Interesting stories, singularly engaging extracts, and delightful allegories. [Two lines of verse]

Interesting stories, singularly engaging extracts, and delightful allegories. [Two lines of verse]

Table of contents

Title page

INTERESTING STORIES.

On the Reality, Beauty Importance, and Necessity of Religion.

THE NEGRO

The IDLER. An Oriental TALE.

SELICO. AN AFRICAN TALE.

GOLDSMITH's Essay on the wisdom of Providence, in the construction of nature.

The history of Amelia Stanford, written by herself.

From Dr. FRANKLIN's WORKS. On Luxury, Idleness, and Industry. From a letter to Benjamin Vaughan, Esq. member of the British Parliament written in 1784

PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY An agllegorical tale

THE FAIR PENITENT. A Fragment.

A FRAGMENT.

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§

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INTERESTING STORIES, SINGULARLY ENGAGING EXTRACTS, AND Delightful Allegories.

To please, expand, and dignify the heart,

Nature our guide, and virtue for the chart.

PRINTED IN BENNINGTON, VERMONT, IN THE YEAR M,DCC,XCVI.

INTERESTING STORIES.

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On the Reality, Beauty Importance, and Necessity of Religion.

A Few days after the archbishop of Paris and his vicars had set the example of renouncing their clerical character, a rector, from a village on the banks of the Rhone, followed by some of his parishioners, with an offering of gold and silver saints, chalices, rich vestments, &c. presented himself at the bar of the convention.

The rector, a thin venerable man, with grey hairs, was ordered to speak.

I come, said he, from the village of ******, where the only good building standing is a very fine church.—My parishioners beg you will take it, to make an hospital for [...] sick and [Page] wounded of both parties, they being both equally our countrymen. The gold and silver part of which we have brought to you, they intreat you will devote to the service of the state, and that you will cast the bells into cannon to drive its foreign invaders. For myself, I am come, with great pleas-use to resign my letters of ordination, of induction, and every deed and title by which I have been constituted a member of your ecclesiastical polity. Here are the papers; you may burn them if you please, in the same fire with the genealogical trees and patents of nobility. I desire, likewise, that you will discontinue my salary. I am still able to support myself by the labour of my hands; and I beg you to believe that I never felt sincerer joy than I now do in making this renunciation. I have longed to see this day; I see it, and am glad.

When the old man had done speaking, the applauses were immoderate. The rector did not seem greatly elated with those tokens of approbation; he retired back a few steps, and thus resumed his discourse.

[Page] Before you applaud my sentiments, it i [...] f [...] you should understand them; perhaps they may not entirely coin [...] with your own. I rejoice in this day not because I wish to see religion degraded, but, because I wish to see it exalted and purified.

By dissolving its alliance with the state, you have given it dignity and independence. You have done it a piece of service—a service which its wellwishers would perhaps never have had courage to render it, but which is the only thing it wanted to make it appear in its genuine beauty and lustre.

Nobody will now say of me, when I am performing the offices of my religion, it is a trade; he is paid for telling the people such and such things; he is hired to keep up a useful piece of mummery. They cannot now say this,? and therefore I feel myself raised in my own esteem, and shall speak to them with a confidence and frankness, which, before this, I never durst venture to assume.

We resign without reluctance our gold and silver images and embroidered vestments, because we have never [Page] found that looking upon gold and silver made the heart more pure, or the affections more heavenly; we can also spare our churches, for the heart that wishes to list itself up to God will never be at a loss for a place to do it in; but we cannot spare religion, because, to tell you the truth, we never had to much occasion for it.

I understand that you accuse us priests of having told the people a great many falsehoods. I suspect this may have been the care, but till this day we have never been allowed to enquire whether the things which we taught them were true or not. I cannot but hope, however, that the errors we have fallen into have not been very material, since the village has in general been sober and good; the peasants are honest, docile, and laborious; the husbands love their wives, and the wives their husbands; they are fortunately not too rich to be compassionate, and they have constantly relieved the sick and fugitives of all parties whenever it has been in their way. I think, therefore, what I have taught them cannot be so very amiss.

[Page] You want to extirpate priests, but will you hinder the ignorant from applying for instruction, the unhappy for comfort and hope, the unlearned from looking up to the learned? If you do not, you will have priests, by whatever name you may order them to be called; but it is certainly not necessary they should wear a particular dress, or be appointed by state letters of ordination. My letters of ordination are my zeal, my charity, my ardent love for my dear children of the village: If I were more learned I would add my knowledge, but alas! we all know very little; to a man every error is pardonable but want of humility. We have a public walk, with a spreading elm-tree at one end of it, and a circle of green round it, with a convenient bench. Here I shall draw together the children as they are playing around me. I shall point to the vines laden with fruit, to the orchards, to the herds of cattle lowing around us, to the distant hills stretching one behind another, and they will ask me, how came all these things? I shall tell them all I know, or all that [Page] I have heard from the wise men who have lived before me; they will be penetrated with love and veneration; they will kneel and I shall kneel with them; they will not be at my feet, but all of us at the feet of that Good Being whom we shall worship together, and thus they will receive into their render minds a religion.

The old men will sometimes come, from having deposited under the green sod one of their companions, and place themselves by my side. They will look wishfully at the turf, and anxiously enquire is he gone forever? shall we soon be like him? will no morning break over the tomb? when the wicked cease from troubling will the good cease from doing good? We will talk of these things, I will comfort them.—I will tell them of the goodness of God, I will speak to them of a life to come; I will bid them hope for a state of retribution.

You have changed our holydays;—you have an undoubted right, as our civil governors so to do; it is very immaterial whether they are kept once in seven days or once in ten: some, [Page] however, you leave us, and when they occur, I shall tell those who chuse to hear me, of the beauty and utility of virtue, of the dignity of right conduct.

There is a book out of which I have sometimes taught my people; It says, we are to love those who do us hurt, and to pour oil and wine into the wounds of the stranger. In this book we read of a person called Jesus;—some worship him as God: others, as I am told, say it is wrong so to do:—some teach that he existed before the beginning of ages, others, that he was born of Joseph and Mary.

I cannot tell whether these controversies will be ever decided; but in the mean time, I think we cannot do otherwise than well in imitating him, for I learn that he loved the poor, and went about doing good.

THE NEGRO

"Alas I am saint and feeble," said a voice which misery seemed to have rendered almost inarticulate. They were the words of a poor negro, who, oppressed by the heat of the sun, (for [Page] the day was hot and sultry) in a languid posture, was enjoying a short respite from his labors. "Curse on European avarice that deals in cargoes of wretchedness, and thrives by the traffic of despair," I exclaimed the very moment my imagination caught the picture. "Perhaps," said I, "this child of sorrow has been torn from a father—a mother." Nature must have pleaded very loudly against his captivity; for I thought I could perceive the tears of affection standing in his eyes, "Or, perhaps, he has looked forward, with eager expectation, to the days he seemed destined to pass with the companion of his youth; and now"—I thought on thee, Eliza, the partner of my life, and I endeavored to divert my thought from the gloomy read they were pursuing; but in vain. My captive spoke still louder.

"I once was happy," said he, "When I lived beyond these great waters, I heard not the yells of despair; the gale rung not with the shrieks of the wretched. Our but was in a cool valley, beneath the shade of the losty palm trees. My labours [Page] then were sweet, for I feared neither stripes nor master. My work in the fields provided my father with food, and he repaid with smiles the toil of his sons. All was joy, all was pleasure. Strong and cheerful, I hailed the breezes of the morning; at noon I bathed in the stream, and in the evening joined the happy dance in the meadow. But now—"I loved, alas! the beauteous Yoncha, She was the theme of every song, the envy of surrounding virgins. For her I sought and made two heroes bow at my feet. The maid of my heart trembled for my safety, and hailed my victory with the smiles of rapture. I brought her the clustered bannanas. From my hand, she said they were more luscious. For her I climed the airy cocoanut tree, and threw into her lap the milky fruit. In the chase, she nerved my arm with strength and inspired, my breast with courage.—Then I smiled on danger; I heeded not death. I attacked the indignant foe in his den. Though his eyes glistened with anger. I pierced him and he bled for Youcha. I carried home the spoils of the battle, [Page] and placed them in her bower.—But now, alas! she bleeds for her lost warrior. She hears not his groans. He pines in slavery, he lingers for the stroke of death. Ah, me? the deep ocean divides us—Methinks the breezes that play on the surface of the waters, might waft her a sigh or a prayer. I have often asked them, but they seem not to regard me.

"We were dancing on the green in the evening, and we dreaded not the hour of danger. But the tall ship anchored in the stream, and treachery lurked for our captivity. In vain we wept—The whites heed not the sigh of the negro. They know not the treasure I have left behind me. She may yet be safe!—I recall the scenes of pleasure I partook with her, and memory adds new horrorr to despair. I have toiled till my hand is feeble. I must, therefore, expect more lashes. The white men are very powerful; for their Gods are stronger than ours. They are not appeased by the sighs of the negro. Our labors are bitt [...]es but they furnish a rich sweet for our masters."

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The IDLER.
An Oriental TALE.

AS Ortogrul of Basia was one day wandering along the streets of Bagdat, musing on the varieties of merchandize which the shops offered to his view, and observing the different occupations which busied the multitudes on every side, he was awakened from the tranquility of meditation by a crowd that obstructed his passage. He raised his eyes and saw the chief vizier who had returned from the divan, and was entering his palace. Ortogrul mingled with the attendants, and being supposed to have some business for the visier was permited to enter. He surveyed the spaciousness of the apartments, admired the walls hung with golden tapestry, and the floors covered with silken carpets, and despised the simple neatness of his own little habitation.

Surely said he to himself this palace is the seat of happiness, where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and discontent and sorrow can have no admission. Whatever nature has provided for the delight of sense is here spread forth to be enjoyed,[Page]what can mortal wish or imagine which the master of this palace has not obtained? The dishes of luxury cover his table, the voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers: he breathes the fragrance of the groves of java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets of Ganges. He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed; he wishes and his wish is gratified; all whom he sees obey him, all whom he hears flatters him. How different, Ortogrul is thy condition, who art doomed to the perpetual torment of unsatisfied desire, and who hast no amusement in thy power that can withhold thee from thy own conviction. They tell thee that thou art wise, but what does wisdom avail with poverty? None will flatter the poor, and the wise have very little power of flattering themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the sons of wretchedness who lives with his own faults and follies always before him, and who has none to reconcile him to himself by praise and veneration. I have long sought content and have not found it; I will from this moment endeavour to be rich.

Full of his new resolution, he shut himself in his chamber for six months, to deliberate how he should grow rich: he sometimes proposed to offer himself as [Page]counsellor to one of the kings of India, and sometimes resolved to dig for diamonds in the mines of Golconda. One day after some hours passed in violent fluctuation of opinion, sleep insensibly seized him in his chair: he dreamed that he was ranging a desart country in search of some one that might teach him to grow rich; and as he stood on a hill shaded with cypress, in doubt whither to direct his steps, his father appeared on a sudden, standing before him. Ortogrul, said the old man, I know thy perplexity, listen to thy father. Cast thine eye on the opposite mountain. Ortogrul looked and saw a torrent tumbling down the rocks roaring with the noise of thunder, and scattering its foam on the impending woods. Now, said his father, look upon the valley that lies between the hills. Ortogrul looked, and espied a well out of which issued a small rivulet. Tell me now, said his father, dost thou wish for sudden affluence, that may pour upon thee like the mountain torrent, or for a slow and gradual increase, resembling the [...]ill gliding from the well. Let me be quickly rich, said Ortogrul let the golden stream be quick and violent. Look round thee, said his father once again Ortogrul looked and saw the channel of the torrent[Page]dry and dusty, but following the rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake which the supply, slow and constant, kept always full. He waked and determined to grow rich by silent prosus and industry.

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SELICO.
AN AFRICAN TALE.

By M. FLORIAN.

IF, as the Persians assert, we might believe that the universe is in subjection to two principles, of which one does the little good which is conspicious, and the other the evil every where so abundant, we would be inclined to believe that Africa is the place where the evil principle, in a particular manner, exercises his power. No portion of the globe produces such variety of poisons, so many wild beasts and venomous reptiles. The little which we know of the history of Morocco, of the Negroes of Adra, of Jaggas, the native inhabitants of the coasts, as far as the country of the Hottentots, bears a remarkable resemblance to the natural history of lions, panthers, and serpents, which are so worthy of partaking this parching region with these cannibal Princes which sell and eat the flesh of their prisoners. In the midst of these disgusting and horrible scenes, where [Page] some sell their children, and others eat their captives, we sometimes, may discover traces of natural justice, of genuine virtue, of constancy in suffering, and a generous, contempt of death. These examples, rare as they may be are sufficient to interest us in this degraded part of the human species, to make us remember that they still are men: just as in a barren desart, a few solitary blades of verdure, which the traveller is from time to time delighted to discover, suffice to convince him that he still treads upon the earth.

