays us the more open to seduction; add to this, her being mistress of many polite accomplishments, with a heart form­ed in nature's most delicate mould, endued with a sensibility too exquisite to guard against the snares of the world.

[Page 129]At the age of seventeen she left the school, and lived under the eye of a mother, whose fond­ness for her she requited with every token of fi­lial affection. Many were her admirers, but no suitor appeared amongst them; no lure, however, was thrown out, no extravagance of dress indul­ged in to assist her native attractions; indeed she seemed "when unadorned, adorned the most."

A ball given upon some public occasion was the first opportunity that offered for introducing her to the public eye. Among the company present was a student belonging to one of the Universities, and then on a visit to some person of note in that part of the country. His address was genteel, his person elegant; he hoped the pleasure of being her partner for the evening, and was gratified: An acquaintance from that moment and circumstance commenced, which led to overtures of a tender kind.

The respectable connexions, and honourable views he was supposed to have, added to the unbounded confidence placed in Olivia's dis­cretion by her parents, made them indifferent a­bout the addresses paid to her without their con­sent; and, indeed, such a sanction is a needless ceremony where the affections of the child has been previously bestowed, as was her case; her heart was disposed of but not without an equiva­lent, his was given in exchange; yet no propo­sal [Page 130] of marriage was made, and an union of hands, which disarms the censorious, was unthought of by either in the delirium of happiness they were in, as if no moment could be borrowed for that end from the time they spent in the interchange of every token of unfeigned affection.

Olivia was at last waked from this lethargy of love, but not until the fear of dishonor had re­moved the mist from her eyes. She proposed a day on which he was to solicit the concurrence of her parents to their nuptials; her proposal was received with demonstrations of unabated ar­dour; but, he that had been so assiduous in his attendance till then, absented himself that day and returned to the pursuit of his studies without even taking leave of her family, by whom he had been always treated with respect and hospi­tality. They were surprised; she, as may be imagined, was alarmed, the more as he depart­ed after having triumphed over that which gives dignity to love, and to native beauty an addi­tional lustre. She was in an agony of despair, which discovered it in the effects it had upon her health. Her mother marked the progress of a pain that undermined her daughter's peace, and endeavored to alleviate it by arguments calculated to comfort her under her disappointments, all of which failed of the end proposed. She did not suspect the cause of her daughter's affliction to be so serious as it was; yet finding her continue [Page 131] disconsolate, she urged her not with the authori­ty, but the tenderness of a fond parent, to be explicit in revealing the minutest circumstances relative to her situation. Poor Olivia's tongue faultered in the attempt, but at last, after having confessed a partiality for Mr. —, (which was visible enough) owned the advantage that had been taken of it, with an ingeniousness that shewed self-gratification had not made her swerve from the path of virtue so much as her inability to refuse to the man she loved the last pledge of her ardent passion for him.

Having got over the painful task of self-accu­sation, she swooned in the arms of her afflicted parent, whose situation seemed now as pitiable as her child's; yet, sensibly as she was affected by the idea of her Olivia's ruin, and the disgrace that would inevitably be reflected on a family hitherto unblemished, she forbore to torture with unavailing reproaches a breast already [...]acked with the most poignant feelings; and after hav­ing disclosed the heart-rending secret to her hus­band, it was resolved, as the best expedient to banish the melancholy which might endanger the reason or health of a child still dear to them, as well as to place her beyond the reach of malev­olent aspersions, to send her to London, whither she soon after came, and was apprenticed to a miliner. Here she found me, and disburdened her heart of part of its sorrow, by making me privy to its secrets.

[Page 132]Not long after she had been in town, a mis­carriage was the consequence of a hasty and fa­tiguing journey; during the illness that attended it, I was happy enough to endear myself to her by every little kind office in my power to do her, which she was grateful for, and returned on ev­ery occasion, until a faux pas threw me at a dis­tance from her; shame would not have been my portion had I followed her example, which was strictly virtuous. Many have been the attempts made to seduce her to a violation of her chastity, but to no overtures would she listen; her first lover, though supposed faithless, retained possession of her heart, which fluttered whenever she mention­ed his name.

In the mean time he had returned to that part of the country whence he so abruptly departed, and made many fruitless enquiries; and being disappointed in his researches, as his course of ac [...]ical learning was compleated, he returned to the metropolis, and resided in the house of his mother, a widow lady of fortune and fashion. A settled gloom appeared on his countenance, which she could not account for, and in order to dispel it, she advised him to travel; agreeably to her advice, he prepared for his tour, and having been to make some farewel visits, one evening overtook a genteel girl with a band-box in her hand, whom he politely accosted, but without being able to extort a word from her; [Page 133] still he followed, and she, to get rid of his im­portunity, beckoned a coach off a stand, while he listening to learn the place of her residence, after he had heard her voice, exclaimed, "Gra­cious Heaven! 'tis she, 'tis my Olivia—I have lost her again!"

At his return, his mother told him she expect­ed every moment from the miliner's some arti­cles which she intended as a present for him. The words were hardly uttered when a footman brought word that a young woman from the mil­liner's was in the next room, and waited her pleasure; "Let me see the ruffles and frills I bespoke," said the lady, upon which he brought in a box that excited a strange emotion in the young gentleman; indeed he thought it could be no other than the one his fair fugitive carried, and she being desired to walk in, as soon as they recognized each other, she fainted, which had an effect upon [...]im little short of frenzy; however, the mystery was soon unravelled—and he, instead of travelling, conjured his mother, if she valued his happiness, to consent to their union, which in a few days after took place.

After having given his beloved Livy the most unequivocal proofs of the sincerity of his attach­ment in an union c [...]ented by mutual affection, the delicacy of his sentiments which was intend­ed [Page] by nature to enhance all enjoyments, was, however, a bar to the exquisite happiness he promised himself, as he secretly upbraided him­self with the gratification of a passion, which, though he had atoned for to the daughter, must still, he thought, be remembered with anguish by her parents; and to alleviate the disquietude their fondness for her would probably prolong, was a duty that honour, as well as the relation­ship he now stood in to them, rendered indis­pensible: His first care, therefore, after a tu­mult of joy that succeeded an event as unexpect­ed as it was coveted, had subsided, was to pre­pare for a visit to that part of the kingdom in which they resided, in order to a reconciliation.

Olivia's concurrence, you may imagine, was easily obtained to an excursion that originated from so generous a motive, exclusive of the pleasure she hoped to feel in her parents retract­ing their opinion of him on whom she had fixed her affections: Vanity, in some degree, cleave [...] to the best of us, and what can be so soothing to it as to be deemed capable of making a prudent choice at Olivia's age, in a concern so precari­ous as matrimony, wherein so many of our sex, in particular, are apt to be unsuccessful. Their intended journey, and the object of it, were no sooner proposed to the old lady for her approba­tion that she acquiesced in the propriety of the purpose; not without applauding the generous [Page 135] principle that actuated her son upon this occasion, for in what regarded an inviolable fidelity to the fairsex, uninfluenced by lucrative considerations, she professed an enthusiasm that would have done credit to the days of chivalry. To give the whole weight of her sanction to a measure she so highly approved of, she not only insisted on their mak­ing use of her equipage on the occasion, in token of her respect towards her daughter-in-law, as well as in testimony of her hearty consent to their nuptials, she resolved to accompany the young couple, thereby adding much to the satis­faction of their journey; which accordingly took place, after sufficient time had been allowed for acquainting Olivia's parents and kindred what visitants they were shortly to expect.

Olivia, urged by the impulse of a sanguine temper, natural to youth, was for surprising the old folks with the happy vicissitude of her for­tune, and elevating their spirits with a jerk, as sud­denly as they had been depressed; "No child," remonstrated the old lady; "your dutiful dispo­sition, and tender concern for them, must not misguide you in prescribing so violent a reme­dy to blunt the edge of sorrow: let not your youth envy my maturer years the consolation of knowing by experience what will be best receiv­ed by those of riper years, and what, indeed, is properest for any stage of life under the like cir­cumstances; I mean a gradual, at least a previ­ous [Page 136] intimation of the change a little time has made in your condition; for a sudden tran­sition from sadness to joy has been observed to have more fatal effects on the spirits than from excessive joy to its opposite extreme; as though it were intended by nature that we should bear adversity better than prosperity." Great as was Olivia's impatience to be the messenger of com­fort to her afflicted parents, she had too great a share of understanding not to allow the impropri­ety of bursting upon them with the full splendour of happiness, before a letter had, in part, dis­pelled the cloud of melancholy with which they were overcast, and relinquinshed her desire with becoming resignation, to the will and advice of her mother-in-law, who, unwilling to put Olivi­a's patience to a trial, too severe, retarded their journey but for a week. This was keeping Oli­via a tedious fortnight from a place whither her eager wishes had flown before her, for the journey could not be performed in less than a week. In the mean while, a letter reached the mansion of her father, who immediately dispatched the glad tid­ings to his wife, then at Bath, where she had been advised to spend some time to recruit her health and spirits; he had the same time hinted a desire that, if her health would permit, she would not a moment delay her return, which he by no means would have insinuated, were he not con­vinced that all the sanitive properties ascribed to that fashionable rendezvous of infirmity, would [Page 137] be less conducive to the re-establishment of her health, than folding to her bosom her long ab­sent, and beloved child.

