IF thou art a Curate, O Reader, and hast already one parish in thy pos­session, be contented, and seek not to have two. Be assured that contentment is better than to have two livings.

Many good people besides Shake­speare have been born upon the Avon; and one of them was the Curate of the Parish of Elmwood. Of a family of nine people, parents and children, only he and his daughter Julia remained.

This old Parson could do many things besides eat his pudding, drink his Octo­ber (both which he loved affectionately), and collect his tithes;—those important qualifications which have been, from time immemorial, annexed to the office of a Country Curate. He carried the Sciences in his head, and the Arts in his heart—I mean, so far as they are connected with manners or sentiment. Besides all this he preached an excellent [Page 4]sermon, wore his own gray hairs, and had the gout: but, above all, he loved, most dearly loved, his daughter Julia.

And well did she deserve his love.— Sweet Maid! If ever I forget thee, may my fancy lose her flights, and my pen its movements! If ever I forget the majestic elegance of thy form—or the liquid blue swimming in thy eye—or the half rose, half lily colours glowing in thy cheek, like the streaks of the west in a July evening—Oh! if I remember not the lovely confusion o'er all thy fea­tures, when I first beheld thee in the arms of thy Ravisher—may I cease to dream of thee!—If I do not, Julia! mayst thou never think of me!

Such was the daughter of the Curate of Elmwood—a fair form, and a pure heart!—It was nourished in the pure bosom of a father.

Though the mansion of these con­tented relations rose in the centre of the Parish, it was neither stately nor proud: like its inhabitants, it was modest, and seemed to retire into an obscure and [Page 5]silent glade, formed between various clumps of shrubbery, and a ridge of rising ground. At a small distance roll­ed the silver Avon, ever musical, now mantling over a rocky channel, and now gliding through green plains and fields covered with wild flowers.

Through these fields, and along these skirted banks, full oft did the Curate and his daughter pursue their walk. In that sweet hour of the evening, when the sun seems dropping behind the hills, and throws a feeble but pleasing beam o'er the landscape, then might you see them walking arm in arm, and slowly, on the Avon side. "Julia, (he would say to his daughter) my dear Julia, you and my Parish are the comfort of my life. Ye all are my children—but you, Julia, you are my Friend. The thirsty loves not to drink, nor the weary to rest, more than I love to look upon you. What would become of me, Julia, wert thou gone? and when I am gone, my daughter, what will become of thee?"—I hope, father, we shall die [Page 6]both together,"—"God grant it! God grant it!" answered the old man.

Thus peaceably glided on their lives, till an unlucky accident in the neigh­bouring parish disturbed their tranquil­ity. The Vicar of that parish died. Now, the moment our Curate was in­formed of this, it roused one of his worst passions: he had now but one wish to be gratified in this world; and that was—to have the neighbouring vicarage in his possession. "My dear father (said the unambitious Julia), have we not competence? and does not com­petence afford us happiness? and is not this sufficient?"—Ay, all that was very true: but then the vicarage lay so snug just at his own door; and he wanted to have it in his power to leave something to his Julia after his death; and, now that he was so very old, and so very gouty, what a comfortable thing it would be to have a Curate under him, to perform service when he was confined at home! The thing was evidently a snug thing, and would be very conve­nient: [Page 7]besides, he knew the Patron of the living—he had been his school fel­low—as good a nobleman as ever was born—he was certain of success—It was impossible that he could not succeed—he had set his heart upon the thing—and Julia, his child, could not oppose it.

Here he was right. Julia would sooner have expired at his feet. She yielded the point with a smile.

But much remained yet to be done. The Curate had talked like a man un­acquainted with calculations, and his fancy (old as it was) got the start of his judgment. He did not consider that Lord C—, the patron of the liv­ing, resided at London, and that his own limbs were too gouty to carry him thither—for personal application is ab­solutely necessary in these cases: besides, the Clergy, though they are continually advising their flocks to keep their eyes fixed upon the good things of Heaven only, have a strange trick of keeping their own eyes constantly fixed upon the good things of this earth: [Page 8]every moment, therefore, was impor­tant; to lose a minute was to lose the Curacy; and while he was talking, some other reverend brother, who had no gout in his toes, no daughter to provide for, no want of an assistant Curate, might be posting to his Lord­ship in Berkely Square.