IN the kingdom of Juida, situated on the coast of Guinea, beyond the Cape of three points, and not far from Sabi, its capital, there lived, in the year 1727, a poor widow, named Darina; she was the mother of three sons, whom she had brought up with a tenderness fortunately common in human nature, but very uncommon in the climates where children are considered as an article of trade, and sold for slaves by their unfeeling parents. The oldest of these were called Guberi; the second Teloa; and the youngest Selico. All of these were amiable and sensible; they adored their good mother, who, now [Page] grown old and infirm, lived only by their industry. The wealth of this family consisted only of a hut, in which they lived together, with a little field contiguous, the maize of which was their support. Every morning, taking it by turns, one of the three brothers went to the chace, another worked in the field, the third remained at home with their mother: in the evening they met, the huntsman produced his partriges, parrot, or perhaps a little honey; the husbandman brought fuel, whilst he who stayed at home provided their common meat. They supped affectionately together, contending who should be most attentive to their mother: they received her blessing, and reclining upon straw, by the side of each other, they went to sleep expecting the morrow.

SELICO, the youngest of the brethren, went often to the town to carry the first fruits of the harvest, the offering of this poor family, to the temple of the great divinity of their country. This god, it is well known, is a huge serpent of that species which are not venomous and do no injury; on the contrary, they destroy those serpents [Page] which are venomous; and they are so venerated at Juida, that it is considered as a horrible crime to put one to death. Thus the number of these sacred serpents has multiplied without end, in the midst of their towns and villages, and, even within houses, one meets, at every step, these deities, who come familiarly to feel at the tables of their worshippers, sleeping near their fires, and producing their young upon their beds; which last is considered by them at the happiest of omens.

OF all the Negroes of Juida, Selico was the blackest, the best made, and the most amiable. In the temple of their great deity he had seen the young Berissa, daughter to the Chief Priest, who, by her figure, her beauty, and her grace, was far superior to all her companions. Selico conceived a passion for her, and was beloved in return. Every Friday, the day sacred amongst the Negroes to repose and religion, the young lover appeared at the temple, passed the day in the society of his dear Berissa, told her of his mother, his tender passion, and of the happiness they should enjoy when united in marriage. Berissa did not appear to conceal that she equally [Page] desired this moment to arrive; and the venerable Farulho, her father, who approved of the connection, promised, with embraces, soon to reward their tenderness.

AT length this period, so anxiously expected, drew nigh.—The day was fixed; the mother of Selico and the two brothers had made ready the hut for the young couple, when the famous Truro Audati, King of Dahomai, whose rapid victories have been celebrated even in Europe, invading the kingdom of Ardra, exterminating the inhabitants, and advancing at the head of his formidable army, was checked only by the great river which bounded the realms of the sovereign of Juida. This last a week and timid Prince, governed by his women and his ministers, did not think even of collecting a few troops to oppose the conqueror. He believed that the deities of the country knew well enough how to defend the entrance, and carried to the banks of the river all the sacred serpents that could be got together. The Prince of Dahomai, surprised and indignant at having only reptiles to combat, threw himself into the stream with his troops, and gained the opposite [Page] bank, and very soon these gods, from whom miracles were expected, were cut to pieces, roasted on the fire, and devoured by the conquerors. Then the King of Juida, thinking that nothing else could save him, abandoned his capital, and hastened to conceal himself in a remote island. The warriors of Audati spread themselves every where, carrying with them fire and sword.—They burned the crops, towns, and villages, and massacred without mercy all that they could find.

TERROR dispersed the few inhabitants who escaped the carnage. The three brothers, on the approach of the conquerors, had taken their mother on their shoulders and hastened to conceal themselves in the woods. Selico would not leave Darina whilst she was exposed to the smallest danger; but the moment he saw her in safety, trembling for the fate of Berissa, he flew to Sabi, to save or perish with her. Sabi was taken by the Dahomians. The streets flowed with blood! the houses were plundered and destroyed; the palace of the King and the temple of the serpent were nothing but smoaking ruins, covered with dead bodies, whose heads, according [Page] to custom, the barbarian [...] had carried away. The wretched Selico in despair, and wishing for death, ventured many times amongst the soldiers intoxicated with brandy and blood! Every where did Selico rush [...] the [...] scenes, seeking Berissa and [...], pronouncing their names sorrowfully aloud, and unable to recognize their bodies amongst so many [...] trunks!

AFTER dedicating five days to this terrible search, doubting not but that Berissa and her father had become the victims of the ferocious Dahomians, Selico determined to return to his mother. He found her in the wood where he had left her with his brothers. The fixed sorrow of Selico, his manner, and his wild looks, terrified this unhappy family! Darina lamented his misfortune, and tried various consolations; to all of which her son was insensible. He refused all nourishment, and seemed determined to expire by famine. Guberi and Teloa did not attempt to [...] him by argument and reason, but they pointed to their venerable [...] who had neither house nor bread, nor any thing left her but her children.— [Page] They demanded of him. ‘whether at that sight he had not the courage to live?’

SELICO promised that he would, and forced himself to think of nothing but of dividing with his two brothers the tender attentions which they paid their parent. They plunged in to the woods, went still farther from Sabi, built themselves a hut in a remote valley, and thought of supplying by the chace, the maize and the vegetables which they were without.

DEPRIVED of their bows and arrows, and of all their other necessaries, which they had no time to carry away, they soon began to feel the extreme of misery. Fruits were in these forests rarely to be found, where the prodigious number of apes were always prepared to dispute them with the three brothers. The earth produced nothing but [...]. They had no instrument to turn, nor grain to plant it. The rainy season came on, and the horrors of famine attacked them. The poor mother always in misery, reclined upon a bed of dry leaves, was ready to expire, but without a complaint. Her sons, exhibited by hunger, could no longer penetrate [Page] the woods which were deluged every where: they laid traps for the little birds which came near their hut, and when they took one, which rarely happened, for they had no longer any [...], they carried it to their parent, and presenting it to her, forced from her a fa [...]e; but she would not eat it unless divided with her children. Three months passed without any promise of change to their miserable situation. Compelled at length to take some step, they held a consultation at the desire of Darina. Guberi proposed first they should penetrate as far as the coast, and sell one of their number to the first European they might meet; and to purchase with the money, bread, maize, and instruments of agriculture, with which they might support their mother. The brothers replied to this, but with a melancholy silence—‘To seperate from each other for ever! to become the slaves of white men!’ the Idea drove them near to distraction. 'Which shall be sold?' cried Teloa, in a tone of grief. 'Lots must decide it,' replied Guberi. ‘Let us place three stones of different sizes in this clay vessel, shake them together, and he who [Page] draws the least, must be the unhappy person.—No, my brother,' interrupted Selico, the lot is already drawn. I am the most miserable of all; you forget that I have lost Berissa, and that you alone prevented me from dying, by saying I might be useful to my mother. Confirm what you have said—this is the time—sell me!’

GUBERI and Teloa attempted in vain to oppose the generous purpose of their brother; Selico resisted their expostulations, refused to draw his lot, and threatened to go by himself if they would not accompany him; at length the two eldest gave way. It was agreed that Guberi should continue with his mother, and that Teloa should conduct Selico to the Dutch fort, where he should receive the price of his brother's liberty, and that he should immediately return with the provisions which they wanted. When this was determined, Selico alone forbore to weep, but he found it difficult indeed to restrain them when he was to leave his mother, bid her an eternal adieu, embrace her for the last time, and what is more, deceive her by promising soon to return with Teloa, saying that they were [Page] only about to visit their former habitation, and to see if they could again take possession of it. The good old woman believed them, yet she could hardly tear herself from her sons arms; she trembled at the danger they were about to encounter: and, by an involuntary motion, ran after Selico the moment she lost sight of his person.

THE two brothers, of whom it could not be said which was most unhappy, in a short time arrived at Sabi. Murder had then ceased, peace began again to smile, the king of Dahomai undisturbed possessor of the States of Juida, wished to encourage a commerce with Europeans, whom he invited to his city. Many English and French merchants were received at the Monarch's court, who sold them his numerous prisoners, and divided amongst his troops the lands of the vanquished. Teola soon found a merchant who offered him an hundred crowns for his young brother. As he hesitated, trembled in all his limbs, and disputed about this horrible bargain, a trumpet was heard, and a public cryer announced with a loud voice, that the king of Dahomai promised: our hundred ounces of gold to whoever would bring [Page] him alive a young Negro, who the night before bad dared to profane the scraglio of the Monarch, and had escaped towards the cast, from the pursuit of the guards. Selico heard the proclamation, made a sign to Teloa not to conclude his bargain with the merchant; and taking his brother aside, spoke to him thus, in a firm tone: ‘You are come to sell me, and I wished that you should, in order to support my mother, but the small sum which this white offers you cannot prove of material importance; four hundred ounces of gold will secure certain wealth for ever to you and Daria. You must get this my brother; bind me this moment, and carry me to the King as the guilty person whom he wants,—Be not alarmed, I know as well as you do what punishment I have to expect, I have calculated how long it will endure, it will not exceed an hour, and when my mother brought me forth she suffered more.’

TELOA trembling could make no [...] with tenderness and affection, he [...] at the feet of Selico, embraced his knees, conjured him in the name of his mother, of Berissa, by [Page] all he held dear, to renounce his terrible purpose. 'Of whom do you speak,' said Selico, with a severe smile. ‘I have lost Berissa, and I wish to meet her again. I save my mother's life by my death, I make my brothers rich for ever, and I escape a slavery which might be protracted for forty years. My choice is made, press me no farther, or I go and surrender myself; you will then lose all advantage by my death, and you will occasion misery to her to whom we owe our lives.’

AWED by the manner and the accent in which Selico pronounced these last words, Teloa ventured not to reply; he obeyed his brother, went and got cords, bound his hands behind him, bathing the knots with his tears, and, making him walk before him proceeded to the King's palace.

STOPPED by the guards, he demanded an audience of the King: he was announced and introduced. The King of Dahomai, covered with gold and precious stones, was reclining on a fear let sofa, his head resting on the bosom of his favori [...]es, who were dressed in rich brocaded silks, but were naked from the waist upwards. His ministers and officers [Page] superbly dressed, were prostrate twenty feet from him. The most valiant were distinguished by a collar of human teeth, each of which testified a victory. Many females with muskets on their shoulders guarded the door of the apartment. Large golden vases containing palm wine, brandy, and strong liquors, were placed at some distance from the King, and the hall was paved with the sculls of his enemies. 'Sovereign of the world!' cried Teloa, prostrating himself on the ground, ‘I come in compliance with your sacred orders to deliver into your hands—.’ He could not finish, and his voice died away upon his lips. The King interrogated him, but he could make no reply. At length Selico began:

'KING of Dahomai,' said he, ‘you see before you the guilty wretch who, induced by a guilty passion last night, penetrated the recesses of your seraglio. He who brings me here in chains was a long time my friend and I did not fear to trust him with my secret. Zeal for your service has prevailed with him to violate his friendship. He surprised me in my sleep, [Page] has loaded me with chains, and comes to demand the reward; give it him for the miserable man has deserved it.’

THE King, without vouchsafing any answer, made a sign to one of his officers, who, viewing the prisoner, gave him into the custody of the female guards, and paid Teloa the four hundred ounces of gold. This last, taking the gold, the touch of which agonized his soul, went and purchased provisions; and, precipitately leaving the town, made hade to his mother.

ALREADY, by order of the Prince, they were making ready the horrible punishment to which they are doomed who commit adultery with the wives of the sovereign. Two large trenches are sunk at a small distance from each other. In that which is intended for the guilty female, they fix the unfortunate culprit to a stake, and all the women of the seraglio, clothed in their most sumptuous dresses, carrying in their hands large vessels of boiling water, advance to the found of tabors and flutes, to pour this water upon her head till she expires. The other trench contains a pile of wood, upon which they place a cross [Page] bar of iron, which is supported by two raised stakes. To this bar the criminal is secured, fire is set to the pile and the wretched creatures pe [...]sh after protracted torments, being only reached by the extremities of the flame.

THE place was filled with people; the troops under aims formed a square, beating their spears and muskets; the priests, in their dresses of ceremony, waited for the two victims to lay their hands upon them and devote them to death. They appeared from different corners, guarded by the armed females. Selico, calm and resigned, advanced with his head raised up. When he came towards the stake he could not avoid lifting his eyes towards the companion of his misery. What was his astonishment and grief on beholding Berissa! He uttered a loud cry, and would have darted to her, but was withheld by the executioners. Soon his first emotion gave way to indignation—'Wretch! that I am,' he cried, ‘whilst I courted death, hoping again to meet her, she was amongst these vile females who contend for a tyrant's affections. Not content with her [...] in love, the was also faithless [Page] to her master; she deserved the tide of adultress, and the punishment of her crime. Oh, my mother! for thee alone I die—it is on thee alone that I can bear to think!’

At this instant the wretched Berissa recognizing Selico uttered a loud scream; she called the priests, and declared to them aloud, that the young man they were about to kill, was not he who had penetrated the seraglio. She swore this by the heavens, by the mountains, the thunder and the most august of the sacred serpents. The priests intimidated, ordered the execution to be suspended, and ran to inform the king, who was himself present. Indignation and fury disturbed the countenance of the monarch when he approached Berissa.—'Slave!' said he in a terrible voice—‘thou who contemnest the love of thy master, thou whom I wouldst have raised to the rank of my first sultana, and who in spite of your refu [...]al, I have suffered to live, what is your purpose in pretending to deny the guilt of your accomplice. Dost thou wish to save him. If this be not thy [Page] lover, name who he is—deliver the guilty to my justice, I will release the innocent!’