This amiable young lady, with her husband and mother, had arrived within a few stages of the town that gave her birth, anticipatig the hap­py meeting, and reviewing in Fancy's glass, scenes which she had every reason to hope would soon be realized, when an event happened that deranged in an instant all her immagination had been framing during the journey.—A loud shriek was heard to proceed from a stage coach that stopped at the inn where they were changing horses, a something like sympathy made Olivia return it; her husband shared her emotion, for they were united in every sense of the word, and what discomposed her, was conveyed to him by that ivisible link which couples hearts in unison, one with the other as no untoward accident was known to cause the alarm, you will suppose, I make no doubt, that either Olivia's sensibility made her feel for the person whom she thought a sufferer, or that some former acquaintance of her's, unable to suppress her joy on having a transient view of one she recognized, vented it in the foregoing manner: indeed, the shriek was uttered by no other than Olivia's mother, whom chance led to the inn at so critical a juncture, and whose well-known voice thrilled through the bo­som [Page] of her daughter, causing the agitation she was suddenly thrown into. They, who a mo­ment before seemed unnerved, and whose spirits were unequal to the tender scene nature was pre­paring, now flew to each other's embrace as if at­tracted by a magnetic power, and gave way to effusions which hearts of a coarser mould than were those of Olivia's husband and mother-in-law, would have been affected by it: this debt being paid to sincere and reciprocal affection, and serenity restored, Olivia's mother and mo­ther-in-law contracted and acquaintance with less ceremony than cordiality: her husband, consci­ous of having violated the laws of hospitality, was not forward to solicit a hasty forgivness, which he did not think himself entitled to, the less, after he had witnessed the transport of his mother in-law, on seeing her daughter rescued from infamy, and thence inferred the pangs that must have preceded such demonstrations of joy; yes, his conscience smote him, and his heart was too honest to harbour the impudence of a professed libertine, and brazen it out: which Olivia's mother observing, she would spare him the humiliating task of exculpating himself, and taking his hand, said with an affability that be­spoke no lurking resentment in her breast; "My child, since you have performed so generous an act towards my Olivia, it would ill become me not to acquit myself of some part of the obliga­tion, which I can no otherwise do at present, than [Page 139] by passing an act of oblivion in your favour." This diffused general chearfulness, after which they proceeded together in the same carriage, to the place of their destination: when arrived, the young gentleman took the earliest opportunity to erase any unfavorable impression that might dwell on the mind of his father-in-law, by assuring him that his seeming dereliction of his daughter, was not the effect of juvenile caprice, but was owing to his wish to receive the parting breath of a valued friend at college, whose dissolution approaching fast, allowed him no time then to substantiate his professions to the lady whom he was since happy to make his own. Here ended all apologies and justifications; now the tongue of slander, that did indeed but whisper before, became mute; and a happier couple than appear­ed at church the following Sunday, in the per­sons of Olivia and her husband, the seniors of the parish could not recollect.

LORD WHATLEY had attained to those years, that may not improperly be called the reign of the passions. His disposition was naturally good, he had great sensibility, and an instinctive love of justice. But the thoughtless period of two-and-twenty, wealth, birth, and bad company (by which it is needless to say one means great company)▪ these, together with the facility of boundless gratification, all equally de­structive of reason and sentiment, had overborne the voice of nature, that guardian voice, which, whenever we attend to it, calls us to the paths of truth: Distinguished in the dissipated circle at Newmarket, the perfect model of every fashion­able [Page 141] folly, Whatley had all that was politely careless or agreeably extravagant, and, what was the foundation of the whole, a very fine es­tate in the county of Salop.

Sir Thomas Ward was his favorite. That gentleman had an engaging address, and a seduc­tive wit. He was a most eloquent professor of vice, a most powerful advocate of pleasure; for he had the art of giving a prevailing charm to every subject he undertook to defend. He, therefore found no great difficulty in making a disciple of Whatley:—A young mind is subser­vient to the senses, and easily yields to every flattering overture.

This nobleman, after having been agreeably entertained at dinner with his companions, his head full of voluptuous images, was walking alone in one of the vistas of his park. It led him, insensibly, to the house of one of his ten­ants whose name was Adams.

Lord Whatley was struck with the figure of a girl who seemed to be about sixteen, and was one of the farmer's youngest daughters Ireland, so boasted for beauties, never produced so fine a creature. Fanny was literally an angel from heaven; the dignity of her mind was displayed in her countenance, and modesty gave a deeper blush to the roses on her cheek. Her mouth, [Page 142] her glowing mouth was the seat of ten thousand graces. Her skin was white as the glistening snow; her hair the most beautiful brown, and her eyes had a charm, of which words can give no idea. Suffice it to say, that it was impossible to look upon, her without two sentiments that car­ried away the heart; that is, admiration, and the whole energy of love. The latter soon made in inroads on the heart of this young lord.

When Fanny spoke, every word went to the soul of Whatley, and completed her conquest. He would have laid his commands on Adam [...], but he was no longer the lord the master of Fan­ny, his farmer's daughter. He let fall some bro­ken expressions; Fanny had confused him.

Adams had given his daughter an excellent education. She was cited as an example of pru­dence and politeness, through the whole district of Salop.—One of her relations, minister of a neighboring parish, had taken a pleasure in form­ing and embellishing her mind; and to whom she was indebted for attainments far above her years. The precepts of the minister had not, however, prevented her from discovering that she had a heart: The sight of our young lord convinced her of it at once. He frequently repeated his visit to the farmer, or rather to his daughter; and she every time made a new impression on him He became pensive, melancholly; the whole ar­tillery [Page 143] of the baronets humour was played upon him in vain. It could not banish that dear, that delightful pensiveness which forever carried his heart towards the amiable daughter of Adams.

Fanny, one day, presented him with a nose­gay. My lord, said she, blashing, I could wish these flowers were better: I gathered them on purpose for your lordship.—Flowers from your hand, most beautiful Fanny, must always be ac­ceptable. This compliment, or rather this real expression of what he felt, soon found its way to the heart of Fanny.—Her fine complexion as­sumed a deeper blush. Her parents had not heard the answer his lordship had made her.— Upon his return home, he gave the flowers a thousand kisses. He addressed himself to them as if he had been speaking to Fanny. The ba­ronet did not fail to treat him like a Celadon, or an Artemenes. My dear friend, said he, you must certainly have read those piteous French ro­mances. You must never shew your face in Lon­don; you will be pointed at as you pass along the street. I thought you would have made an incomparable Lovelace, but you are Menalcas by a fountain side.

Sir Thomas accompanied his friend to the far­mer's. He saw Fanny. He was disconcerted; he had need of the whole force of his wit and humour to defend himself against the stroke that [Page 144] had wounded Whatley. He attempts to address himself in the language of the town to the res­pectable villager. She speaks. He is in confu­sion. Sir Thomas, at length, resumes his plea­santry. He retires to have some private conver­sation with Adams▪ The worthy old man re­turns, lifting up his eyes to heaven, distracted, pale, ready to sink into the ground, death in his countenance. Go, my children. Ah, my lord! throwing himself with folded hands, and streaming eyes, at the feet of Whatley, what have I done, that you have sworn my ruin and disgrace? That gentleman, said he, my dear, addressing himself to his wife, and pointing to the baronet, has offered me money to give up Fanny to my lord. To think us capable of such baseness, of prostituting the dear child we have brought up!—Take our lives, my lord, but leave us our honour; it is the only possession we have. Are we then no longer worthy to be your servants? You, you then, had no such de­sign. It is you, sir, who have given his lord­ship such counsel as this. Alas! what would my lord his father have said? He treated us like his children.

No, my dear Adams, interrupted Whatley, I never had any such horrid idea. This is the in­sufferable pleasantry of my friend. Set your heart at ease. Certainly, my lord, answered he, I never could apprehend that you should so far [Page 145] forget your former goodness to the grateful crea­tures that are always blessing you. As to you, sir, said he, turning to sir Thomas, I must tell you, that if these are your pleasantries, they are very vile ones; we may be poor, but we have a sense of honour as well as you. If one of my equals, added he, with a voice choaked up with grief, had made me such an infamous proposal, I should have gone to these extremities which have now been prevented by respect. I tell you once more, my dear Adams, my friend did not mean to insult you; he was only in jest; I ask your pardon for him; and he goes.

Do you ask pardon for me, said Sir Thomas? Undoubtedly, and you ought to ask it of the meanest person you have offended; then he is our superior, our master. How cruel to be the occasion of my sufferings! you have offended the father of Fanny.

I have described Whatley, as one of those young lords, that conceal all their defects under the varnish of politeness. I am not now incon­sistent;—but love works miracles. It had made of a frivolous and insolent lord, a timorous and respectful lover; and had opened his mind to the influences of virtue. The complaints of poor Adams had vexed him, and Sir Thomas must have been connected with him in the closest intimacy, [Page 146] as the conduct of that worthless man of fashion was not followed by an open rupture.

Whatley was distressed. He adored Fanny, yet he did not dare to see her. He was equally afraid of seeing the father and daughter. His friends dragged him to London, and plunged him once more in all those fashionable follies and ex­travagancies, which the world calls pleasure.

Adams, from that moment, had lost that chearfulness which is the happy portion of the inhabitants of the country. He was not satisfied with lord Whatley's promises. He looked upon his daughter's growing beauties with a sigh, and the tear was sometimes ready to overflow the eyelid.

My dear father, said Fanny, may I ask you the reason why you appear so sad? I have ob­served that for some time your looks have been fixed on me; and you shed tears: Can I have given you, my tender parent, any reason to be dissatisfied? will you no longer love your poor Fanny?—Child, observe what I say, and answer me ingeniously. Indeed, dear sir, I have always spoke the truth to you.

Tell me, then, what are your sentiments of my lord? what do you think of him? speak the truth. I think, father, said she, with blushing [Page 147] cheeks and down-cast eyes,—I think him very amiable; do you not think the same? My dear child, you must learn to know men. This lord, whom you think so amiable, would have brought me and your poor mother with sorrow to the grave; would have deprived me of all I hold most dear—of my beloved Fanny!—Sir! what is it you say? He would, my dear child, (clasp­ing her to his bosom, and bathing her with his tears) he would have dishonoured me; would have taken you for the indulgence of a licenti­ous passion—for his mistress. (Upon this he sunk down into the arms of his daughter)—Heavens, what horrid wretches are men! who could have thought this of my lord? Take care, my dear Fanny, resumed the father, take care of the snare that may be laid for you. Receive no letters from my lord; never be a moment alone; be al­ways, if possible, in the bosom of your father and mother. Remember that the greatest of all possessions is innocence. Embrace me, my dear child, and be the glory and comfort of your pa­rents.

Fanny wept. No, my worthy father, no, you never shall have reason to blush for me. I did not apprehend any thing like this from my lord. What a barbarous man to disturb our hap­piness! O that he may never come here! Grati­tude and respect, my child, are due to him; and [Page 148] it will be your duty to observe a profound si­lence; only be directed by my advice.