The old man became now greatly agitated; and that bosom which ought to have been the mansion of resignation and peace, was disturbed by restless wishes and ill timed despair. The sympathetic soul of Julia was roused; her heart throbbed with guiltless pangs, and she felt for the griefs of her father. She tried to soothe him, but tried in vain: she argued against his wishes, but she was arguing against the follies of old age, which are incurable. The Curacy was lost, and he was resolved to bewail it.

The evening came, but came not as usual; this man of despair was uncon­scious of its charms. His soul was deaf to the voice of Nature, even when her [Page 9]notes were sweetest—at the close of the day. He listened not to the carols of the hinds, nor to the rustic music of the fields: the flocks clustered in the mead­ows unnoticed; and the sun poured his evening glories over the landscape un­regarded. Even Julia did not charm him: he saw her kneel at his side with­out emotion, and he heard her sighs in silence.

Here a father and a friend was lost to happiness—the only friend too she had in the world—and sorrows much less than these would have murdered the peace of Julia. She had already knelt by the side of her father: she now clasped his hand closely in her own, and fixing her blue eyes pathetically on his countenance, begged that he would not refuse her one request— "What was that?"—To permit her to go to London, in quest of the Curacy.

Electricity could not touch him quicker. The voice of Julia was pa­thetic, and it awakened him. His af­fections returned in an instant: he lean­ed [Page 10]over his daughter, and gave her to understand that it was impossible to grant her request; that he would not part with her for a Bishopric; and that she must not think to part with him. She replied; he answered; and she re-answered: in short, the contest was long, stubborn and eloquent; and though there was not much learning in it, it abounded with nature, a richer quality. Suffice it to say that Julia con­quered; and she obtained with great difficulty what she called the honourable office of being her father's messenger.

It has been observed already that dis­patch is one of the few roads to prefer­ment. As no time was therefore to be lost, it was agreed upon that she should set off the next morning. The War­wick stage passed through the neigh­bouring market town, and she might walk thither to meet it. The old man retired to get ready his letters, and Julia to make her little preparations for her journey.

How they slept, themselves know [Page 11]best; but when the morning came, the Curate's opinions were entirely changed. "He had thought better upon the sub­ject, and he was resolved not to let her go. The roads were dangerous, and London was still more so—besides, she might turn sick—or the coach might be overturned—she might be killed—and he would never see her more." Julia knew that these fears were only the tender works of timid nature, and she opposed them. In short, the contest was renewed with its former warmth; and the affection of the daughter tri­umphed once more over the tenderness of the Father. He consented again to let her go, on condition that Joe (his labourer, his gardener, his footman, his hostler, his every thing) should at­tend her with his friendly care—should be the companion of her journey.

Now this Joe was the awkwardest mortal—Never, sure, did a more sim­ple squire page it at the heels of a fair lady. Neither the Sancho of Don Quixote, nor the Pedrillo of Rosalva, [Page 12]were more arrant children of Nature— were guided by more native simplicity. He and his occupation seemed made for each other, so exactly were they re­spectively fitted. He was never fa­mous but for two things; viz. for whistling, after his team, the loudest and most musical notes of any in the whole village—and for knitting stock­ings: this was all the reputation he had in the world; and he was now going to set out for London (where he had never been) in high expectation of seeing fine things and fine folks, but without any idea of receiving treatment different from what he met with in the parish of Elmwood.

Now, reader, stop a moment, and bethink thee of this plan and of this journey; and then confess that they were highly worthy of the politic heads which gave them birth. A village vir­gin, attended by a village boor—both equally accustomed to travelling, and the bustle of an English turnpike road— both equally skilled in the knowledge [Page 13]of men and of their characters—are setting our for London—for London, I say—in quest of a Curacy! The thing was worthy of a Village Curate. The descent of Eneas into Hell was, in com­parison of this, walking upon carpets.

Our travellers were now ready to be­gin their walk to the market town, which was but four miles distant. Without palfrey, armour, or other ret­inue than the children of the neigh­bourhood (who regarded Julia as the good and fair Genius of the village) the cavalcade set out. Julia and her father led the van, and the rest followed. Joe, as if conscious that he was entering upon a service of danger, assumed a statelier port and a more august visage; and, with a clean shirt in his left pocket, much good bacon and cheese in his right, and a lusty sapling in his hand, he towered majestic forward in the midst of the children, with stern aspect and long strides.