'King of Dahomai,' replied Berissa, who was already secured to the fatal stake, ‘I cannot accept thy heart I possess not my own; I did not fear to tell you so. Do you think that she who would not live to share a crown, would speak a falshood at the moment of death! No, I confess all, and repeat my refusal. A man did last night enter my apartment, he did not leave it till the morning—but this was not the man! You ask me to name him, I ought not, I will not; I am ready to die; I know that nothing can save me, and I only protract the fatal moment to prevent you from perpetrating a crime. I again swear to you, king of Dahomai, that the blood of this innocent person will fall upon your head: deliver him, and punish me! I have no more to say.’

The king was struck with Berissa's words, as well as with her manner of pronouncing them. He gave no orders, but reclining his head, was astonished [Page] at the reluctance which he this moment felt to shed blood. But remembering that this negro had accused himself, and attributing to love, the interest which Berissa discovered for him, all his rage was rekindled. He made a sign to the executioners; the pile was lighted, the women advanced with their vessels of boiling water, when an old man out of breath, covered with wounds and dust, burst through the crowd, and suddenly threw himself at the feet of the king.

'Stop!' said he, ‘I implore you stop; I alone am the guilty person; it is I who have burst through the walls of your seraglio, attempting the delivery of my daughter. I was once the high priest of the deity who was here adored. They tore my child from my arms, and conducted her to this palace. Since that time, I eagerly have sought an opportunity to see her again. This last night I penetrated to her apartment—in vain did she attempt to follow me, for your guards discovered us. I escaped alone, notwithstanding the arrows with which you see me pierced. [Page] I come to offer you your victim! I come to expire with her, for whom alone I desired to live!’

He had had hardly finished when the king commanded the priests to release the unhappy prisoners, and bring them before him.—He examined Selico, wishing to know what important motive could induce him voluntarily to seek so dreadful a punishment.

Selico, whose heart panted with joy at finding Berissa again, and faithful, was not afraid to reveal every thing to the Monarch. He related to him his misfortunes, the distresses of his mother, and the resolution he had taken to obtain for her the four hundred ounces of gold. Berissa and her father heard him with tears of delight and admiration: the chiefs the soldiers, and the people melted with tenderness: the king himself perceived tears to fall, which never before had bedewed his cheeks.—Such is the charm of virtue, that barbarians themselves adore it!

After hearing Selico, the king gave him his hand, and bade him rise, and, turning to the European merchants, whom this spectacle had collected, [Page] 'You,' said he, ‘to whom wisdom, experience, and the illumination of a long civilization, have so long taught what is the specific value of a man, Of how much value think you is this?’ A young Frenchman more bold than the rest, exclaimed, ‘Ten thousand crowns of gold!’—‘Which shall be given to Berissa,’ said the king, ‘with this she may purchase the hand of Selico.’

This order was executed on the spot, and the king of Dahomai retired, astonished at feeling a delight he had never before experienced.

Farulho the very same day gave his daughter to Selico. The young couple, accompanied by the old man, departed next day with their treasure, to go in search of Darina. She, as well as the brothers of Selico, were ready almost to expire from joy.—This virtuous family separated no more, but well enjoyed their riches, and in a barbarous region, offered, for a long period, the fairest example which heaven could give to the earth—that of happiness and wealth produced by virtue.

[Page]

GOLDSMITH's Essay on the wisdom of Providence, in the construction of nature.

WHERE Taurus lifts its head above the storm, and presents nothing to the sight of the distant traveller, but a prospect of nodding rocks, falling torrents, and all the variety of tremendous nature; on the bleak bosom of this frightful mountain, secluded from society, and detesting the ways of men, lived Asem the man hater.

Asem had spent his youth with men, had shared in their amusements; and had been taught to love his fellow creatures with the most ardent affection: but, from the tenderness of his disposition, he exhausted all his fortune in relieving the wants of the distressed. The petitioner never sued in vain; the weary traveller never passed his door; he only desisted from doing good, when he had no longer the power of relieving.

From a fortune thus spent in benevolence, he expected a grateful return from those he had formerly relieved, and made his application with [Page] confidence of redress: the ungrateful world soon grew weary of his importunity; for pity is but a short lived passion. He soon, therefore, began to view mankind in a very different light from that in which he had before beheld them. He perceived a thousand vices he had never before expected to exist; wherever he turned, ingratitude, dissimulation, and treachery, contributed to increase his detestation of them. Resolved therefore to continue no longer in a world which he hated, and which repaid his detestation with contempt, he retired to this region of sterility, in order to brood over his resentment in solitude, and converse with the only honest heart he knew, namely, with his own.

A cave was his only shelter from the inclemency of the weather; fruits gathered with difficulty from the mountain's side, his only food; and his drink was fetched with danger and to [...] from the headlong torrent. In this manner he lived, sequestered from society, passing the hours in meditation, and sometimes exulting that he [Page] was able to live independently of his fellow creatures.

At the foot of the mountain, an extensive lake displayed its glassy bosom reflecting on its broad surface the impending horrors of the mountain. To this capacious mirror he would sometimes descend, and reclining on its steep bank, cast an eager look on the smooth expanse that lay before him. "How beautiful," he often cried, is nature! how lovely, even in her wildest scenes! How finely contrasted is the level plain that lies beneath me, with you awful pile that hides its tremendous head in clouds! But the beauty of these scenes is no way comparable with their utility: from hence an hundred rivers are supplied, which distribute health and verdure to the various countries thro' which they flow. Every part of the universe is beautiful, just, and wise: but man, vile man, is a solecism in nature, the only monster in the creation. Tempests and whirlwinds have their use; but vicious, ungrateful man, is a blot in the fair page of universal beauty. Why was I born of that detested [Page] species, whose vices are almost a reproach to the wisdom of the divine Creator! were men entirely free from vice, all would be uniformity, harmony and order. A world of moral rectitude, should be the result of a perfectly moral agent. Why, why then, O Alla! must I be thus confined in darkness, doubt, and despair!"

Just as he uttered the word despair, he was going to plunge into the lake beneath him, at once to satisfy his doubts, and put a period to his anxiety; when he perceived a most majestic being walking on the surface of the water, and approaching the bank on which he stood. So unexpected an object at once checked his purpose: he stopped, contemplated, and fancied he saw something awful and divine in his aspect.

"Son of Adam," cried the genius, "stop thy rash purpose; the father of the faithful has seen thy justice, thy integrity, thy miseries, and hath sent me to afford and administer relief. Give me thine hand, and follow, without trembling, wherever I shall [Page] lead. In me behold the genius of conviction, kept by the great Prophet, to turn from their errors those who go astray, not from curiosity, but a rectitude of intention. Follow me, and be wise."

Asem immediately descended upon the lake, and his guide conducted him along the surface of the water, till, coming near the centre of the lake, they both began to sink; the waters closed over their heads; they descended several hundred fathoms, till Asem, just ready to give up his life as inevitably lost, found himself with his celestial guide in another world, at the bottom of the waters, where human foot had never trod before. His astonishment was beyond description, when he saw a sun like that he had left, a serene sky over his head, and blooming verdure under his feet.

"I plainly perceive your amazement," said the genius; "but suspend it for a while. This world was formed by Alla, at the request, and under the inspection of our great prophet; who once entertained the same doubts which filled your mind when I found [Page] you, and from the consequence of which you were so lately rescued. The rational inhabitants of this world are formed agreeable to your own ideas; they are absolutely without vice. In other respect, it resembles your earth, but differs from it in being wholly inhabited by men who never do wrong. If you find this world more agreeable than that you so lately left, you have free permission to spend the remainder of your days in it; but permit me, for some time, to attend you, that I may silence your doubt, and make you better acquainted with your company and your new habitation."

"A world without vice! Rational beings without immortality!" cried Asem, in a rapture; "I thank thee, O Alla, who hast at length heard my petitions: this, this indeed will produce happiness, ecstacy and ease. O for an immortality, to spend it among men who are incapable of ingratitude, injustice, fraud, violence, and a thousand other crimes, that render society miserable!"

[Page] "Cease thine acclamations," replied the genius. "Look around thee; reflect on every object and action before us, and communicate to me the result of thine observations. Lead wherever you think proper, I shall be your attendant and instructor." Asem and his companion travelled on in silence for some time, the former being entirely lost in astonishment; but, at last, recovering his former serenity, he could not help observing, that the face of the country bore a near resemblance to that he had left, except that this subterranean world still seemed to retain its primeval wildness.

"Here," cried Asem, "I perceive animals of prey, and others that seem only designed for their subsistence; it is the very same in the world over our heads. But had I been permitted to instruct our prophet, I would have removed this defect, and formed no voracious or destructive animals, which only prey on the other parts of the creation." "Your tenderness for inferior animals is, I find, remarkable," said the genius, smiling. "But, [Page] with regard to meaner creatures, this world exactly resemble; the other; and, indeed, for obvious reasons; for the earth can support a more considerable number of animals, by their thus becoming food for each other, than if they had lived entirely on the vegetable productions. So that animals of different natures thus formed, instead of lessening their multitude, subsist in the greatest number possible. But let us hasten on to the inhabited country before us, and see what that offers for instruction."

They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest, and entered the country inhabited by men without vice; and Asem anticipated in idea the rational delight he hoped to experience in such an innocent society. But they had scarce left the confines of the wood, when they beheld one of the inhabitants flying, with hasty steps, with terror in his countenance, from an army of squirrels, that closely pursued him. "Heavens!" cried Asem, "why does he fly? What can he fear from animals so contemptible?" He had scarce spoken, when he perceived [Page] two dogs pursuing another of the human species, who, with equal terror and haste attempted to avoid them. " [...] his," cried Asem to his guide, "is truly surprising; nor can I conceive the reason for so strange an action," "Every species of animals," replied the genius, "has of late, grown very powerful in this country; for the inhabitants, at first, thinking it unjust to use either fraud or force in destroying them, they have insensibly increased, and now frequently ravage their harmless frontiers." "But they should have been destroyed," cried Asem; "you see the consequence of such neglect," "Where is then that tenderness you so lately expressed for subordinate animals!" replied the genius, smiling; "I must acknowledge my mistake," returned Asem: "I am now convinced that we must be guilty of tyranny and injustice to the brute creation, if we would enjoy the world ourselves. But let us no longer observe the duty of man to these irrational creatures, but survey their connections with one another."

As they walked farther up the country, the more he was surprised to see [Page] no vestiges of handsome houses, no cities, nor any mark of elegant design. His conductor perceiving his surprise, observed, that the inhabitants of this new world were perfectly content with their ancient simplicity, each had an house, which, tho' homely, was sufficient to lodge his little family; they were too good to build houses, which could only increase their own pride, and the envy of the spectator; what they built was for convenience, and not for show. "Atleast, then," said Asem, "they have neither architects, painters, or statuaries, in their society; but these are idle arts, and may be spared. However, before I spend much more time here, you should have my thanks for introducing me into the society of some of their wisest men: there is scarce any pleasure to me equal to a refined conversation; there is nothing of which I am so enamoured as wisdom." "Wisdom!" replied his instructor, "how ridiculous! We have no wisdom here, for we have no occasion for it; true wisdom is only a knowledge of our own duty and the duty of [Page] others to us; but of what use is such wisdom here? each intuitively performs what is right in himself, and expects the same from others. If, by wisdom, you should mean vain curiosity and empty speculation; as such pleasures have their origin in vanity, luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue them," "All this may be right," says Asem; but methinks I observe a solitary disposition prevail among the people; each family keeps separately within their own precincts without society or without intercourse." "That indeed is true," replied the other; "here is no established society; nor should there be any: all societies are made either through fear or friendship; the people we are among are too good to fear each other; and there are no motives to private friendship, where all are equally meritorious." "Well then," said the sceptic, "as I am to spend my time here, if I am to have neither the polite arts, nor wisdom, nor friendship in such a world, I should be glad, at least, of an easy companion, who may tell me his thoughts, and to whom I [Page] may communicate mine." "And to what purpose should either do this?" says the genius: flattery or curiosity are vicious motives, and never allowed of here; and wisdom is out of the question."

"Still, however," said Asem, "the inhabitants must be happy; each is contented with his own possessions, nor avariciously endeavors to heap up more than his own subsistence; each has the [...]efore leisure to pity those that stand in need of his compassion." He had scarce spoken when his ears were assaulted with the lamentations of a wretch who sat by the way side, and, in the most deplorable distress, seemed gently to murmur at his own misery. Asem immediately ran to his relief, and found him in the last stage of a consumption. "Strange," cried the son of Adam, "that men who are free from vice should thus suffer so much misery without relief!" "Be not surprised," said the wretch who was dying, "would it not be the utmost injustice for beings, who have only just sufficient to support themselves, and are content with a bare subsistence, [Page] to take it from their own mouths to put it into mine? They never are possessed of a single meal more than is necessary; and what is barely necessary, cannot be dispensed with."

"They should have been supplied with more than is necessary," cried Asem; and yet I contradict my own opinion but a moment before: all is doubt, perplexity, and confusion. Even the want of ingratitude is no virtue here, since they never received a favor. They have, however, another excellency yet behind; the love of their country is still, I hope, one of their darling virtues." "Peace, Asem," replied the guardian, with a countenance not less severe than beautiful, "nor forfeit all thy pretentions to wisdom; the same selfish motives by which we prefer our own interest to that of others, induce us to regard our country preferably to that of another. Nothing less than universal benevolence is free from vice, and that you see is practised here." "Strange!" cries the disappointed pilgrim, in an agony of distress; "what sort of a world am I introduced to? There is [Page] scarce a single virtue but that of temperance, which they practice: and, in tha [...], they are no way superior to the very brute creation. There is scarce an amusement which they enjoy: fortitude, liberality, friendship, wisdom, conversation, and love of country, all are virtues entirely unknown here; thus it seems that to be unacquainted with vice is not to know virtue. Take me, O my genius, back to that very world which I have despised; a world which has Alla for its contriver, is much more wisely formed th [...] that which has been projected by Manomet. Ingratitude, contempt, and hatred, I can now suffer; for perhaps I have deserved them. When I arraigned the wisdom of Providence, I only showed my own ignorance; hence for the let me keep from vice myself, and pity it in others."

