The inquisitor; or, Invisible rambler. In three volumes. / By Mrs. Rowson, author of Victoria. ; Volume I[-III]. — Inquisitor

The inquisitor; or, Invisible rambler. In three volumes. / By Mrs. Rowson, author of Victoria. ; Volume I[-III]. — Inquisitor

Table of contents

[1]

Title page

TO LADY COCKBURNE

THE PREFACE.

THE INQUISITOR, &c.

THE PETITION.

THE WISH.

THE STREET.

THE DRAWING ROOM.

THE REFLECTION.

THE FRAGMENT.

THE FRUITERER's

THE CREDITOR.

THE FAMILY.

THE RESOLUTION.

THE MORNING RAMBLE.

THE INN YARD.

THE DISCOVERY.

THE SURPRISE.

THE BREAKFAST.

THE LESSON.

THE ELOPEMENT.

GRETNA GREEN.

THE INN.

HONESTY.

THE RECITAL.

THE TRAVELLER.

THE CONJECTURE.

THE SOLDIER.

THE RECITAL CONTINUED.

THE OMISSION.

THE RECONCILIATION.

THE PRINTING OFFICE.

THE FUNERAL.

THE HAPPY PAIR.

THE DRUNKARD.

THE BUCKS.

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR.

THE LOUNGER.

A TALE OF SCANDAL.

THE VILLAGE WEDDING.

THE RESCUE.

THE ACTRESS.

THE RENCOUNTER.

THE REPROOF.

THE MEETING.

THE REQUEST.

NARCISSA.

WOMAN.

THE EAST INDIAN.

[2]

Title page

THE INQUISITOR, &c.

EAST INDIAN CONTINUED.

THE SLAVE.

THE CLERGYMAN.

THE MOURNER.

THE COURTIER.

THE VISIT.

THE METHODIST.

THE STUDY.

THE FRACAS.

THE REPARATION.

THE CHILDREN.

SADI AND ZELIA.

THE CONVERSATION.

THE REGISTER OFFICE.

THE DRESSING ROOM.

THE FASHIONABLE FRIEND.

THE PROFESSING FRIEND.

THE ATTORNEY.

THE DEPARTURE.

THE ORPHANS.

THE GIRL OF THE TOWN.

[3]

Title page

THE INQUISITOR, &c.

ANNIE's STORY.

LOVE.

THE ANSWER.

THE SEQUEL.

THE JOURNEY.

THE COTTAGERS.

THE EMBARRASSMENT.

THE STEWARD.

THE AUTHOR.

SKETCH OF A MODERN NOVEL.

THE INTERRUPTION.

THE FAIR MANIAC.

THE MENDICANT.

THE PEOPLE OF FASHION

THE FATHER.

THE ECLAIRCISSEMENT.

NATURAL REFLECTION.

THE INGRATE.

THE SUICIDES.

THE WIFE.

THE MISTRESS.

THE RECEPTION.

THE INFORMATION.

THE DISSERTATION.

THE ARREST.

THE RETRIBUTION.

THE CITY HEIRESS.

THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

BOOKS LATELY PUBLISHED, And for Sale, at William Gibbons's Printing-Office, No. 144, North Third Street.

§

§

§

[Page]

[Page]

THE INQUISITOR: OR, INVISIBLE RAMBLER.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

By Mrs. ROWSON, author of Victoria.

THE FIRST AMERICAN EDITION.

VOLUME I.

PHILADELPHIA—PRINTED AND SOLD BY WILLIAM GIBBONS, No. 144, NORTH THIRD-STREET.

1793.

[Page]

TO LADY COCKBURNE

THE FOLLOWING PAGES ARE MOST HUMBLY INSCRIBED, AS A SMALL MARK OF THE GRATITUDE WHICH WILL EVER GLOW UNDIMINISHED (while life remains) IN THE BREAST OF HER LADYSHIP's MUCH HONOURED, OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT,

SUSAN ROWSON.

[Page]

THE PREFACE.

I CANT for my life see the necessity of it, said I; there are numbers of books published without prefaces.

But you do not consider, said my friend, that this book absolutely requires a preface—it is the adventures of a gentleman who possessed a magic ring: and seemingly those adventures are written by himself, but you give no account how they came into your hands?

Why they came into my hands through my brain, friend, said I.—These adventures are merely the children of Fancy. I must own that the best part of them originated in facts.

But why do you make your Inquisitor a man? said he.

For a very obvious reason, I replied. A man may be with propriety brought forward in many scenes where it would be the height of improbability to introduce a woman.—I might, to be sure, continued I, have introduced the following pages by saying I had found them in a hackney coach; or met with part of them by accident at a pastry cook's or cheese-monger's, and being interested by the narrative, I sent back for the remainder; or they might have been left in a lodging by some eccentric old gentleman who had lived there for many years; and thinking [Page] the world would be greatly obliged to me for suffering such a valuable manuscript to be printed, I was prevailed on by the earnest entreaties of my friends, to commit it to the hands of the bookseller.

I know, Sir, this is the usual method of ushering these kind of publications into the world—but, for my own part, I will honestly confess that this work was written solely for my amusement. As to the motives that induced me to publish it, they can be of no consequence for the reader to be informed of, therefore they shall remain a secret.

But sure, said my friend, you will make some apology for attempting to write in the style of the inimitable Sterne?

Is the person required to make an apology who copies a portrait painted by an eminent master, said [...]; or should he fail of retaining in his copy, the fine strokes, the beautiful and striking expression in the features of the faultless original; is he to tear his picture, or commit it to the flames, because he has not the genius of the artist whose work he copied? Or, suppose a man admired his Sovereign's exalted virtues, and with a laudable ambition strov [...] to imitate them; is he, because he is conscious of not having the abilities to shine in the most eminent degree, not to endeavour to imitate them at all; [...] to hide from the world the progress he makes?

No, certainly, said my friend; but have you [...] vanity to suppose that your writings are the least [...] with that spirit and fire, which are so conspicuous in the works of your bright original?

[Page] By no means, said I; but I think as the stars shine brightest when neither the sun nor moon are in the firmament, so, perhaps, when the works of Sterne are not at [...], the Inquisitor may be read with some small degree of attention, and afford the reader a little amusement; but should Maria or Le Fevre, make their appearance, its weak rays will be extinguished by the tear of sensibility, which the lovelorn virgin and dying soldier would excite.

Then you do not intend to write a preface? said my friend.

Upon my word, I replied, I have begun several, but I never could write one to please me; so I have at last determined to publish it without, and leave it to the readers to form what conjecture they [...] concerning how I came possessed of the papers which contained the adventures.

That will never do, said he, shaking his head.

Then prithee, my good friend, said, I, do write a preface for me; for here I have been hammering my pericranium and biting my nails these two hours, without being able to beat out a single sentence, either introductory or prefatory.

Suppose, said he, you present your readers with [...] conversation; it will be better than no preface at all.

It was a lucky thought, and I instantly set about it.

[...] reader, I here commit to [...] this offspring of Fancy; my characters are [Page] not pointed at particular persons, except one or two where gratitude involuntarily guided my pen; it was then I delineated the characters of a Lady Allworth, and the family of the amiable sisters at H-m—rs—th.

As to those characters which appear in an unamiable light, I neither wish or mean for any person to say that this is meant for Mr. or Mrs. such a one; but I would wish every person who may think the character was designed for themselves, to remember that the likeness was accidentally taken, and it is conscience only that makes it appear so striking to their imagination.

[Page]

THE INQUISITOR, &c.

THE PETITION.

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

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

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

THE WISH.

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

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

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

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

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

THE STREET.

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

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

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

THE DRAWING ROOM.

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

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

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

THE REFLECTION.

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

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

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

THE FRAGMENT.

FAIR Cynthia now, bright Empress of the night,

Mounted her azure throne with diamond studded;

Her modest face, veil'd in a fleecy cloud,

Which, as it partly hid, heighten'd her beauties.

When fair Alzada, weary and forlorn,

Pensive sat down beside a murm'ring stream,

With nought to shield her from nocturnal dews,

Saving an ancient oak, whose sturdy boughs

Had brav'd the storms of many a winter past.

Her lovely head reclin'd upon her hand;

Her eyes were rais'd with fervour toward Heav'n.

In those bright orbs started a pearly drop,

Which, as it fell, another took its place,

And that, too, fell and kiss'd its pleasing [...]

In quick succession down her ruby checks.

" Ah! me," she cried, "how wretched is my fate,

" Forc'd from my royal parents, and my home

" What hospitable roof will now receive me,

" O [...] where shall poor Alzada lay her head.

" In this lone wild I see no trace of mortals;

" No lowing [...]erds bespeaks a mansion near:

[Page] " No bleating flock breaks this most solemn silence;

" And ere another heavy hour is past,

" Perhaps some savage monster, fierce [...],

" On me may satisfy his craving [...]"

The genius Abradan beheld her sorrow [...]

In a plain rustic form conceal'd his [...],

And thus address'd the sa [...]ly weeping fair.

" Fair daughter of affliction, follow m [...];

" I come to lead you to a festive board,

" Where social mirth and innocence preside,

" And where the smiling host shall bid you welcome."

The trembling Princess left her mossy feat,

And without speaking, followed her kind guide.

When sudden clouds obscur'd the face of Heav'n;

The thunders roll'd the forked lightnings flash'd,

And all around was horror and amazement;

Alzada sunk in terror to the ground.

A death-like swoon seal'd up each active sense.

The tempest ceas'd. She rais'd her fearful eyes,

And saw before her a fair lofty palace:

The gates were solid brass; and the supporters

Marble, twin'd round with vine leaves wrought in gold.

She enter'd, and was instantly surrounded

By seven young virgins, clad in azure blue,

With alabaster vases in their hands,

Who paid the homage to a princess due.