[Page 14] The company had now walked a mile, and were to part. On this trying occasion I could say much, but will not. To describe the glances of affection and the looks of love which glistened in every eye, which played in every fea­ture, would be extremely tedious to many of my gentle readers: I shall therefore content myself with informing them, that in this difficult scene the simple heart of the Curate failed him; his eyes confessed it, and he played the woman. The ender Julia caught the soft contagion; and from her it passed to the little villagers who composed her train. Joe, who now saw what was passing all around him, was not willing to be singular: his eye forgot its haugh­tiness for a moment, and he mixed his plaintive notes in the concert of woe.— Thus they are all crying together.

But these lamentations were soon over. The Curate, taking his daugh­ter by the hand, showered blessings and advices upon her in great plenty; told her to be cautious, prudent and expedi­tious; [Page 15]that while she took care of her­self, she was serving him; and then again wishing her ten thousand blessings, bade his child adieu. The Curate marched slowly back at the head of his young flock, and our two travellers ses forward to the market town with a hasty pace and high expectations.

Having now begun a journey, we must be expeditious. They arrived at the market town, met the stage coach, and took their respective stations—Julia in the inside, and Joe, like her guardian angel, perched above her upon the top. Now why should I loiter to rehearse the trivial adventures of a stage-coach journey—how, always as town rose to view after town, hill after hill, and county after county, the spirits of Joe rose in proportion, and still he whistled on both loud and long, like the lark at day break; or how, though all the silly people in the coach stared continually at Julia, the timid Julia durst not stare at them? or why should I relate the idle small talk, the impu­dent [Page 16]regard, and the uncourteous gal­lantry, with which she was entertained by a foolish officer of the guards (those coxcomb troops), who is well known to be a fop in the Drawing room and a fribble on the Parade? Otherwise they went smoothly on, till they arrived at the Lane which is three miles on the west side of Uxbridge; when a very civil gentleman came to the window, and desired them to give him all the money they had. The gentleman at the window was far from being unpo­lite, considering he had declared war against Society. He bespoke them very gently, beginning at the right hand, and following them all, man by man, and woman by woman, till he went round to the left side. The officer was unhappily first, and he gave his purse with a sullen silence. Julia was next, and held her little money in her hand, but durst not look towards the window. A meagre cockney gave all, but begged a few shillings back to carry him to St. Paul's. A little fat woman [Page 17]surrendered her purse with a threat; and a plain dressed man regretted he had not more for so civil a gentleman.

When they arrived at the inn at the next stage, each one expressed his sor­rows as his feelings prompted: but they were now to enter upon their last stage, and none had such weighty cause to be aggrieved as Julia, who had not a friend before her. To go forward was madness, and to go back was impossi­ble. What was she to do?—She called in Joe, and asked if he had provided himself with any money, in case of an emergency.—"Yes, that he had—and there it was at her service,"—throwing down his entire flock upon the table, which in the whole amounted to the sum of three shillings and nine pence. This made despair more black. It was her first misfortune; and she thought it but a rough entrance into the world, for one who never deserved it.

The officer now entered the room; and seeing Joe there, began to upbraid him for suffering the highway man to escape, [Page 18]when he was seated so advantageously at the top, with an oaken sapling in his hand—"You stupid oaf! (said this military hero) why did you not attack him?"—"'Case I had not a sword by my side, like you (replied Joe, with the greatest frankness)—he—he—he! icod every man to his traid, measter!"—These arguments were unanswerable.