He had scarce ended, when the genius, assuming an air of terrible complacency, called all his thunders around him, and vanished in a whirlwind. Asem, astonished at the terror of the scene, looked for his imaginary world; when, casting his eyes [Page] around, he perceived himself in the very situation, and in the very place where he first began to repine and despair: his right foot had been just advanced to take the fatal plunge, nor had it been yet withdrawn; so instantly did Providence strike the series of truths just imprinted on his soul. He now departed from the water side in tranquillity, and, leaving his horrid mansion, travelled to Segestan, his native city; where he dilligently applied himself to commerce, and put in practice that wisdom he had learned in solitude. The frugality of a few years soon produced opulence; the number of his domestics increased; his friends came to him from every part of the city; nor did he recieve them with disdain: and a youth of misery was concluded with an old age of elegance, affluence, and ease.

The history of Amelia Stanford, written by herself.

IT may probably be asked, by the gay witling, who skims over the [Page] surface of things—who speculates on life, without enquiring seriously into its nature or design—why mankind are so prone to dwell on the shades of a picture—why, in a retrospect of life, the mind pauses on scenes that impart no gaiety to the fancy, and awake no rapture in the heart? the answer is obvious: it is the law of our nature. The wisdom of heaven has thought proper, so to constitute the hearts of many, as to render them most happy in the indulgence of that philosophic melancholy—that tender pensiveness, which enobles the soul, while it depresses the spirits, and gives, beyond any circumstance on earth, a foretaste of those joys in heaven, "which the eye hath not seen—nor the car heard—neither has it entered into the heart of man to conceive." Influenced by this motive, it is, that I often wander back to past periods, that I recall, in imagination, scenes which were [...]nce painful in the extreme, and dwell upon them till my heart distends almost to bursting, and is only relieved by a torrent of delicious tears. Daily experience proves [Page] to me the truth of Moore's position, that—

Even the soft sorrow of remember'd woe,

A not unpleasing sadness can bestow.

From the frequent endurance of this "sadness," produced by the recollection of past events, in moments of retirement and dejection—and finding the remark of the wilest of men, justified by my own experience, "that by the sadness of the countenance, the heart is made better," I have come to the [...], of committing the substance of my [...] to writing. To some of those dear off [...], who bear my likeness and my name, perhaps the written memorial, of what they have often heard, may not be unacceptable. Perhaps some friends across the Atlantic, may be interested in this literary bequest. And when they compare the once cheerful Amelia Seymour, with the unfortunate Amelia Stanford, they will commiserate the devoted girl, will sympathize in her misfortunes, and be grateful on heaven for an exemption from similar calamities.

[Page] My father whose name was William Seymour, lived in the town of Bristol, in England, and followed merchandise. In the early part of my life, he had been successful in business, and had prudently deposited a competency in the funds, in case of accidents (to which trade is proverbially exposed.) He married early, and had several children, all of whom he lost young, expect an elder sister and myself. While my father was in the full career of success, my sister married a gentleman of fortune, family, education and benevolence. He lived on his income at no great distance from my father's, on a small but highly cultivated estate.

When the moment arrived in which my sister was to part with the home where she had been reared, and from the dear connections who had hither to gladdened her existence—her heart sunk—her resolution vanished—she insisted on my attending her—and making one of her family, until she could, [...] degree, lose the remembrance of home. I was young, but fifteen years of age,—and was pleased with [Page] the scene for its novelty. I accordingly took my leave of home to stay a few weeks with my sister. Three months I passed with her in uninterrupted happiness. Time then had the doves wings, we received the highest attentions the neighbours could pay us, and, possessed as we truly were of "health, peace and competence" the poet's definition of happiness: in reading, conversation, visits and work, we enjoyed life as highly as mortals could do.

But the tide was now to ebb, the scene was to undergo a change,—a change which first brought me to an acquaintance with sorrow and misfortune. I was suddenly sent for home, my mother was said to be dangerously ill—she had taken a violent cold which brought on a pleurisy,—a high fever accompanied it—she became delirious, and her life was despaired of by the physicians. We arrived in time to behold her a living mother. About the time we reached my father's house her disorder seemed to take a favorable turn—She became herself, she recognised her children—and possessed her [Page] reason enough to give us her dying blessing and parting advice. "I feel, said she, my children, taking us in her arms, as she sat up in her bed, and embracing us most tenderly, I feel the powers of nature failing,—my nerves are weakened, my heart has that awful fluttering which assures me of approaching death." Our sobs here interrupted her address, but resuming the subject with a tremulous voice and an aspect in which heaven itself was seated, she continued, "the cold hand of death is already laid upon me—I feel an icy torpor creeping through my veins: let me tell my daughters all my heart ere it be forever too late.—To the goodness of God and the care of his divine providence I then recommend you both—the God who has protected and guided the parent from infancy to mature age, will not forget the offspring. Trust in him my children; and he will never betray your trust. Resort to him for [...] and comfort in moments of distress, and he will not refuse his assistance. He has promised to be a father to the orphan, and his promise is infallible. Commit [Page] yourselves to him and he will amply supply the loss of that mother, whom I trust, he will in a few short moments receive to himself.

"The period that hath been allotted me in [...] has not been very long. I have not yet reached my fortieth year. I trust, however, I have lived to some good purpose; I have through life considered the love and service of the Supreme Being as the first object to be desired and armed at—and next to this, the happiness of my fellow creatures. In these principles, I hope my dear children will follow the example of an affectionate parent, and believe her (who has no interest to disguise the truth) that through life, you will find the love and service of your Maker the most delightful employment you can be engaged in, and the surest road to solid happiness. In your intercourse with the world, you will find the pleasures of sense the great objects of desire and of praise—the serious and useful qualities of the heart, so warmly recommended by our Saviour, the topics of ridicule and too often of contempt. But aim at acquiring an opinion [Page] of your own, formed on the word of inspiration, and the most judicious moral writers. This will be an anchor to keep your barks steady and firm, amidst the storms of controversy, and the currents of popular opinion.

"Be kind and charitable to all with whom you are in any wise connected—endeavor to consider their interest and happiness as your own.—Never lose sight of our Saviour's golden rule, "of doing to others as you would that they also in like circumstances, should do unto you;" forgive their [...] and their errors—there is a noble and sweet satisfaction in forgiving which elevated and refined souls only know. Never was there a more untrue maxim, than that "revenge is sweet:" to little and malevolent minds it may be so—it may seem so in the first gust of passion—but when anger has subsided and the mind reflects on the past, nothing is more painful to a good heart than to remember, that is has been the cause of an injury to another which it cannot repair.

[Page] "And believe me, my children, when you come to the situation in which you behold your mother now, the only parts of your life to which you will look back with pleasure, will be those in which you have relieved misery, and conferred happiness by doing good:—and rest satisfied—but I feel a deadly sickness, my God support me in this last trial." Here a faintness seized her—she fell back, and—a general shriek of horror pervaded the chamber—she opened her eyes,—they soon closed again—and with one deep groan her spirit returned to him who gave it.

The impressions made on the mind of us all, by such an event, may be pourtrayed by fancy but never by language. My father who was a man of warm feelings, and a most affectionate disposition was in a degree frantic. He was still through the day: now and then he would break out into violent fits of weeping, which would subside again and leave him composed and melancholly: but at night he had no sooner closed his eyes than he became wild and flighty. We were obliged to keep [Page] a light in his room and to have a servant with him all night. He needed consolation but who could impart it?—we were all so depressed by the sudden misfortune, that neither could give comfort to the other.

For my own part, I felt myself so overwhelmed by the stroke, that my heart literally died within me. I felt for my own situation, but if possible I suffered more for my father's—I considered myself, indeed, as deprived of my best friend and instructress, I foresaw the loss I should sustain in the want of her advice and guidance: and I shuddered at the snares and difficulties I might be exposed to in early life, thus destitute of her patronage, and society—but what were these, compared to my fathers feelings! to have the nearest friend of his bosom thus torn away—the friend he had early and long loved as himself—thus wrested from his arms forever—was a state of forlorn wretchedness from which human nature recoils and which he was not calculated to endure. Indeed, such was the effect this had on him, that he closed his accounts— [Page] withdrew from business, and purchased a small country seat not far from his son-in-law's, to which he immediately retired.

On his first retreat his spirits utterly abandoned him—he lost the vivacity which once distinguished him, became fond of solitary walks, and was much alone in his chamber. Depressed as I was myself, I found it necessary to make exertions to draw him into conversation, and to prevent his mind from [...]ring over subjects that were too melancholy and dejecting.

My sister and my brother in law often visited us—and by their conversation and tenderness relieved my father's mind greatly of its depressive gloom—Time however, did more for him than our exertions: the traits of grief faded from his heart gradually—till within the compass of a year, he began at times to resume something of his former gaiety, and sprightliness yet shortly after a turn of gaiety he would [...] into dejection. He was never sprightly without being afterwards proportionally grave. He now began however, to find himself able to [Page] converse of my departed mother,—to recall her memory—to praise her virtues—and to recommend them to my imitation. Indeed this was less necessary than he imagined; they had deeply impressed my mind, though I knew it not till she was gone.

I was not the only person however, with whom he conversed of his lamented wife. There was a neighboring widow lady who lived about half a mile from us, to whom he used often to unfold his heart and to disclose its sorrows—the heard him with attention, assented to the praises he bestowed on his lost consort—admired his affection and sympathised in his distress. At first he used to resort there but seldom: her society however, I found became every day more necessary to him,—little did I at first imagine what would be the result of these visits:—but when he began to request me to visit her with him, I conjectured that his views extended further than ordinary, friendship. Yet this idea was not an obvious one: for although the lady was apparently a discreet, amiable manageing woman, yet the disparity between [Page] their ages, she being the older by several years, her singular want of beauty, her having two or three children, and being rather in low circumstances, would have led any one to believe she never could be my father's choice:—but heaven thought otherwise—my father had fixed his heart upon the matter: and reason was to have the nothing to say on the subject.—He accordingly one day as we sat together at breakfast, in a very pensive mood, opened the plan and asked my opinion of the matter.

Apprized as I was in my own mind of his intention. I felt myself suddenly and extremely affected by the disclosure. I was obliged to rise and leave the room, a gush of tears succeeded, and relieved my heart; as soon as I had recovered myself, I returned and pursuing the subject requested he would pardon this involuntary piece of weakness—that I perfectly accorded with him in sentiment—"whatever, said I, will promote my dear father's happiness, I shall always readily acquiesce in. One parent is all I have now on earth, and [Page] should I not wish to see him happy▪ kind and affectionate as he has ever been to me, what an ingrate should I be, in the smallest measure to obstruct his wishes. No, my dear papa, tho' my tears would seem to express dissatisfaction at your plan, that sentiment is the farthest from my heart. If mrs. L—be your choice, I will make her as dutiful a daughter as I trust I have been to you"—

At these words, my father could restrain himself no longer—he took me to his arms—he pre [...]s'd me to his bosom—called me his dear affectionate little girl—we both wept profusely—till our utterance was stopp'd and we were both obliged to part, to conceal our mutual weakness. In a word, before many weeks had elapsed, my father again became a husband, and brought home his lady and her train, and was again, in possession (to all appearance) of as much happiness as his heart could contain—but widely different was the situation of his daughter. Of little consequence in the family—slighted by my mother in law whenever my father was absent, and treated [Page] rudely by her children—I confined myself much to my books and devotions—but would a [...] any time have cheerfully exchanged situations with the independent sempstress or mil [...]ner, whose daily bread was earned by the labor of their own hands.

I will now go back a few years, to trace a series of events that interested my heart, and became the innocent cause of all my subsequent misfortunes. Some time before the marriage of my sister, [...] bec [...]me accidentally acquainted with a [...] Stanford, who lived a few doors from my father's house. Our disposition and taste being in a great degree similar, our frequent opportunities of seeing each other rendered [...] in a short time romantically intimate: a day could not pass but we must see each other: our hearts were laid ba [...]e to each other. Whatever little attention or admiration either received, was made known to the confidant [...]—our billets doux were all preserved, and mutually communicated; in short it would have seem'd like treason to friendship and tenderness in either to have concealed [Page] any thought or weakness of the heart from her friend. Among other testimonies of miss Stanford's affection for me was the communication of the letters of a favorite brother. Their elegance were such as pleased my fancy—and their warmth of expression such as touched my heart. My friend often gave me a description of her brother—repeating many little acts of his fraternal goodness—and in the event raised my curiosity highly to see him—I envied her those affectionate, and unmerited attentions she received. I tho't nothing could be more agreeable than to possess the whole heart of such a brother, and lamented that providence had denied me one from whose society and correspondence I might derive the same benefits and pleasures, that Julia Stanford did from those of her brother Charles. While th [...] young man was every day rising in my opinion, and my anxiety to see him encreasing—little did I imagine that Julia was endeavoring to transfuse into his bosom all the warmth of friendship for me, which she herself entertained.