They shed around her numberless perfumes,

And o'er her threw a robe, of spotless white,

Then led her to a room within the palace,

Where, on a throne of amethyst and gold,

There sat a Monarch of majestic port;

Who, rising, welcom'd the admiring princess,

And plac'd her on a shining throne beside him.

They brought her baskets of the choicest fruits,

And water from the purest limpid stream.

Alzada being refresh'd, rose from her seat,

[Page] And thus address'd the master of the feast.

" Whoe'er thou art, great King, whose magic pow'r,

" Has brought me to this place, where farthest [...]"

" Seems to have empti'd her exhaustless store

" To add to its magnificence:

" Say, can you guide a helpless wand'ring maid,

" To find the home where late she was so blest;

" From whence the sorceress Zelubia forc'd her,

" And left her parents to bewail her loss."

To which the Monarch, with a smile, reply'd,

" Lovely Alzada, fairest of thy sex,

" Whose charms triumphant rule this royal hea [...],

" Dry up thy tears. By this right [...]and I swear,

" Ere Phoebus harnesses his fiery steeds,

" And leaves his sea-green co [...]ch to visit mortals,

" I will conduct you to your father's court,

" And guard you from the vile Zelubia's pow'r.

" Slaves bring my chariot. Bid the virgins wait,

" And strew fresh flow'rs where'er Alzada treads."

The chariot was of curious workmanship.

Ivory, gold, coral, and precious stones;

Around it hover'd little laughing loves;

And on each side were rang'd fair village maids,

With lutes, and harps, tabors, and shepherds' pipes,

Singing and playing soft harmonious airs.

Eight milk-white steeds,

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

[Page]

THE FRUITERER's

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

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

THE CREDITOR.

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

[Page] Eighteen pounds, replied the man.

And are you really distressed for the money?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trust to his honor—oh! you know but little of this world, to talk at that ra [...]e: why this very Heartfree was ruined by trusting to a person's honor. An old officer lodged in his house for many years, borrowed money of him, run in his debt for [...] for his whole family, and when I have talked to Heartfree about the impropriety of his conduct [...] asking for payment, he would answer—I am sure he will pay me whenever he has it in his power—but before it was in his power, he died, leaving four children without the least support. The eldest was about twenty; a fine young girl to be sure, but she had been brought up in idleness. She could embroider; draw, dance, sing, and play upon the spinner; but that would not keep her; so I advised Heartfree to try and get her a place to wait on a [...]. To put the two younger girls out apprentice, and take the boy to go of [...], clean [...]hoes, [Page] knives, &c, in his own kitchen; but he forsooth said no; the children of a man who had spent his days in the service of his country, should [...] want an asylum while he had a house; nor the innocent orphans was a friend, while he lived: so he married the [...], and put her sisters to school, were, luckily, they both died.—The boy he sent to the East Indies about seven years ago, after spending an enormous sum on his education.—His wife bred very fast, and was quite the fine lady; so what with extravagance, and a few losses, from being one of the first linen-drapers in the city, he is become a bankrupt, and, as I suppose, has not bread to eat.

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

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

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

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

THE FAMILY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE RESOLUTION.

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

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

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

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

[Page]

THE MORNING RAMBLE.

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

These were my reflections, as I rambled towards Hampstead.

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

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

Never but once, and please your honor.

And are you not in love now?

No.

No! and how happens that?

I am going to be married to-morrow.

And you don't think love necessary in matrimony?

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

[Page] And pray who was you in love with?

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

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

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

THE INN YARD.

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

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

THE DISCOVERY.

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

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

My dear Mr. Woollet cried the wi [...]e, hastily entering, I am vastly glad to see you.

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

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

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

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

THE SURPRISE.

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

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

Really, Sir, they are all occupied.

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

I cannot, upon my word, Sir.

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

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

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

THE BREAKFAST.

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

I have made you wait, my Emma, said I—Heartfree rose from his seat, bowed, and cast down his eyes, while his cheeks were dyed with crimson—it was a blush neither expressive of guilt no [...] shame—it was a blush occasioned only by the pain a noble heart feels when in a state of despondence. I took no notice of it, but began a conversation on indifferent subjects—his confusion gradually decreased, and in less than half an hour was quite dissipated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LESSON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ELOPEMENT.

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

They had left the carriage at Spring Garden [...] with orders if they did not return in [...], to [...] home.

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

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

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

You will soon return, answered Mrs. Tiffany.

But I marry without consulting him.

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

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

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

Melissa stopped.

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

No matter; I will not go.

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

Melissa sighed—and went forward.

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

GRETNA GREEN.

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

THE INN.

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

May I not read the paper, said Melissa.

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

Give me the paper, I will sign it.

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

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

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

An officer of justice entered.

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

And who has employod you? who forged this ta [...] to injure me in the opinion of this lady?

I had taken off my ring, and stepping forward [...] that moment, cried, 'tis I, you villai [...]. Is it [...] enough that you have ruined an innocent girl [...] was under my protection; left her and her helpl [...] infant to shame and want, and by base and fraudulent [Page] methods taken from me near a thousand pounds, but you must add to the catalogue of your [...] the ruin of this amiable lady, and break the heart of her worthy father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HONESTY.

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

It may be called so, said I.

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

Then pray where may we find this said honesty?

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

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

With all my heart, said I, putting up my pursue and offering her my hand.—The chaise was at the door, and I was actually stopping in to it, with [...] once recollecting that I had not spent a single [...] penny for the good of the house.

[Page]

THE RECITAL.

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

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

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

THE TRAVELLER.

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

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

THE CONJECTURE.

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

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

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

Then by my soul, said I madam Fancy is an [...] rant cheat, for she had represented you as a [...]

[Page]

THE SOLDIER.

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

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

THE RECITAL CONTINUED.

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

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

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

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

[Page]

THE OMISSION.

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

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

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

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

You will first go to my father, I hope, said Meliss [...].

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

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

THE RECONCILIATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PRINTING OFFICE.

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

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

Is it original, Miss?

Entirely so.

Lord bless me! that was quite unnecessary.

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

Nothing more common, I assure you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Page] Why you need not put your name to it.

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

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

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

And how do you mean to get subscribers?

—By shewing my proposals, and simply requesting them to encourage my undertakings.

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

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

It is no matter whether you are really distressed or [...] C—ke; but you must fell a tale to excite [...] you will never gain a single shilling towards [...]inting your books—I have sold eight hundred copies [Page] of the Moralist by these means—nobody gives themselves the trouble to enquire whether my story be false or true; it excites pity for the moment—they send me a subscription—my purpose is answered, and 'tis a question whether they ever think of me or my story again—

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

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

THE FUNERAL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE HAPPY PAIR.

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

Here, beneath my humble cot,

Tranquil peace and pleasure dwell;

If contented with our lot,

Smiling joy can grace a cell.

Nature's wants are all supply'd;

[...]ood and raiment, house and fire:

[Page] Let others swell the courts of pride,

This is all that I require.

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

My dear Charles, she cried, you are late to-night.

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

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

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

Their frugal meal was [...] and bread and butter.

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

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

It is by no means necessary to happiness, said I, as I left the house—Charles and Betsy seem perfectly happy and content with only a bare competence—I ask but a competence, cries the luxurious or avaricious wretch; [...]he very exclamation convinces us, that a trifle is [...] to the wants o [...] the humble, frugal [...], while [...] supply the [...] of the [...] the [...].

[Page]

THE DRUNKARD.

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

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

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

THE BUCKS.

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

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

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

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

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR.

THE clock struck twelve.—

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

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

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

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

This is the hour—

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

—I quickened my pace

—She met me at the door

—I caught her in my arms

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

THE LOUNGER.

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

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

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

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

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

Very entertaining and instructive subjects, cried the lady.

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

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

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

A TALE OF SCANDAL.

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

Perhaps I may, said I—

What is your subject, pray?

Rambles, excursions, characters, and tales.

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

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

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

Do'st thou know the origin of scandal? said I.

No—

Then I will tell thee—

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

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

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

THE VILLAGE WEDDING.

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

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

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

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

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

Nor did nature design us to wear cloaths—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE RESCUE.

I HAD been at the play.

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

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

The one was a young man of fortune, a professed libertine.

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

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

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

She complied with reluctance.

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

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

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

The libertine at the sound of my voice relinquished his prey, and fixed his eyes on me in silent astonishment, while every feature expressed terror and dismay.

Half starting from his seat, [...]e exclaimed, in a voice scarcely articulate,

Who are you?

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

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

THE ACTRESS.

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

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

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

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

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

Pray, what is all this fuss about? cried a [...] gentleman—

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

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

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

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

What Queen? said he—

Why the British Queen, to be sure, said I.—

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

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

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

THE RENCOUNTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misfortune, said he.

And did not you know where I lived?

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

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

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

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

[Page]

THE REPROOF.

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

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

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

No, cries humility, but you are vain glorious.

I was quite disconcerted, and could not forgive myself.

THE MEETING.

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

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

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

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

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

THE REQUEST.

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

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

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

The old man continued—

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

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

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

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

NARCISSA.

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

She then proceeded to give him an account of what has been already related to the reader—Wh [...] she mentioned the villain's attempt upon her [...] her father looked down to the side where his [...] used to hang—then at his hand—then at his [...] his hand [...]gain—

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

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

WOMAN.

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

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

THE EAST INDIAN.

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

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

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

§

§

§

[Page]

THE INQUISITOR; OR, INVISIBLE RAMBLER.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

By Mrs. ROWSON, author of Victoria.

THE FIRST AMERICAN EDITION.

VOLUME II.

PHILADELPHIA—PRINTED AND SOLD BY WILLIAM GIBBONS, No. 144, NORTH THIRD-STREET.

1793.

[Page]

THE INQUISITOR, &c.