The officer now walked up to Julia, whose embarrassment he perceived; and taking her aside, told her he guessed the cause of her sorrow, and that he was happy he had it in his power to remove it: "for (continued he) I know the road too well to venture my all upon it, and to leave myself unprovided with resouces. Here (says he, untying his stock, and shaking out of it a slender green purse) here is my corps de reserve: I gave the robber a few shillings, and I secured this for your use." Now Julia examined the face of this affair simply as it stood. It was a case of necessity; and she thought it ridiculous for one who was many, many miles from Elm­wood, [Page 19]and who had not two pence in her pocket, to refuse the loan of a few guineas, which would remove all her sorrows. She might probably have an opportunity of hinting the matter to Lord C—when she saw him, who would no doubt advance the money upon the Curacy and thus all would be right again. She therefore thanked him politely, and told him that when she saw her noble friend Lord C—, she hoped to be able to repay him. "Lord C—! (says he)—what—you are going to visit him?"—Yes, Sir.—"O—a relation I presume, Madam?" No, Sir—only a friend: his Lordship and my father were great friends when they were young, and at school—"Ay, ay—your father, I presume, Madam, lives in the country?"—Yes, Sir; he's Curate of Elmwood, near —in Warwickshire. "Your visit, Ma'am—is it a visit of pleasure or busi­ness?"—Business, Sir: I am only come to town with a letter from my father to Lord C—to solicit the Curacy of [Page 20]—.—" O I understand you, Ma'am. Lord C—is my particular acquaintance, and it will give me pleas­ure to be your protector and your guide, till I deliver you safely and hon­ourably to his Lordship.—Would you choose to alight, Ma'am, at any particular place in London?"—No (said the simple Julia) I intend to stay at the Inn all night, and to wait upon his Lordship in the morning.—" Ah! Madam (replied the officer), you do not know the confusion, the disgust, and danger which you will meet with at the Inn: I have a mother in town, who lives elegantly: be prevailed upon to be lodged this night at her house. She will receive you with cheerfulness, and treat you with tenderness. May I perish, Madam—may I beg the honour to know your name, Madam?"—Julia. —"May I perish, Miss Julia, but I am interested in your case as sincerely as if you was my sister!" This last pro­posal was better and better. To meet so good a friend at once!—She was cer­tain [Page 21]her father's prayers for her were heard; and she thought she could not be too thankful to Heaven—nor to the Gentleman. She accepted his officer; and they mounted the stage coach once more.

As the stage coachman was at this place paid his full demands, there was nothing to be done but to roll into town, and go where they pleased. The fat woman lived in Holborn, and the coach stopt to set her down. "Here too, Madam (said the officer to Julia), we may get out for we are near our home." The artful abruptness and hurry of the summons—the conscious­ness of finding herself suddently in the midst of the immense metropolis, where she already saw strange things, and expected to see still stranger—her total ignorance of every thing around her—her hopes—her expectations—her simplicity—all contributed to throw her mind into confusion, her spirits into a flutter: she forgot every thing—she forgot even Joe—and Joe, alas! forgot [Page 22]her; for he was exactly in the same predicamant. He was astonished: he was in a new world: his recollection forsook him, and a mist wandered over his eyes: he set nailed to the top of the coach, with his mouth open, looking at every thing, and seeing nothing. In this cloud Julia escaped; and she nei­ther spoke nor looked around her, till her gallant commander led her into Lin­coln's Inn Fields—Now when a young Gentleman, with a young Lady by his side, who is resolved to follow him, finds himself in Lincoln's Inn Fields, the road to Covent Garden lies direct: 'tis only going up Queen street, crossing the Lane and the Acre, and you're there. He conducted her into that well known house situate between the gate of the Theatre and the Piazza Coffee house. The polite inhabitants of this house received the young gentleman with all the freedom and civility of an old ac­quaintance, which convinced Julia that he was quite at home.

Now, gentle reader, while Julia and [Page 23]her friend are seated at a bottle of Madeira, rocollect, and confess wheth­er we have not travelled to good pur­pose. From the banks of the Avon— from the mansion of innocence—from the warm bosom of a father—to place our Heroine on the very brink of per­dition at once!—by Pegasus, it was rapidly done! Other authors, indeed, have, by degrees, from adventure to ad­venture, from scene to scene, carried their Heroines into very extreme dan­ger; but we, fully resolved to excel all that have ever gone before us, have seated her upon the pinnacle of ruin at once.—And now, ye guardian spirits (if such spirits there be, as certain di­vines have told us) whether ye be Sylphs, Genii, or Fairies—if ye have indeed any regard for innocence, and a virgin too—now open your golden eyes, and now ply your silver pinions—for inno­cence is in danger.—And now, thou wretched old man, thou ambitious Cu­rate of Elmwood—rekindle your piety, and redouble your prayers—for your [Page 24]daughter, your Julia, is in a Bagnio— and without a fear!

