AMELIA: OR THE FAITHLESS BRITON.

THE revolutions of government, and the subversions of empire, which have swelled the theme of national historians, have like­wise, in every age, furnished anecdote to the biographer, and incident to the novelist. The objects of policy or ambition are gene­rally, indeed, accomplished at the expence of private ease and prosperity; while the triumph of arms, like the funeral festivity of a savage tribe, serves to announce some recent calamity — the waste of property, or the fall of families.

Thus, the great events of the late war, which produced the separation of the British empire, and established the sovereignty of America, were chequered with scenes of pri­vate sorrow, and the success of the contend­ing forces was alternately fatal to the peace and order of domestic life. The lamentati­ons of the widow and the orphan, mingled [Page 2] with the song of victory; and the sable man­tle with which the hand of friendship cloathed the bier of the gallant MONTGOMERY, cast a momentary gloom upon the trophies his valour had atchieved.

Though the following tale then, does not exhibit the terrible magnificence of warlike operations, or scrutinize the principles of national politics, it recites an episode that too frequently occurs in the military drama, and contains a history of female affliction, that claims, from its authenticity, at least, an in­terest in the feeling heart. It is the first of a series of novels, drawn from the same source, and intended for public communication, but as the author's object is merely to glean those circumstances in the progress of the revolution, which the historian has neither leisure nor disposition to commemo­rate, and to produce, from the annals of pri­vate life, something to entertain, and some­thing to improve his readers, the occasion will yield little to hope from the applause of the public, and nothing to dread from its candor.

HORATIO BLYFIELD was a respectable in­habitant of the state of New-York. Suc­cess had rewarded his industry in trade with [Page 3] an ample fortune; and his mind, unconta­minated by envy and ambition, freely indulg­ed itself in the delicious enjoyments of the father and the friend. In the former character he superintended the education of a son and a daughter, left to his sole care by the death of their excellent mother; and in the latter, his benevolence and council were uniformly exercised for the relief of the distressed, and the information of the illiterate.

His mercantile intercourse with Great Britain afforded an early opportunity of ob­serving the disposition of that kingdom with respect to her colonies; and his knowledge of the habits, tempers, and opinions of the American citizens, furnished him with a painful anticipation of anarchy and war. The texture of his mind, indeed, was natu­rally calm and passive, and the ordinary ef­fects of a life of sixty years duration, had to­tally eradicated all those passions which rouse men to opposition, and qualify them for enterprize. When, therefore, the gauntlet was thrown upon the theatre of the new world, and the spirit of discord began to rage, Horatio, like the Roman Atticus, withdrew from public clamour, to a seques­tered cottage, in the interior district of Long-Island; and consecrating the youthful [Page 4] ardour of his son, Honorius, to the service of his country, the fair Amelia was the only companion of his retreat.

Amelia had then attained her seventeenth year. The delicacy of her form was in unison with the mildness of her aspect, and the ex­quisite harmony of her soul, was respon­sive to the symmetry of her person. The pride of parental attachment had graced her with every accomplishment that depends upon tuition; and it was the singular fortune of Amelia, to be at once the admiration of our sex, and the favourite of her own. From such a daughter▪ Horatio could not but re­ceive every solace of which his generous feel­ings were susceptible in a season of national calamity; but the din of arms that frequent­ly interrupted the silence of the neighbour­ing forests, and the disastrous intelligence which his son occasionally transmitted from the standard of the union, superceded the cheerful avocations of the day, and dispelled the peaceful slumbers of the night.

After a retirement of many months, on a morning fatal to the happiness of Horatio's family, the sound of artillery announced a battle, and the horsemen who were observed gallopping across the grounds, proved that the scene of action could not be remote. As soon, therefore, as the tumult of hostility [Page 5] had subsided, Horatio advanced with his domestics, to administer comfort and assist­ance to the wounded, and to provide a de­cent interment for the mangled victims of the conflict. In traversing the deadly field, he perceived an officer, whose exhausted strength just served for the articulation of a groan, and his attention was immediately directed to the preservation of this interest­ing object, who alone, of the number that had fallen, yielded a hope that his compas­sionate exertions might be crowned with suc­cess. Having bathed, and bound up his wounds, the youthful soldier was borne to the cottage; where, in a short time, a stronger pulse, and a freer respiration, afforded a flattering presage of returning life.

Amelia, who had anxiously waited the arrival of her father, beheld, with a mixed sensation of horror and pity, the spectacle which now accompanied him. She had ne­ver before seen the semblance of death, which therefore afflicted her with all the terrors of imagination; and, notwithstanding the pallid countenance of the wounded guest, he pos­sessed an elegance of person, which, accord­ing to the natural operations of female sen­sibility, added something perhaps, to her commiseration for his misfortunes. When, [Page 6] however, these first impressions had passed away, the tenderness of her nature expressed itself in the most assiduous actions for his ease and accommodation, and the increasing symptoms of his recovery, filled her mind with joy and exultation.

The day succeeding that on which he was introduced to the family of Horatio, his ser­vant, who had made an ineffectual search for his body among the slain, arrived at the cottage, and discovered him to be Doliscus, the only son and heir of a noble family in England.

When Doliscus had recovered from the senseless state to which he had been reduced (chiefly, indeed, by the great effusion of blood) the first exercise of his faculties was the acknowledgment of obligation, and the profession of gratitude. To Horatio he spoke in terms of reverence and respect; and to Amelia in the more animated language of admiration, which melted at length into the gentle tone of flattery and love. But Dolis­cus had been reared in the school of dissipa­tion! and, with all the qualifications which allure and captivate the female heart, he had learned to consider virtue only as an obstacle to pleasure, and beauty merely as an incen­tive to the gratification of passion. His ex­perience [Page 7] soon enabled him to discover some­thing in the solicitude of the artless Amelia beyond the dictates of compassion and hos­pitality; and even before his wounds were closed, he conceived the infamous project of violating the purity and tranquility of a family, to which he was indebted for the prolongation of his existence, and the res­toration of his health. From that very in­nocence, however, which betrayed her feel­ings, while she was herself ignorant of their source, he anticipated the extremest difficulty and danger. To improve the evident predi­lection of her mind into a fixed and ardent attachment, required not, indeed, a very strenuous display of his talents and address; but the sacrifice of her honour (which an in­surmountable antipathy to the matrimonial engagements made necessary to the accom­plishment of his purpose) was a task that he justly foresaw, could be only executed by the detestable agency of perfidy and fraud. With these views then he readily accepted the solicitations of his unsuspecting host, and even contrived to protract his cure, in order to furnish a plea for his continuance at the cottage.