[Page] After many weeks of tedious expectation, the vacancy at length came, when the students of the university were permitted to return to their respective homes, to see their friends, and to procure whatever articles were necessary for use or convenience at the ensuing session. Charles Stanford, at the time assigned returned to his home. Julia his sister had been impatiently looking out for him in the morning, but being disappointed in the prospects, she had requested me to pass the afternoon and evening with her as an object on which to rest her heart and rel [...]x her spirits. I must own that aware of her expectations, I took more pains in the decoration of my person this evening than usual; and wish'd secretly (though I durst not avow the sentiment of my own heart) that my pains might not be lost.

When I went to mr. Stanford's I found Julia pensive and alone. Her father was from home, and her mother up stairs: she had all things prepared for tea, and was sickening with impatience at the delay of her brother. [Page] My presence was an instant relief to her. We sat down and began to chat seriously together: but were suddenly interrupted by a chaise s [...]opping at the door. Instantly a young man's voice was heard in the entry: Julia in a moment recogniz'd it to be her brother's: she flew to receive him: they met at the parlour door as she opened it—their [...] seem'd to be unbounded. When the first transports of affection were over, and recollection had returned, she presented mr. Stanford to me as her "dear brother" and mentioned my name to him. We gaz'd on each other with a little confusion; and often as our eyes met each other's in the course of the evening, a transient blush seem'd to overspread he face of the youth. We were able however to exchange a few words: but finding that I laid a kind of restraint on the feelings of the brother and sister, I took an early leave of Julia, not, however, with her ready acquiescence, nor without a positive promise to come and spend the next day with her.

[Page] I was as good as my word; but I was in pain le [...]t I had assented too easily—lest mr. Stanford should think my visit in part on his account, though I was not dissatisfied to find the young man waiting to attend me to his sister's the next morning when I came from my dressing room into the parlour. We this day became more sociable; and I [...]und that the representation give [...] by his sister, was not beyond the truth. We pass'd our time, from this period till his return to the university, very pleasantly: we saw each other every day. Many delightful rambles we took round the town—and to places of public resort—and I felt happy in finding our satisfaction with each other daily increase.

As the day approached, on which Charles Stanford was to take his leave of Bristol for some months: and to repair to Oxford, I could observe he began to grow thoughtful and silent: he lost much of the cheerfulness he possessed on his first return from college, and devoted himself much to grave company. Just before he left home, he came to take leave of me, [Page] and as he said "to offer me his best wishes for my health and happiness." He seem'd much embarrass'd with the task, and kne [...] not how to proceed. When he rose to make his adieu, he could say nothing—his eyes were downcast as well as mine, once or twice we each had resolution to raise them—but on meeting both were confused and embarrassed. Thus we stood for nearly five minutes. At length, taking my hand, he raised it with some difficulty to his lips—and at the same time left in the hand he thus took, a beautiful locket set round with pearl; on the one side of which, were the two letters C. S. worked I suppose with his own hair, on the other a youth approaching an altar, on which was written "sacred to friendship"—with a heart in his hand as an offering, and on the small sold of paper in which this present was wrapped, the following words were written—

Think not, Amelia, that my heart

(Though fate my person may remove)

With thy blest image e'er can part,

Or cease thy merits to approve.

[Page] Thine eye can melt the coldest breast:

Thy smile can chear the drooping soul:

The one can rob the soul of rest—

The other every care control.

Some time after Charles had gone, and the flutter of my spirits had subsided, and when I was capable of reflexion, I began to ponder on these strange appearances—I was painfully dubious whether I acted properly or not in keeping this present—I more than once was on the point of sending it to his sister: but as this would have wounded the feelings of my Julia, and distressed Charles—and as it was intended only as a token of "friendship" I concluded I might retain it.—Often after his departure did I resort to the drawer in which I had lock'd his gift, and many were the soft feelings it occasioned to my heart.

After his return to the university, he wrote to his sister more frequently than ever. In every letter he either made some enquiries concerning miss Seymour, or sent some expression of friendship and recollection—I was pleased at heart with his attention—but never discovered it farther than to [Page] return him my compliments. With these at first he seemed satisfied—but with one act of attention, the wish for another arose, till at length he commissioned Julia, if possible, to gain my permission for him to write to me occasionally. This, however, I then refused.

During his stay this session at college, it was that my sister was married and that I had left home to reside with her. When on close of his collegiate course, he returned to B [...]tol, and hoped to tread again the path he had pursued a few months before, his disappointment was great, to fine our family in part eloped and beyond the limits of frequent attentions. Julia, however, had promised me a visit at my brother-in-law's, and as soon as Charles had returned, she availed herself of his protection and company, and with him in a post chaise performed her promise. They passed a few days with us delightfully: our evening rambles—our literary amusements through the day, the beauties of nature, and the charms of vocal and instrumental music, often gave a [Page] brightness to our spirits—and a rapture to our bosoms, that language could never paint.

Time, however, rolled away rapidly—our friends left us—uncertain when we would meet again. We met, however, much sooner, and on a more melancholy occasion, than fancy had conjectured—but a few weeks after this the sudden illness of our mother called us home—called us to a scene of the deepest woe I had ever witnessed. During all our affliction, on this event, however, the attention and sympathy of Julia Stanford and her brother, were a great source of relief and comfort.

They called every day to enquire after our health, and shewed a great degree of tenderness which engaged my warmest gratitude. When my father [...] retired into the country, after his severe loss, my mind softened by affliction, and left vacant by solitude, was prepared to embrace any object which offered it relief. Charles Stanford continued his visits to my father's as often as the distance, to which we had removed from Bristol, [Page] would permit: nor will it be a matter of wonder, that I was happy to see him—left alone almost continually, after my father's visits to our widow-neighbour commenced, and with a heart alive to all the feelings of friendship, and preference, was it surprising that I should, from gratitude, pass to esteem and tenderness for a young man of Mr. Stanford's character and disposition? for though young, he was discreet, and though he had mingled with the world, his manner's were free from levity and vice. He was grave tender and polite—he loved virtue and practised it. In point of address he was agreeable—his person was good, and his face expressed well the feelings of his heart. Of such qualities was mr. Stanford possess'd, when our acquaintance commenced—with these he made a tender of his heart and hand to the [...] partial Amelia, at a time [...] could make but a feeble resistance. While I live, I shall never forget [...] circumstances under which he [...] to me his sentiments—nor the [...] then excited in my bosom.

[Page] It was on one of those fine evenings of autumn, when [...] the warmth of the day, the cool of eve becomes grateful to the sense—the sun was just sinking beneath the horrizon; and all was till and impress'd on the mind the sweetest pensiveness. The moon, now almost full, was just rising into view—the clouds of heaven were romantically diversified—and a soft sweet breeze [...] the cheek of nature, and conveyed the most pleasing sensations to the bosom—under these circumstances, mr. Stanford requested me [...] ramble with him in the garden—we strolled down the main walk▪ at the end of which was a summer house delightfully encompassed by [...] and honey suckle—here, after one or two turns through the garden, we rested ourselves. Taking my hand [...] the most expressive and tende [...] [...] he seated me on one of the [...] which you descend from the summer house into an extensive [...]—he himself occupied the step beneath that he had assigned to me—before [...] lay a beautiful stream of water, on which the moonbeams played [Page] —around us the varied colours of the wood [...] just smitten by the frost, reflected on the eye by the soft beams of retiring day, blending with the softer rays of Cynthia, filled the heart with the most serene and elevated feelings. Mr. Stanford a while beheld this scene in silence: he then gave a deep sigh—and looking most tenderly in my face "alas" said he, "that happiness should be so temporary and uncertain"—"wherefore this reflexion, Charles," said!—"is your happiness exposed to danger?"—"Indeed," returned he, "it is—it hangs on a slender brittle thread. My peace of mind is suspended the good opinion of an individual—who can bid me be chearful and of use to myself and others—or can by a word rob my heart of all it deems valuable in life." "Ave [...]"—said I, looking down (for I began from his looks and the [...] voice to suspect the drift of his conversation) "and surely no one would intentionally impair your happiness."—"No!" said he, his eye brightening as he spoke. "No, surely," replied I—"there can be none [...]o savage [Page] as to give pain to others unless to avoid it [...]" "If [...]en the destroy o [...] my life were in the power of the [...] miss Seymour,"— [...] he— [...] the same time pressing my hand which he still held, most tenderly to his lip—"would she sport with [...] it?" "That cannot be," replied I withdrawing my hand from i [...]—"your happiness, mr. Stanford is not in my power"—"will miss Seymour believe me," he returned with an earnestness of look and of [...]—"when I assure her that it is— [...] my esteem—my friendship—my heart [...]he has long possessed? but I feared to un [...]old to her this truth.—My life is of no value to me without her approbation—Oh commiserate the sorrows of a bosom, which is occupied by [...] alone." I was too much affected and embarrassed, to support [...] scene any longer. I hastily arose and [...] towards the house. He [...] my side—my heart was too [...]ull [...] reply—his [...] so. This prevented [...] continuation of his sentiments. When I reached the house. I was obliged abruptly to leave him—retiring [Page] a few minutes to my chamber. I gave full vent to the feelings of my heart, and presently returned to him quite composed. I found him walking the room with [...] in his hand and the tear still [...] in his eye. I seated myself on the [...] to which he immediately approached with a look of anxiety and sorrow, and seated himself by my side. He delicately enquired whether or not he might continue what he had introduced: I could not return him an answer—he then ask'd what construction he should put on my silence—"what you please, sir"—was all I could utter—he press'd my hand again to his lips, with great ardour. Our further intercourse at present was stopped by the sound of my father's [...]oot on the piazz [...]—his entrance gave a little blush to our cheeks: indeed I felt as if I had committed some offence which merited disapprobation and punishment. Mr. Stanford's looks expressed the same feeling—his tongue was mute. Scusible of the irksomeness of his situation, he presently after took his leave of us, and departed. All [Page] the ensuing night was I kept awake in revolving the scene that had taken place. Sometimes I was satisfied, and again out of temper with what had passed. On the whole, however, I was of opinion, that of all the youth I had ever been acquainted with, Charles Stanford was the one [...]st to my ta [...]—that his character, his talents, family and prospects in life were such as accorded with my temper, and such as promised to render me as happy as the changing state of humanity admits.

On his next visit, he found me in the garden alone with my work and my book. He approached with his usual delicacy and diffidence: we talked sometime on general topics, ti [...] the palpitations occasioned by such a meeting, had subsided—when he again introduced the subject, which, he said, "lay nearest his heart"—I now found myself more capable of expressing my sentiments than before—I told him that on a matter of such delicacy and importance as the present, I had ever conceived a gentleman was entitled to a speedy and candid explanation; that [Page] he must have observed, from my manner, that I had shewed him a preference, above an ordinary acquaintance—that in candour now I would acknowledge his merits had gained my esteem—but more than this! dare not say at present—that my father had a negative on my choice of a friend for life—and that his approbation must be obtained, before any further step could be taken.

Mr. Stanford understood me—his eye, his voice and his manner expressed his satisfaction—he said he would take the earliest opportunity of obtaining a parent's consent to his attentions, in which if he were successful, he would indeed, be one of the most happy men in existence.

M. Stanford accordingly embraced the earliest opportunity of disclosing his wishes to my father. His embarrassment, I doubt not, made him less eloquent in his own, than he could have been in the cause of a friend. My father also, as I discovered afterwards, was not a little disconcerted—he was taken by surprise, and knew not what answer to make. To prevent [Page] any future misunderstanding, he postponed giving a definitive answer—signifying, [...] ever, a general [...] of [...] Stanford's character—but [...] to make an enquiry into my friend's present situation, and future prospects. In these particulars he was soon satisfied. He found mr. Stanford, both before and since his return from Oxford, had been in a counting house; that his father design'd setting him up [...]n trade, under the patronage of a rich uncle, who was concerned in the East-India [...]; that with the money himself could advance, and the advantages the uncle could put into [...] son's hands, he might make a voyage to Bengal, and by residing there for a few years, might return with a complete independency. This was the plan at first [...]: and this was the plan our parents, after consulting together, agreed to adhere to. They believed that what they could both spare would be hardly sufficient to support us in the same [...] in which we had been accustomed to live [...] and [...]aving formed this opinion, they would no [...] depart [Page] from this first scheme. But in our apprehension, how absurdly did they appear to reason and resolve [...]? We would have most cheerfully denied ourselves many of the little superfluities to which we had been accustomed—We sighed not for opulence or distinction; a bare competency, and a retirement from gay & fashionable life, was our mutual choice. Our hearts found their happiness in their [...] society, and could surrender any thing that clashed with a speedy union.—Mr. Stanford, when he was informed of the scheme proposed by our parents, immediately avowed his disapprobation of it—warmly, yet respectfully stated his reasons—urged the pain he should experience in parting with the single object that a [...]ched him to life [...] a reason—and declared his preference of living in obscurity and indigence, rather than hazard his life, and be necessarily absent from all his friends for a number of years.