Every thing that passed around Julia in this house appeared too plausible for her eyes to be opened, or her suspicion to be roused—(for she had never been in a Tavern before: and as to the in­cessant tinkling of bells, and the inces­sant running of waiters—why, bells and servants must be in all great fami­lies, and no doubt, must be continually employed)—The deception, I say, was good, and every thing appeared ex­tremely well, except one thing: it puzzled her to conceive why they should be conducted into a bed chamber! But perhaps (she thought) it was the fashion in London, and what was that to her?

Julia drank very sparingly, but not so her companion; he was to attempt the gaining of a difficult post, and the coward wanted spirits. It is a tribute paid to virtue, that, though it be lodg­ed in the possession of but a frail and weak woman, its spoiler, before he at­tempts [Page 25]to ruin it, musts call to his assist­ance foreign aid, acquire fictitious spir­its and debase himself into a brute. The second bottle began to tune the spirits of our Hero: his veins swelled, his pulse quickened, his eyes glistened, and his cheek glowed: he snatched the hand of Julia, fed upon it with fury, and devoured it with a tumult of unholy love: if indeed he loved Julia, it was with the love of a tyger.

She started from his embraces, and retreated some paces from her chair. He followed, and renewed the attack, and Julia her resistance: he grew stronger, he grew wilder, his hand was wandering over her charms (where hand never wandered before), and he became furious; Julia became faint—she was yielding—her tender frame was exhaust­ed, and she could now only shriek. A shriek was a new thing in these apart­ments, and it alarmed a gentleman in the adjoining room, who, with his coat off, a dirty boot on one leg, and his face glowing and besmeared with sweat, [Page 26]kicked open the door, and rushed vio­lently into the room, with all the zeal of a man who was to assist the distressed. The Officer let go his hold of Julia, and she threw herself breathless upon a chair. The man in dishabille stared at them both alternately, now at Julia, and now at the Officer, and at length broke silence:

"What! force!—Why, thou dam­nable and silly animal, what a dirty business is this you are engaged in— forcing a woman to your wishes!—To force a woman in any place is a mean­ness that no man of honour will stoop to—but to force one here in this house— D-mn—n! you scoundrel! get out— walk off, or I'll kick you."

We need not be surprized that the Officer was mean enough to take his advice. He looked at the man in disha­bille as if he had recollected something, and left the room precipitately.

"And now, my angel (said the gen­tleman in the boot to Julia, taking her by the hand), let us drink a glass or two [Page 27]and I dare say we shall agree better."— Oh, Sir! (replied Julia, clasping her bands and falling on her knees before him)—have mercy on me!—pity me!—or you will kill me—"Pshaw, my dear! I never kill quite upon these occasions — you will but die at the most.—But, Child, you look d-mn'd serious upon this business—Is any thing the matter with you?"—Oh, Sir I (an­swered Julia, in the midst of many tears) I don't know where I am, and I don't know where to go—I am just come to town in the Warwick stage.— "In the Warwick stage!—what thro' Uxbridge?'—Yes.—"And was that fellow one of the company?"—Yes. —"Whe—w!—And you met a high­wayman, didn't you?"—Yes.—"That was me, by G-d!" Here Julia shriek­ed, terrified at the sound of the name; but he stopped her in good time: "You must not be afraid (said he), for I won't hurt you. Tell me honestly, are you virtuous or not?—that is, are you a maid?"—Oh! upon my honour, Sir.— [Page 28]"How came you here, then, in com­pany with that fellow?"—When you took—when I lost all my money, he advanced some for me; and as I had no friends in London, promised to take care of me, and bring me to his moth­er's till tomorrow, when I could have finished all my business.—"Then you are really honest?"—As I love Heaven and my Father, Sir, I am.—"Then thou art a lovely girl and 'tis pity so fine a woman should 'be honest. But I believe you, and shall be your friend— shall guard you from harm—for, by G-d! I am a man of honour! and though misfortune and my evil spirit force me sometimes to the highway, I scorn to do a mean thing, by G-d!— In the first place, as you lost your mo­ney, you shall divide this purse with me. In the next place, you are now in a house full of wh-res and scoundrels —I must leave it myself in a minute, in case that fellow should have twigg'd me, and I fancy you had better leave it too. Trust yourself with me, and I [Page 29]shall take care of you till morning." Julia told him he could not serve her more agreeably than by carrying her to the Inn where the stage and Joe were. That, he said, was more than he durst do; but he would carry her to a place equally or more secure. So saying, he returned to his room, to throw off part of his road dress, and adjust the rest.