Amelia, when, at length, the apprehen­sions for his safety were removed, employed [Page 8] all the charms of music and conversation to dissipate the languor, which his indisposition had produced, and to prevent the melan­choly, with which retirement is apt to affect a disposition accustomed to the gay and busy transactions of the world. She experienced an unusual pleasure, indeed, in the discharge of these benevolent offices; for in the com­pany of Doliscus she insensibly forgot the anxiety she was wont to feel for the fate of her absent brother; and the sympathy which she had hitherto extended to all the sufferers of the war, was now monopolized by a single object. Horatio's attachment to the solitude of his library, afforded frequent opportuni­ties for this infatuating intercourse, which the designing Doliscus gradually diverted from general to particular topics—from ob­servations upon public manners and events, to insinuations of personal esteem and partiality. Amelia was incapable of deceit, and unac­quainted with suspicion. The energy, but, at the same time, the respect, with which Doliscus addressed her, was, grateful to her feelings; his rank and fortune entitled him to consideration, and the inestimable favours that had been conferred upon him, offered a specious security for his truth and fidelity. The acknowledgment of reciprocal regard [Page 9] was, therefore, an easy acquisition, and Do­liscus triumphed in the modest, but expli­cit avowal, before Amelia was apprized of its importance and extent. From that mo­ment, however, he assumed a pensive and dejected carriage. He occasionally affected to start from the terrors of a deep reverie; and the vivacity of his temper, which had never yielded to the anguish of his wounds, seemed suddenly to have expired under the weight of secret and intolerable affliction. Amelia, distressed and astonished, implored an explanation of so mysterious a change in his deportment; but his reiterated sighs, which were for a while, the only answers she received, tended equally to encrease her curiosity and her sorrow.

At length he undertook to disclose the source of his pretended wretchedness; and, having prefaced the hypocritical tale with the most solemn protestations of his love and constancy, he told the trembling Amelia that, were it even possible to disengage him­self from an alliance which had been early contracted for him with a noble heiress of London, still the pride of family, and the spirit of loyalty, which governed his father's actions, would oppose a union unaccompa­nied by the acclamations of dignity, and formed with one whose connections were [Page 10] zealous in the arduous resistence to the au­thority of Britain. "While he lives," added Doliscus, "it is not in my power to choose the means of happiness—and yet, as the time approaches when it will be inconsistent with the duty and honour of a soldier to enjoy any longer the society of Amelia, how can I reflect upon my situation without anguish and des­pair!" The delicate frame of Amelia was agitat­ed with the sensations which this picture had excited; and, for the first time, she became acquainted with the force of love, and the dread of separation from its object. Do­liscus traced the sentiments of her heart in the silent, but certain indications of her countenance, and when tears had melted the violence of her first emotion into a soft and sympathetic grief, the treacherous suitor thus prosecuted his scheme against her peace and innocence.

"But it is impossible to resolve upon per­petual misery! One thing may yet be done to change the scene without incurring a fa­ther's resentment and reproach:—can my Amelia consent to sacrifice a sentiment of delicacy, to ensure a life of happiness?" Her complexion brightened and her eye in­quisitively turned towards him. "The pa­rade of public marriage" he continued, [Page 11] "neither adds strength or energy to the ob­ligation: for, form is the superfluous off­spring of fashion, not the result of reason. The poor peasant whose nuptial contract is only witnessed by the hallowed minister that pronounces it, is as blest as the prince who weds in all the ostentation of a court, and furnishes an additional festival to a giddy nation. My Amelia has surely no vanity to gratify with idle pageantry; and as the pri­vacy of the marriage does not take from its sanctity, I will venture to propose—nay, look not with severity—at the neighbouring farm we may be met by the chaplain of my regiment, and love and honour shall record a union, which prudence fetters with a tempo­rary secrecy."

Hope, fear, the sense of decorum, and the incitements of a passion pure, but fervent, compleated the painful perturbation of Ame­lia's heart, and in this critical moment of her fate, deprived her of speech and recol­lection.

Any anxious interval of silence took place; but when, at length, the power of expression returned, Amelia urged the duty which she owed to a parent, the scandal which the world imputed to clandestine marriages, and the fatal consequences that might arise from [Page 12] the obscurity of the transaction. But Dolis­cus, steady to his purpose, again deprecated the folly of pursuing the shadow in prefer­ence to the substance, of preserving fame at the expence of happiness, and of relinquish­ing the blessings of connubial life, for the sake of its formalities. He spoke of Hora­tio's inflexible integrity, which could not brook even the appearance of deception, and of his punctilious honour, which could not submit even to the appearance of intrusion upon the domestic arrangements of another, as insurmountable arguments for denying him the knowledge of their union. Finally, he described, in the warmest colouring of passion and fancy, the effects of Amelia's re­fusal upon the future tenor of his life, and bathing her hand with his obedient tears, practised all the arts of flattery and frenzy. The influence of love supercedes every other obligation: Amelia acknowledged its do­minion, and yielded to the persuasion of the exulting Doliscus. The marriage ceremony was privately repeated — but how will it excite the indignation of the virtuous read­er when he understands, that the sacred character of the priest was personated by a soldier whom Doliscus had suborned for this iniquitous occasion! Ye spirits of seduction! [Page 13] whose means are the prostitution of faith, and whose end is the destruction of inno­cence,—tremble at impending judgment, for "there is no mercy in heaven for such unheard of crimes as these!"

But a short time had elapsed after this fa­tal step, when the mandate of the command­ing officer obliged Doliscus to prepare for joining his corps. A silent, but pungent sense of indiscretion, added to the anguish which Amelia felt in the hour of separation; and not all his strong assurances of inviolable truth and attachment, with the soothing prospect of an honourable avowal of their union, could efface the melancholy impressi­ons of her mind. The farmer at whose house the fictitious marriage had been rehears­ed, was employed to manage their future correspondence; and Doliscus, finally, left the cottage with vows of love and gratitude at his lips; but schemes of fraud and per­jury in his heart. The small distance from New-York, where he was quartered, ren­dered it easy to maintain an epistolary inter­course; which became, during its continu­ance, the only employment, and the only gratification of Amelia's existence. Its con­tinuance, however, exceeded not a few weeks. Doliscus soon assumed a formal and [Page 14] dispassionate style, and the number of his letters gradually diminished, and every allu­sion to that marriage, which was the last hope and consolation of Amelia, he cautious­ly avoided.

But an event, that demanded the exercise of all her fortitude, now forced itself upon Amelia's thoughts. She was pregnant; yet could neither resort for council and comfort to the father whom she had deceived, or ob­tain it from the lover by whom she had been seduced. In the tenderest and most delicate terms she communicated her situation to Doliscus, emphatically called upon him to rescue her reputation from obloquy, and solicitously courted his return to the cottage, or, at least, that he would disclose to Hora­tio the secret of their union. To prevent any accident, the farmer was prevailed upon to be the bearer of the paper which contained these sentiments, and, on his return pro­duced the following epistle.

"Gracious God!" exclaimed Amelia, and fell senseless to the ground. For a while, a convulsive motion shook her frame, but gradually subsiding, the flame of life seemed to be extinct, and all her terrors at an end. The poor farmer, petrified with horror and [Page 16] amazement, stood gazing on the scene: but the exertions of his homely spouse, at length, restored Amelia to existence and despair.

It has often been observed, that despon­dency begets boldness and enterprize; and the female heart, which is susceptible of the gentlest sentiment, is, likewise, capable of the noblest fortitude. Amelia perceived all the baseness of the desertion meditated by Doliscus; she foresaw all its ruinous conse­quences upon Horatio's peace, her own character, and the fate of the innocent be­ing which she bore; and wiping the useless tears from her cheek, she resolved publicly to vindicate her honour, and assert her rights. Animated then, with the important purpose, supported by the presumption of her marriage, and hoping yet to find Dolis­cus in New-York, she immediately repaired to that city — but alas! he was gone! This disappointment, however, did not defeat, nor could any obstacle retard the prosecuti­on of her design; a ship that sailed the suc­ceeding day wafted her to Britain, friendless and forlorn.