EAST INDIAN CONTINUED.

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

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

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

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

THE SLAVE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had not that poor negro a soul?

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

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

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

THE CLERGYMAN.

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

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

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

When I found he grew careless and neglectful, I thought a little correction might be necessary; but, on trying the experiment, was called by the over [...]on [...] mother, an inhuman monster; and the father thought his boy had a genius too bright to require such [...] methods of proceeding. In short, Sir, having [...] power over the child, he soon lost what little [...] he had at first attained; and I was dismissed [...] the character of having ruined the boy's genius by [...] timed and unmerciful correction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE MOURNER.

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

We were in Kensington Gardens.—

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

They will soon die, and I have killed them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Page]

THE COURTIER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Page] Why, Teachum, said my Lord, lifting up his eyes for the first time from [...]he piper, and looking at my friend w [...]h a sort of surprise, I thought from that time you was free from my service.

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

Well, I will see and recompense you for your salary [...] being stopped—

Pray how have you lived since your return to England?

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

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

And how many children have you?

Two, my Lord; a boy and a girl.

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

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

Mr. Bauble waits below, said the servant.

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

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

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

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

THE VISIT.

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

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

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

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

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

Have you seen my Lord lately? said I.

He is never at home, replied Teachum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE METHODIST.

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

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

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

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

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

I put on my ring and followed him home.

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

Well said the man, pushing rudely by her, is [...] gone?

He is gone, she replied—gone for ever.

What, is he dead?

Yes.

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

Alas, Sir, replied the woman, the parish officer came to take him away; and the exertions he [...] to rise and dress himself being too much for [...] weak frame, he expired as they were [...] to the chair.

And, who will pay for the funeral?

The parish will.

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

Not one half penny, or a morsel of bread for my poor children—But I will fell my bed—it is the last thing I have left, and we will henceforth sleep on straw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE STUDY.

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

What an humiliating idea! said my friend, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FRACAS.

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

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

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

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

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

Lord Ernolf had [...]ainted through loss of blood; and during the time of his wound being dressed, remained in a state of insensibility.

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

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

She approached the b [...]d, and sitting down on the [...] took one of his hands—kissed it, and pre [...]ed it to her bosom.

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

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

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

Do you talk o [...] happiness, said he; and do you wish me happy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE REPARATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I complied.

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

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

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

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

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

May heaven forgive you as freely, said Olivia.

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

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

THE CHILDREN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you love Mrs.—, my dear?

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

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

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

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

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

SADI AND ZELIA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They took the chains from off my hands and feet—they gave me food, but pa [...]ed me from Zelia.

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

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

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

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

My haughty spirit was not used to bondage.—heard that England was the land of freedom—I [...] [Page] myself on board an English ship, and sailed unseen into the boundless main.—I left my hiding p [...]ace, and [...] the captain, and bowed my face toward the d [...]k, before him.

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

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

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

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

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

THE CONVERSATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The poor blind beetle which we tread upon,

In corporeal suff'rance feels as much

As when a giant falls.

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

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

THE REGISTER OFFICE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mariana wiped her eyes, wrote a letter, [...] proceeded to measure back the weary steps [...] before.

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

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

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

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

A servant appeared, and she was instantly admitted—

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

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

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

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

[Page]

THE DRESSING ROOM.

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

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

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

Yes, Madam.

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

Mariana informed her.

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

Mariana turned pale, and with difficulty restrained her tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...] the woman who pretended to recommend, [...] money from you? said her Ladyship?

Indeed, Madam, she has got a [...] I had.

[Page] Lady Allworth drew [...] purse—Mariana arose to take her leave.

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

A glass of wine and a biscuit was ordered.

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

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

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

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

THE FASHIONABLE FRIEND.

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

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

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

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

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

From the day of my birth until now,

I've still been accustom'd to grief;

My mother she nurs'd me in woe,

Her sorrows admit no relief;

She lull'd me to sleep with her sighs,

Tears mix'd with the milk of her breast;

For oft would they start in her eyes,

At the sight of an object distress'd.

To [...]eel for another man's woes,

Is a blessing to British hearts giv'n;

A blessing which pity bestows;

And pity's the daughter of heav'n.

All nature rejoic'd at her birth;

Humanity softer'd the child;

[Page] And when she appear'd upon earth,

Each virtue approvingly smil'd.

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

Ellen promised to comply with her request.

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

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

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

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

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

I found her, said she, scribbling as usual: I praised her extravagantly, and advised her to publish her works—she said she had some thoughts of it. I wish she would to my heart, for I should like to see her heartily laughed at—I am sure women have [...]o business with pens in their hands, they had better mend their cloaths, and look after their family.

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

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

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

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

[...] soon after made her appearance.— [...] received her with await shew of affection, [Page] and soon began a conversation which led to literary productions.

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

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

Oh, you are always so diffident—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PROFESSING FRIEND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gush of tears was all she could answer.

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

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

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

I waited his return.

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

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

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

[Page] He shook her hand cordially and left her.

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

I left her with a heart at ease.

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

THE ATTORNEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DEPARTURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ORPHANS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Page]

THE GIRL OF THE TOWN.

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

She caught my hand as I passed her.

Give me a glass of wine, said she.

The watch had just gone ten.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But to the tale—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now for Annie's story.—

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

§

§

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[Page]

THE INQUISITOR; OR, INVISIBLE RAMBLER.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

By Mrs. ROWSON, author of Victoria.

THE FIRST AMERICAN EDITION.

VOLUME III.

PHILADELPHIA—PRINTED AND SOLD BY WILLIAM GIBBONS, No. 144, NORTH THIRD-STREET.

1793.

[Page]

THE INQUISITOR, &c.

ANNIE's STORY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why did you not bring Mrs. Winlove with you?

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

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

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

Do people never many from any other [...] than inclination?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had never read it.

He recommended it very strongly for her perusal.

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

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

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

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

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

But little now remains to be told.

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

Mr. Winlove forsook her.

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

LOVE.

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

What is love?

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

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

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

Ask the libertine what is love?

Innocence trembles at his answer; religion and [...] replies, it is ruin, [...] and [...] avaricious, captio [...]s wretch will tell [Page] you, there is no such thing as love, that it never existed out in romances, plays, and novels.

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

THE ANSWER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But all this is digressing from Annie's story.

THE SEQUEL.

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

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

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

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

THE JOURNEY.

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

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

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

[Page] Pray, your honor, give me some halfpence, said a boy that ran out of a cottage as the carriage passed.

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

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

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

THE COTTAGERS.

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

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

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

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

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

[Page]

THE EMBARRASSMENT.

I AM hungry, mamma, said Harriet.

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

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

The young man turned pale as ashes.

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

She hesitated, and the boy proceeded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE STEWARD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If there was no money in the world, said I, there would be no extortion: and, I fancy then, you, my good friend, would find but little employment.

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

THE AUTHOR.

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

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

In how many volumes?

Two.

And are you sure of selling them?

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

What may be the plot of foundation of your novel?

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

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

SKETCH OF A MODERN NOVEL.

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

So much for the first part.

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

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

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

THE INTERRUPTION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FAIR MANIAC.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE MENDICANT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord M—, said he.

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

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

THE PEOPLE OF FASHION

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

Having got admittance into the house unperceived, I followed a servant who was going up [Page] stairs with the breakfast apparatus, though it was then 1 o'clock.

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

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

Yes, my Lady.

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

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

Where were you, my Lord, last night? I was quite surprised at [...] seeing you at Lady Blackace's—all the world was there.

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

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

A servant entered, and announced Mr. Howard.

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

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

He was bid to shew him up.

THE FATHER.

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

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

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

[...] Howard, said my Lord, he is not [...], but he has behaved so ill of late, that he has [Page] entirely forfeited my favour; he has voluntarily absented himself from my house; and to confess the truth, I have not seen him these six years, nor do I know where he is.

And what has he done? asked the distracted father.

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

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

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

THE ECLAIRCISSEMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

My [...] Mrs. Watson, said he, taking her by [...] you tell me where Charles is, and to [Page] whom he has united himself so [...] the desire of his uncle and aunt?

It was for that purpose, said Mrs. Watson, that I took the liberty of coming into the room to speak to you—but this room, Sir, is not a proper place to converse in; I must beg you to come into my apartment, and I will then inform you of some circumstances which will fill you with astonishment.

I felt a curiosity which I could not withstand, and, anxious for the fate of Charles, I followed Captain Howard and Mrs. Watson into another apartment. Mrs. Watson I found was Lady M—'s housekeeper, and had formerly lived in that capacity with her Ladyship's mother—When Captain Howard was seated, she related the following circumstances:

You know, S [...] said she, just before you left England, my Lady, at my Lord's request, had taken Miss Isabella Beauchamp to be her companion—you had not been gone many years before Mr. Beauchamp died insolvent, and the poor young Lady had no dependance but on my Lord, who was a distant relation of her father's. From the time of Mr. Beauchamp's death, Lady M—altered in her behaviour to Miss Bella; treated her often with disrespect; and in general, with cold contempt—My Lord, on the contrary, behaved with the greatest politeness, assiduity, and attention; made her elegant presents, insisted on her joining all parties, public or private, in which Lady M—was included—young Mr. Howard shewed the attention of a brother; and, I must own, this conduct raised both the gentlemen highly in my opinion [...] was with great concern that I noticed a [...] melancholy on Miss Bella's countenance, and often [...] [Page] she retire from a crowded assembly to her own apartment and give a loose to her tears—she had always conducted herself in such a manner as to gain the love of all the domestics, and she had favoured me with many singular marks of friendship—I therefore took the liberty one day to enquire into the cause of her melancholy; when bursting into a flood of grief, she cried, oh! Mrs. Watson, what will become of me? Lord M—pursues me with a criminal passion—I cannot stay in this family to be subject to his insults; and if I leave it, how shall I guard myself from the snares and insults of the unfeeling part of mankind, who know not how to pity poverty? or how shall I provide for the necessaries of life? I endeavoured all in my power to console her, and told her I would certainly look out for some reputable family where she might be boarded on moderate terms, and that I [...] advise her to sell a few of her jewels to provide for the present, and trust in Providence that her future life may be more fortunate—she gave me a pair of diamond earings, which were her mother's, to dispose of; but as I was returning to my own apartment I met Mr. Howard, and knowing he was always plentifully supplied with money by his aunt, I determined to make him acquainted with Miss Bella's situation, and engage him to assist her—but judge my surprise, when I had informed him of my Lord's designs, to hear him fly into a violent rage, and swear she should not stay another hour in the house, called her his wife, his adored Bella, and was hastening to her apartment, when he was stopped by his aunt, who had overheard our conversation, and peremptorily demanded whether he had been so mean spirited as to marry Miss Beauchamp?— [Page] he answered with [...] not married to her; but since there was no other way [...] from the contempt of pride and the insults of libertinism, he would marry her the next morning.