If the Reader has a fancy worth two pence, he will conceive how Julia's thoughts were employed in this interval, till they are interrupted by the en­trance of the highwayman, who appear­ed now to be a handsome and genteel young fellow. He paid the reckoning, and they departed: it was now between nine and ten in the evening.

They had not quitted the Piazza, when four of Sir John Fielding's men rushed forward, and seized the high­wayman with the most incredible activi­ty. They swept him away, as the whirlwind sweeps away the leaves in autumn, and whirls them, the Lord knows [Page 30]where. Julia ran rapidly away, nor cast one look behind. She continued to go forward (as she thought), till she had run a great way; and then stopping for breath, she was exactly on the spot from whence she set out—she had only run round the Garden, not suspecting but she was going forward in a straight line. "Madam! Madam! (says an Irish chairman to her) do you want a chair?" I don't know what I want. My fait, but I do—you want to be carried to Mother H—'s, my jewel, which I and Connor yonder can do in five minutes."—My good friend, if you can carry me to any honest place, I shall bless you for ever.—" Honest plase!—Devil burn me, my honey, an if I know one honest plase in the whole town—Ha, ha, ha!—honest plase!—Ah, you cunning Devil you!—To be sure you want to go to an honest plase!—Ha, ha, ha!—Here you, Mr. Watchman—this Lady wants to go to an honest plase—Can't you shew her the way?" "Aye, that I can (roplied the [Page 31]watchman)—Ah, Madam, it is you?—I know you of old—Come along, come along with me: you shall go to the honestest place in all King George's dominions—the Round house."—The watchman happened just at that time to want a pot of beer; but Julia not un­derstanding his meaning, to the Round­house he led her in triumph.—Ah, Julia, Julia, ah!

She had been hitherto overwhelmed in a kind of insensibility: the sudden­ness and horror of the last adventure were too powerful for her; her faculties lost their power, and her recollection was suspended; she was led by the watchman without seeing whither she was going, and she was dragged along without feeling that he held her by the arm. But she had not been long seated at the top of the bench, where they placed her near the fire, before she awakened from her stupor. She awakened, looked around, and saw herself seated in the midst of a horrible assembly, whose visages would [Page 32]make Angels weep and Demons trem­ble. High above the rest, like the Evil Spirit in Pandemonium, sat the Consta­ble of the Night, a beef headed knave, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard on a stool before him.—"Here (said this man in office) you, snoring Dick, reach this here tankard to that there Lady, and then bring her before me for examination.—Oh, she won't drink!—Well, well, that's all one—if she does not drink she'll pay; so bring her for­ward here."

Julia now advanced: her cheeks were suffused with tears, her breath quicken­ed, and her whole frame trembled.

"Ay, ay (says the Constable), you may well shake when you look at me. — Hem! what account can you give of yourself, Miss?—No, that's not it nei­ther: I'll begin with you, I think, Mister Watchman—Where did you find this here Lady here, Snoring Dick?"

"Found her! (replies Dick) why, please your Worship, I found her pick­ing a gemmun's pockets."

[Page 33] "Picking a gemmun's pockets!—Mercy on us!—O ho, Miss, you may well shake when you look at me—Well, Dick, go on."

"And so, Sir, as she was a picking the gemmun's pockets, as I was a say­ing, I comes close behind her, and lays hold of her hand in the fact."

"In the fact?"

"In the fact."

"Transportation, to be sure.—Well, go on, Snoring Dick."

"And so, Sir, as I catches her hand, she turns about, stoops down for one of her pattens, and before you could say Pervey, hits me the nastiest blow in the skull I ever had in my life since the great riot—You please to feel, Mister Constable. the hugeous lump it has raised on my skull."

"Ay, God bless me! so it is—it's a thumper, i'faith!"