Innumerable difficulties and inconvenien­ces were encountered by the inexperienced traveller, but they vanished before the object of her pursuit; and even her entrance into [Page 17] London, that chaos of clamour and dissipa­tion, produced no other sensations than those which naturally arose from her approach to the dwelling of Doliscus.

Amelia recollected that Doliscus had often described the family residence to be situated in Grosvenor-place; and the stage, in which she journeyed, stopping in the evening at a public house in Picadilly, she determined, without delay, to pay him her unexpected and unwelcome visit. The embarrassed and anxious manner with which she inquired for his house, exposed her to unjust surmise and senseless ribaldry; but her grief rendered her incapable of observation, and her purity was superior to insult.

Doliscus had arrived about a fortnight earlier than Amelia. The title, influence, and fortune, which devolved upon him in consequence of his father's death, had swelled his youthful vanity to excess, and supplied him with a numerous retinue of flatterers and dependants. At the moment that he was listening in extacy to that servile crew, the victim of his arts; the deluded daughter of the man to whom he was indebted for the preservation of his life, stood trembling at his door. A gentle rap, after an awful pause of some minutes, procured her admission. Her memory recognized the features of the [Page 18] servant that opened the door; but it was not the valet who had attended Doliscus at the cottage she remembered not where or when she had seen him.

After considerable solicitation, the porter consented to call Doliscus from his compa­ny, and conducted Amelia into an anti­chamber to wait his arrival. A roar of laughter succeeded the delivery of her mes­sage, and the word assignation, which was repeated on all sides, seemed to renovate the wit and hilarity of the table. The gay and gallant host, inflamed with champagne, was not displeased at the imputation; but observed, that as a lady was in the case, it was unnecessary to apologize for a short de­sertion of his friends and wine.

At the sight of that lady, however, Dolis­cus started. Amelia's countenance was pale and haggard with fatigue and sorrow; her person was oppressed with the burthen which she now bore in its last stage, and her eye, fixed steadfastly upon him, as he entered the room, bespoke the complicated anguish and indignation of her feelings. Her aspect so changed, and her appearance so unexpected, added to the terrors of a guilty conscience, for a moment, Doliscus thought the visi­tation supernatural. But Amelia's wrongs having inspired her with courage, she boldly [Page 19] reproached him with his baseness and perfidy, and demanded a public and unequivocal ac­knowledgment of their marriage. In vain he endeavoured to sooth and divert her from her purpose, in vain to persuade her to silence and delay,—his arts had lost their wonted influence, while the restoration of her in­jured fame and honour absorbed every facul­ty of her mind.

At length he assumed a different tone, a more authoritative manner. "Madam," ex­claimed he, "I am not to be thus duped or controuled. I have a sense of pity, indeed, for your indiscretion, but none for your passion: I would alleviate your afflictions, but I will not submit to your frenzy." "Wretch!" retorted Amelia, "but that I owe something to a father's peace, I should despise to call thee husband."—" Husband" cried Doliscus, with a sneer, "Husband! why truly, I remember a rural masquerade, at which an honest soldier, now my humble porter, played the parson, and you the blushing bride —but, pr'ythee, do not talk of husband."—

This discovery only was wanting for the consummation of Amelia's misery. It was sudden and fatal as the lightning's blast—she funk beneath the stroke. A deadly stupor [Page 20] seized upon her senses, which was sometimes interrupted with a boisterous laugh, and sometimes with a nervous ejaculation.

Doliscus, unaffected by compassion or re­morse, was solicitous only to employ this opportunity for Amelia's removal, and hav­ing conveyed her into a coach, a servant was directed to procure lodgings for her, in some obscure quarter of the city. She spoke not a word during the transaction, but gazing with apparent indifference upon the objects that surrounded her, she submitted to be transported whither soever they pleased to conduct her. After winding through a dreary and dirty passage in the neighbourhood of St. Giles's, the carriage stopped at a hovel which belonged to a relation of the servant that accompanied her, and, he having com­municated in a short whisper the object of his visit, an old and decrepid beldame led Amelia into a damp and narrow room, whose scant and tattered furniture proved the wretchedness of its inhabitants.

A premature birth was the natural conse­quence of the conflict which had raged in Amelia's mind. She had entered the apart­ment but a few moments, when the ap­proach of that event gave a turn to her pas­sions, and called her drooping faculties once more into action. Without comfort, with­out [Page 21] assistance, in the hour of extreme dis­tress (save the officious services of her anti­quated host) she was delivered of a son; but the fond sensibility of the mother obtained an instantaneous superiority over every other consideration. Though, alas! this solitary gratification too, continued not long;—her infant expired after a languid existence of three days, serving only to increase the bit­terness of Amelia's portion.

Amelia cast her eye towards heaven as the breath deserted the body of her babe:—it was not a look of supplication, for what had she to hope, or what to dread?—neither did it indicate dissatisfaction or reproach, for she had early learned the duty of reverence and resignation— but it was an awful appeal to the throne of grace, for the vindication of the act by which she had resolved to termi­nate her woes. A phial of laudanum, left by a charitable apothecary, who had visited her in her sickness, presented the means, and she wanted not the fortitude to employ them. Deliberately, then, pouring the baneful draught into a glass, she looked wistfully for a while upon the infant corpse that lay extended on its bed, then bending on her knee, uttered, in a firm and solemn voice the melancholy effusions of her soul, [Page 22] —"Gracious Father! when thy justice shall pronounce upon the deed which ex­tricates me from the calamities of the world, let thy mercy contemplate the cause that urged me to the perpetration. I have been deluded into error; but am free from guilt: I have been solicitous to preserve my inno­cence and honour; but am exposed to infa­my and shame. The treachery of him to whom I entrusted my fate, has reduced me to despair—the declining day of him from whom I received my being, has been cloud­ed with my indiscretions, and there is no cure left for the sorrows that consume me, but the dark and silent grave. Visit me not then, in thy wrath, oh! Father, but let the excess of my sufferings in this world, ex­piate the crime which wafts me into the world to come—may thy mercy yield com­fort to Horatio's heart, and teach Doliscus the virtue of repentance!"

She rose and lifted the glass. At that in­stant, a noise on the stairs attracted her at­tention, and a voice anxiously pronouncing —"It must be so!—nay, I will see her—" arrested the dreadful potion in its passage to her lips. "It is my Amelia!" exclaimed Horatio, as he hastily entered the room.

Amelia started, and looked for some mo­ments [Page 23] intently on her father, then rushed in­to his arms, and anxiously concealed the shame and agony of her countenance, in that bosom, from which alone she now dreaded reproach, or hoped for consolation. He, too, beheld with horror the scene that was pre­sented to his view: he pressed his deluded, miserable daughter, to his heart, while a stream of tears ran freely down his cheeks; till, at lenghth, his imagination, infected with the objects that surrounded him, con­ceived the dreadful purpose of the draught, which had fallen from Amelia's hand, and anticipated a sorrow, even beyond the extremity of his present feelings. When, however, he collected sufficient courage to resolve his fears, and it was ascertained, that the meditated act had not been perpetrated, a momentary sensation of joy illuminated his mind, like the transient appearance of the moon, amidst the gloomy horrors of a mid­night storm.