These reasons, proceeding from the warmth of the heart, had little influence on the minds of our parents, who called our attachment nothing but [Page] a wild and foolish liking, that would soon be over, and leave us independence and in want if we were now suffered to be united. They therefore insisted on Mr. Stanfords setting off for India, by the first vessel that sailed for that quarter; and told him that when he had accumulated a for [...]une [...], he might return and expect the hand of Amelia Seymour, with her parents approbation.—This determination was a sad bar to all our affectionate wishes—it was discordant with our opinions and our feelings. After canvassing the subject for several days, and devising means of support in case we were abandoned by our parents, we at length came to a conclusion, and resolved, whatever might be the consequence, to be united in hand as in heart—to live in a retired way—to be frugal and industrious—and to trust in God for welfare and happiness. A resolution of this kind, we were sensible would expose us to the derision of the worldly-wise; but we were not to be frightened by a shadow, from the possession of a reality. Nature had given us firmness enough to resist the influence [Page] of a sneer—and we had learned from observation and experience, that what the mass of the world denominate happiness, is but misery in disguise. In truth, the greater part of mankind, are a set of shallow dupes. They have not discernment to distinguish between the semblance and the essence of happiness—they make it consist in sensual gratifications, and keen pleasures, which ever cloy by frequent enjoyment, and mostly leave a poison behind. True happiness is seated only in the mind: without peace of conscience and sound intellects, it is impossible to enjoy real and permanent satisfaction: and with a due observance of those duties we owe to our Maker, our neighbours and ourselves—altho property be denied, happiness may be attained—happiness of the most exalted, pure, and substantial kind.

Impressed with these considerations we prepared for the private solemnization of our naptials, as well as our circumstances would permit. I prepared all my clothes, on various pretences. I persuaded my father to advance some small sums of money, [Page] which were expended on articles that I thought would be most useful to me. Mr. Stanford had been les [...] a sum of two hundred fifty pounds by a remote relation: this he could command at any time, and this we believed would be sufficient to support us comfortably for a while, in case we should lose the patronage of our parents.

Thus circumstanced, I bribed one of the domestics to carry my trunk to a neighboring tavern, and while my father and mother were out visiting one evening, Mr. Stanford, agreeably to appointment, came to our house, and bore off his willing captive. I had scarcely left my home, before my heart sunk, and my conscience reproved me for the step I had taken—I had abandoned a roof that had long kindly sheltered me—I had thrown myself from the protection of a parent who had [...] crossed my wishes—and had put my ho [...]or and happiness into the power of a young man, where principles might be at variance with his past conduct, and who might, for all I could know, possess a disposition that would thwart every hope of my soul. But my trust was in heaven. What I did, could only be justified by the supreme law, which [...] Creator has implanted in every human breast, of pursuing its own happiness by every lawful [Page] mean. I conceived that I felt the hand [...] parental tyranny, not exercised in the way of advice or remembrance, but in the way of a law with a sanction. That our parents had a right to impose a command, under the penalty of displeasure, or of withholding property, we did not dispute; but in our apprehension, a slender livelihood, gained by labor and frugality, was preferable to a long and tedious separation, and the hazard of life.

In a word, we were joined in the bands of matrimony, and hastened to each other's affectionate embrace with an ardor proportioned to the risk we had run.

The day after the event took place, Mr. Stanford wrote to his parents and to mine informing them of what had taken place, and apologizing for the abruptness of the [...], from the strength of mutual attachment, and the fear of being [...] from each other, by an immense distance, and an unknown length of [...]me.

How difficult a matter it is, for the aged to recal the feelings of youth! How rare to meet with persons advanced in years, who can enter into the feelings and views of the young, and make just allowances for the rashness of inexperience! When this information reached our parents, all with one voice seemed to condemn our conduct; they reprobated [Page] our disobedience in harsh terms—and by the bearer of Mr. Stanford's letter, assured us, it was their determination to give us no manner of assistance; but, as we had provoked our own fate with open eyes, to it they resigned us.

This answer, though severe and painful, was less so than it would otherwise have been, from our preparation for it. All we had now to do, was to adopt some plan, that would rescue us from the horrors of poverty, and enable us to cultivate and constantly enjoy that interchange of affectionate endearments, for which we had renounced almost every thing beside. The wide world was before us—its paths were many and various—it was ours to choose one.

The best one we could adopt at present, was to set off immediately for London, and if we could soften the heart of Mr. Stanford's uncle, to engage his patronage, and thus to ensure a provision for necessary expenses. We accordingly took our passage in a stage coach, and quickly reached the metropolis of England. As soon as Mr. Stanford could put himself in proper attire, he waited on his uncle, who received him graciously, and enquired very kindly about his friends and the family. As yet Mr. Plunket (who was a maternal uncle) had heard nothing of [Page] the step Mr. Stanford had taken, and therefore chearfully promised all the assistance that was in his power, whatever line of business might be fixed on: but the following day, when Mr. Stanford called to settle some way in which to employ his talents and attention, his uncle's behaviour was totally changed.

He had received a letter from his brother in law, in which mr. Stanford's conduct was highly censured, and a positive request made not to supply Mr. Stanford with money or any assistance. This was communicated to my best friend, as well as his uncle's resolution to comply with the request. Mr. Stanford could not hear this—his heart filled—he abruptly left the room—and returned to his lodgings. He had no [...] entered the chamber, where I had [...]een s [...]ing all alone during his absence, than I perceived his heart was heavy, and his spirits dejected. He walked the room with a sorrowful [...] and hurried step, several times—I asked him some questions which he but half answered. On this I [...], gave him my hand, and [...] him to confide in me fully and to tell me all his care. He pressed my hand, and seating me on a sofa which was in the room, placed himself by my side, and resting his head on my neck, unburdened and relieved [Page] his heart by giving vent to his sorrow for a few moments. After this, he found himself able to communicate the grounds of his distress. The weight of a father's displeasure he had prepared himself to endure, but to find that displeasure pursuing him so far as to prevent him from receiving any aid from an uncle, was beyond what he had suspected. I suggested every consolatory argument I could devise, for composing his mind.—I assured him that very little of the world's goods wold content me, while I retained his affection and society—and that instead of spending time in unavailing complaints, we had both best put our shoulders to the wheel, and endeavor to procure subsistence. Accordingly, the next day, mr. Stanford went in quest of cheap and pleasant lodging, and of employment. He was fortunate in providing the first, with an amiable, pious widow lady—who was at once an instructive and agreeable companion; the second he procured with an eminent printer, who was just th [...]n in want of a man of literature to superintend and correct the press; one who could compose with neatness, and correct with accuracy, and who would attend to his business with punctuality and faithfulness.

[Page] For this situation mr. Stanford was well qualified by nature and education—and uniting to talents great assiduity and integrity, he soon gained the confidence and friendship of his employer; to his compensation were often added liberal donations, such as enabled us to support our present stile of life with comfort and ease. Nay, finding our family likely to increase, we contrived ways to lay up a small capital as a provision for a rainy day—this we knew would be constantly accumulating, and would one day be a help to the sweet little pledge of love, which indulgent heaven presented us, ten months after our union.

On the birth of my lovely boy, new concerns occupied my [...]nd, and new pleasures opened on my heart, that led me to forget the hardships of a separation from the parents that gave me being—Mr. Stanford's attention to me seemed to [...] on this event. He devised pretexts for visiting home, and found ways of accomplishing more of his business at our own little retreat—in short, we both now seemed perfectly reconciled to our lot—we pardoned, and began to remember no more the severities we had felt. In our devotions, in books, our own conversation, domestic endearments, and the society of a few friends, who occasionally [Page] visited [...]s, we possessed as many of the enjoyments of life, as others who moved in a higher circle, and who plumed themselves on their birth and fortune.

And here let me add my testimony, to that of many of the wisest and best of mankind, in favor of a state of mediocrity, when connected with constant employment, with peace and affection at home. Poverty is less dreadful, I [...] believe, at hand than at a distance.—While afar, it i [...] seen thro▪ a mist—and bulks largely on the view: when i [...] approaches nigh, it often lays aside its terrors, and if it be not the [...] of sloth or crime, it is often so tempered by the sympathy of the good, and by internal consolations, that it is by no means difficult of endurance.

In this situation we continued upwards of two years, in which period providence was pleased to give us two charming girls at a birth, in addition to our dear firstborn. To provide for these was our pleasing employ, and to look forward to their future improvement and happy settlement in life, afforded ample room for fancy and hope: but ah! how dark and mysterious are the ways of providence! how sudden and distressing many of the vicissitudes of life! one unlooked for melancholy event, put a period to this state [Page] of contentment I enjoyed, robbed me of my highest temporal happiness, and b [...]o't me to the very brink of the grave.

It happened one day, that mr. Stanford was called to go a few miles from the city, to receive a sum of money that was due to the person whom he served. He hired a horse in the morning, and promised to be back early in the afternoon—he was detained sometime longer than he expected—it was late in the afternoon before he set off—on his return home, as he approached the city, he was stopped by two ruffians, who demanded his money.—He did not choose tamely to submit to their demands, but with his whip attempted resistance.—The villains, armed with bludgeons, attacked him with violence—knocked him down—stript him of his money and a great part of his clothes—and left him for dead in the highway. Some benevolent travellers, who happened shortly after to be coming towards London, had him taken up and conveyed to the next public house—restoratives were applied; and through the influence of medical aid, he was [Page] soon possessed of his senses, so far as to relate his name, place of abode, business and misfortune—he requested to be conveyed home as soon as possible, and his requect was kindly complied with. He was brought to his home; but oh, my God! in how different circumstances from those in which he had left me in the morning—from those in which I expected to meet him—I execrated myself for consenting to his leaving me—I murmured at my lot, and in the agony of my soul (I tremble at the remembrance) aspersed the goodness, the justice of my maker—I was frantic, I believe, for a considerable time after he was restored to my arms: all the afternoon previous to the misfortune, I had felt an unusual anxiety—but I thought it arose from the timidity of my nature—little did I imagine, that in the place of a healthy and cheerful, I should receive a bleeding husband—All night did I sit by him, attend his wants, and endeavor to alleviate his pains—when the surgeon dressed his wounds in the evening, he found his skull was fractured by the blows he had received— [Page] He recommended a consultation—it was called—and trepanning was advised and resolved on—I objected, but was obliged to submit; the operation was performed—but is was of little avail—a high fever ensued, and his reason forsook him—He talked incessantly of his dear Amelia—of his darling babes—and the cruelty of th [...] ruffians—Day and night did I watch and weep over him—His incoherencies alarmed—and his many proofs of a strong, though bewildered affection, melted and oppressed my heart—freely would I have surrendered mine to have restored his health—but it was beyond the reach even of medical skill—I was flattered by friends and physicians with the hope, that his disorder would take a favorable turn—and it did—the fever abated—he became clear and rational, but oh, for how short a space! he called me to the bedside, and desired to see his children; they were brought: He looked at them with a peculiar softness; it seemed to be a look of parting tenderness, a [...] the last glances of parental solicitude: my agony and my fears encreased. [Page] I kneeled down by his bed-side, and taking his hand which began to feel cold, and was covered with a chill perspiration, "my dearest Charles," said I, "what is the matter?"—"Be not alarmed, my love," said he: "but I must leave you very soon"—"O my God, my God!" cried I; it was all I could say—my sight, my senses left me—I swooned away; all that I can recollect of myself afterwards, is, that when I came to my senses I found I had been conveyed to another chamber; that several friends stood around me in tears: with my first returning breath I enquired about my dear Charles, they replied, that they hoped a change had taken place for the better; that I had best try and compose myself. I insisted on being conveyed back to my husband; but while we were conversing on the matter, a child came hastily into the room, and cried cut, "Mr. Stanford is dead." These words reached my heart like a shock of lightning, and with the lightning's power: had it finished my being, how grateful should I have been (i [...] gratitude be known in the regions [Page] of silence). Again my reason left me, and many days elapsed before it returned. I still possess a faint recollection of some of the wild rambles of imagination I experienced at this time, how much my heart and mind were fastened to the image of my dear deceased Charles. In this situation I was, as I have since been informed, when Mr. Plunket came to see me; he had attended the funeral of his nephew, and compassionating my condition, directed me to be conveyed with my [...]bes to his own house. He wrote, to my father giving a state of facts, but will it be credited when I say, that a father's heart had been so alienated by [...]is present wife, from his suffering child, that he contented himself with writing to Mr. Plunket, and lamenting my situation, but without any offer of assistance, or even coming to see me? The parents of my poor Charles were more compassionate. They could not endure to visit the fathe [...]'s offence on his innocent offspring: They took my two little girls hom [...] ▪ with them: my boy they left with Mr. Plunket, but insisted, [Page] as soon as my situation would admit, on receiving us in their own house.

My Julia who had supported a constant though forbidden correspondence with her brother and myself, came with her father, and remained some time to attend me. Her affection and tenderness were of infinite service: by means of it, and a strict observance of my physician's direction, I was in a few weeks, restored again to myself: but from my delirium, to how dreadful a reality did I awake!—deprived of the excellent and beloved partner of my soul, on whom all my affection and hopes of happiness had rested, I found myself a solitary widow, with the charge of three poor little orphans on my hands—I looked around for some object of comfort, on which to lean: but all had deserted me. I was in the barren desert, thirsty, yet without water. I was a pilgrim, cast on a strange coast, with scarcely one sympathetic friend, that could minister to my wants; all hopes and pursuits seemed to have come to a fatal, a final period. I felt as if I [Page] had nothing worth living for, save my destitute babes, and often notwithstanding this tie, has my forlorn heart most ardently prayed to the supreme Being to reunite me to the departed object of my love—oh! with what extacy would I have laid down my life, and on the [...] wings of an ardent and sublime affection, have ascended to the only one I ever loved supremely. But it was the will of heaven, that I should continue here longer, to drink still deeper of the cup of woe, and to feel the weight of accumulated distress—I n [...]w endured existence for the sake of the dear descendants of my Charles, and had it not been for them, I felt no [...]e strong enough to bind me to the world.