Fanny, when alone, a thousand times repeated, how can so amiable a man have such ungenerous sentiments? O that vile London: how has it de­praved the heart of my lord Whatley! had he always lived here, certainly he would never have debased himself by such a conduct.

His idea, nevertheless, was still with Fanny; and, possibly, she partook of the impression he had made. Her lover, in vain, had recourse to the dissipation of his former amusements. He had received a wound which the art of London could not cure. Every pleasure yielded to the remembrance of Fanny; she was in every scene, in every object.

Without waiting for the spring, he re­turns into the country, accompanied by his friends, who all united to rescue him from a passion so degrading, as they called it, and con­temptible. What! should a Peer of England sigh under the influences of romantic love for a poor country girl! Incessantly stunned with such reproaches as these, his vanity revolted against the attachment. Whatley, in the hour of gaity and intoxication, sometimes promised to think no more of Fanny; but the ensuing day renew­ed with a warmer interest, the idea of his sove­reign [Page 149] mistress, for so he called her. He rose more inflamed, and, if the expression may be pardoned, more infatuated with love.

Our noble lord, as may very well be supposed, was no sooner arrived at his estate, than he went to the house of his tenant. The timorous and respectful behaviour of love made him more ami­able. He could not get over that embarrassing confusion which the sight of Adams always occa­sioned. Fanny would fain have persuaded her­self to look upon him with aversion, but he had acquired new charms.

As soon as he entered her father's house, she withdrew; but she stole a glance that ruined her repose, and made her repeat incessantly, he is extremely amiable. Whatley thought of a thou­sand pretences for paying his devotions to his hidden divinity,

One day he met Fanny at a little distance from the farm; she appeared more beautiful, more engaging than ever he had seen her. A well-fancied hat on her head, the neighboring flow­ers that fell negligently by her side, her hair in a disorder preferable to all the elegance of art, her heaving bosom, the tears that fell from her fine eyes upon, the roses of her cheeks; these were the circumstances of that enchanting figure, [Page 150] in which he then saw the mistress of his soul. She was seated at the foot of a tree, and it was easy to perceive that her young heart laboured under some oppressive sentiment. Whatley threw him­self at her feet in tears. My sweet angel! said he. At the same moment, she rose, and cried, my lord! He would have taken her hand; she withdrew it hastily, would have forced herself from him, and fled to the farm. No, my divine creature, you will not leave me. What have I done, beautiful Fanny? What crime have I com­mitted? Ah, my lord, leave me, let me fly to my father; he has forbidden me to speak to you, or to see you. It was very cruel, my lord, add­ed she, with tears, to think of taking advantage of our poverty; you have given great disturb­ance to my father, and all my relations. I have not deserved such treatment from your lordship.

In pronouncing the last words, she was advan­cing towards the farm-house, and wept, letting fall her hand, which his lordship seized a second time. Ah! divine Fanny! do not accuse me, my friend alone should bear the blame: Never had I such an execrable thought; is it possible that I, who love you to distraction, should treat you without respect? He perceived Adams com­ing towards them, with a look of anger, inti­mating a design to reprove his daughter.—Yes, my dear Adams, I will repeat it before you, and in the face of Heaven, that I adore your charm­ing [Page 151] daughter. She is virtue itself, dressed by the graces, and it is my pride to lay at her feet, myself, my fortune, my honors, and my heart. (Fanny blushed; she turned her fine eyes, that were full of tears, on her lover, thought him less criminal than her father had represented him, and again cast those eyes on the ground.) Yes, Adams, I declare it; Fanny has taught me that prejudice should yield to reason; and now that I am in your house, before your wife and your children, I declare that I will marry her; that my name, my title, my fortune, and my whole soul shall be her's. Yes, my adorable Fanny, you see your lover and your husband at your feet.

What transport! what agitations in the heart of poor Fanny! What are you about, my lord? said Adams, raising Whatley; it is our business to kneel before you. I am thoroughly sensible of your goodness, but ignorant and artless as we are, we know what is due to ourselves. My daughter was not born to the dignity of lady Whatley; that title belongs to ladies of equal rank with yourself. Fanny, my lord, is your humble servant; she has but one master that has a superior claim, and that is honor. No, my lord, I will never agree that you should marry beneath yourself; I should be very unworthy of your favors, and those of my lord, your father, whose memory will be ever dear and sacred to me, if I should indulge that passion which now [Page 152] blinds you; my wife, and Fanny herself, will be of the same opinion, and I have the honor, in their stead, to point out to you what is your duty on this occasion, and what is ours. Fanny, once more looked on lord Whatley, and wept. Are not these, child, your sentiments? Yes, fa­ther, said she. But that YES was pronounced with a trembling accent, her heart would have snatched up what her tongue had let fall.

What a triumph for Fanny! she loved lord Whatley, and what secret transport must she have felt to find his passion so great as to offer her mar­riage! Her lover did not let the thing rest here. Every day he visited Adams. The same perse­verance of demanding Fanny in marriage on his part, the same fortitude of refusal on the worthy father's. My lord at length determined to write to the mistress of his fate. He leaves a letter at the foot of a tree. He knew that Fanny must pass this way, and depended on her curiosity for taking up the paper, on which he wrote no su­perscription. Fanny comes to the tree beholds the billet, but in doubt whether she should touch it. She proceeds without taking it up, looks back, returns to the place, yields to an involun­tary impulse, unfolds the paper, and trembling, reads the following address:—

‘You will easily discover who is the writer of this letter, and to whom it is addressed: It [Page 153] proceeds from the most tender, the most pas­sionate of men; it is addressed to the most a­dorable, but the most cruel, the most barba­rous of women. Can the beautiful Fanny be ignorant, that the happiness of Whatley de­pends solely on herself and her respectable fa­ther? I can only give her my hand and my heart, the sacrifice is not sufficient to express my love. I know it well, my charming Fan­ny, but it is all that is in my power. If you loved me, if you had the least sense of pity for your unhappy Whatley, I should be in hea­ven. The lover, the adorer of the divine Fan­ny would become her husband. But ah, cru­el! Have I a sigh that breathes not for you? And yet these sighs must soon expire in death. Solicit your father to make me happy. Be­lieve that you will be the happiest, the most adored of women. Virtue and beauty level all distinctions. You have read Pamela: a woman like her, in virtues and accomplish­ments, should, like her, be distinguished and rewarded. But ah, angelic creature! can it be an adequate recompence to you, to make you sovereign mistress of a man who has not the most distinguished throne on earth to offer you.—Your answer will determine whether Whatley shall end the most wretched of be­ings, or live the most happy of men.’

[Page 154]Ah, my lord, cried Fanny, why was I not nobly born? If I were a queen, you should have no wish ungratified.—Oh! he suffers not what I endure.—Would we could change condi­tions! I would throw myself at the feet of my father and mother, and should soon be his wife. Poor lord! How he loves me! No, no, he nev­er meant to dishonor me. I always thought it the contrivance of that wicked baronet.

Fanny kept the letter in her hand, perused it an hundred times, and always with the most ar­dent sensibility, with repeated exclamations of tender sorrow. She considers whether she shall shew it to her father. She is afraid, by suppres­sing it, of breaking her promise. She sees him, runs towards him, and with tears that interrupt­ed her, she cried, Take it, father, see here a letter from my lord which I slave found. Poor lord!—he is very unhappy. If he should die.—

Adams read the letter. Fanny you never con­cealed any thing from me. Do you love my lord?—she sobbed violently. My dear child, you have told me all; you are not in the hands of a severe judge, invested with parental autho­rity, but of a tender friend. What do you ex­pect from this unhappy passion? Your honor is dear to you. Oh, sir! a thousand times more than my life. Well, and could you ever flatter [Page 155] yourself with being lady Whatley?—Would you have me take an advantage of a moment of weakness or illusion, to infringe every duty I owe to my masters and benefactors? Are you ashamed of your humble condition—of your fa­ther's poverty?

My father, said Fanny, with folded hands and floods of tears, Heaven is my witness, how much I love and honor you. If you love me, then, child, you will overcome that tenderness, which to you may be a source of misery, and perhaps of endless shame. We will part for some time. You shall go to your aunt Harris, who lives about ten miles from hence; there you will remain con­cealed until my lord leaves this place, and re­turns to town, where he will forget you. Alas! would my lord forget me?—Go, my dear Fan­ny, you know not the great; you imagine that they are like us country people. I lived for some time in town, and I know that their friend­ships are short lived. Marry a man of your own rank if you would be loved by your husband, and make your family happy. To-morrow you shall go: I will tell your mother that your aunt has sent for you, and I shall pre-acquaint her with the affair. Go and prepare for your journey.

This was a thunderstroke to Fanny. Her fa­ther left her alone. It was then she felt the [Page 156] whole force, the whole influence of love. She sat down, or rather fell upon her chair, her head supported by her hands, and her heart heaving as if it would burst. Shall I no more see my lord—be driven from him—scorn his ten­derness—refuse to make him or myself happy— break my heart? How, how can I bear it! O my father! what is it you require of me! Can I have fortitude enough to obey you, to draw my­self into exile, into my grave? Yes, my aunt will receive my last sighs. Ah, lord Whatley, lord Whatley!

Fanny passed a miserable night. Adams had sagacity to see into the heart of his daughter, and to perceive the cause of her agitation.— He loved her tenderly, and thought he should give her a proof of his affection, by obviating the effects of the young nobleman's passion.— The moment is fixed for the fatal departure.— No body about the farm knew whither Fanny was going, except only her mother, who par­took of her daughters distress, when she beheld her labouring under those afflictive sensations, which she, in vain, endeavoured to conceal.

Fanny, in preparing for her journey, often sighed. She met one of the young men belong­ing to the farm, who had a great regard for her; and she was afraid every moment of being sur­prised by her father. Tell him, said she, my [Page 157] dear Williams, that I shall never forget him, and that I am very unhappy. Pray, Miss, to whom shall I carry this message? Did I not tell you my friend? to my lord, who loves me, and would be glad to marry me, but my father is against it —A moment after—No, my friend, said she, tell him nothing; I should offend my parents—I should transgress my duty. Possibly, one day, he will hear that I am dead, and then he will—

While this poor girl was torn by conflicting sen­timents, Adams appeared.—Come, child, take leave of your mother, your brother and sisters, and let us go. I will attend you myself, and do you take care to keep every thing a secret.