When the first impressions of this mourn­ful interview had passed away, Horatio spoke comfort to his daughter. "Come my child, the hand of Heaven, that afflicted us with worldly cares, has been stretched out to guard you from everlasting wretchedness: —that Providence which proves how vain [Page 24] are the pursuits of this life, has bestowed upon us the means of seeking the permanent happiness of that which is to come. Cheer up, my Amelia! The errors of our conduct may expose us to the scandal of the world, but it is guilt alone which can violate the inward tranquility of the mind." He then took her hand, and attempted to lead her to the door. "Let us withdraw from this me­lancholy scene, my love!"—"Look there!" said Amelia, pointing to the corpse. "Look there!" "Ah!" said Horatio, in a faultering accent-"but it is the will of Heaven!" "Then it is right," cried Amelia—"give the poor victim a little earth—sir! is it not sad to think of?—but I am reconciled." She now consent­ed to quit the room, and was conveyed in a carriage to the inn, at which Horatio (who immediately returned to superintend the in­terment of the child) had stopped on his arrival.

It is now proper to inform the reader, that after Amelia had left the Cottage, and the alarm of her elopement had spread around the neighbourhood, the Farmer hastened to communicate to Horatio the transactions which he had witnessed, and the suspicions which his wife had conceived of Amelia's situation. The wretched father sickened at the tale. But it was the senti­ment [Page 25] of compassion, and not of resentment, that oppressed his soul. There are men, in­deed, so abject in their subjection to the opinion of the world, that they can sacri­fice natural affection to artificial pride, and doom to perpetual infamy and wretched­ness, a child, who might be reclaimed from error by parental admonition, or raised from despair by the fostering hand of friendship. Horatio, however, entertained a different sense: he regarded not the weakness of hu­man virtue as an object of accusation, but liberally distinguished between the crimes and the errors of mankind; and, when he could not alleviate the afflicted, or correct the vicious, he continued to lament, but he forebore to reprobate. "My poor Amelia! how basely has her innocence been betrayed! —But I must follow her:—it may be her in­juries have distracted her, and she has fled, she knows not whither! Come! not a moment shall be lost: I will overtake my child, wherever her sorrows may lead her: for, if I cannot procure redress for her wrongs, I will, at least, administer comfort to her miseries." Such was the language of Horatio, as soon as he could exercise the power of utterance. A few days enabled him to arrange his affairs, and having learn­ed [Page 26] the route which Amelia had taken, he embarked in the first vessel for England. The peculiar object of his voyage, and the nature of his misfortunes, determined him to conceal himself from the knowledge of his friends and correspondents; and a lucky chance discovered the wretched abode of his Amelia, the very instant of his arrival in London.

"Can you tell me, my good host, where Doliscus the lord—, resides?" said Ho­ratio as he entered the inn. "Marry, that I can," replied the landlord:" his servant is just now talking with my wife; and if you will step into the next room, perhaps he will show you the way to the house." Horatio ad­vanced towards the room door, and, upon looking through a glass pannel in the door, he beheld the identical servant that had at­tended Doliscus at the Cottage, in eager conversation with the hostess. He paused. "She is delivered; but the child is dead:" —said the servant. Horatio started; his imagination eagerly interpreted these words to have been spoken of Amelia, and he could scarcely restrain the anguish of his feelings from loud exclamation and com­plaint.—"My lord's conscience grows un­usually troublesome" continued the servant; [Page 27] "he has ordered me again to inquire after her health, and to provide for the funeral of the child—would she were safe in America! for, to be sure, her father is the best old man that ever lived!" "It's well!" cried Horatio. "Did you call, sir?" said the hostess, opening the door. The servant took this opportunity of withdrawing, and Horatio silently followed him, at a distance, till he arrived at the habitation of Amelia, in the critical moment which enabled him to save the life he had given, and to rescue his de­luded daughter from the desperate sin of suicide.

When Horatio returned to the inn, after discharging the last solemn duties to the de­parted infant, the landlord presented a let­ter to him, which a servant had just left at the bar, and asked if he was the person to whom it was addressed. As soon as Hora­tio had cast his eye upon the superscription, he exclaimed, "What mystery is this?—A letter left for my son Honorius at an inn in London." He eagerly seized the paper, and retiring into an adjoining chamber, he pe­rused its contents with increased amazement and agitation.

The voice of Honorius, inquiring for the letter, roused Horatio from the reverie into which its contents had plunged him. The honour of his son, the villainy of his anta­gonist, and Amelia's sufferings, contending with the feelings of the father, and the for­bearance of the christian, at last prevailed with him to suffer the hostile interview to which Doliscus had thus consented. When therefore Honorius entered the room, and the natural expressions of tenderness and surprize were mutually exchanged, they freely discoursed of the lamentable history of Amelia, and warmly execrated that treachery which had accomplished the ruin of her peace and fame. Nor had Doliscus confined his baseness to this object. The chance of war had thrown Honorius into his power shortly after his departure from the cottage, and discovering his affinity to Ame­lia, [Page 29] the persevering hypocrite artfully insi­nuated to the commander in chief, that Ho­norius meditated an escape, and obtained an order for his imprisonment on board a frigate, which sailing suddenly for England, he was lodged upon his arrival, in the common gaol, appropriated for the confinement of American prisoners. Here it was, howe­ver, that he acquired the information of Amelia's elopement, and heard the cause to which it was imputed from the captured master of an American vessel, who had for­merly been employed in the service of Ho­ratio, and had received the communication from the lips of his antient patron, in the first moments of his grief. The fate which had unexpectedly led him to Britain, Ho­norius now regarded as the minister of his revenge. He frowned away the tear which started at the recital of his sister's wrongs, as if ashamed to pity 'till he had redressed them; and feeling, upon this occasion, an additional motive for soliciting his freedom, he employed the interest of Horatio's name, which notwithstanding the political feuds that prevailed, was sufficient, at length, to procure his discharge upon parol. Having easily learned the abode of Doliscus, he im­mediately addressed that note to him which [Page 30] produced the answer delivered to Horatio.

When Honorius was informed that Ame­lia was, at that time, beneath the same roof, he expressed an eager desire immediately to embrace his afflicted sister; but Horatio strongly represented the impropriety of an interview 'till the event of the assignation with Doliscus was ascertained, and it was, therefore, agreed for the present, to con­ceal his arrival from her knowledge.

Absorbed in the melancholy of her thoughts, Amelia had not uttered a syllable since the removal from her dreary habitation, but suffered the bufy attentions of the ser­vants of the inn, with a listless-indifference. The agitation of her mind, indeed, had hitherto rendered her insensible to the weak­ness of her frame; but exhausted nature, at length produced the symptoms of an ap­proaching fever, and compelled her, re­luctantly, to retire to her bed. When Ho­ratio entered the room, the fever had con­siderably increased, he therefore requested the assistance of a neighbouring physician, who pronounced her situation to be criti­cally dangerous. In the evening, the un­usual vivacity of her eyes, the incoherence of her speech, and repeated peals of loud and vacant laughter, proved the disordered [Page 31] state of her understanding, and increased the apprehensions of her attendants. "A few hours will decide her fate," said the Doctor, as he left the room. "My poor Amelia!" cried Horatio, raising her hand to his lips—she looked sternly at him for a moment, then relaxing the severity of her features, she again burst into a boisterous laugh, which terminated in a long and heavy sigh, as if her spirits were exhausted with the violence of her exertions.