Lady M—was greatly irritated, and sent a message to Miss Beauchamp, commanding her to quit her house instantly—Charles followed the poor distressed girl; and before my Lord returned, who was then in the country, prevailed on her to give him a lawful right to protect her.

However ill Miss Beauchamp had been treated, Mr. Howard thought it was his duty to visit his uncle, and she for his pardon, for the precipitate step he had taken.

They made their appearance the morning after my Lord came to town—it is unnecessary, and would only be shocking your feelings, to give you an account of the reception they met with; suffice it to say, they were spurned by the haughty pair, and turned with indignity out of the house Lord M—swearing by all that was holy he would not give them a single farthing to keep them from starving—they left the house, and I never heard where they were till last summer, when I accidentally found them in a mean cottage, which they rented of Lord M—'s steward—they went by an assumed name, and Mrs. Howard having bred very fast, and being very weakly, they were reduced to the most abject state of penury.

Then these are my poor cottagers, said I.

—Mr. Howard, when he had heard the conclusion of her relation, arose from his seat and looking at once joy and indignation, swore he would never rest ti [...]l he had found his dear injured Charles.

I will find him, said he; and his lovely Isabella [Page] shall be rewarded for all her love and patient sufferings—he gave the housekeeper something by way of gratuity, and immediately departed—when I, having no farther business there, followed his example.

NATURAL REFLECTION.

IT has often surprised me to find that people who have, with unbounded generosity, educated, cloathed, and fostered an infant in childhood, indulging it to an extravagant degree, never suffering it to be contradicted, but bringing it up in ease and luxury, shall, when that infant arrives at years of maturity, when it has attained sense and reason sufficient to enable it to judge what will most conduce to its own happiness, for the most trifling misdemeanor, nay, for only daring to think contrary to its benefactors, or presuming to choose a companion for itself, spurn from them, with indignity, the object they once cherished, and drive it out defenceless to brave those storms of adversity which the education they have bestowed on it renders it totally unable to combat with—it has often puzzled me to determine whether such people have ever been actuated by true generosity. Pure philanthropy will lead us rather to study the happiness of a human being, when it is capable of receiving real satisfaction from our kindness. So far from evincing our affection to children by unlimited indulgencies, we are acting with cruelty toward them, since we are laying up a fund of discontent and uneasiness for hereafter. How hard is it for those darlings of families, whose every [...] has been complied with, who never [Page] wished for a toy or bauble but it was procured, though at the most exorbitant price, who was always fed with the greatest dainties, to find, when arrived at maturity, that they are journeying thro' a world where they will unavoidably meet with disappointments, vexation, and trouble—for my part, I would never indulge my children in a wish which I thought might tend hereafter to render them unhappy; I would teach them to confine their desires within the bounds of moderation, not by morosely opposing all their little fancies, but by insensibly drawing off their attention to any other objects.

As they advanced in years. I would, by example, teach them that forbearance and self-denial, which precept alone will ever fail to effect. If they have affluence, let them enjoy every reasonable wish of their hearts and no one need inquire what is to be done with the overplus.

Oh! ye sons and daughters of prosperity, look around you; see, in yon little mansion lies a mother; a few hours since made her the parent of her seventh child; she is in a situation, of all others the most deserving pity; she has scarcely the means to support life; she is on a bed of pain and weakness; pain, my lovely countrywomen, from which none of you are exempt, and which, no doubt, you think almost insufferable, though you are surrounded with all the comforts and blessings of life—that poor woman has no comfort—her husband is at sea, labouring, watching, toiling for a small pittance, which he hopes to bring home to his wife and children—she has anguish of mind added to the sickness of her frame—have you no [...] spare, Madam, which might, in some [...], alleviate [Page] that poor creature's sufferings? Two or three of those guineas will never be missed by you, and they will be a treasure to her.—You cannot spare them—you had rather lay them out in an hobby horse for master, or a wax baby for miss—if the dear creatures are disappointed, they will fret and spoil their pretty faces with crying; and what mother can refuse her little darlings any thing they ask for?

Oh! shame on thee, woman; thou hast not one spark of genuine maternal tenderness in thy composition, or thou wouldest prefer easing the pangs of a wretched mother whose heart is pierced by the cries of her children wanting bread, rather than by gratifying the caprice of thy own children—lead them to set no farther value on the wealth which Providence has entrusted to their care, than as it may serve to purchase pleasure, dissipation, and folly.

Your wealth was certainly given you to [...] pleasure, but pleasures far, very far different from those you are so eager in the pursuit of—Go wipe the tear from the eye of affliction; cloathe the poor naked wretch who, nightly unhoused in some sad lonely place, braves storms and tempests, heats and pinching cold—go release the unfortunate tradesman, who through the inattention, folly, or villainy of others, has lost his property, and now sighs out his long, long hours in a prison—Go seek the wretched mortals, who, by dire misfortune reduced, oppressed by the iron hand of affliction, [...]it starving in obscurity, and, rather than ask the cruel [...] for assistance, or blazon forth their heart-felt [...], would sink to the silent grave, victims to [...] in the land of plenty.

[Page] I know, Madam, you will say I am very dull, that I have given you the vapours, that the [...] are phantoms of my own creating—would to Heaven they were! but, alas! these things I have seen, and my heart has bled, that I had not power to relieve them.

Oh! I could tell such tales of woe, drag froth such vile ingratitude to light, that human nature would disclaim the being who could practise it.

THE INGRATE.

DO you see that beautiful woman in that splendid equipage, surrounded by a train of servants? 'tis the thoughtless, ungrateful Amelia.

Behold that poor old woman who toils through the dirt unattended by any but her two lovely daughters, [...] as opening flowers, and innocent as [...] infants; see on her venerable countenance what grief and despondency is imprinted! see the big tears roll down her furrowed cheeks! see she enters an obscure apartment, and a scanty meal is divided between her children and herself.

She looks at them by turns with such maternal tenderness, such anguish of heart, that she seems to say, what will become of you, my sweet children; how will you pass through life when I am gone.

That poor old woman was Amelia's benefactress—but it is fit I should tell my tale methodically.

Amelia was the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune, who, besides her, had nine other [...] Mrs. Ellwin was a distant relation of the [...] [Page] she [...] the wife of an opulent merchant, and their habitation was the habitation of philanthropy.

Amelia had received a tolerable education—she was pretty in her person, chearful in her disposition, and had a good share of understanding; with these accomplishments, Mrs. Ellwin thought it would be a pity for Amelia to be buried in obscurity; she gave her an invitation to her house, cloathed her genteelly, and introduced her into such company as she thought would be most conducive to her future advancement in life. It was not long before Amelia's charms made a conquest of a gentleman of large fortune—he loved her; and her virtues were so kindly brought forward by Mrs. Ellwin, and her little faults buried in oblivion, that he overlooked her want of fortune, made her his wife, and settled upon her 500l. per annum jointure. Amelia had not long enjoyed this advancement, before Mr. Ellwin, having placed too great a dependance on the honor of a friend, lost a large sum of money; of consequence his payments were not punctual, and he became a bankrupt.

He struggled for some time against his adverse fate, but at length died of a broken heart, and left his wife and lovely daughters no inheritance but poverty.

About this time Amelia became a widow:—but Amelia was now a fine lady—she had no time to spend with poor relations, no money to spare to [...] the distresses of Mrs. Ellwin; though her [...] cloaths were purchased by that generous [...] and cost near five hundred pounds, and that [...] had never been repaid.

[Page] Amelia is now just married again, and flying about in all the gaiety of heart which wealth and splendor can inspire in a giddy mortal; while poor Mrs. Ellwin is sinking under a load of anguish, unpitied and unthought of. Her once blooming, amiable daughters drooping like frost-nipped blossoms, and neither Friendship, Humanity, nor Gratitude will reach forth a hand to cheer, revive, or save them.

But I am wandering from my intended route.

THE SUICIDES.

AS I approached Mr. Vellum's house an hearse and six mourning coaches drove from the door.

Perhaps, said I, the guardian is gone to give an account of [...] guardianship—and a very black [...] fear it will be—however I will go in; perhaps I may learn something concerning the death of Horace, or gain some intelligence which may be serviceable to the hapless Julietta.

I put on my ring, and a servant opening the door soon afterwards, I entered unperceived.

I went into several rooms before I found any body likely to give me any satisfaction by their conversation. At length I entered a chamber, where, on an embroidered sopha, lay Mr. Vellum surrounded by magnificence—but, good Heavens! how changed from the man he once was—his face was ghastly pale, his eyes sunk, yet their [...] was so quick and fiery that they gave him the appearance of a fiend rather than an human being.