What did not poor Fanny feel at this moment? She quitted the scenes where she had spent her happy childhood—the scenes where she had drawn her first breath, and which received her last sighs. She cast her tearful eyes on the seat of Whatley; she was a victim that was dragged to receive the mortal blow. At this instant a servant arrives from lord Whatley. Mr. Adams, said he, my lord desires to speak with you this moment: He is in bed, very ill. Ill! cried Fan­ny—and her heart was then in new agitations.

Adams hasted to the seat of his lord. He ac­tually found him in bed, and in a high fever.— [Page 158] Whatley gave orders that he should be left alone with his tenant. Set down, my dear Adams, said he, with a feeble voice; you see the effects of your conduct. How, my lord?—Yes, Adams, you obstinately refused me your Fanny; you will soon be set free from future solicitation: I am sensi­ble that what I suffer from this disappointment will bring me to the grave. Ah! my lord! replied the old man, you pierce me to the soul! Can I be the occasion of your death, who would lay down my life for you a thousand times?—This passion will go off. Your present infatuation will vanish. No, Adams, no; I shall never cease to adore your charming daughter; I shall indemni­fy her for the injury fortune hath done her, by raising her to the dignity of my own; and my intentions are fixed unless you are inclined to ha­sten my passage to the grave. Consider, my friend, whether you are really determined to murder the tenderest of masters. And with these words he held out his arms to embrace him.

The good old man, distracted with a thousand different sensations, cried out, But, my lord, what will your family, the town, the whole world say? How is it possible for me to consen [...] to such an alliance as this, without infringin [...] every duty?—I am extremely unhappy—O [...] that you had never seen this girl!—My friend, I will marry Fanny privately, and declare my marriage after the death of my uncle, who is o [...] [Page 159] the brink of the grave. By this means you will complete my happiness, that of your adorable daughter, and your family. You will be my fa­ther, continued he, embracing Adams, who was quite overpowered. Once more grant me my life, for it entirely depends on my union with Fanny. Come, my dear Adams, be not appre­hensive that my relations, or that the court should be offended. Let them but see, but know Fan­ny, and all will applaud my choice.

Honest Adams was confounded: He sighed: he cast his eyes on the ground. Whatley called his servants. They rise and dress him. He gets into the coach with Adams, and drives to the farm. He throws himself at the feet of Fanny, who had run to the gate, followed by her mo­ther. Yes, this, said he, is my adorable con [...]ort, the wife of my heart, and I will never have any other.

To Fanny every thing appeared like the illusion of a dream; when lord Whatley addressed her with pressing tenderness. Beautiful Fanny, it is your [...] to confirm that consent, which must be the joy of my life.

She suffered him to take her hand, which he devoured with kisses. Whatley, at length, read his triumph in her ingenious aspect. Fanny was silent; but her eyes spoke: Sometimes she tu [...] ed [Page 160] them towards her father, as if she would con­sult him what answer she was to make. The pa­rents of the worthy girl once more made the strongest remonstrances; their passionate lord still found means to set them aside; until after many conflicts, denials, tears and intreaties, it was at length determined that his lordship should marry Fanny. He flies to his friends. Sir Thomas Ward had arrived some days before. My lord, af­ter supper, when the servants were gone, and the glass went round, informs the company of his intention to marry Fanny. Sir Thomas receiv­ed the intelligence with indignation; and with a burst of sarcastic laughter, he drank to the health of lord Whatley, the son of farmer Adams.

The poor lord underwent the severest raillery, the most humiliating sarcasms. He defended his intentions; he insisted on the charms, the beau­ties, the virtues of the farmer's daughter: But these remonstrances were followed by more in­sulting sallies of ridicule; and the arguments still ended in the peer dishonored, disgraced by such an alliance. It would be needless to ob­serve, that his lordship had great pride, and that this vice frequently triumphs over love and nature.

Yet still he died, if he possessed not Fanny. That was the answer to all the objections of his [Page 161] friends, and to possess her without marriage was impossible. Should he employ any other means, he would break the hearts of a whole family that was dear to him: Fanny herself would look up­on him as a monster, and her love, without her esteem, would not gratify his heart. In short he could have no happiness distinct from her's. Yet how was he to render this passion consistent with what he owed to the dignity of his birth, to the world and to his friends?

Sir Thomas, after declaiming profusely on impracticable projects, cried, This scheme, gen­tlemen, you will certainly approve. But do you really, my dear Whatley, long to possess your little Fanny?—I had rather have the plea­sure of looking upon her, than make a conquest of all the beauties in London. And I tell you very seriously, that my life depends entirely up­on her. Well, my friend, then I expect your thanks for an expedient which will at once re­concile your honor, your pleasure, and your rank; which will neither render you obnoxious to your uncle, to your own reflections, nor to the reproaches of the world. Depend upon me for the entire management of this affair. What is it you propose? said Whatley: Let me know your scheme.—Do not you mean to marry Fanny? —Most certainly.—Well, hear then, and admire my ingenuity when I would serve my friends. [Page 162] There is a clergyman in this neighborhood, who will oblige me in any thing; we shall also be able to find managable witnesses. In short, my friend, you shall be married, and yea shall not be married.

What! cried Whatley, be a traitor to Fanny! and he rose from his seat with indignation. My dear lord, one moment's leave; pray be seated. By this supposed marriage, you gratify your pas­sion without exposing yourself to the just resent­ment of your uncle. Your love will wear off with time, and when your enthusiasm shall be over, you may indemnify Fanny for this little deception by a proper settlement. This will be a sufficient price for the virtue of a country girl. Detestable! Odious council! What! should I, under the sanction of such an infamous artifice, tear a child from the bosom of her father! Be­tray my Fanny! added he, unable to restrain the rising tears. How can you have the cruelty to propose it?—I will marry her in the face of hea­ven—in the face of the world. Let my marri­age continue a secret until the proper time, but let it be honestly executed, with the most sa­cred oaths.

Without enlarging on the defence of Whatley, the attacks of his friends, and, above all, those of the depraved baronet, who employed all his wit to draw this young lord into the most attro­cious [Page 163] of crimes, be it sufficient to observe, that their attempts were successful.—The treacherous Ward was the principal agent in this horrid plot, and every thing was prepared for the pre­tended marriage. Whatley, stung by remorse, was frequently on the brink of defeating this in­fernal scheme. But W [...]rd, inspired by his geni­ [...]s for villainy, as often overbore his intentions. Behold our young lord, then, in the bosom of his beautiful, his innocent angel! Behold him in the raptures of those pure, those high-set plea­sures which alone should be the fruits of unvio­lated virtue, yet here they were the portion of guilt.

Whatley, in the midst of these charms, sunk under the influence of a heart-felt poison. It is true, that he constantly confirmed himself in the design of establishing those nuptials, which fraud and imposture had pretended. Fanny had never left her father's house; her husband was the idol of her soul. She was that tender Eve, whom Milton has described, so gently submissive to the pleasure of Adam. Yet there were moments when her heart was a prey to sadness, though the cause was unknown: Her parents too were pen­sive, and felt the same unaccountable melancho­ly. But what were the pangs of Whatley, when his eyes were fixed on that adorable creature, so touching, so ingenuous, so innocent in the very lap of pleasure, and yet so wronged! When [Page 164] that angelic woman flew to meet him, with all the prodigality of chaste embraces, conscious of her injury, he would decline to meet her; would sometimes shed tears. His crime rose up against him. Perfidious Ward! he cried, perfidious Ward!

This uncle sent for him to town. Fanny must now be left, though now more than ever be­loved and adored. The Baronet did not per­mit him to go out of his sight; he was afraid that his dissimulation should abandon him, and accompained him when he took his leave. What­ley vowed inviolable love to Fanny, and promis­ed soon to return to her bosom. The tender creature was with difficulty torn from the arms of her husband. It was in those trying moments that Whatley felt all the vengeance of injured truth and honor. He beheld Fanny bathing his feet with her tears. No, cried he, interrupted by the agitations of his heart, no, excellent creature, I am not worthy to possess you; such charms, such virtues deserved a better fate.

Ward at length carries him off, and steals him from those reflections that weighed down his heart, and were ready to escape from his lips. Fanny fainted away in the bosom of her mother, when her eyes could no longer perceive her lord. He was now in the chaise with the Baronet, who [Page 165] exerted all his wicked art to stifle that remorse which persecuted and pursued him to London.

Philosophers and the learned deny the existence of pre-sentiments, and treat them as chimeras and absurdities. I must take the liberty, howe­ver, to differ from them, There is no man that honestly puts the question to himself, but must own that there have been some critical circum­stances in his life, wherein he has been warned, as it were by an inward voice, that seemed to foretel some approaching evil. This secret, and gloomy herald, came in all its horrors before the mind of Fanny; nor was the hour of repose ex­empt from the same inward alarm, The melan­choly reflections of the day were followed by hi­deous dreams in the night.

Whatley, arrived in town, is hurried by Sir Thomas round the circle of pleasures. The base Baronet knew the human heart, and wanted not to be told that foibles lead to crimes. He drew his freind into those companies, where the delica­cy of sentiment is destroyed, and every succeed­ing day he thought of Fanny with less sensibility, and some feature of her image vanished from his mind.

Sir Thomas had communicated in confidence to lord Darnton, this adventure of his nephew; and it was in concert with this nobleman, that he [Page 166] endeavoured to draw Whatley into that round of dissipation, where the greater passions die away —for it is only with solitude and reflection that they can live.

Whatley found less frequent opportunities to write to Fanny. He received her letters with less ardour. In one word, his love was abated. Not a day passed, but the finest girls in town, like so many Circes, sought by their embraces to rob him of his tenderness and his virtue.

Fanny's greatest misfortune was the youth of Whatley: Who at his years, has the fortitude to call his heart to an account, or to rouze it from that unsentimental state to which it has been re­duced by dissipation? True pleasures are never enjoyed but by maturer years. Upon our first en­trance into life, we are generally under such an intoxication, as is no less destructive to pleasure than to reason.