The task which Horatio had now to per­form, was difficult indeed! The virtue and fortitude of his soul could hardly sustain a conflict against the grief and passion that consumed him; whilst on the one hand, he beheld the distraction of his daughter, and, on the other, anticipated the danger of his son. He resolved, however, to keep Ame­lia's indisposition a secret from Honorius, with whom he arranged the dreadful business of the morning, and, having fervently be­stowed his blessing there, he returned to pass the night in prayer and watching by Ame­lia's side.

Honorius retired to his chamber, but not to rest. It was not, however, the danger of the approaching combat, which occasi­oned a moment's anxiety or reflection; for [Page 32] his courage was superior to every considera­tion of personal safety. But that courage had hitherto been regulated by a sense of obligation consistent with the precepts of religion he had often exerted it to deserve the glorious meed of a soldier, but he scorned to employ it for the contemptible re­putation of a duellist; it had taught him to serve his country, but not to offend his God. "If there is a cause which can justify the act, is it not mine? 'Tis not a punctilious honour, a visionary insult, or a petulant dis­position that influences my conduct:" said Honorius, as he mused upon the subject. "A sister basely tricked of her innocence and fame, a father ungratefully plundered of his peace and hopes, in the last stage of an honourable life, and myself (but that is little) treacherously transported to a remote and inhospitable land—these are my mo­tives; and Heaven, Doliscus, be the judge between us!"

As soon as the dawn appeared, Honorius repaired to the place of appointment, where a few minutes before the hour, Doliscus had likewise arrived. He was attended by a friend, but perceiving his antagonist alone, he requested his companion to withdraw to a distant spot, from which he might observe [Page 33] the event, and afford assistance to the van­quished party.

"Once more we meet, Sir," said Dolis­cus, "upon the business of death; but that fortune which failed you in your country's cause, may be more propitious in your own." "What pity it is," exclaimed Honorius, ‘that thou should'st be a villain, for thou art brave!’ "Nay, I come to offer a more substantial revenge for the wrongs I have committed, than merely submitting to the im­putation of so gross an epithet—take it, Sir,—it is my life." They instantly engaged. Dolis­cus for awhile defended himself with superior address, but laying himself suddenly open to the pass of his antagonist, he received his sword in the left breast, a little below the seat of the heart!

"Nobly done," cried Doliscus as he fell, "it is the vengeance of Amelia; and oh! may it serve to expiate the crime of her be­trayer." His friend who had attentively viewed the scene, advanced, when he saw him on the ground: and assisted by Hono­rius, bore him to a carriage which had been directed to attend within call. He was then conveyed to the house of an eminent surge­on, who having ordered the necessary ac­commodations, examined the wound, and [Page 34] pronounced it to be mortal." "Fly, sir," said Doliscus, turning to Honorius, at this intelligence—"your country will afford you an asylum, and protect you from the consequences of my fate. I beseech you embitter not my last moments with the re­flection of your danger—but bear with you to the injured Amelia, the story of my repentance, and, if you dare, ask her to for­give me." The resentments of Honorius were subdued; he presented his hand to the dying Doliscus, in whose eye a gleam of joy was kindled at the thought, but it was quickly superceded by a cold and sudden tremour; he attempted, but in vain, to speak; he seized the offered hand; he pressed it eagerly to his lips, and in the mo­ment of that expressive action, he expired.

Honorius now hastened to inform Horatio of this fatal event, and to contrive the means of escape. But when he returned to the inn, confusion and distress were pictured on every face; a wild, but harmonious, voice, occasionally broke forth into melan­choly strains, and the name of Doliscus was repeatedly pronounced in accents of tender­ness and compassion.—"How is it my son?" cried Horatio eagerly. "Doliscus is no more!" replied Honorius. "Would he [Page 35] had lived another day! I wished not the ruin of his soul." "But he repented, sir." "Ther heaven be merciful!" exclaimed Horatio.

Here their conversation was interrupted, by the melodious chauntings of Amelia.

Honorius listened attentively to the song; it vibrated in his ear, and swelled the aching artery of his heart. "Come on!" said Horatio leading him to Amelia's chamber. They found her sitting on the bed, with a pillow before her, over which she moved her fingers, as if playing on a harpsichord. Their entrance disturbed her for a moment, but she soon resumed her employment.

A heavy sigh followed these lines, which were articulated in a wistful and sympathetic tone, and she sunk exhausted on her bed. —In a few minutes, however, she started [Page 36] from this still and silent state, and having gazed with a wild and aching eye around the room, she uttered a loud and piercing cry —it was the awful signal of her dissolution —and her injured spirit took its everlast­ing flight.

The reader will excuse a minute descrip­tion of the succeeding scenes. The alarm raised by the death of Doliscus compelled Honorius to quicken his departure, and he joined the standard of America a few hours before the battle of Monmouth, in which, for the service of his country, he sacrificed a life that misfortune had then taught him to consider of no other use or estimation.

As for the venerable Horatio—having carried with him to the cottage the remains of his darling child, in a melancholy soli­tude he consumes the time; his only busi­ness, meditation and prayer; his only re­creation a daily visit to the monument, which he has raised in commemoration of Ame­lia's fate; and all his consolation resting in this assurance, that whatever may be the sufferings of virtue HERE, its portion must be happiness HEREAFTER.

HISTORY OF AMELIA, OR MALEVOLENCE DEFEATED.

MRS. Winifrid Wormwood was the daugh­ter of a rustie merchant, who, by the happy union of many lucrative trades, amassed an enormous fortune. His family consisted of three girls, and Winifrid was the eldest: Long before she was twenty, she was sur­rounded with lovers, some probably attract­ed by the splendid prospect of her expected portion, and others truly captivated by her personal graces; for her person was elegant, and her elegance was enlivened with peculiar vivacity. Mr. Wormwood was commonly called a kind parent, and an honest man; and he might deserve, indeed, those honor­able appellations, if it were not a profanation of language to apply them to a narrow and a selfish spirit. He indulged his daughters in many expensive amusements, because it flattered his pride; but his heart was engross­ed [Page 38] by the proffits of his extensive traffic: He turned, with the most repulsive asperity, from every proposal that could lead him to diminish his capital, and thought his daughters unreasonable, if they wished for any permanent satisfaction above that of see­ing their father increase in opulence and splendor. His two younger children, who inherited from their diseased mother a ten­der delicacy of frame, languished and died at an early period of life, and the death of one of them was imputed, with great pro­bability, to a severe disappointment in her first affection. The more sprightly Wini­frid, whose heart was a perfect stranger to genuine love, surmounted the mortification of seeing many suitors discarded; and by the insensate avarice of her father, she was na­turally led into habits of artifice and in­trigue. Possessing an uncommon share of ve­ry shrewd and piercing wit, with the most profound hypocrisy, she contrived to please, and to blind, her plodding old parent; who perpetually harangued on the discretion of his daughter, and believed her a miracle of reserve and prudence, at the very time when she was suspected of such conduct as would have disqualified her, had it ever been prov­ed, for the rank she now holds in this essay. [Page 39] She was said to have amused herself with a great variety of amorous adventures, which eluded the observation of her father; but of the many lovers who sighed to her in secret, not one could tempt her into marriage, and, to the surprise of the public, the rich heiress of Mr. Wormwood reached the age of thir­ty-seven, without changing her name. Just as she arrived at this mature season of life, the opulent old gentleman took his leave of a world, in which he had acted a busy part, pleased with the idea of leaving a large for­tune, as a monument of his industry, but wanting the superior satisfaction, which a more generous parent would probably have derived from the happy establishment of a daughter. He gained, however, from the hypocrisy of Winifrid, what he could not claim from her affection, the honour of be­ing lamented with a profusion of tears. She distinguished herself by displaying all the delicate gradations of filial sorrow; but re­covered at a proper time, all the natural gaiety of her temper, which she now had the full opportunity of indulging, being mis­tress of a magnificent mansion, within a mile of a populous town, and enabled to enliven it with all the arts of luxury, by inheriting such accumulated wealth, as would safely [Page 40] support the utmost efforts of provincial splen­dor. Miss Wormwood now expected to see every batchelor of figure and consequence a suppliant at her feet; she promised to herself no little entertainment in sporting with their addresses, without the fear of suffering from a tyrannical husband, as she had learned cau­tion from her father, and had privately re­solved not to trust any man with her money; a resolution the more discreet, as she had much to apprehend, and very little to learn, from so dangerous a master! The good-natured town, in whose environs the rich Winifrid resided, very kindly pointed out to her no less than twenty lively beaux for her choice; but, to the shame or the honour of those gentlemen, they were too timid, or, too honest, to make any advances. The re­port of her youthful frolics, and the dread of her sarcastic wit, had more power to re­pel, than her person and her wealth had to attract. Passing her fiftieth year, she ac­quired the serious name of mistress, without the dignity of a wife, and without receiving a single offer of marriage from the period in which she became the possessor of so opulent a fortune.