Opposite to him, in a pensive posture, sat [...] woman in a deep mourning habit; [...] [Page] partly concealed with her handkerchief, but the part that appeared bore such evident marks of sorrow, that a savage must have felt his heart moved with pity at the sight.

He is gone, gone for ever, cried Vellum, starting from the sopha, and catching hold of the young lady's hand—he is gone, Hester, and you know not half the anguish of my soul.

My dear father, said she, why will you give way to unavailing sorrow? the kind Power who lent him to you has but re-called his own—it is the lot of mortality—then, why my father, why will you offend your Creator by repining at his divine will?

O, Hester, you do not know the dreadful circumstances of your brother's death—alas! my child, he rushed unbidden into the presence of his Maker with multitudes of unrepented crime [...] upon his head.

Did he destroy himself? cried [...] of woe changing into that of inexpressible horror.—Oh! what could tempt him to the dreadful [...]?

Hester, my beloved daughter, I was his murderer, I was the cause of the horrid act.

Forbid it, gracious God, she cried, clasping her hands and sinking upon her knees—Oh! my father, recall those shocking words; you was not, could not be, so inhuman.

Hester, said he, with a look of horrid firmness, I will unfold to you a tale which it is proper you should know; I may not long continue with you.—I have been guilty of deeds which will make your tender heart shudder to acknowledge me as a [...]—On! cursed avarice, it was that which [...] to stain my soul with murder, and to ruin [...] my darling son.—For him and for thee [Page] I would have gained an empire, though I had waded to it through oceans of human blood: but to lead him by vile persuasions to agree to, and execute the accursed plot, and plunge himself, for sordid ore, to the lowest abyss of hell.—Oh! it is more than I can bear to think of—my soul is at this moment suffering all the tortures of the damned—scorpions, flames, and furies hang about me—Hora [...], dear murdered youth, well may you smile to see my tortures.

Was Horace murdered! Oh! inhuman wretch, cried Hester—then where is my sweet Julietta? have you murdered her too?

I hope she still lives, said Vellum; and may your gentle friendship recall her wandering reason, for my cruelty has bereaved her of her senses; and if she is alive, she is a poor, distressed lunatic.

Gracious Heaven! cried Hester, bursting into a flood of tears, and leaning her head upon the elbow of the [...].

The lovely girl, continued her father, is in a miserable cottage, on one of her own estates, in Wiltshire, where I have employed an old woman to watch her, and, by harsh treatment, prevent her returning to reason.

As to Horace he is no more.—When I sent him abroad, as I said, for education, your brother went with him—we laid the shocking plot before the vessel [...]ailed; and one night as they were walking the deck together, your brother pushed Horace into the sea—the vessel was sai [...]ing before the wind, and he was lost in a moment.

You, my dear Hester, I knew would be an obstacle to these hellish schemes, and for that [...] sent you to France.—About three weeks [...] [Page] brother had a thousand pounds of me; and in a few days after, applied for more; it was then I discovered he had a propensity for gaming—I remonstrated with him on the folly of such a pursuit, and refused him a supply—high words ensued—he accused me of being a murderer; of drawing him in to participate the crime, and then refusing him a participation of the wealth I had by that means gained.—It is impossible for you to conceive the terrors that seized my mind during this conversation; I actually formed the resolution of giving this darling of my soul into the hands of justice, and thereby saving my own wretched life—but before I could execute my intention, I was alarmed, by the discharge of a pistol—I ran to your brother's room, and saw him weltering in his blood, a pistol clenched in his hand.

Go, leave me, said he, as I approached him; add not, by thy hateful presence, to [...] of this moment—I thought, by dying [...] and misery together, to fly from the terrors of a reproaching conscience; but, alas! my miseries are but just beginning.

Oh! thou detested, wretched old man, continued he, drawing me forcibly towards him, thou art ignorant what a task thou hast yet to perform: Go, lose not a moment, but use every method to restore that injured angel Julietta to her senses—give her back her fortune—and do thou retire to some desert—fast, pray, and lay upon the cold ground—years and years spent in supplication will hardly gain that pardon you so much need.—There is! there is! an hereafter—I feel it now rush on my [...] soul.—You do not know how hard it is to [...] plunge at once into eternity.—Oh! murder, [...] cannot be forgiven.

[Page] At that instant he expired with a groan, so hollow, that it still [...] in [...].

I hear thee, Oh! thou [...] shade—I will obey thee.

Hester, continued Vellum, I have sent for you home, that you may administer comfort to Juliette—here, take this paper, and go prepare for your journey; when you are separated from me, open it; you will there find full instructions how to act—leave me, my child; I am now more composed, I may perhaps take some rest.

Hester gladly retired.

I saw from the agitation of her features, though she could not but pity the distresses of her father's mind, it was impossible for her any longer to love him.

That task is over, said Vellum, as she shut the door—now, what remains?—to pray for pardon.—Pardon for what?—Murder. Ah! that is [...] all; my soul is loaded with crimes.—Fraud, [...], oppression, are in the horrid catalogue!—the widows, the fatherless children whom I have oppressed, will rise up in judgment against me.—Mercy—Oh! mercy just God!—but wretch that I am, did I ever shew mercy—will [...] just Creator then shew mercy to me?—No—for I thirst appear at a tribunal where every one will be rewarded according to his works.

Oh that I was annihilated!—that I had never lived—for the distraction of my mind is too mighty to be borne—I will not bear it—I will end my tortures—my life is in my own power; and it [...] to plunge at once into evils which [...] more dreadful than this constant terror.— [...] the instrument, said he, taking a pistol from [...] pocket.

[Page] I stepped [...], in order to prevent his fatal intention.

It shall be [...], said he—I will not languish—

I caught hold of his arm; but it was too late; he had pointed the pistol to his temple—it went off, and he plunged in one moment into a dreadful eternity.

Oh! save him! save him! cried Hester, bursting into the room; he is not fit to die.

When she saw the shocking catastrophe, she uttered a scream of terror, and sunk down upon the floor—the servants entered, and all was in an instant a scene of confusion.

I thought I [...] could gain no farther intelligence—and my spirits being greatly depressed by the occurrences of the day, I departed; determining in a few days to pay the gentle, unfortunate Hester another visit.

THE WIFE.

I WISH to go to Mrs. Melbourne's assembly, next week, if agreeable to you, my dear, said a woman, who was walking through the park with a man whose appearance spoke him the gentleman.

She was a pretty-looking person; her countenance was open and engaging, and there was a mild air of tender melancholy diffused over it.

She led by the hand a beautiful girl, about four or five years old; and a smiling boy, seemingly a year or two older, was skipping, with steps as light [...] innocent heart, before them—that man, [...] surely be happy.

[Page] I examined his countenance [...] scrutinizing eye, and me thought I read in [...] and inattention; nay, he even [...] in the company of his wife and lovely children.

—I should like to go to Mrs. Melbourne's assembly, said she, putting her hand under his arm, and giving him a look of tenderness—it was a look I know not well how to describe; it was a mixture of affection and gentle solicitude; it was that kind of look my Emma ever assumes when she has any little favour to ask, and it always carries with it such persuasive eloquence, that for my soul I could not refuse, though she were to request the half of my fortune.

You want new cloaths too, I suppose, said he, rather [...]lily.

I thought you might make it convenient to let me [...] thy half-years stipend, said she, mildly; and you know, my dear, I never exceed it.

Very well, Madam, I hear enough of your economy, said he, withdrawing his arm in anger; but I tell you I have no money for myself, and therefore cannot let you have any.—I do not see why you should go to Mrs. Melbourne's; you may find employment and amusement too in nursing your [...]; [...]home is the fittest place [...] women.

I [...] not go, Mr. Selby, if you desire I should not.

There, now, make a merit of staying at home to oblige me, when you cannot go because I will not give you money to lavish in finery. The education of your children costs me so much that I intend for the future to reduce your allowance to half what it used to be.

Very well, my dear, you are the best [...] [Page] what you [...] afford; I shall always have your interest too much at heart to repine at being deprived of a few superfluities which I can easily do without.

By this time they were arrived at Spring Gardens, where an handsome chariot was waiting.

I am engaged out this evening, said he, handing her into the carriage.

Shall I see you at supper? said she, again assuming the look of solicitude; but it was far more anxious than the former.

No—perhaps I shall not return all night, said he; and immediately left her without even the common form of civility.

Drive on, said she, to the coachman; [...] the carriage moved, I saw her apply her handkerchief to her eyes.

Poor woman! said I; at that [...] the drop of pity start into my own.—Poor [...] thou art surrounded with wealth, have a number of servants, and, no doubt, for there advantages are the object of envy in the eyes of many; but, [...]! the poor cottager, whose mansion appears the habitation of poverty, who has just set by her wheel, and is seeding a number of cherry-checked, curly-pa [...]ed, ragged children, whose husband, [...] from the labours of the field, accosts her [...] of kindness, kisses all his little prattlers [...], and takes the youngest on his knee to share his homely supper, that humble cottager is happier far than you.

These reflections had passed with such rapidity through my brain, that Mr. Selby was still in sight.—I will follow thee, said I, and see what has [...] to charm thee from so sweet, so gentle a companion.

[Page] Having got my ring on, I quickened my pace, and soon overtook him.

He proceeded to May Fair; when knocking at the door of a large house, a servant in a showey livery opened it; when, taking the advantage of my invisibility, I entered, and followed him through a magnificent suite of rooms into a drawing room.

THE MISTRESS.

SHE was an elegant-formed woman, rather above the middle size; her features were regular, and her complexion would have been dazzling, had it not been for an immoderate quantity of rouge which she had laid on her face, which, in reality, required no art to make it lovely; her eyes were dark, lively, and piercing; and her hair, which was bright as golden thread, hung in wanton ringlets round her face and neck; her dress was studiedly negligent, being only a white muslin robe with small silver sprigs; it was fastened round her slender waist with a velvet zone, ornamented with pearl; she was seated by a table on which sat a little French dog, which she was caressing as we entered.