Ward, among the rest of his seductive arts, did not fail to cherish and encourage the vanity of his noble friend. By this he undoubtedly medi­ated a more mortal blow to the interest of poor Fanny, than any she could suffer from the influ­ence of rival beauty. When he thought himself tolerably sure of the success of his artifices, he acquainted lord Darnton with the disposition to which he had brought his nephew.

[Page 167]Whatley had beheld, with some emotion, the growing beauties of Miss Barry, the daughter of lord Ravenstone. This impression, so favourable to the designs of lord Darnton, was immediately communicated to him. He concerted with the father of that lady, the proper means of drawing Whatley into an attachment. The house of lord Ravenstone was open to him; was the young la­dy, at every visit, appeared more charming. Sir Thomas, like Milton's devil, employed every artifice, and every temptation. He added new force to Miss Barry's attractions. He spoke par­ticularly of her high birth, and of the dignity it would confer on the person who should have the good fortune to marry her. In short, lord Darnton, acquainted with the progress of his scheme, proposes to his nephew to marry lord Ravenstone [...]s daughter. Everything, added he, is already settled: You are beloved by the lady, and nothing is wanting but your consent. I flat­ter myself that you will not disavow my proceed­ings. She is one of the greatest and most brilliant matches in England. Whatley changes countenance throws himself at the feet of his un­cle declares with tears his situation; his engage­ments to Fanny, and the necessity he was under of confirming them by a lawful marriage. Lord Darnton embraces and caresses his nephew, an­swers him with a dissembled kindness, and em­ploys every art to dazzel and overcome his inte­grity; but he remains inflexible. Rage and [Page 168] menaces succeed—he drives him from his pre­sence, and the poor lord flies for refuge, into the bosom of the serpent, Ward: Who more insinuating, more dangerous, conducts him back to his uncle. In short, after many tumults, ma­ny conflicts Fanny is sacrificed, and the weak, the guilty Whatley marries Miss Barry. Were it allowable to paint the horrid crime in less hi­deous colours, one might say that he was in some measure, dragged to the alter; that, even in the arms of his new bride, he bewailed the wife of his heart—the wife whom heaven had destined and devoted to him; and that the image of Fanny was ever in his mind. The cruel lord Darnton took upon him to convey the fatal news to the daughter of Adams. He had promised his ne­phew to settle such an income on her, as should be, to use his own expression, a sufficient conso­lation for her disappointment.—The crafty uncle, however, was not satisfied with this triumph. He was still afraid, that Fanny would recover her former influence; and therefore got Whatley nominated to one of the remotest foreign courts. Our young lord set off with his new-married lady, accompanied by Sir Thomas Ward, who never left him a moment to his own reflections, and who was always flattering him on his dignities and distinctions; the poor recompence of forfeit­ed innocence and faithful love.

[Page 169]The anxieties, the painful pensiveness of Fan­ny encreased. Already some weeks were passed since she had heard from Whatley. She could no longer resist the most cruel suspicions. In vain was she comforted by her father and the rest of the family. How could she avoid being a­larmed at the silence of the man she adored? She counted the days, the hours, and the minutes she had to waste in tears, until the time appoint­ed for the lord's return should arrive. An ex­press arrives from lord Darnton, with a letter to Adams. The good old man received the mes­senger with his usual politeness, desired him to set down, took the fatal paper, and read as fol­lows:—

[Page 170]The poor old man had no sooner read this let­ter, that he fell senseless to the ground. He was alone; his wife and his daughter came in and raised him. By the application of cordials he recovered his senses; he saw his daughter, and was seized with a trembling. Ah, my dearest child! Come, my poor Fanny, come into my arms. My dear father, what is the cause of this? Why this distress? These tears? This agitation? My father! My child, we are undone, our fears were but too just. lord Darnton—Hah! What? —Is determined to disannul your marriage, and has had the inhumanity to insult you with the offer of money. My lord will not own you as his wife. Not as his wife! What then should I be! Fanny was just able to pronounce these words before she fainted away. She was carried to her chamber, where she continued in a kind of stupefaction.

Take back, said the indigant old man to the messenger, take back his odious favours. I am a poor man, it is true; but my lord shall not rob me of my honor. It is my natural inheritance: I hold it from heaven, and no man on earth, shall ever deprive me of it. My lord may act the ruf­fian to my children, and murder their father, but he shall never oblige us, to give up our rights, nor will we ever consent to the dissolution of the mar­riage. I will drag my wretched age to the feet of lord Darnton. Let him throw me into prison. I [Page 171] will take my trial. The rights of justice are above nobility; and an honest man, who has always behaved as a faithful servant to his lord, will not be injured with impunity. What is it you mean! interrupted the messenger, who could not forbear to weep with these honest people: On what are your complaints founded? The marri­age of lord Whatley will not be annulled. What marriage do you speak of? Do you not know that lord Darnton's nephew is married to lord Ravenstone's daughter? Married! My lord Whatley!—with any body but Fanny? Yes, and he is gone abroad. O Heavens! cried Adams, in the utmost agonies, and has he then made a jest of the most sacred ties? Can my lord have any other wife but Fanny? I will go immediate­ly to London, I will have justice, or death; lord Darnton cannot refuse it.

He went into his daughter's chamber, who was just opening her eyes. Child, you do not know all your wrongs, not all the treachery of lord—He is married. Married! Yes, married to another woman. But take courage, we have yet honour and justice left us. I am go­ing to London, and at my return, expect better news. Can lord Darnton be such a savage that no­thing can soften him? My dear child (and he pres­sed her to his heart) you shall find a father in me.

[Page 172]The situation of Fanny admits of no descrip­tion. The departure of lord Whatley was more intolerable than all the rest. Adams, after tak­ing a tender and sorrowful leave of his wife and children, set off for London, accompanied by the messenger of lord Darnton.

Lord Darnton's messenger entered his house, followed by the unfortunate old man. No sooner did his lord see him, than he asked him concerning the event of his message. He gave him, for answer, the thousand pound note. What! cried his lordship, had he the impudence to refuse my favour? He is here, replied the ser­vant. Let him come in, said my lord, in wrath; I know how to treat people of his stamp. Adams entered, and threw himself at his lordship's feet. Yes, my lord, said the unhappy father, with floods of tears, I refused the price of my dis­grace, because my honour is not to be purchas­ed. I am sensible that I am a dependent of your family, and that respect and submission are my duty. I did every thing in my power to prevent my lord, your nephew, from so disproportiona­ble a match; but he would not listen to me: He was determined to possess my daughter, but he previously married her. Our fate is in your hands, my lord, but the knot has been tied in the face of heaven, and it is heaven alone that can dis­solve it. Our only misfortune is my humble con­dition, and my poverty: My family has over [Page 173] been irreproachable.—Would you, my lord, de­prive a father, a mother, and a daughter of their lives—poor unhappy people—that esteem their honesty their greatest blessing?—Let me embrace your knees; and look upon a miserable father, that appeals to your humanity and your justice. To do you justice, replied his lordship, I should drive you this moment out of my house. How could you have the impudence to refuse my favour? Though you had an hundred daughters, you in­solent old man, a thousand pounds would be too great a price for them. Hear me—do not abuse my kindness—take back the bill—go; and do not think of seeing me any more.

No, said the couragious Adams, with that no­ble indignation which raises the spirit above all rank, I will not go. I only ask for justice, my lord, and I will have it. You shall either this moment run me through the body, or I will have recourse to every court of justice in London. I will petition his majesty: I will lay before him my grievances, my distresses, and my rights. I am, proceeded, the honest man, with all the eloquence of anguish, I am a poor farmer; but, my lord, I am a father, and an injured father. My comp­laints will be heard—they will be echoed from e­very heart—and the world will pronounce between us. I have reason and justice on my side. My grief distracts me, my lord!—No—I never can [Page 174] think that lord Whatley has formed any other connections—This is only a pretence to try my integrity. Ah! my lord! once more behold at your feet an unhappy father, who will never quit this posture until he moves your compassion. You cannot be capable of an action so unworthy of your rank. Come, said lord Darnton, I will give you two thousand pounds, and let me hear no more of you or your daughter. My lord, you will not hear me: Your second proposal, I presume to say, is a fresh attack on my life, and honour. You shall take that life, my lord; you shall embrue your hands in my blood; I will re­turn no more to my daughter. Insolent man! Do you threaten me?—I will die, or obtain your consent to a marriage that will not discredit you.—Fanny was a girl of virtue. My lord, expect the utmost from my distraction; it is very dreadful. Do you threaten me, you audacious earth-worm? Know the insignificancy of your pretensions. I perceive on what your obstinacy and your haughtiness are founded: You imagine that your daughter was legally married to my foolish nephew. I would have owed to your compliance and your duty, what I shall obtain by law. Know then, that your claims are a jest; that your daughter has been the instrument of Whatley's pleasures; in short, that the marriage you have the presumption to insist on, was no­thing more than a stratagem. What! My daugh­ter [Page 175] not married to lord Whatley!—She never was; she has only been his mistress, my friend; and I think in that instance, his lordship (my nephew) did you no little honour.

A thunderstroke could not have smitten poor Adams more violently. He fell senseless to the ground. Lord Darnton went out of the room, and coldly ordered his people to take the poor man to the air until he should come to himself, and then to pay him two thousand pounds. There was a scene that might have moved the heart of a savage. The poor old man lay extended on the floor, his grey hairs soiled with dust and tears —He hardly breathed, and the paleness of death was on his countenance. A servant, who had more humanity than his master, was moved with com­passion for the unfortunate man; he took him by the arm, and endeavoured to recover him. Adams opened his eyes, and with a bitter excla­mation, threw himself again on the floor, cry­ing, They have deceived my daughter—she is not married. O my God! my God!—He rose hasti­ly, and was going to seek lord Darnton, but his strength failed him; he was obliged to set down, and could do nothing but vent his anguish in a torrent of tears. The compassionate domestic endeavoured to comfort him; he exhorted him to be reconciled to his misfortunes—represented the quality and power of lord Darnton, and con­cluded, with relating to him all the circumstan­ces [Page 175] of Whatley's pretended marriage with Fanny, Adams in distraction, tore his hair, and talked of stabbing lord Darnton. The steward brought him two thousand pounds ready told. Adams dashed them from him with all the rage of ho­nest indignation.—Wretch let your master keep his infamous wealth! Go, he has already insult­ed my grey hairs—I see that I have no other pro­tection, nor other avenger than my God—I im­plore his assistance; and he will punish the vil­lains that have deceived my child, my poor Fanny. Ah! my friend, continued he, addres­ing himself to the charitable domestic that took him by the hand, and would have soothed him if you knew what a woman they have injured!— Ah! my poor children! How shall I bear to tell you this dreadful story! I find I shall die in this place —Here my body shall lie, and call down the di­vine vengeance. The Supreme Justice can re­dress the meanest of his creatures, and He will not refuse his succour.