Whether this mortifying disappointment had given a peculiar asperity to her temper [Page 41] or whether malevolence was the earlier cha­racteristic of her mind, I will not pretend to determine; but it is certain, that from this autumnal or rather wintry season of her life, Mrs. Wormwood made it her chief occupa­tion to amuse herself with the most subtle devices of malicious ingenuity, and to frus­trate every promising scheme of affection and delight, which she discovered in the wide circle of her acquaintance. She seemed to be tormented with an incessant dread, that youth and beauty might secure to themselves that happiness, which she found wit and for­tune were unable to bestow; hence she watch­ed, with the most piercing eye, all the lovely young women of her neighbourhood, and often insinuated herself into the confidence of many, that she might penetrate all the secrets of their love, and privately blast its success. She was enabled to render herself intimate with the young and the lovely, by the opulent splendor in which she lived, and by the bewitching vivacity of her conversati­on. Her talents of this kind were, indeed, extraordinary; her mind was never polished or enriched by literature, as Mr. Wormwood set little value on any books, excepting those of his counting-house; and the earlier years of his daughter were too much engaged by [Page 42] duplicity and intrigue, to leave her either leisure or inclination for a voluntary attach­ment to more improving studies. She read very little, and was acquainted with no lan­guage but her own; yet a brilliant under­standing, and an uncommon portion of ready wit, supplied her with a more alluring fund of conversation, than learning could bestow. She chiefly recommended herself to the young and inexperienced, by the insinuating charm of the most lively ridicule, and by the art of seasoning her discourse with want­ton inuendos of so subtle a nature, that gravity knew not how to object to them: She had the singular faculty of throwing such a soft and dubious twilight over the most li­centious images, that they captivated curio­sity and attention, without exciting either fear or disgust. Her malevolence was per­petually disguised under the mask of gaiety, and she completely possessed that plausibility of malice, so difficult to attain, and so for­cibly recommended in the words of lady Macbeth:

With what success she practised this danger­ous [Page 43] lesson, the reader may learn from the following adventure.—

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

Accident threw within her reach a most tempting subject for such fiend-like diver­sion, in the person of Amelia Nevil, the daughter of a brave and accomplished offi­cer, who, closing a laborious and honourable life in very indigent circumstances, had left his unfortunate child to the care of his maiden sister. The aunt of Amelia was such an old maid as might alone suffice to rescue the sis­terhood from ridicule and contempt. She had been attached, in her early days to a [Page 44] gallant youth, who unhappily lost his own life in preserving that of his dear friend, her brother: she devoted herself to his memory with the most tender, unaffected, and in­variable attachment; refusing several advan­tageous offers of marriage, though her in­come was so narrow, that necessity obliged her to convert her whole fortune into an an­nuity, just before the calamitous event hap­pened, which made her the only guardian of poor Amelia. This lovely, but unfortunate girl, was turned of fourteen on the death of her father. She found, in the house of his sister, the most friendly asylum, and a rela­tion, whose heart and mind made her most able and willing to form the character of this engaging orphan, who appeared to be as highly favoured by nature, as she was persecuted by fortune. The beauty of Ame­lia was so striking, and the charms of her lively understanding began to display them­selves in so enchanting a manner, that her affectionate aunt could not bear the idea of placing her in any lower order of life: she gave her the education of a gentlewoman, in the flattering and generous hope, that her various attractions must supply the absolute want of fortune, and that she should enjoy the delight of seeing her dear Amelia happi­ly [Page 45] settled in marriage, before her death ex­posed her lovely ward to that poverty, which was her only inheritance.—Heaven disposed it otherwise. This amiable woman, after having acted the part of a most affectionate parent to her indigent niece, died before Amelia attained the age of twenty. The poor girl was now apparently destitute of every resource; and exposed to penury, with a heart bleeding for the loss of a most indulgent protector. A widow lady of her acquaintance very kindly afforded her a re­fuge in the first moments of her distress, and proposed to two of her opulent friends, that Amelia should reside with them by turns, dividing the year between them, and pass­ing four months with each. As soon as Mrs. Wormwood was informed of this event, as she delighted in those ostentatious acts of ap­parent beneficence, which are falsely called charity, she desired to be admitted among the voluntary guardians of the poor Amelia. To this proposal all the parties assented, and it was settled, that Amelia should pass the last quarter of every year, as long as she re­mained single, under the roof of Mrs. Wormwood. This lovely orphan had a sen­sibility of heart, which rendered her extreme­ly grateful for the protection she received [Page 46] but which made her severely feel all the mis­eries of dependance. Her beauty attracted a multitude of admirers, many of whom, presuming on her poverty, treated her with a licentious levity, which always wounded her ingenuous pride. Her person, her mind, her manners were universally commended by the men; but no one thought of making her his wife. "Amelia (they cried) is an enchanting creature; but who, in these times, can afford to marry a pretty, proud girl, supported by charity?" Though this prudential question was never uttered in the presence of Amelia, she began to per­ceive its influence, and suffered a painful dread of proving a perpetual burden to those friends, by whose generosity she subsisted; she wished, a thousand times, that her affec­tionate aunt, instead of cultivating her mind with such dangerous refinement, had placed her in any station of life, where she might have maintained herself by her own manual labour: she sometimes entertained a pro­ject of making some attempt for this pur­pose; and she once thought of changing her name, and of trying to support herself as an actress on one of the public theatres; but this idea, which her honest pride had sug­gested, [Page 47] was effectually suppressed by her modesty; and she continued to waste the most precious time of her youth, under the mortification of perpetualy wishing to change her mode of life, and of not knowing how to effect it. Almost two years had now elap­sed since the death of her aunt, and without any prospect of marriage, she was now in her second period of residence with Mrs. Wormwood. Amelia's understanding was by no means inferior to her other endow­ments: she began to penetrate all the art­ful disguise, and to gain a perfect and very painful insight into the real character of her present hostess. This lady had remarked, that when Miss Nevil resided with her, her house was much more frequented by gen­tlemen, than at any other season. This, in­deed, was true; and it unluckily happened, that these visitors often forgot to applaud the smart sayings of Mrs. Wormwood, in con­templating the sweet countenance of Amelia; a circumstance full sufficient to awaken, in the neglected wit, the most bitter envy, ha­tred and malice. In truth, Mrs. Worm­wood detested her lovely guest with the most implacable virulence; but she had the sin­gular art of disguising her detestation in the [Page 48] language of flattery: she understood the truth of Pope's maxim,