My charming Lassonia, said he, running to her with eagerness, how tedious have the hours passed that kept me from you!

No doubt they have, said she, coldly evading his offered embrace; when you have made it two hours later than you promised.

My dearest love, I could not avoid it, said he; business of importance—

Oh you are a very prudent man, said she; scornfully; by all means business should be attended [...] [Page] before pleasure; but it is very well, Mr. Selby. I have waited at home to hear your p [...]ltry excuse for breaking your word; but I have [...] an engagement which I cannot possibly break; my chair is waiting:—

She arose to leave the room.

My Angel, my dear Lassonia, said he, catching her hands, you surely do not mean to leave me; hear me but one word; I should have been here much sooner had I not overtaken my wife and children in the park, and she begun teazing me for money.

And you gave it her? said she, with precipitation.

No, my charmer, I have not given it to her, I have reserved it for you; there is not a wish my Lassonia can form but shall be immediately complied with—Emily had set her heart upon going to Mrs. Melbourne's assembly; but I knew my adored girl intended to be there, [...] did not wish to meet her; so I have desired her not to go.

And have you brought me your wife's diamonds? said she.

No—but you shall have some, more valuable than those—we will go out now, and you shall chuse them at any price you please.

What, I suppose, said she, with a look of contempt, your wife refused to part with them; and you, a poor, tame-spirited husband, dared not contradict her; but I will have her jewels or none, so take your choice, Sir, either bring me the meek, dutiful Emily's diamonds, or never see me more.

What a pity it is, said I, as I stood contemplating this scene, what a pity so lovely a form should [...] so vile a heart; that woman appears a masterpiece [Page] of nature, and yet draw aside that beauteous veil, and there is such foul deformity within, that we shrink with horror and disgust from the very object which at first view filled us with admiration.

I am unwilling to refuse you any thing, my sweet girl, said he; but indeed I do not know how to get the jewels; I have no plausible pretext to ask for them.

And is this your boasted love? said she, this the fidelity, the fervent passion you have so repeatedly sworn? am I to be denied so trifling a gratification because you cannot bear a few tears from that proud minx your wife? have I not sacrificed every thing for you? relinquished reputation, honor, friends; and is this the return? this the gratitude I am to meet with? you would sooner break my heart than comply with the smallest of my wishes.

During these reproaches she had vented her passion by tears.

Do not thus distress yourself, my dearest creature, said Selby; you cut me to the soul by your reproaches; come, dry up your tears, and tell me in what can I oblige you?

Go and bring me Emily's diamonds this evening, said she.

I came to spend the night with you, my love, then do not send me from you; let us go [...]ut and purchase some other trinkets.

I will have nothing but the diamonds! exclaimed she, in an agony of passion; which reminded me of Othello in his jealous fury raving for the fatal handkerchief.

At length the infatuated Selby, finding it was in vain to attempt to sooth her, and being, as he said, [Page] unable to live without her, actually promised to go home and fetch the jewels for which she expressed such a desire.

I was determined to go with him, and hastily stepping down stairs before him, stepped unperceived into a hackney coach which he had sent for, and was waiting for him at the door—a short time brought us to Gower street.

THE RECEPTION.

THIS is kind indeed, my love, said Mrs. Selby, meeting him with a smile as he entered the parlour; I was afraid you would not have returned so soon.

Pshaw, said he, throwing himself into a chair; I do not suppose you will be so pleased when I tell you the business which brought me home.

If it is any thing which will make you uneasy, my dear, said she, I shall certainly regret it; but if it only concerns myself I shall regret nothing which gives me the extatic pleasure of your company.

You are a good girl, Emily, said he, taking [...] hand—and methought at that instant he [...] the task he had undertaken—but it was a momentary reflection.

I have occasion for a large sum of money, said he, to make up a payment, and I have no possible means of raising it.

Good God! cried she, turning pale with apprehension, are your circumstances really so bad the [...].

[Page] Make no inquiries, said he, but consider if you can form any plan to relieve me.

How much do you want my love?

About two thousand pounds.

I dare say my father will lend you such a trifle, rather than you should be distressed.

So, Madam, said he, you would advise me to apply to your father, and make my misfortunes the talk of the town.—You say you love me, Emily.

Heaven knows I do most fervently.

Then to prove it, bring me your jewels, they will procure me the money I want.

You cannot raise so large a sum without my mother's also; and I should not wish to part with them.

A very pretty declaration indeed. Madam; you value your mother's memory more than your husband's peace of mind.

Oh! do not say so harsh a word, said she; I will bring the jewels—had I the universe at my command it would be of no value to me when put in competition with your happiness.

She left the room, and soon returned with the jewels.

Here they are, said she; would to Heaven every desire which you form may be as easily obtained.

He looked them over.

These are not all, said he—

A blush of confusion passed over the pale face of the trembling Emily.

I have indeed reserved some, said she; but [...] not be angry, I cannot part with the [...] [Page] kens of your love; I cannot part with your picture.

I must have all, said he, impatiently.

The afflicted wife drew from her throbbing bosom a miniature picture set with diamonds, and a small, but valuable locket, emblamatical of love and peace; he took them from her—

Leave me the picture, said she—take the diamonds; but, for pity's sake, take not that dear, first pledge of your love.—The picture will not enhance the value to any but me.

I cannot stay to take it out, said he, putting the jewels into his pocket, and giving the poor, weeping Emily a slight kiss; he snatched up his hat and instantly returned to the vile Lassonia.

I had been too much disgusted with that woman's behaviour to entertain a thought of returning with him, therefore, taking off my ring, when I left the house, I walked toward home.

THE INFORMATION.

BEING at the play with a friend some months after, I observed Lassonia in a box opposite to that in which I sat, [...] with the very jewels which Selby had obtained from his affectionate wife.

Who that sees that woman, said I to my friend, but would think her the loveliest work of creation.

I have been admiring her for some time, said he; can you give me any information concerning her? I have seen her once before, and am quite captivated with her beauty; if her mind is equal to her person, I could freely devote my life to such a woman.

[Page] There is no more comparison between her mind and her form, said an old gentleman, in a black coat and a snug round wig, who sat just behind us—there is no more comparison between them, said he, than there is between an angel of Light and a daemon of Hell.

Do you know her, Sir, said my friend, turning hastily round.

I do, young man, said he; and to guard you from the effects of her pernicious charms, if you will sup with me after the play, I will tell you a tale that shall make you hate her.

When the play was over we adjourned to a tavern, and after supper our new friend gave us the history of Lassonia.

Miss Freeman and Miss Eldridge, said he, were the daughters of two opulent tradesmen; their fathers were united in the closest bonds of amity. Emily Freeman and Lassonia Eldridge were playmates in infancy, educated at the same school, and contracted for each other the affection of sister.—Emily had just entered her sixteenth year, when she was called from school to attend an excellent mother, who was hastily advancing to that "bourne from whence no traveller returns." Lassonia would not be separated from her [...] on this trying occasion, and Mrs. Freeman soon after paying the debt of nature, she was retained by Mr. Freeman as a companion, whose vivacity would prevent Emily from too frequently musing on her recent loss.

Mr. Selby became acquainted with the lovely friends before Emily had attained her eighteenth year—her sense and penetration charmed him; and her person, having then all the attractions of blooming [Page] youth, he declared himself her lover—he frequently laughed and romped with Lassonia, but never entertained a thought of love, as her conduct in general was so flighty, and her conversation so trifling, that though it was impossible to avoid admiring her beauty, she had not one requisite calculation to create esteem.

About this time Mr. Eldridge was taken ill—the physicians feared a consumption, and advised a journey to Montpelier—Lassonia accompanied her father, and during their absence Emily gave her hand to Mr. Selby. Mr. Eldridge recovered his health, and they revisited England; when, no mention being made of Lassonia's returning to Mrs. Selby, she continued with her father to superintend his family. Two years passed on in delightful harmony between Mr. and Mrs. Selby, in which time she presented him with a boy and a girl. During that period the father of Lassonia died insolvent, and she was reduced to the necessity of going to service, as there was not the least provision for her future subsistence.

It was then the generous, disinterested Emily offered her an asylum in her house, appointed her an apartment, a servant to attend her, and supplied her with cloaths and money from her own private purse.

Lassonia had not long been an inmate in the house of her friend, before, envious of her felicity, she determined to imbitter it by alienating the affection of Selby from his truly amiable wife—Selby was young, and fond of variety; his passion for [...] was greatly abated by possession, and though [...] almost venerated her for her virtues, the charms of her faithless friend enflamed his heart, and he [Page] eagerly caught at the frequent opportunities which she intentionally gave him to plead his passion.

Lassonia is a proud woman; her situation was irksome, though every favour from Emily was conferred in so delicate a manner that an indifferent spectator would have imagined her the person obliged.

She was likewise an artful woman; she soon gained such an ascendancy over Selby, that while Emily scarcely dared to hint her wishes, Lassonia demanded with authority, and gained every desire. Yet of so gentle, unsuspicious, a temper was Mrs. Selby, and so great a confidence did she place in the honor of her friend and her husband, that though Lassonia remained in the family near a twelvemonth after her connection with Selby, she never once thought such a thing could happen. She frequently lamented to her treacherous friend the alteration in her husband's behaviour, but she never suspected her as the cause of her uneasiness.

But Lassonia now found it necessary to remove from Mrs. Selby's, to prevent her shame from becoming public; she told Emily that she was distressed at being so great an incumbrance to her, and that having an opportunity of going abroad with a lady, who wanted a companion, she would embrace it, and endeavour to contribute to her own support. By this conduct she laid a plan to prevent returning to the family, which she predetermined not to do before she left it.