The servant by degrees, brought him to a sense of his situation; told him that every extre­mity, even death itself, would be vain; and re­presented to him the authority of the great, who always trample on the rights of the poor with im­punity. At length he drew him to a little dis­tance from lord Darnton's house, and conveyed him to the lodgings of his wife. She received the unhappy Adams with that humanity peculiar [Page 177] to those whom the insolence of grandeur and for­tune has denominated the meaner-sort of people; a humanity which is certainly preferable to the superficial and heartless politeness of the splendid and the gay.

The situation of Adams is not to be described: His general exclamations were, My poor daugh­ter! Child of my heart! How have they disho­noured thee?—Thee, to whom honour was more precious than life!—Ah! why did not the traitor Whatley rather sacrifice you in the bosom of your father? Then the poor man would weep, as if his soul would waste itself in tears.

The generous domestic, still more moved at his sufferings, pretends sickness, that he might continue with Adams, who had the spirit to write a letter to lord Darnton, filled (to use an expression of Satius) with all the majesty of grief. It will be no way surprising to hear a far­mer talk in this strain, when it is remembered, that Adams had a liberal education. Besides, a virtuous mind calls forth its powers, is elevated and exalted, acquires a kind of conscious digni­ty and superiority in those circumstances which strongly affect its interests. It is observable that men have acted prodigies of valour, firmness, and eloquence, when they were excited by the great emotions of nature, the only source of shining deeds, and distinguished talents, The [Page 178] old man's letter was conceived in the following terms:—

‘Barbarous man! it is before the throne [...] everlasting justice that I summon you, and you shall there take your trial. You have brought shame and disgrace upon the last paths of my life. To recompence the labours of an old servant, who has eat his morsel of bread with the honest sweat of his brow, you have brought distraction into his heart, and betrayed the honour of his child, even in his own bosom— But know, unfeeling man, that heaven will call you to a strict account for those tears, and that blood which now drops from me. Your execrable nephew—I have already summoned him to the tribunal of God; that tribunal which is not to be corrupted—He will give us vengeance. You will one day suffer remorse for your abominable crime, but it will be too late; your wretched victims will be in the grave, and from that grave their voices shall pierce the sky. You have disgraced my old age—You have sunk, under a load of infamy, a man, a whole family, that served, loved you and grew under the shadow of your pro­tection—You have trod upon weakness and innocence. I give up to you, and your per [...] dious nephew, the farm and the property that was entrusted to me. May hell open, and all its horrors, swallow you both! We will go [Page 179] to bathe with our tears, some other place, to give up our torn hearts to misery and anguish, and there lose our last sighs. May this letter urge to your heart, every painful arrow you have sunk in mine! A man reduced to extre­mities, as I am, is above all fear—Dispatch us quickly, for that is the crime you will add to those you have already committed.—It will undoubtedly be less horrible, and it is all that Adams is willing to owe you.’

The afflicted father left London, loading it [...]th imprecations. His distructions increased, [...] broke out anew when he approached his own [...]se. He beheld it with groans of anguish, [...]d cried—There is the asylum of my poverty— There did I bring up my unfortunate daughter [...] innocence and virtue, but, oh! to involve us [...] everlasting shame! Ah! how shall I see my [...]mily! How shall I go to plunge these daggers [...] their hearts? Could I have believed that my [...]st days would have been thus covered with dis­ [...]ce?

The domestic, his faithful attendant, support­ [...]d him, and he dragged himself towards the [...]rm. His wife and daughter came out to meet [...]im: It was with difficulty that Fanny could [...]upport herself as she walked. She was ready to expire—She made an effort to throw herself into [...]e arms of her father, crying, O my father!— [Page 180] Adams clasped her to his breast—He would have spoke—Fanny saw his distress, and therein read her fate. I am not lord Whatley's wife: I have nothing to do but to die. They sat down.— Adams, as well as his anguish would give him leave, related to them the barbarous manner in which he had been received by lord Darnton. When he came to the horrid treachery of What­ley; to the pretended marriage—Hah! cried Fanny, am I then deceived? Am I not his wife? —Scarce had she pronounced these last words, when she fell to the ground, as if she had been smitten with a thunder-stroke. Lord Darnton's domestic was extremely affected at this shocking scene—Fanny was conveyed to her bed, which she had not left but to drag herself to meet her father. Adams ceased not to embrace and weep over her—At length she recovered her senses— But is it, said she, lord Whatley, who has de­ceived, betrayed, me?—Ought I to have ex­pected such a blow? As soon as the unfortunate woman arose, so to express it, out of the arms of death, she seemed to be animated with supe­rior strength; she seemed, by some miracle to have obtained another heart. She raised herself upon her arm. Her features, that had been de­jected by languor, began to be animated. She seemed to command her tears to cease—Come, my father, said the majestic beauty, let us forget even the name of that villain who meant to dis­honor me. My honor is still the property of my [Page 181] heart—It is he—it is the execrable traitor, who has forfeited his own. He has abused the most sacred ties—he has deceived me—He has not robbed me of the innocence of my soul. Can I be criminal in your eyes—in the eyes of God?— Since I have nothing now to hope for in life, how easy were it for me to die?—But I will live for your consolation, your support. You and my mother shall be the world to me. Let us fly from this detested farm; this scene of guilt and horror!—Let us go, where Lord Whatley, where even, his idea, shall not follow me, (and at these words she wept.) Let not even his name be pro­nounced among us!—We will—we will forget him—I will tear him from my heart. My ten­der father—I am willing to submit to the most toilsome labors, the most humble employments— to any thing, provided you will be careful of your life—provided you will love your Fanny— who is not a guilty creature.—At these words her fortitude gave way to a fresh flood of tears. At length the unhappy family leaves the fatal place—But Fanny forsakes it not without some­times turning her eyes towards it—without some regretful looks—She seemed to leave in that place, the most sensible part of her faculties, the most lively principle of her soul. Under the in­fluence of that assumed fortitude, love had not lost its force. That Fanny, so magnanimous, possibly wept the more in secret. Virtuous minds [Page 182] are always most susceptible of great passions. Those unfortunate people went to the house of the minister, their relation, who had superin­tended the education of Fanny. The domestic who had accompanied Adams from London, re­turned thither; but disdaining to serve a man of lord Darnton's principles, he desired his dis­mission.

Lord Whatley, though married to a charming woman, in the bosom of pleasures and honors, and surrounded with the pomp of dignity, was far from tasting any true happiness. His lady had all the airs of a woman of quality; behav­ing with a digusting coldness to her husband, and countenancing the attention of others, in the genuine spirit of coquetry—she was handsome, vain, and haughty: Yet that haughtiness was not so severe, as to swerve her from many scandalous adventures, the report of which came to the ears of her Lord. He would have urged his affection, but was not heard: He threatened her with the authority of an injured husband, but his threats were answered by the most glaring indecorums. The daughter of Lord Ravenstone was supported by a great name, and a powerful interest at court. Whatley was therefore obliged to put up with his affronts—The conduct of his lady, ma­ny times brought to his remembrance, his poor Fanny, who loved, who adored him, and whom he had dishonored at the expence of the purest [Page 183] and tenderest love. But this image that arose in his mind was soon destroyed by the industry of the baronet. He hurried him round a circle of continual dissipation—He plunged him into eve­ry debauchery of heart and mind, and while he was repelling the remembrance of Fanny, he was extinguishing, by the same means, the natural sen­timents of honor and virtue.

Some years passed, while Whatley continued in his death of reason, and honest sensibility. He returned to London with his wife, who did not fail to torment him with the most cruel chagrins. She dishonored him by her continual intrigues, embroiled him with her relations, and rendered him contemptible in the eyes of the court. Yet in these mortifying circumstances, he had one consolation. His lady died, leaving him debts, enemies, insult and shame. It was then that Whatley gave himself up to the most boundless dissipation: There was not a noted ta­vern in London where he was not the distinguish­ed hero of libertinism, and Sir Thomas Ward partook of his reputation. They went, by ac­cident, with some other friends, to Brown's cof­fee-house—The conversation of the company turned on the subject of honor, a subject so trite, and yet so new—But why gentlemen, do you make this your subject, said a person who was a stranger to them, but whose years, and simplicity of appearance rendered him respectable; why do [Page 184] you not talk of matters with which you are bet­ter acquainted?—Of horse-races and fashions?— What do you mean, interrupted Whatley, brisk­ly?—That you are a very unfit person to discuss the subject of honor—How! know I not what honor is?—You!—there are a very few people that know what it is—Insolent! I am not inso­lent—I only speak the truth—Immediately some person enquires for this singular man, and draws him out of the coffee-house, the rest of the com­pany remained in astonishment.