"He hurts me most who lavishly commends." and she therefore made use of lavish com­mendations, as an instrument of malevolence towards Amelia; she insulted the taste, and ridiculed the choice, of every new-married man, and declared herself convinced, that he was a fool, because he had not chosen that most lovely young woman. To more than one gentleman she said, you must mar­ry Amelia; and, as few men chuse to be driven into wedlock, some offers were possi­bly prevented, by the treacherous vehem­ence of her praise. Her malice, however, was not sufficiently gratified by observing that Amelia had no prospect of marriage. To indulge her malignity, she resolved to a­muse this unhappy girl with the hopes of such a joyous event, and then to turn, on a sudden, all these splendid hopes into mocke­ry and delusion. Accident led her to pitch on Mr. Nelson, as a person whose name she might with the greatest safety employ, as the instrument of her insidious design, and with the greater chance of success, as she ob­served that Amelia had conceived for him a particular regard. Mr. Nelson was a gen­tleman, who, having met with very singu­lar [Page 49] events, had contracted a great, but very amiable singularity of character:—he was placed early in life, in a very lucrative com­mercial situation, and was on the point of settling happily in marriage with a very beau­tiful young lady, when the house, in which she resided, was consumed by fire. Great part of her family, and among them the destined bride, was buried in the ruins. Mr. Nel­son, in loosing the object of his ardent af­fection by so sudden a calamity, lost for some time the use of his reason; and when his health and senses returned, he still con­tinued under the oppression of the profound­est melancholy, till his fond devotion to the memory of her, whom he had lost in so severe a manner, suggested to his fancy a singular plan of benevolence, in the prose­cution of which he recovered a great por­tion of his former spirits. This plan con­sisted in searching for female objects of charity, whose distresses had been occasion­ed by fire. As his fortune was very ample, and his own private expences very mode­rate, he was able to relieve many unfortu­nate persons in this condition; and his affectionate imagination delighted itself with the idea, that in these uncommon acts of beneficence he was guided by the influ­ence [Page 50] of that lovely angel, whose mortal beau­ty had perished in the flames. Mr. Nelson frequently visited a married sister, who was settled in the town where Mrs. Wormwood resided. There was also, in the same town, an amiable elderly widow, for whom he had a particular esteem. This lady, whose name was Melford, had been left in very scanty circumstances on the death of her husband, and resided at that time in London, where she had been involved in additional distress by that calamity, to which the attentive cha­rity of Mr. Nelson was forever directed: he more than repaired the loss which she sus­tained by fire, and assisted in settling her in the neighbourhood of his sister. Mrs. Mel­ford had been intimate with the aunt of Amelia, and was still the most valuable friend of that lovely orphan, who paid her frequent visits, though she never resided under her roof. Mr. Nelson had often seen Amelia at the house of Mrs. Melford, which led him to treat her with particular politeness, whenever he visited Mrs. Wormwood; a circumstance on which the latter founded her ungenerous project. She perfectly knew all the singular private history of Mr. Nelson, and firmly believed, like all the rest of his acquaintance, that no attractions could ever tempt him to marry; but she thought [Page 51] it possible to make Amelia conceive the hope that her beauty had melted his resolution; and nothing she supposed, could more effect­ually mortify her guest, than to find herself derided for so vain an expectation.

Mrs. Wormwood began, therefore, to insinuate, in the most artful manner, that Mr. Nelson was very particular in his civil­ities to Amelia, magnified all his amiable qualities, and expressed the greatest pleasure in the prospect of so delightful a match. These petty artifices, however, had no ef­fect on the natural modesty and diffidence of Amelia; she saw nothing that authorised such an idea in the usual politeness of a well-bred man of thirty-seven; she pitied the misfortune, she admired the elegant and engaging, though serious manners, and she revered the virtues of Mr. Nelson; but, supposed his mind to be entirely engrossed, as it really was, by his singularly charitable pursuits; she entertained not a thought of engaging his affection. Mrs. Wormwood was determined to play off her favourite en­gine of malignity, a counterfeited letter. She had acquired, in her youth, the very danger­rous talent of forging any hand that she pleased; and her passion for mischief had af­forded her much practice in this treacherous [Page 52] art. Having previously and secretly enga­ged Mr. Nelson to drink tea with her, she wrote a billet to Amelia, in the name of that gentleman, and with the most perfect imita­tion of his hand. The billet said, that he designed himself the pleasure of passing that afternoon at the house of Mrs. Wormwood, and requested the favour of a private confer­ence with Miss Nevil in the course of the evening, intimating, in the most delicate and doubtful terms, an ardent desire of be­coming her husband. Mrs. Wormwood contrived that Amelia should not receive this billet till just before dinner-time, that she might not show it to her friend and con­fidant, Mrs. Melford, and by her means, de­tect its fallacy before the hour of her intend­ed humiliation arrived.