My situation altogether was, however, as comfortable now as I had reason to expect. From the attention of Mr. Plunket, I drew great relief, and from the frequent communications I received from my beloved Julia, I felt the sincerest pleasure. In some of her letters she h [...]ld out an idea of paying [...] a visit—this supported my mind, for some time, and the good girl at [Page] length performed her promise. She was attended by a young American gentleman, who had resided a considerable time [...]n her neighbourhood.—He had paid her great and uninterrupted attentions for many months—and common report whispered, that ere long they would be united for life. Deeply interested at I was for the happiness of my friend, I took the earliest opportunity of learning the true ground of the report. Julia, with her usual candour, immediately solved my doubts. She told me Mr. Dalton had indeed been particularly attentive to her for a series of time: that he had avowed his passion—and gained her affection; that she had hesitated a whole in consenting to be his, as a necessary consequence of this, would be her removal to America—that this was the only objection with her parents; but they had been prevailed on to give up this point—and consent to a union, even on the terms of her relinquishing her native country forever.

The bursting sigh, and the rising tear, showed how tenderly this circumstance [Page] affected her; but her heart was Mr. Dalton's—and what difficulties can [...] [...]oy a purpose, suggested by true female affection? She said she was aware of the distress she should feel in parting forever from those friends, with whom she had hitherto spent her life—and from whose tenderness all her past comforts had been drawn—that it was a solemn parting, when relatives were separated without a hope of meeting, till they met beyond the grave. However, that she considered this sacrifice due to a man of merit, and to the affections of her heart: that she complied with what she deemed the voice of Providence, and was encouraged to expect happiness, when in the path of virtue: but she intreated, that, while she left all her own family behind. I might not be of the number—she urged me affectionately to blend my fate, and the fate of my little ones with hers—to leave a country, where I had few ties to bind me, and to become an adventurer with her beyond the atlantic; that she would be married privately in a very short time; but she insisted [Page] on my being present at the ceremony; and as soon after a [...] possible, she expected to take her passage in a vessel bound to America.

The proposition of leaving my friends and my country, I must own, at first startled me much: and in the apprehension of the moment, I suggested that I did not think I could comply with her benevolent request; but at her solicitation, I agreed to consider the matter seriously. But as to being present at her marriage, I told her whatever pleasure I might once have taken in a circumstance of that kind, at present it would recal too many painful scenes of memory, and at once give me distress, and render me a damp to [...] enjoyment of others. A few days after this, when my friend had returned to her father's, I pondered seriously on the prospect [...]he had opened to my view. On the one hand, I pictured to myself the pain of parting forever from many [...] I loved, although some [...]d treated me unkindly—the dangers of the ocean—the uncertainty of my fate when I reached [Page] the other side of the ocean—and the forlorn situation, in which I should be left, if my Julia were to die. On the other hand. I recollected the cruelty I had experienced from some of my nearest relations; that my own father had abandoned me; that even were he to receive me beneath his roof—there I could take no comfort, with a rough unkind stepmother; that dependence was therefore my lot, and that I could endure this state with no one so well as with my sister and friend.

My health was declining—my spirits were gone—and I was induced to believe, that a voyage across the ocean would restore both. At any rate, I thought a change of place could not subtract from my happiness, for that was gone too effectually ever to return, in a place which daily obtruded on my mind recollections of past enjoyments, which death had snatched away and buried with my Charles. On these grounds I concluded, that if urged again by Julia, and by her future companion, I should consent to attend them. A few days after this, my [Page] dear friend's marriage was announced to me by a letter from herself, and one from Mr. Dalton, in which argument and intreaty were used to persuade me into a compliance with their request. I did not keep them long in suspence—but signified my acquiescence as early as I could, in their benevolent plan. Shortly after the adoption of this resolution, I communicated it to Mr. Plunket, with whom I still was—and to my father. The first remonstrated against the plan—but in such a way as led me to believe, that the kindness he had hitherto shewn me, was rather from a compassion, that every mind of ordinary sensibility must experience—than from a peculiar affection for myself; and that if I could be decently provided for, without giving the world occasion to reflect on him, as a man of inhumanity, he would feel no great regret in parting with me.

To my father I communicated my purpose, by the following short letter—

[Page]

Dear sir,

The affection and gratitude due to my only parent, as the instrument of my being, and the source of much of my happiness in early life, have led me in this way to inform him of my intention to fail in a few days, in company with Mr. and Mrs. Dalton, for America. As I expect never after my departure to meet my father or sister on earth, it would be a great consolation to me, once more to see them ere we part for life; to ask forgiveness of my past offences against their wishes—and to receive their blessing, and their prayers for my happiness. But if this request should be deemed unreasonable, and I should not be gratified with one last interview—you will accept, my father, and will present to my sister, my ardent wishes for your mutual health and peace, and that you may never feel one pang like any of those daily experienced by your afflicted, but affectionate daughter.

A. S.

This letter I gave to a special messenger, with an injunction to deliver it to my father himself—and to wait [Page] an answer, if any should be offered. On his return which was immediate, he told me, that on hearing from whom he came—and perusing the contents of the letter, my father raised his eyes and hands to heaven, and breaking forth into a torrent of grief—he said, "he had wronged his poor daughter—his dear Amelia—and while there was yet room for repentance and amendment, he would fly to her, and give her that relief which was yet in his power," I must own I was much affected at this information—I could see the violence of my father's returning affection, I thought I could observe the sorrow that would fill his heart at the idea of having forever exiled from her home and her country, a child [...]e reared and loved—and who had never designedly offended him in her life.—My resolution [...]aultered—but it was staggered more, when presently after, as I sat in my chamber, I was asked if I could bear to see my father and sister. In a tremulous tone, I hastily answered, yes: but I was too weak for the interview—my breath grew [Page] short—I felt a violent throbbing at my heart: a little time however recovered me in a degree—but when I heard my father's well known voice, below stairs, enquiring, "in which room he should find his daughter Amelia," and when I heard his and my sister's foot ascending the stairs, all my senses left me—and I swooned in the arms of the maid who attended me. The first objects that struck me when I recovered my faculties, were my father bending over me with a look of piteous tenderness—my sister kneeling by my side, bathed in tears, with my little son in her arms, and the domestics around using restoratives for my recovery—I extended my arms to my father and sister alternately, and from each received an embrace of the tenderest affection. When we were able to converse, we talked over many events, till finally, we glanced on the one that had produced the present meeting—they [...] I was not serious in the scheme of leaving Britain for America. I assured them that I was—and that nothing now I believed could alter my determination. They intreated [Page] me not to think of such a thing—they argued—they pleaded with me—they wept:—during three days they stayed with us, the subject was often renewed—my father offered all [...]e could do for my assistance, and that of my children. But I had now made up my mind: I was not to be diverted from my purpose: they had influence enough over me, however, to prevail on me to leave one of my girls to be educated by my sister, who as yet had none.

Things being thus arranged, I began to prepare industriously for my voyage. Every convenience my father could furnish me with was provided, and the day set for our departure. On the one previous to this, my father and sister come down, and remained with us. We passed it in gloom and sorrow—after a night of weeping, the morning of embarkation arrived—with streaming eyes and bleeding hearts, we took our last farewell of each other—we were soon under way—and on the broad tempestuous ocean. No material occurrence happened till we reached America.

[Page] As soon as we had landed and made enquiry into the state of things, Mr. Dalton found that it was not a time to enter largely into trade—the peace between England and America had been concluded for some time, and a vast inundation of goods was pouring into the United States from every quarter; he therefore wisely resolved to retire from business, and fix himself in one of the small towns of Connecticut, near which his father lived on a large and productive farm. Accordingly here we removed—and here we now live—we have an intelligent and genteel society in the town—we are punctual in our devotions in the family and at church—the manners of the people are congenial with our own—and although we subsist on little, we live very comfortably:—for my own part, I have little to expect from this world—affliction has led me to regard religion as the supreme and only source of happiness in life. In my devotions to God—in the education of my children—and in little charities to my neighbours, I find my chief happiness and employment. I pass a proportion [Page] of every day in reading, or in writing to absent friends, from whom, in return, I hear frequently.

Thus passes time—thus am I hastening to that "undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns." Soon shall I reach the end of my pilgrimage—soon shall this spirit meet and mingle with the spirit of my dear departed Charles—we shall meet—O rapturous thought! and never be parted more—we shall together bask in the effulgence of deity—we shall live in the tenderest amity throughout the long, long ages of an endless hereafter.

From Dr. FRANKLIN's WORKS.
On Luxury, Idleness, and Industry.
From a letter to Benjamin Vaughan, Esq. member of the British Parliament written in 1784

IT is wonderful how preposterously the affairs of this world are managed. Naturally one would imagine [Page] that the interest of a few individuals should give way to the general interest; but individuals manage their affairs with so much more application, industry and address, than the public do theirs, that general interest most commonly gives way to particular.—We assemble parliaments and councils, to have the benefit of their collected wisdom; but we necessarily have at the same time, the inconvenience of their collected passions, prejudices, and private interests. By the help of the [...]e, artful men overpower their wisdom, and dupe its possessors; and if we may judge by the acts, arrets, and edicts, all the world over, for regulating commerce, an assembly of great men is the greatest fool upon earth.

I have not yet, indeed; thought of a remedy for luxury. I am not sure that in a great state it is capable of a remedy: nor that the evil is in itself always so great as it is represented.—Suppose we include in the definition of luxury, all unn [...]essary expence, and then let us consider whether laws to prevent such expence are possible to [Page] be executed in a great country, and whether, if they could be executed, our people generally would be happier, or even richer. Is not the hope of being one day able to purchase and enjoy luxuries, a great spur to labour and industry? May not luxury therefore produce more than it consumes, if without such a spur, people would be, as they are naturally enough inclined to be, lazy and indolent? to this purpose I remember a circumstance. The skipper of a shallop, employed between Cape-May and Philadelphia had done us some small services, for which he refused to be paid. My wife understanding that he had a daughter, sent her a present of a new fashioned cap. Three years after, this skipper being at my house with an old farmer of Cape-May, his passenger, he mentioned the cap, and how much his daughter had been pleased with it. "But (said he) it proved a dear cap to our congregations,"—"How so?"—"When my daughter appeared with it at meeting, it was so much admired, that all the [Page] girls resolved to get such caps from Philadelphia; and my wife and I computed that the whole could not have cost less than a hundred pounds"—"True, (said the farmer) but you do not tell all the story.—I think the cap was nevertheless an advantage to us; for it was the first thing that put our girls upon knitting worsted mittens for sale at Philadelphia, that they might have wherewithal to buy caps and ribbons there; and you know that industry has continued, and is likely to continue and increase to a much greater value, and answer much better purposes." Upon the whole, I was more reconciled to this little piece of luxury, since not only the girls were made happier by having fine caps, but the Philadelphians by the supply of warm mittens.

In our commercial towns upon the sea-coast, fortunes will occasionally be made. Some of those who grow rich will be prudent, live within bounds, and preserve what they have gained for their posterity: others fond of shewing their wealth, will be extravagant [Page] and ruin themselves. Laws cannot prevent this; and perhaps it is not always an evil to the public. A shilling spent Idly by a fool may be picked up by a wiser person, who knows better what to do with it. It it therefore not lost. A vain, silly fellow builds a fine house, furnishes it richly, lives in it expensively, and in a few years ruins himself: but the masons, carpenters, smiths, and other honest tradesmen, have been by his employ assisted in maintaining and raising their families: the farmer has been paid for his labour, and encouraged, and the estate is now in better hands. In some cases indeed, certain modes of Luxury may be a public evil, in the manner as it is a private one.—If there be a nation, for instance, that exports its [...]f and linen, to pay for the importation of claret and porter, while many of its people live upon potatoes, and wear no shirts; wherein does it [...]ister from the [...] who lets his family starve, and sells his cloathes to buy drink? Our American commerce is, I confess, a little in this way. We sell our victuals to the islands for ruin [Page] and sugar; the substatial necessaries of life for superfluities. But we have plenty, and live well nevertheless, though, by being soberer, we might be richer.

The vast quantity of forest land we have yet to clear, and put in order for cultivation, will for a long time keep the body of our nation laborious and frugal. Forming an opinion of our people and their manners, by what is seen among the inhabitants of the sea ports, is judging from an improper sample. The people of the trading towns may be rich and luxurious, while the country possesses all the virtues that tend to promote happiness and public prosperity. Those towns are not much regarded by the country; they are hardly considered as an essential part of the states; and the experience of the last war has shewn, that their being in the possession of the enemy, did not necessarily draw on the subjection of the country, which bravely continued to maintain its freedom and independence notwithstanding.

[...]

[Page] It has been computed by some political arithmetician, that if every man and woman would work four hours each day on something useful, that labour would produce sufficient to procure all the necessaries and comforts in life; want and misery would be banished out of the world, and the rest of the 24 hours might be leisure and pleasure.

What occasions then so much want and misery? It is the employment of numbers in works that produce neither the necessaries or conveniences of life, who with these who do nothing, consume necessaries raised by the laborious. To explain this:

The first elements of wealth are obtained by labour, from the earth and waters. I have land, and raise corn. With this, if I feed a family that does nothing my corn will be consumed, and at the end of the year I shall be no richer than I was at the beginning. But if while I feed them, I employ them, some in spinning, others in making bricks, &c. for building, the value of my corn will be arrested and remain with me, and at the end of the year we may be [Page] all better cloathed and better lodged. And if, instead of employing a man I feed in making bricks, I employ him in fiddling for me, the corn he eats is gone, and no part of his manufacture remains to augment the wealth and convenience of the family; I shall therefore be the poorer for this fiddling man, unless the rest of my family work more or eat less, to make up the deficiency he occasions.