Mrs. Selby loaded her with obligations at parting. She retired to a small house about twenty miles from town which Selby had provided for [...] reception, and where she remained three years, Selby spending great part of his time with her.

[Page] About six months since the came to town, assumed the name of Green, took an elegant house, and set up a carriage. Mrs. Selby hearing of her arrival, and supposing she was married, requested me, who at that time was ignorant of the circumstances I have now related, to go with her and pay Lassonia a morning visit.

We were shewn into the drawing room by a servant, who informed us his misterss would be down in a few minutes, but that she was then dressing.

How agreeably surprised my dear Lassonia will be, said Emily, to find I am the lady who wanted to speak with her—for she had sent up no name.

We were chatting on indifferent subjects, when a child ran into the room, crying, I will have papa's picture; I won't break it indeed; a maid following him in; he ran to Emily, whose arms were extended to receive him, and throwing the picture into her lap, judge her feelings when she saw the portrait of Mr. Selby, which she had given him but two days before with the greatest regret, imagining him in want of money. Her feelings, overpowered her, and she fell lifeless on the floor. The cries of the servant alarmed the family, and Lassonia, thinking some misfortune had happened to her child, rushed into the room followed by Selby himself.

It [...] impossible to describe the scene that ensued on the recovery of Emily—Lassonia raved, Mrs. [...] wept, and Selby appeared motionless as a [...].

As soon as Emily was able to walk, I took her hand and led her to the carriage. Upon her return [Page] home, her fainting fits returned; the passed a night of inconceivable distress, for Selby never came near her; and in the morning she was in a violent fever. I then went in pursuit of the perfidious husband; but as the suffering saint desired, forbore to reproach him.

I found him, and he returned with me to her.

She beheld him approach with a faint smile—It is kind, my Selby, said she, to come and receive the parting sigh of her who has so long been a barrier to your happiness; indeed I did not know, or I never would have visited my happy rival—I never thought your love was divided, and the certainty of it came so sudden upon my heart, that weak and unprepared as it was, it could not bear the shock—take care of my children, said she, adieu my love; my heart may break, but my tongue will never reproach you.

Her disorder hourly increased; a delirium ensued; and before the next morning she breathed her last, invoking blessings on the head of her faithless husband and treacherous friend.

THE DISSERTATION.

IT is such women as Lassonia who cast an [...] on the whole sex; and such women [...] only objects of contempt but detestation. [...] not of opinion that women would never [...] into vice, were they not at first seduc [...] man; certain I am, though my heart [...] idea, that there are many women who are [...] to all manner of wickedness entirely through [Page] the depravity of their inclinations.—Oh! how my soul rises with indignation to see the fairest works of the Creator's hand so far forget their native dignity as to glory in actions which debase them beneath the lowest reptile that crawls upon the earth! To see a woman loaded with ornaments which are the wages of guilt, and exulting in the badges of her dishonor; to see her admitted into all public places, and rudely pressing before the meek and virtuous—I could strip her of her gaudy trappings, and, to bring her to a just sense of her infamous conduct, feed her upon bread and water, till convinced of the necessity of repentance, she should gladly embrace the most servile employment, and accept the meanest apparel, rather than return to her former life of vice and dissipation.

How many families have been ruined by licentious women! How many virtuous wives have sunk, broken-hearted to the grave! how many innocent orphans have been sent portionless into the world, through their diabolical machinations! [...] alas! (I shudder as the thought occurs) how many wretched women, forgetful of their marriage vows, have relinquished a tender husband, a family of children, whose innocent caresses should have linked her heart inseparably to their father, and thrown herself into the arms of an abandoned libertine!—let not such a woman plead seduction—a married [...] must, by her conduct give some encouragement before the most profligate man would dare offered her ear with a declaration of love; and weak, [...] weak, must be her repulses, if he ventures to [...] in his impious pursuit.

[...] the inmost recesses of my soul do I pity the unhappy girl who, betrayed by the impulse of [Page] affection, falls a prey to an insidious villain, and, abandoned by her seducer, is exposed to the scorn and contempt of the world—Oh! how my heart has been wrung to see poor girls who are scarcely past their childhood, whose misfortune it has been to have wicked advisers, so early initiated into the school of vice. Their tender frames, which once perhaps, by kind, paternal care, were shielded from the winds of Heaven—now defenceless, in the most inclement season exposed to noxious damps and pinching cold, and when they most stand in need of consolation, when bowed almost to the grave with want, disease, and shame, to see them rest their wearied bones upon the cold damp pavement, and lay their aching heads upon the steps of an house where a woman dwells, whose heart is a thousand times more guilty than theirs, who sins without remorse, and riots in wealth and luxury.

I never see the poor nightly wanderers that infest our streets, but, spite of my endeavours to the contrary, the tear of anguish will steal unbidden to my eye.

Poor souls! I often say, poor unhappy creatures, would to Heaven I had a fortune capacious as my heart, that I might snatch you from perdition, and reach you the road to everlasting felicity. I would guard you from the insults of the world; I would cherish you, listen to all your tales of sorrow, and join my tears with yours, till we had washed away the stains of guilt, and taught you "that to be happy, is to be happy."

Oh! my fair countrywomen, turn not away from the plaints of misery; scorn not the daughters [...] affliction; for, if by clemency and humanity [...] could draw one miserable object from the [...] [Page] paths of vice, and restore her to peace with her own soul, you would do an act more acceptable in the sight of your Creator, than the man who bestows thousands for the endowment of an hospital—the first action must proceed from innate goodness of the heart; the last may from self-love—a man may do a public act of benevolence to perpetuate his name, and dignify himself with the title of generous; but that pure charity which leads us to forgive the failings of our fellow creatures, chear the desponding heart, and wipe the grief-swoln eye of an obscure individual, must be the result of religion; it is a sort of benevolence which gratifies the heart in performing good deeds, but blushes whenever those actions are repeated—It feels the most exalted pleasure in relieving a distressed fellow creature, but it is pained to receive acknowledgements.

THE ARREST.

I WILL go and pay the disconsolate Hester a visit, said I, one morning as I was rambling near Chelsea. I bent my steps toward her habitation; but had not proceeded far before I observed a young man, whose dress had formerly been genteel, but was now shabby in the extreme; his hair had once been dressed, but it might have been some three weeks or a month since; his coat was de couleur de puce, but much the worse for wear, as the elbows discovered a very fine, but dirty, shirt; his once [...] waistcoat was threadbare and greasy, his [...] loose and ragged at the knees; a pair of dirty silk stockings, ornamented with here and there [Page] a hole, hung in a [...]lovenly manner about his legs; and the sable fril of his shirt, that peeped from his breast, was trimmed with the finest edging—That man has once been a coxcomb, said I; for I always judge when I see the remains of finery put on carelessly or disfigured with dirt, that the wearer has formerly been extravagant in his dress.

I approached the tattered beau in order to take a view of his person, when I discovered the features of my old acquaintance Mr. Woudbe.

And this is the end of ignorant pride, ostentation, and folly, said I—no doubt you would now be glad of a friend to administer to those wants which henceforth you will learn to pity in others—but I fear your conduct has been such that you have no friends to apply to.

The thought was scarcely passed before two disagreeable looking fellows came up, and shewing the trembling Woudbe a bit of parchment, he was forced to surrender himself their prisoner.

Just at that time a young man of fashion passing, and recollecting Woudbe, accosted him with heigh! Jack, what! come to this already! I thought you would have held it out a little longer—ha! ha! what a rueful figure!—all out at the elbows eh!

A truce with your sneers, Sir, said Woudbe, assuming an air of importance, I stand in need of twenty pounds immediately—you have frequently made me offers of service; lend me that sum, and I shall be obliged to you.

Ah! Jack, said the other, that air and manner won't do now, it did very well while the l'argent lasted, and you was a gentleman at large; but [...] you are again plain Jack 'Woudbe, the Cabinetmaker; you must learn to bow, cringe, and mind [Page] your business—I am sorry it goes so hard with you; but depend upon it, this will always be the case with young men of trifling fortunes, who ape the manners, and launch into extravagancies, which are only becoming their superiors—I would lend you the money with all my heart, but I know you have no way to repay it, and are too proud to go to work; therefore you had better submit to your fate with a good grace.

The poor crest fallen Woudbe walked away with his disagreeable companions, and the stranger addressed himself to me—that young man, Sir, said he, was the son of an industrious tradesman, who by strict attention to business, scraped together about three or four thousand pounds; at his death this money was left for his only son, who was then getting a little education at a cheap school in the country.

When fifteen years old, he was apprenticed to a capital Cabinet-maker; a very handsome premium was given with him, but he was too much of the gentleman to attend to business, and when he came of age he assumed the dress and manners of a man of fashion; expensive amusements, treats, balls, and the retinue of dissipation and folly were eagerly attended to—but this would not last long; it is now over; and even if he makes friends to get from his present confinement, I know of no method he can pursue for future subsistence.

Such young men as these, said I, by their folly are often involved in difficulties, which, in hopes of extricating themselves from, they hurry to the gaming table, and finding their expectations frustrated there also, as the last resource, betake themselves to a black crape, a good horse, and a pistol. [Page] —How careful should parents and guardians be to instil into the minds of youth of narrow fortunes, meekness, humility, and industry! the least tendency to thoughtless extravagance, in either sex ought to be severely chastised; since pride, and a passion for expensive pleasures, which they have no laudable method to obtain, has hurried thousands into actions which imbitter the last hours of life with poverty, shame, and remorse.

As I finished these remarks, I looked up, expecting an answer from my companion; but whether my discourse was too grave, or whether it touched his feelings, or whether some other cause had occasioned him to leave me, I know not, but he was gone; and on my turning round to look for him, I saw he was hastily proceeding towards town.