Amelia blushed in reading the note, and, in the first surprise of unsuspecting innocence, gave it to the vigilant Mrs. Wormwood; who burst into vehement expressions of de­light; congratulated her blushing guest on the full success of her charms, and triumph­ed in her own prophetic discernment. They sat down to dinner, but poor Amelia could hardly swallow a morsel; her mind was in a tumultuous agitation of pleasure and a­mazement. The malicious imposter, en­joying her confusion, allowed her no time [Page 53] to compose her hurried spirits in the solitude of her chamber. Some female visitors ar­rived to tea; and, at length, Mr. Nelson entered the room. Amelia trembled and blushed as he approached her; but she was a little relieved from her embarrassment by the business of the tea-table, over which she presided. Amelia was naturally graceful in every thing she did, but the present agi­tation of her mind gave a temporary awk­wardness to all her motions: she committed many little blunders in the management of the tea-table; a cup fell from her trembling hand, and was broken; but the politeness of Mr. Nelson led him to say so many kind and graceful things to her on these petty in­cidents, that, instead of encreasing her dis­tress, they produced an opposite effect, and the tumult of her bosom gradually subsided into a calm and composed delight. She ventured to meet the eyes of Mr. Nelson, and thought them expressive of that tender­ness which promised a happy end to all her misfortunes. At the idea of exchanging misery and dependance for comfort and honor, as the wife of so amiable a man, her heart expanded with the most innocent and grateful joy. This appeared in her counte­nance, and gave such an exquisite radiance to [Page 54] to all her features, that she looked a thou­sand times more beautiful than ever. Mrs. Wormwood saw this improvement of her charms, and, sickening at the sight, deter­mined to reduce the splendor of such insuf­ferable beauty, and hastily terminate the tri­umph of her deluded guest. She began with a few malicious and sarcastic remarks on the vanity of beautiful young women, and the hopes, which they frequently enter­tain of an imaginary lover; but finding these remarks produced not the effect she in­tended, she took an opportunity of whisper­ing in the ear of Amelia, and begged her not to harbour any vain expectations, for the billet she had received was a counter­feit, and a mere piece of pleasantry. Ame­lia shuddered, and turned pale: surprise, disappointment, and indignation, conspired to overwhelm her. She exerted her utmost power to conceal her emotions; but the conflict in her bosom was too violent to be disguised. The tears, which she vainly en­deavoured to suppress, burst forth, and she was obliged to quit the room in very visible disorder. Mr. Nelson expressed his con­cern; but he was checked in his benevolent inquiries by the caution of Mrs. Wormwood, who said, on the occasion, that Miss Nevil [Page 55] was a very amiable girl, but she had some peculiarities of temper, and was apt to put a wrong construction on the innocent plea­santry of her friends. Mr. Nelson observing that Amelia did not return, and hoping that his departure might contribute to restore the interrupted harmony of the house, took an early leave of Mrs. Wormwood, who im­mediately flew to the chamber of Amelia, to exult, like a fiend, over that lovely vic­tim of her successful malignity. She found not the person whom she was so eager to in­sult. Amelia had, indeed, retired to her chamber, and passed there a very miserable half hour, much hurt by the treacherous cruelty of Mrs. Wormwood, and still more wounded by reflections on her own credulity, which she condemned with that excess of severity so natural to a delicate mind in ar­raigning itself. She would have flown for immediate consolation to her friend, Mrs. Melford, but she had reason to believe that lady engaged on a visit, and she therefore resolved to take a solitary walk for the pur­pose of composing her spirits; but neither solitude nor exercise could restore her tran­quillity; and, as it grew late in the evening, she hastened to Mrs. Melford's, in hopes of now finding her returned. Her worthy old [Page 56] confident was, indeed, in her little parlour alone, when Amelia entered the room. The eyes of this lovely girl immediately betray­ed her distress; and the old lady, with her usual tenderness, exclaimed, "Good heav­en! my dear child, for what have you been crying?" "Because," replied Amelia, in a broken voice, and bursting into a fresh show­er of tears, "because I am a fool?"—Mrs. Melford began to be most seriously alarmed, and, expressing her maternal solicitude in the kindest manner. Amelia produced the fatal paper—"There," says she, "is a letter in the name of your excellent friend, Mr. Nel­son; it is a forgery of Mrs. Wormwood's, and I have been such an idiot as to believe it real." The affectionate Mrs. Melford, who in her first alarm, had apprehended a much heavier calamity, was herself greatly com­forted in discovering the truth, and said many kind things to console her young friend. "Do not fancy," replied Amelia, "that I am foolishly in love with Mr. Nelson, though I think him the most pleasing as well as the most excellent of men; and though I confess to you, that I should certainly think it a blessed lot to find a refuge from the misery of my present dependance, in the arms of so benevolent and so generous [Page 57] a protector."—"Those arms are now open to receive you," said a voice that was heard before the speaker appeared. Amelia started at the sound, and her surprise was not a little encreased in seeing Mr. Nelson him­self, who entering the room from an adjoin­ing apartment, embraced the lovely orphan in a transport of tenderness and delight. Amelia, alive to all the feelings of genuine modesty, was for some minutes more pain­fully distressed by this surprise, than she had been by her past mortification: she was ready to sink into the earth, at the idea of having betrayed her secret to the man, from whom she would have laboured most to conceal it. In the first tumult of this delicate confusion, she sinks into a chair, and hides her face in her handkerchief. Nelson with a mixture of respect and love, being a­fraid of encreasing her distress, seizes one of her hands, and continues to kiss it without uttering a word. The good Mrs. Melford, almost as much astonished, but less painful­ly confused than Amelia, beholds this unex­pected scene with that kind of joy which is much more disposed to weep than to speak: —And, while this little party is thus absorb­ed in silence, let me hasten to relate the in­cidents which produced their situation.

[Page 58]Mr. Nelson had observed the sarcastic manner of Mrs. Wormwood towards Ame­lia, and, as soon as he had ended his uncom­fortable visit, he hastened to the worthy Mrs. Melford, to give her some little account of what had passed, and to concert with her some happier plan for the support of this a­miable, insulted orphan. "I am acquaint­ed," said he, "with some brave and weal­thy officers, who have served with the father of Miss Nevil, and often speak of him with respect; I am sure I can raise among them a subscription for the maintenance of this tender unfortunate girl: we will procure for her an annuity, that shall enable her to escape from such malignant patronage, to have a little home of her own, and to sup­port a servant." Mrs. Melford was trans­ported at this idea; and, recollecting all her obligations to this benevolent man, wept, and extolled his generosity; and, see­ing Amelia at some distance, through a bow window, which commanded the street in which she lived, "thank Heaven," she cri­ed, "here comes my poor child, to hear and bless you for the extent of your goodness." Nelson, who delighted most in doing good by stealth, immediately extorted from the good old lady a promise of secrecy: it was the best part of his plan, that Amelia should [Page 59] never know the persons to whom she was to owe her independence. "I am stiil afraid of you, my worthy old friend," said Nelson "your countenance or manner will, I know betray me, if Miss Nevil sees me here to­night."—"Well," said the delighted old la­dy, "I will humour your delicacy; Amelia will, probably, not stay with me ten min­utes; you may amuse yourself, for that time, in my spacious garden; I will not say you are here; and, as soon as the good girl re­turns home I will come and impart to you the particulars of her recent vexation."— "Admirably settled," cried Nelson; and he immediately retreated into a little back room, which led into a long slip of ground, embellished with the sweetest and least ex­pensive flowers, which afforded a favourite occupation and amusement to Mrs. Mel­ford. Nelson, after taking a few turns in this diminutive garden, finding himself ra­ther chilled by the air of the evening, re­treated again into the little parlour he had passed, intending to wait there till Amelia departed; but the partition between the parlours being extremely slight, he over­heard the tender confessions of Amelia, and was hurried towards her by an irresistible impulse, in the manner already described.

[Page 60]Mrs. Melford was the first who recovered from the kind of trance into which our little party had been thrown by their general sur­prise; and she enabled the tender pair, in the prospect of whose union her warm heart exulted, to regain that easy and joyous pos­session of their faculties, which they lost for some little time in their embarrassment. The applause of her friend, and the adoration of her lover, soon taught the diffident Amelia to think less severely of herself. The warm­hearted Mrs. Melford declared that these oc­currences were the work of Heaven. "That," replied the affectionate Nelson, "I am most willing to allow; but you must grant, that Heaven has produced our happiness by the blind agency of a fiend; and, as our dear Amelia has too gentle a spirit to rejoice in beholding the malignity of a devil convert­ed into the torment of its possessor, I must beg, that she may not return, even for a sin­gle night, to the house of Mrs. Wormwood." Amelia pleaded her sense of past obligations, and wished to take a peaceful leave of her patroness; but she submitted to the urgent entreaties of Nelson, and remained for a few weeks under the roof of Mrs. Melford, when she was united to the man of her heart. Nelson had the double delight of rewarding [Page 61] the affection of an angel, and of punishing the malevolence of a fiend: he announced in person to Mrs. Wormwood, his intended marriage with Amelia, on the very night when the treacherous Old Maid had amused herself with the hope of deriding her guest; whose return she was eagerly expecting, in the very moment Nelson arrived to say, that Amelia would return no more.

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