Look round the world, and see the millions employed in doing nothing▪ or in something that amounts to nothing, when the necessaries and conveniences of life are in question.—What is the bulk of commerce, for which we fight and destroy each other, but the toil of millions for superfluities, to the great hazard of many lives, by the constant dangers of the sea? How much labour is spent in building and fitting great ships, to go to China and Arabia for tea and coffee, to the West Indies for sugar, and to America for tobacco? These things cannot be called the necessaries of life, for our ancestors lived very comfortably without them.

[Page] A question may be asked; Could all these people now employed in raising, making, or carrying superfluities, be subsisted by raising necessaries▪ I think they might. The world is large, and a great part of it still uncultivated. Many hundred millions of acres in Asia, Africa, and America, are still in a forest; and a great deal even in Europe. On a hundred acres of this forest, a man might become a substantial farmer; and a hundred thousand men employed in clearing each his hundred acres, would hardly brighten a spot big enough to be visible from the moon, unless with Herschel's telescope; so vast are the regions still in wood.

It is however some comfort to reflect, that, upon the whole, the quantity of industry and prudence among mankind, exceeds the quantity of idleness and folly. Hence the increase of good buildings, farms cultivated, and populous cities filled with wealth, all over Europe, which a few years since were only to be found on the coast of the Mediterranean; and this notwithstanding the mad wars cotin [...]lly raging, [Page] by which are often destroyed in one year the works of many years peace. So that we may hope, the luxury of a few merchants on the coast, will not be the ruin of America.

One reflection more; and I will [...]nd this long rambling letter. Almost all the parts of our bodies require some expence▪ The feet demand shoes; the legs stockings; the rest of the body cloathing; and the belly a good deal of victuals. Our eyes, though exceedingly useful, ask▪ when reasonable, only the cheap assistance of spectacles which could not much impart our finances. But the eyes of other people are the eyes that [...]. [...] all but myself were blind, I should want neither fine cloathes, fine houses, or fine furniture.

PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY
An agllegorical tale

Two of the daughters of Providence were sent to the house of a rich Phenician merchant, named [Page] Velasco, whose residence was at Tyre, the capital city of the kingdom.

Prosperity, the eldest, was beautiful as the morning, and chearful as the spring; but Adversity was sorrowful and ill-favored.

Velasco had two sons, Felix and Uriano. They were both bred to commerce, though liberally educated, and had lived together from their infancy in the strictest harmony and friendship; but love, before whom all affections of the soul are as the traces of a ship upon the ocean, which remain only for a moment, threatened in an evil hour to set them at variance; for both of them were become enamoured with the beauties of Prosperity. The nymph, like one of the daughters of men, gave encouragement to each, by turns: but to avoid a particular declaration, she vowed a resolution never to marry, unless her sister, from whom she said it was impossible for her to be long separated, was married at the same time.

Velasco was no stranger to the passions of his sons, and dreading every thing from their violence, to prevent [Page] ill consequences, he obliged them by his authority to decide their pretensions by lot, each previously engaging in a solemn oath to marry the nymph that should [...]ll to his share. The lots were accordingly drawn, and Prosperity became the wife of Felix, and Adversity of Uranio.

Soon after the celebration of these nuptials, Velasco died, having bequeathed to his eldest son, Felix, the house wherein he lived, and the greatest part of his large patrimony and effects.

The husband of Prosperity was so transported with the gay disposition and enchanting beauties of his bride, that he clothed her in gold and silver, and adorned her with jewels of inestimable value. He built a palace for her in the woods; he made rivers in his gardens, and beautified their banks with temples and pavilions; he entertained at his table the nobles of the land, delighting their cars with music, and their eyes with magnificence; but his kindred he beheld as strangers, and the companions of his youth passed by him unregarded. His brother [Page] also became [...] in his sight; and, in process of time [...] commanded the doors of his house to, be [...] against him.

But as the stream shows from its channel, and loses itself among the valleys [...] moun [...] to also will the current of fortune [...]he dissipated, unless bounded by economy. In a few years▪ the estate of Felix was wasted by extravagance; his merchandize failed him by neglect and his effects were seized by the merciless hands of creditors. He appl [...]d himself for support to the nobles and great men whom he had sea [...]ed, and made presents to: but his voice was as the voice of a stranger, and they remembered not his face. The friends he had neglected derided him in their turn; his wife also insulted him, and turned her back upon him and [...]—yet was his heart [...]o bewitched with her sorceries, that he pursued her with entreaties, till by her haste to abandon him, her mask fell off, and discovered to him a face as withered and deformed, a [...] before it had appeared youthful and engaging.

[Page] What become of him afterwards, tradition does not with certainty relate. It is believed he fled into Egypt, and lived precariously on the scanty benevolence of at few friends who had not totally deserted him; and that he died in a short time, poor, wretched, miserable, and an exile.

Let us now return to Uranio, who, we have already observed, had been driven out of doors by his brother Felix. Adversity, though hateful to his heart, and a spectre to his eyes, was the constant attendant on his steps; and, to aggravate his sorrows, he received certain intelligence that his richest vessel was taken by a Sardinian pirate; that another was lost upon the Lybian straits; and, to complete all, the banker, with whom the greater part of his ready money was entrusted, had deserted his creditors, and retired into Sicily. Collecting, therefore, the small remains of his fortune, he bid adieu to Tyre, and, led by Adversity, he passed through unfrequented roads, and forests overgrown with bushes.

[Page] He came at last to a small village, at the foot of a mountain; here they took up their abode for some time; and Adversity, in return for all the anxiety he had suffered, softening the severity of her looks ministered to him the most faithful counsel, weaning his heart from the immoderate love of earthly things, and teaching him to revere the Almighty, and to place his whole trust and happiness in his government and protection. She humanized his soul, made him modest and humble, taught him to compassionate the distresses of his fellow creatures, and instructed him to relieve them.

"I am sent (says she) to those only, who are the favorites of Heaven; for I not only train them up by my severe discipline to future glory, but also prepare them to receive with a greater relish all such moderate enjoyments as are not inconsistent with this probationary state. As the spider, when assailed, seeks shelter in his inmost web, so the mind, which I assist, contracts its wandering thoughts, and flies for happiness to itself. Prosperity, my smiling, but treacherous sister, [Page] too often delivers those whom she has seduced, to be scourged by her cruel followers, Anguish and Despair; while Adversity never fails to lead those who will be guided by her to the blissful habitations of Tranquillity and Content."

Uranio listened to her words with great attention [...] and as he looked earnestly on her face, the deformity of it seemed insensibly to decrease. By gentle degrees his aversion to her abated, and at last he gave himself wholly up to her counsel and direction. She would often repeat to him the wise maxims of philosophers, that those who want the fewest things are the happiest. She admonished him to turn his eyes to the many thousands beneath him, instead of gazing on the few who lived in pomp and splendor; and instead of supplicating for riches and popularity, to pray for a virtuous mind, and a quiet state, an unblameable life, and a death full of good hopes.

Finding him every day more and more composed and resigned, though neither enamoured with her face, nor [Page] delighted with her society, she [...]at [...] addressed him in the following manner:

"As gold is [...] and refined from the dross by the fire, so is Adversity sent by Providence to try and improve the virtue of mortals. The end obtained, my task is finished and I now leave you, to go and give account of my charge. Your brother, whose lot was Prosperity, and whose condition you so much envied, after having experienced the error of his choice, is at last released by death from the most wretched of lives. Happy has it been for Uranio that his lot was Adversity; and, if he remembers her as he ought, his life will be honorable, and his death happy."

As she pronounced these words, she vanished out of his sight; but though her [...]eatures, at that moments instead of inspiring their usual horror, seemed to display a kind of languishing beauty—yet, as Uranio, in spite of his utmost efforts, could never prevail on himself to love her, he neither regretted her departure, nor wished for her return. But, though he rejoiced in [Page] her absence, he treasured up her counsels in his heart, and grew happy in the practice of them.

He afterwards be took himself again [...], [...] and having, in a short time, acquired a competency sufficient for the real enjoyment of life, he retreated to a little farm which he had bought for that purpose, and where he determined to [...] [...]he remainder of his days. Here be employed his time in planting, gardening, and husbandry; in quelling all disorderly [...] his mind by [...]he [...] took great delight in a little cell [...] in his garden, which stood under a tuft of [...]trees, encompassed; with eglantine and honey suckles. Adjoining to it was a cold bath, formed by a spring issuing from a rose, and over the door, in large characters, was this inscription:

Beneath this moss-grown roof, within this cell,

Truth, Liberty, Content, and Virtue dwell.

[Page] Say, you, who dare this happy place disdain.

What splendid palace boasts so fair a train?

He lived to a good old age, and died honored and lamented.

THE FAIR PENITENT.
A Fragment.

How unhappy are the fair, who, from mistaken motions of happiness, seek the alluring paths of pleasure! Deluded indeed!—Here a sigh burst from her bosom, at the recollection of past folly—a tear fell from its orb, and rested on the cheek of the fair Euphrosyne.

Cease, said she;—The dew drops of contrition, what avail they now? Are not the years of dissipation fleeted away like the sunbeams of the morning, without one reflecting moment! they sported till my fortune was exhausted—and my friends with fortune fled.

[Page]

For what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep:

A shade that follows wealth and fame,

And leaves the wretch to weep!"

I must now find some solitude, and perhaps close the evening of my life in the lap of penury: But stop, methinks some kind power bids me not despair though I have deviated from prudence, I never have from virtual. Notwithstanding this reverse of fortune I may yet be happy; the rectitude of my heart shall be my consolation; Here she paused—Yes it must be so. To-morrow, at Aurora's dawn, when the feathered songsters are chanting forth hymns of gratitude to the Supreme Author of the universe, I will commit myself to his care,—quit this town forever, and endeavor to blot out the remembrance of the part I have acted in it.

The ruddy fingers of the morn had just unbarred the gates of light, when Euphrosyne bade adieu to the place of her birth.

The melancholy of the birds, the softness of the air, the universal stillness that reigned around, spread a [Page] serenity over her mind, and calmed all her sorrows.—

She stopped to take a survey of the surrounding landscape. How happy exclaimed the fair, are the inhabitants of yo [...] lowly cottage, now enjoying the sweets of balmy slumbers. This is a felicity the virtuous only know! Sleep on ve children of innocence, and may your repose be uninterrupted! she finished her ejaculation with a sigh, and walked slowly forward, till she arrived at a litte village, where she enquired her way to the next; and with the small remains of her fortune purchased a cottage.

The lofty elm overshadowed her dwelling, and the lowly evergreen crept around her door. Here the once gay Euphrosyne, that lately shone in all the circles of the beau monde, was obscured as in the shadowey vale; but in the vale she was convinced that happiness does not dwell on the [...] grandeur.

[Page]

A FRAGMENT.

*** Her words, her looks, and the flood of tears which she shed affected me deeply—I dismounted from my horse and tied him to a twig—I sat me down on a bank beside her.

She held a laurel in her hand, and when I asked the cause of her affliction, she pointed to the flower, shook her head, and renewed her tears;—Perhaps, said I, a stranger may be able to bind up thy wounds. Alas! Sir, replied she, they are beyond human art—He, in whose hand are the issues of life and death, can alone heal the anguish;—He will, I trust, soon bind them up forever:—Has fortune then proved unkind, has friendship grown cold, or has love betrayed thee?

This flower, said she, when the morning sun exhaled the dew from its bosom, might have been regarded as an emblem, of what I was; in its present state, plucked from its branch, and [...] fast away, it is an emblem of what I am—then [...], as it were, from her grief, she looked me earnestly in the face, and exclaimed, in a stern tone of voice, it was— [Page] that undid me—I listened to his fabricated tales—they fanned the glowing passions into a flame that consumed my virtue; having lost that, which can alone make a woman charming, I [...] unworthy of my father's [...] he drove me fiercely from it, and shut his ears—nay, his heart, against the voice of my contrition; had not my mother been in the grave, she might have preserved me from destruction; at least she would have pitied me, and not have suffered her child to wander, sad, forlorn, and friendless:—

And who is thy father? Ah! me, said she, he indeed lives who was my father, but I am now an orphan; I will not tell the name I have dishonored.

Information about this book

Title statement

Interesting stories, singularly engaging extracts, and delightful allegories. [Two lines of verse]

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI :

Date

2008-09.

ID [DLPS]

N23110

ID [TCP]

N23110

ID [STC]

Evans 30546

ID [NOTIS]

APY0198

ID [IMAGE-SET]

30546

ID [EVANS-CITATION]

99027240

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. 30546.

Notes

(Evans-TCP ; no. N23110)

Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 30546)

Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 30546)

Source

— Interesting stories, singularly engaging extracts, and delightful allegories. [Two lines of verse], Haswell, Anthony, 1756-1816, comp..

Extent

[3], 10-138 p. ; 15 cm. (12mo)

[by Anthony Haswell],. Printed in Bennington, Vermont, :: in the year M,DCC,XCVI. [1796]. (Ascribed to the press of Anthony Haswell by McCorison, who identifies Haswell as the compiler.)

Creation

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