How easy it is, said I, for a man to blame a conduct in others which he is eagerly pursuing himself; perhaps a few years may reduce that young man to the same situation in which he now smiles [...] see Woudbe—experience is undoubtedly best when purchased; but Woudbe has, I fear, paid an exorbitant price for his.

I was now opposite Vellum's house.

THE RETRIBUTION.

HAVING entered, by means of my ring, I proceeded unseen to Hester's apartment—she was greatly altered since the death of her father s [...]ckly langour had taken possession of her features she looked anxious and fatigued.

[Page] I wonder Harper is not returned, said she to a young woman who was with her: I hope the dear Julietta is not worse.

She had hardly pronounced the words, before a post chaise stopped at the door, and, in a few moments, the injured orphan entered, leaning on the arm of an elderly woman; an universal trembling seized on Hester when she beheld the ravages which sickness and ill usage had made on the form of her lovely friend: she led her to a sopha, dropped on her knees before her, and, gazing at her with a look that spoke the keen anguish of her soul, took her thin hands in hers, and burst into tears.

Do you not know me, my sweet friend? said she, after a long and affecting silence; will you not speak to me, Julietta?

Hester, said she, bowing her head forward, and leaning her cheek upon that of her weeping friend, Hester, why are you so sorrowful? and why are you dressed in black? are you an orphan, Hester?

Oh! had it pleased Heave [...] I had been, cried Hester, earnestly, rather than you, dear, injured angel, had been reduced to this hapless state.

Alas! said Julietta, why would you wish to be an orphan, to have a cruel guardian, to lose your brother, to eat dry bread and drink cold water, and lie upon a wretched bed of straw? you could not bear it, dear Hester; you would die of a broken heart—for my part, I am used to it; I can bear it very well; then let me return to my little hut again—if my guardian knew I had left it, he would be very angry.

And have you suffered all this? cried Hester, weeping bitterly. Oh! Julietta, you never shall return to that sad place again; your cruel guardian is dead.

[Page] Dead! cried Julietta, raising her hands and eyes in a supplicating manner; then Heaven have mercy on him.

And what do you think of the poor girl's case? said Hester, as she re-entered the room with Dr. M—, after they had persuaded Julietta to go to bed.

The doctor gave her great hopes that kind and affectionate treatment would soon entirely restore her reason, which he imagined was already beginning to return.

Could I but see that happy day, said she, and deliver her fortune into her own hands, I should have no farther business in this world.

How so, my young friend? said the Doctor, with a look of surprise; I think you have a great deal of business in the world yet; why sure, with all your goodness and accomplishments, you would not shut yourself up in a convent?

Why no, said she; I am not a sufficient convert to the catholic religion to imagine it absolutely necessary to shut ourselves up within the walls of a prison to avoid the temptations of the world; but, I think, a person may in solitude better practise those virtues so necessary to our well doing hereafter, than in the noise and hurry of the more busy scenes of life.—By solitude, I do not mean to retire to a desert, and shut myself from the converse and society of my fellow creatures; I mean a calm retirement, far from folly and dissipation, where I may consult my own heart on the propriety and equity of all my actions, without incurring the sneers and ridicule of the world. As to the [...] which my poor unhappy father hoarded, it does not belong to me; it is the property of the widow and the fatherless.

[Page] Here her tears interrupted her.

After this declaration, Doctor, she continued, you will not be surprised at my resolution of retiring from the gay scenes of life; and, I flatter myself, I shall in time regain that serenity of mind a series of uncommon trials have robbed me of.

The Doctor was too much affected to reply; he pressed her hand, struggled hard to suppress a rising tear, and making a hasty bow, left the room.

A few weeks restored Julietta to reason, health and spirits; when Hester, having resigned her fortune to her own care, and made ample retribution of those sums her father had appropriated to his own use, during the insanity of his ward, retired to a village, in a county far distant from London, and spent the remainder of her life in administering to the wants of the helpless and distressed.

Her friendship for Julietta ceased but with her life; and many summers has that amiable girl spent with her uniting in every action of benevolence, and shedding peace and plenty around the [...] the villagers adored them while living, and mourned with unaffected sorrow when deprived by [...] of their benefactresses.

THE CITY HEIRESS.

I WILL have the most elegant that is to be had, Mamma, cried a young lady, as she came out of a carriage, and ran into a milliner's shop, which I had entered to buy some little presents for Harriet and Lucy.

Do not let me detain you from waiting on the ladies, said I to the mistress of the shop, for I was [Page] willing to see to what lengths this girl's extravagance would take her.

I want a bouquet, Mrs. Frippery, said she; come, shew me some of the handsomest you have.

The counter was in an instant overspread with roses, carnations, lilies, jessamine, and other flowers innumerable; it looked like the temple of Flora; but I should by no means have taken the young lady for the divinity of the place, as she was a little swarthy figure, with small black eyes, a good deal marked with the small pox, and something inclined to be crooked.—Nature might have made her really so; [...] her stay-maker had found out a method, in a great measure, to hide the defect; her hair was dressed to the extremity of the fashion; her bonnet, which was large, and loaded with trimming, placed on the left side of her head [...] a train of rich satin swept the ground as she walked; the prominence of her handkerchief almost hid her chin; and her cheeks wore the tints of some of the best rouge.—It is astonishing, said I, as I sat looking at her, that a woman to whom nature has not been lavish in personal attractions, should take such pains by their [...]utre manner of dressing, entirely to obscure the few charms with which they are endued, and make their defects conspicuous.

I was roused from these reflections by the Lady's bidding five guineas for as many flowers.

But really, Mrs. Frippery, said she, have you [...] none more elegant?

Why, my dear Miss, said the woman, I have one, but it is positively bespoke by the Dutchess of Melvin, and it likewise comes rather high:—it cannot go out of my shop under seven guineas—though there are not more flowers in it than in the one you have chosen.

[Page] The flowers were produced, the Lady insisted on having them, and the money was paid.

It is a doubt with me, said I, whether the poor mortal whose industry and ingenuity formed those pretty ornaments, scarcely earns more than enough to support nature; and yet this thoughtless girl has paid seven guineas for them, merely because they were bespoke by the Dutchess of Melvin.

Just as the Ladies were about leaving the shop, a smart man, dressed like an officer, whose language spoke him hibernian, desired to look at some point ruffles; he advanced to the counter at which the young Lady sat, and while he seemed busy at looking at the ruffles, took an opportunity to slip a letter into her hand unperceived by her mother.—I shall again have recourse to my ring, said I, for if I am not mistaken, that man is a fortune-hunter.

That young Lady, said Mrs. Frippery, as they drove from the door, is the only child of Alderman Fig—she is heiress to a vast fortune.

Two fat old gentlemen passing just then, she informed me that one of them was Mr. Fig himself.

I had made my purchases so I stepped out of the shop and followed the Alderman.

THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

I HAVE been out on purpose to get an appetite, said Mr. Fig;—I think it was the largest turtle I ever saw; and my friend Dip always has his turtles so well dressed, that I long for the hour of dinner. I will just step home and change my wig, and be with you again immediately.

Then this is the time, said I, for me to get admission.—I put my hand in my pocket for my [Page] ring—but it was gone—I searched every pocket diligently, but no ring could I find. I returned to the milliner's shop, and from thence home—searched my bed—had every room in the house swept; but it was all to no purpose.—I never saw it again.

And pray, Mr. Inquisitor, what became of the City Heiress?

Upon my word, Madam, I never heard.

FINIS.

[Page]

BOOKS LATELY PUBLISHED, And for Sale, at William Gibbons's Printing-Office, No. 144, North Third Street.

Lady's Magazine, first and second Volumes, [...] each about 300 Pages, on a variety of Subjects, and ornamented with Plates—The Third Volume will be published by the 1st of January.

Rights of Woman, with Strictures on Moral and Political Subjects. By Mary Woolstone-craft.

Lady's Literary Companion; or a collection of Essays, adapted for the instruction and amusement of the female sex.

Select Miscellanies, for the use of Schools, and improvement of young persons.

Fables for the Ladies, by Dr. Moore, to which are added the Fables of Flora, by Dr. Langhorne.

Sylvan Letters; or the Pleasures of a Country Life.

A Treatise on Marriage and Matrimony.

Divine Breathings; or a Pious Soul Thirsting after Christ. In One Hundred Pathetical Meditations.

Poems on several Subjects—Written by Stephen Duck.

The Means, Properties, and Effects of [...] Faith considered—A Discourse. By Thomas Story.

&c. &c. &c.

Information about this book

Title statement

The inquisitor; or, Invisible rambler. In three volumes. / By Mrs. Rowson, author of Victoria. ; Volume I[-III].Inquisitor

Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824.

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI :

Date

2008-09.

ID [DLPS]

N19950

ID [TCP]

N19950

ID [STC]

Evans 26108

ID [NOTIS]

APW6890

ID [IMAGE-SET]

26108

ID [EVANS-CITATION]

99013033

Availability

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 26108.

Notes

(Evans-TCP ; no. N19950)

Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 26108)

Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 26108)

Source

— The inquisitor; or, Invisible rambler. In three volumes. / By Mrs. Rowson, author of Victoria. ; Volume I[-III]., Inquisitor, Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824., Cockburne, Lady, dedicatee.. The first American edition..

Extent

viii, [1], 10-202, [2] p. ; 16 cm. (12mo)

--Printed and sold by William Gibbons, no. 144, North Third-Street.,. Philadelphia :: 1793.. (Dedicated to Lady Cockburne.) (Vol. 2 (p. [69]-132) and 3 (p. [133]-202) have separate title pages.) (Edition statement transposed; precedes "Volume I." on title page.) (Bookseller's advertisement, p. [203].)

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