Gentlemen, cried Lord Whatley, you may be very sure I know what I ought to do on this oc­casion, and I shall soon convince you whether I have a right to be called a man of honour. He went out along with Ward, who heightened his resentment. The next day, early in the morn­ing. Wh [...]tley goes to the the house where this man had an ordinary lodging. He knocks at the door.—The stranger, who had no servant, opened it, saying, my Lord, I did not expect you so soon. By your leave, I will go to bed a­gain—Expect me! Then, did you expect me?— Certainly—I am glad to find you did me that justice; but, in the first place, Sir, who are you? Who am I? a man—What is your title?—My heart, and the love of truth. Do you know who I am?—They call you a Lord, and I suppose you are one, for you resemble the rest of that frater­nity—But neither you, nor they, I repeat it, [Page 185] have any right to talk of honour—You insult me and I expect satisfaction; whoever you may be, you shall take your chance with me—You think, then, you have a right to take away my life, or to sacrifice your own—Imprudent young man!— What familiar insolence!—Do you imagine that I owe you respect?—I will convince you of it— What, by running me through the body?—You suppose that fortune will favour you—If, in fact, it should, and if I should have time to express my sentiments, do not look for respect, but ra­ther contempt, perhaps pity—Contempt!—Your pity! Get out of bed, friend, this moment; and let this dispute be quickly ended, on the one side or the other. How audaciously this impudent fellow treats me! I am not impudent, and I shall get up immediately. The stranger rises, and dresses himself with great tranquility, while Lord Whatley walked backwards and forwards in the chamber, in the utmost agitation. Come, says he, let us go behind Hyde-Park, and there I shall make you know what it is to offend a man of my rank—A man of your rank ought to support his superiority by probity and virtue; without those distinctions, he is on a level with the lowest Plebian—What do I say?—He is not comparable to the latter, if he acts his humble part honestly. Whatley stormed with anger. Scarce were they arrived on the spot, when his Lordship drew, and called upon his antagonist to [Page 186] do the same. One word by your leave. It is a­gainst my will that I fight. This acknowledg­ment may appear singular; you may deem me a coward, a po [...]troon, but I am neither the one nor the other When you shall know my [...]ame, you will do me justice. Duelling is an infamous thing; it is contrary to all laws, both divine and human, and is nothing else but assination. But I shall comply with your desire, and, as you are determined to have it so, shall do myself the ho­nour to cut a throat with you. I have only one thing to desire. What is that? I have offended you by saying that you had no knowledge of ho­nour: Before we fight, do me the favour to tell me what you mean by the word honour, and try to do it calmly. I believe this man is mad No I am not mad. What is that honour? Tell me what idea you have formed of it?

Lord Whatley made use of all those defini­tions which are so well known, and so ill-founded. Have you done, my Lord?—Yes. You seem to be very little acquainted with your subject, and perhaps you have forgot the principal parts of it. Does honor consist in keeping one's word?—Without dispute; and the weaker, and more defenceless the person is to whom that word is given, the more sacred a man of honor should hold his faith. Is it not, in short, the [...]ankest, the most degrading vileness to break it, I to betray in such an instance, and [Page 187] to snatch by treachery the rewards of truth? Would you, my Lord, make a purchase with false or forged bills?—At these words Whatley stormed with indignation.—Forged bills! But you, my Lord, have been guilty of an action a thousand times more base.—Draw, Sir! Hear me, and as soon as I have explained myself we will fight.—Though I had a thousand lives, and should lose them all by your hand, you would not be less culpable. Would you not forge a bill? Barbarous man! What did you then, when you imposed on innocence, love, and truth; When yielding to the dictates of your vile ac­accomplices, under pretext of the most sacred and solemn oaths, you dishonored an unhappy creature, who received you into the arms of in­nocence, under the sanction of the altar?—What did you, when tearing in pieces the purest and tenderest heart? Your conduct was followed by death and ruin: When you brought an aged father to the grave with shame? Those unfortu­nate people, that were honored with the name of your dependents; who considered the bosom of their Lord as their asylum; whom you ought to have protected: And was it you that sacrificed them? You understand me: True love and inno­cence betrayed; your heart, yes, your heart it­self, my Lord, if you dare look into it, all these will raise against you. You seem disturbed. Ah! said Lord Whatley, and a tear rose in his eye; too true! I have acted dishonorably; and [Page 188] this is what honor calls upon me to do. Upon this he threw down his sword. Embrace me, generous stranger: You open my eyes; you touch my heart; you bring me to myself: Then saying into his arms—Ah! tell me, tell me, said he, what is become of Fanny? Yes, I am indeed a wretch; the vilest of criminals. This, my Lord, is honor; it returns to your heart; and I acknowledge the man. Fanny and her family live in bitterness and misery: They have taken refuge with a relation, who supports them in their deplorable circumstances; and the unfortu­nate Fanny still loves you. Loves me, inter­rupted Whatley, with tears; still loves me!— Ah! Sir, let me see her; let me throw myself at her feet: Will you have the goodness to con­duct me?

Ward, who had followed his friend at a dis­tance, runs up to him, and finds him in tears. Come on, Sir, said Whatley; behold the tri­umph of sentiment!—Yes, I acknowledge my­self culpable; and this gentlemen had a right to tell me that I could not with propriety talk of honor; he has opened my eyes, my friend, and I fly to repair the injury I have done. Whatley explained the circumstances of this adventure. Ward was outrageous, reproached him with mean­ness of spirit, and draws upon the very person who had brought him back to virtue. The stranger trie [...], by the strongest remonstrances, to evade fighting with the enraged Baronet; but at [Page 189] last, being constrained to it, cries, it was you, wretched Ward, who corrupted the virtuous Whatley. You oblige me to the crime either of sacrificing your life, or my own. Neither my words, nor my tears, (for I blush not to weep) have any effect upon you. Take then the con­sequence, or may my death soften your rigid heart, and bring you to repentence. Whatley would have parted them, but Ward would not hear him.

They fight: The stranger disarms him, and gives him back his sword, saying, Live, and en­joy the privilege of repentance. Whatley now made new efforts to appease his friend: But he [...]ell with greater fury on his generous adversary, and at last received a mortal thrust that laid him on the ground. The stranger immediately took him by the arm, assisted by Whatley, who ba­thed his friend with tears. The conqueror gave himself up to the most piercing grief. O heav­en! said he, with groans, that I should be guil­ty of such a crime! That I should shed human blood; the blood of a fellow creature! Ah! my Lord, continued he to Whatley, I partake in your distress: Sir Thomas Ward has involved me in this guilt; I ought rather to have let him run me thro' the heart: I never shall survive this accident. Whatley's servants came and took a­way the body of Ward, while his lordship and the stranger returned to town in the carriage, [Page 190] struck with the deepest concern and melancholy. The people in the neighborhood, who had been present at the combat, all deposed in favor of the conqueror.—Whatley having recovered from his first emotions of grief, discovered at length that the person who had killed the Baronet, was an officer of birth, and distinguished for his me­rit and his bravery. He had retired from ser­vice, and lived like a true philosopher; that is, like a man who had the support of honor and virtue at heart. He employed the greatest part of his fortune in the relief of indigence: He a­voided splendor, and lived under the productive and pleasing shade of his own integrity. His name was Windham. Whatley flew to his apart­ment; whom he no sooner perceived, than he cried, Ah! my Lord, I shall soon follow my un­happy victim to the grave. I cannot bear to think of this event; to think that I have depriv­ed a man of his life! I ought to have evaded a circumstance so horrible. Fatal prejudice! How long shall it triumph over reason! Is it thus a a man serves his country?—How nearly doe [...] such virtue border on a crime!

This worthy man was pierced with grief and melancholy; nevertheless, he recovers the health that he apprehended he should no longer enjoy. Whatley, while he bewailed the fate of his friend, was obliged to own that he alone had been to blame, and that he had obliged Wind­ham [Page 191] to come to extremities. He was no less rea­dy to acknowledge that the Baronet had been the cause of all his irregularities; that he had led him into that shameful treachery, the disgrace of his life: In one word that he had been the oc­casion of all Fanny's sufferings. These reflexions rendered the memory of Sir Thomas less dear to his friend.

Windham informed his lordship of the cruel behavior of Lord Darnton, with regard to the unfortunate Adams. What a description for Whatley! His soul had recovered all its honesty, all its sensibility. Windham was a kind of supe­rior being, who rescued him from that gulph of depravity into which Ward had plunged him; and Whatley wished for nothing but the moment that should restore him to his Fanny, the only wife of his heart.

Windham related such circumstances as still heightened his impatience to see her. That worthy man, in travelling over the different counties of England, had been led by accident to the house of that clergyman with whom Fanny and her family had taken refuge. It was from them he learnt their misfortunes, and the perfid­ious behavior of Lord Whatley. Windham, with pleasure indulged his impatience; and they [...]ook their way to the village where the clergy­man lived.

[Page 192]Whatley already felt the happiness of repair­ing his injuries, and at length they arrived: But what a thunder-stroke to the penitent Lord! They found the clergyman dead; and the place where Adams and his family had retired was un­known. It was only observed, that wherever their were, they must be very miserable.—This, cried Lord Whatley, is what I have done. I am the cause why these unfortunate people, perhaps, are now no more. It is I who have murdered the most adorable of woman. Let us go no far­ther, my generous friend! Here I will die: Here, where my Fanny has wept and reproach­ed me. No, angelic creature! you never could love me after such enormities; my conduct is de­testable even in my own eyes. Let us go, my Lord, said Windham, let us not idly give up our searches here. Why should we distrust the goodness of heaven? It is that which has opened your eyes. Let us believe that we are under the conduct of Providence, and that your Fanny will be restored to your arms, that you you may make restitution for all the injuries you have done to her and her relations. Virtue has its rewards sometimes even in this world. Thus he encouraged the despairing Whatley: They pur­sued their journey, and made the most dilligent enquiries.

Windham himself at length begun to despair of success, and the unhappy Lord was in the [Page 193] greatest distress. They were on horse-back, and unattended, when they met a Baronet of Wind­ham's acquaintance; he stopped a little to talk with him, and Whatley rode forward.

A child was weeping very bitterly at a little distance from the road. The poor innocent ap­peared to be about six or seven years of age. It had an air of delicacy which was touching, un­der the disadvantages of a poor dress. Its tears, its native comeliness, greatly moved his lordship. He looked upon the child with pity, and could not draw his eyes from it. What makes you weep, my little dear, said he? My poor mam­ma! she told me she should die soon, and she wept when she kissed me.—Mamma is very un­happy—We have nothing to live upon—Mam­ma cries, and grand-papa is sick in bed. Thus the child, with mingled tears and sighs, uttered its little complaints. Poor child! but your fa­ther, my dear—Oh! Sir, I never saw my papa: It is my papa that makes us all unhappy: Mam­ma often talks of him: She says she loves him, and shall love him as long as he lives: Though to be sure he has given us a great deal of trou­ble. She makes me pray to God for him every day. Poor papa is in a very bad way, added the child, weeping as if its little heart would break.

[Page 194]Lord Whatley was affected, and alighting from his horse, run towards the child, who did not seek to shun him, but stretched out its arms to embrace him. Embrace, my little angel! you are a sweet child—And what are your parents? They work the field—Your mother too?—She is always the first that goes to work, Sir, though she has not much strength—She takes care of my grand-papa—I wish I were rich that I could help my poor mamma, she is so very good—And where do you live, my dear child?—Below there, Sir! Shewing him a wretched cottage. Will you go with me to your dear mamma? Oh! she would chide me, Sir! My mamma sees nobody. Fear not, said his lordship, still embracing the child, I will make your excuse. The child he­sitated, looked at him, and gave him its hand— He took it into one of his, and with the other held his horse's bridle. Windham followed him at a distance. He went along with the child, who conducted him to a poor hut covered with thatch, and surrounded by a miserable hedge. A few paces from the cottage he saw a woman sitting upon the side of a ditch, with a matlock in her hand, and seemingly oppressed with fa­tigue and melancholy. The child goes up to her: Pray, mamma, do not chide me for bring­ing this gentleman, who wanted to see you. She looked up. Whatley fell at her feet: My dear Fanny. My Lord Whatley! She fainted away. Her child threw itself into her arms. [Page 195] And at the same moment Windham came up. Whatley first recovered. My dear Fanny! Is it you! O my friend! I have found the mistress of my heart. My excellent, my only love, see me at your feet! Lift up your eyes! Behold your lover! your husband—who repents from his soul! My dear Fanny to what a condition have I reduced you!

Whatley was prostrate at her feet, which he pressed to his lips and bathed with his tears. Fanny recovers from her swoon, and falling into his bosom, is it you, said she, my Lord Whatley?—Yes, my adorable love, it is your husband, who, repenting of all his follies and vices, returns to virtue and your embraces, and to that tenderness which now possesses his soul, and makes him die to repair your injuries! —My Lord! have you embraced your child, said Fanny, tenderly—Go, my dear, and embraces your father—My child! O God! My child!— This perfectly overcome him—He carressed Fan­ny and her child by turns, and pressed them to his bosom. Yes, my Lord, continued Fanny, it is your child—the fruit of our unhappy love—I have brought him up to love you, that when he survived me, he might tell you of his unfortu­nate mother; for had you come a few days later, you would not have seen me here—I should have left a letter in his hands, and might have flatter­ed myself—Her swelling bosom would not give [Page 196] her utterence, and Whatley took her again into his arms—Ah! tell me not of my crimes! I am severely punished for them—I feel it at my soul —But oh! could I then reduce to such a condi­tion, the most valuable of women? My dearest life—May I, by every instance of love and ten­derness, prevail on you to forget my barbarity, my treachery—My undeserved treachery?—Then he spoke, and wept upon her hand as he pressed it to his mouth.

I shall not pretend to excuse myself by telling you that Ward led me into this scene of villainy. I would appear to you a criminal, as I really am, that I may owe every thing to your generosity and your tenderness. Forgive me, forgive the man who shall esteem it an honor to bear the name of your husband, and that of a father to this amiable child (pressing it again to his heart) —But where is your father?—My father?—May I see him?—He is in bed, answered Fanny, ex­piring with sickness and sorrow; for sorrow has preyed upon him more than want—Want! said Whatley, O God—My heart will break. Ah! worthy Windham! What a wretch have I been —Yes, my poor Fanny, it is I who have redu­ced you to these extremities—And—What is that I see?—The bread we live upon—The bread that is earned by our toil, and steeped in our tears—It was a coarse brown loaf. Whatley could scarcely support himself at the sight—He [Page 197] raised his hands to heaven, and in broken ac­cents cried, What, my dear, my virtuous crea­ture, was this your food—While I—O, my God! My God!—I shall die—I cannot survive these horrid thoughts—Ah, my Lord! What charms in this repentance for your Fanny! Live that she may yet adore you—she never ceased to love you (embracing him) could she hate you?—Yes, you shall be my wife, my sovereign mistress. London has been witness to my irregularities—It shall behold my reformation; I can never make my acknowledgments to you sufficiently distinguished —Yes, you shall be the wife of my heart—Come, let me throw myself at the feet of my worthy father.

Fanny desired him to wait until she had ac­quainted him with his arrival. She feared that the sudden sight of her Lord might be fatal to the languishing old man. She did not know how to testify her gratitude to Windham. Lord Whatley had told her, in a few words, all that the worthy man had done to bring him back to a sense of truth and honor. Fanny flew to her father—My dear father, said she, take comfort— I have good news to tell you—My Lord What­ley is come—He acknowledges his faults—And will he own you for his wife? Shall I have that consolation before I die?—Yes, worthy Adams, cried his Lordship, running to embrace the old [Page 198] man, you see your daughter's husband, your son who comes to bewail his faults in your bosom, and would give his life to repair them. Adams, overcome with surprize and joy, could only ut­ter—Ah, my Lord!—The tears flowed from his eyes; he would have got up, and attempted at some expressions of respect—Lie still my father, said Whatley, it is my duty to do you honour and respect:—I have injured you; I have be­trayed my faith, and virtue, and Fanny—I am ready to make satisfaction for every thing—I humbly ask pardon of you, of your dear daugh­ter, of humanity itself, which I have wounded, through the heart of the worthy Adams. Yes, you shall be my father, and your daughter shall be my wife, the only mistress of my soul. He then enquired of Fanny concerning her mother— Alas! replied the old man, she is no more!— She adored her daughter. Ah! I understand you—This is my doing—Wretched and guilty Whatley, how shalt thou expiate thy crimes?— Ah, my father! Ah, my Fanny!

Situations like these, admit of no adequate description; but the heart may feel, and the mind may conceive what the pen can never paint.

Our poor cottagers went to dinner: How did their extreme indigence then pierce the soul of Whatley! Scarce had they a sufficiency of that [Page 199] coarse bread, the very sight of which, struck him with horror—The dying Adams was another ob­ject that might have smitten the heart of barba­rity itself—Every thing that appeared in this mansion of misery was a dagger in the breast of this penitent Lord. But when his looks were fixed on that woman whom he adored; when he [...]ead in her pale countenance the cruel impres­sions of pain and poverty, and saw those arms that were locked in his with so much tenderness, faded and emaciated, he was torn with that re­morse, those torments of the soul, which are ten thousand times more acute than any external tor­ture. Every instant he cried, with tears that bled from the heart—My virtuous Fanny! To what misery have I reduced you!—And is it pos­sible that you can still love me?—Fanny, em­bracing him, answered, Yes, my Lord!—You were always dear to me; and you should have pierced me to the heart, if you would have per­mitted me to kiss your hand.

If there is a scene in this world that can at­tract the eye of the Supreme Being, it is, un­doubtedly, that of sincere repentance, of pure and honest love, the triumph of sentiment and reason.

Lord Whatley learned that Fanny's two sisters had not long survived their mother: That her brothers, obliged by their misfortunes to leave [Page 200] their fathers house, were in the service of far­mers; that she and her father, after the death of the clergyman, their relation, being reduced to extreme indigence, tilled, with their own hands a piece of ground, where they had built a kind of shed to live in, and that this had been scarce­ly sufficient for the support of their miserable lives. Fanny loved her Lord too much to af­flict him with a detail of such circumstances: He learnt them from Windham.

Whatley removed Adams to his own seat, where the old man soon recovered his health. A very elegant apartment was prepared for Fanny, who, a few days after their arrival, dressed in a magnificent suit, was married to her Lord. It is needless to add, that Windham was one of the principal assistants on this festive occasion. Lord Whatley agreeably surprized Adams, by pre­senting to him his two sons, dressed in a manner becoming their change of fortune. I was willing, my dear father, said he, to make all our family happy. The brothers of Fanny ought to be mine, and it is my intention that they shall par­take of my happiness.

In the evening, when Whatley had dismissed his attendants, he threw himself at the feet of lady W—, and, at last, said he, my excellent Fanny, you will embrace an husband, whose on­ly study will be to make you forget your suffer­ings. [Page 201] Will you pardon me all the injuries, all the wrongs I have done you! My dear, my ado­rable wife! your misfortunes have not robbed you of your beauty; it will bloom afresh when cherished by my kisses, and watered by my tears, I see the effect of my own conduct, and you are more dear to me: You have been my victim, you shall be my sovereign, be all that is dear to me, with the lovely child that pleads for its father's pardon. Let it not plead in vain, my dear Fan­ny! She could only answer with tears of plea­sure, the strong, though inarticulate expressions of the soul, and overpowered by the intoxicating tenderness, she sunk into his arms. O charm inexpressible of pure and tender attachments! Pleasures of love! What are you without those of virtue.

Windham was about to take leave of Whatley. What! Sir, said his lordship, will you refuse to reap the fruits of your labor? And what scenes can you find more interesting than these? You have united two hearts, my dear friend, that know how to be grateful for the favors you have done them. Enjoy the pleasure of beholding the effects of your kindness. You have restored me to virtue, to Fanny, and to happiness; but can that happiness be perfect, if you add not the pleasures of friendship to those of love! Wind­ham [Page 202] embraced his friend with those tears that spring from the heart. Well, my dear children, I accept your offer: It will be some consolation to my old age to find that there are yet on earth, sensible and virtuous souls. They removed to London, where Fanny proved herself the most charming and amiable of women. She was a model for those who had long shone in the circle of distinguished life, and shewed by her beauty and her deportment, that the virtues and the graces are the natives of villages, rather than of cities. She went yearly to visit that poor cot­tage where Whatley and Windham had found her. There she seemed to find her virtues strengthened, her principles improved. Scenes of poverty call us back to that modesty, and that subdued frame of mind, which are the best support of virtue.

Whatley despised, doshonoured, chagrined by his marriage with Lord Ravenstone's daughter, was indebted, in some measure, for a second ex­istence to the daughter of the farmer. Led by the tender influences of chaste love, he returned to the duties of a man, a citizen, and a subject: He entered once more into the service he had quitted, distinguished himself, and obtained the most honourable appointments. Lord Darnton himself made a kind of public satisfaction to [Page] Adams and Fanny; he declared Whatley his heir, and died in the arms of his niece. Hea­ven, as a recompence to Adams, prolonged his life to an advanced and happy old age; and Fanny had several children, the delight and or­nament of their family and their country.