"A thumper! It will stand damages. I never had such a blow in my life—I warant ye it bleeds under my hair. It floundered me like a stock fish."

[Page 34] "Ay, she wanted to murder you."

"Yes."

"Oh; the horrid monster!—Well, Madam, have you nothing to say for yourself?—Ah, you impudent—Dick, take off her patten, that we may carry it as a witness before Sir John in the morning."

"Ay, that I will, Mister Constable; the patten will speak for itself, and a damn'd heavy patten it is."

Dick stooped for it, but Julia wore no pattens.

"Ah, the cunning Devil! (continu­ed Dick) she has thrown them away. I thought I heard her throw something away as we came along.

"Oh, let her alone! (said the Con­stable)—she's a knowing one: but she shall doll it in Bridewell to morrow, for all that.—Ay, you may well shake when you look at me, you bloody-minded— You may now return to your seat."

As Julia was returning to her bench, she trembled incessantly, but never ut­tered [Page 35]a syllable.—" Oh, (says Dick) she's dumb founded with the highous­ness of her crime." "No, (replies a second) she's drunk." "Not so far gone neither (echoes a third) but a quartern of gin would recover her."

"Ay, ay, (says the Constable) there's no doubt but she'll drink; and it's her turn now to send out. Please, Madam, to give this gemmun money for a gallon of Trueman's best, and for half a gallon of hot, and for four papers of tobacco, and for a loaf, an for three pound of Cheshire.—Here, Scout; walk over, Sirrah, to the Lady, and make her your Sunday's bow—Bring every thing of the best, and then we'll drink to the Lady's health, and to poor Snoring Dick's head; and old Uglyface in the corner yonder will sing us the comical song about the Cat and the Taylor, and make his wry faces, and we'll be as happy as Princes."

When this oration was finished, Scout made his obeisance to Julia.—She was just able to ask him what he wanted?— [Page 36]"Money, Madam."—How much must you have?—"Oh, you may let me have five or six shillings, and I'll make the best market I can, and return you the rest faithfully, Madam, upon my honour!—And if that won't be enough, I'll return for more."

Julia felt in her pocket for her purse (which the highwayman had given her) but she could not find it—it was gone:

On seeing this, the President bawled out immediately, that it was "a sham!" and Julia protested in vain. The com­pany around heard this with an arch smile; the watchmen shook their heads, and the Constable grew noisy; which awakened an old gentleman who had hitherto stept very soundly in a corner. Estimating the thing as favour­ably as possible, he had not above half the appearance of a gentleman. The truth is, he was no other than the well known Mr. B— who once had three thousand a year, though he has not now sixty; but being a man of plain man­ners and a generous disposition, is still [Page 37]well received among his relations, and strangers who know him. He had been lounging, as usual, for eight or nine hours, in a Coffee house in the Garden, and then withdrew, as he frequently does, to the watch house, either to sleep or drink. On this last account, he was re­garded there with some degree of respect.

He naturally inquired the cause of the noise; and the majority informed him, that it was "only a Madam there, who pretended she had lost her purse." Julia now appealed to him in her turn; and, with that unaffected simplicity which ever clothes the words of inno­cence and truth, informed him, that a watchman had taken hold of her unex­pectedly in the street; that she was pos­itive she had her purse at that time, be­cause a gentleman had given it to her but two minutes before; that from that time she had only walked thither with the watchman, and now she missed her mon­ey."

"Which watchman was it?" said the gentleman.

[Page 38] "Me—" replied Snoring Dick boldly.

"Was it you? (repeated Mr. B.—) Ah, Dick! you and I, you know, are old acquaintance, and it is long since I have known you to be a scoundrel.— Therefore, Sirrah, deliver the purse."

"Me! (answered Dick)—Have I the purse?—I'll be d—mn'd if I have any purse about me."

"You hav'n't?"

"No."

"And you won't deliver?"

"No—"

"Why then, Mr. Constable, I charge you with—"

"Except indeed (interrupts Dick eagerly) something that I picked up on the street, as I was coming along with that there lady."

"Ah, you old fox! (said the gentle­man) I thought I should unkennel you. Where is this something which you picked up from the street?"

"Here it is—but it does not belong to her."

[Page 39] "Pray, Madam (said Mr. B—, addressing Julia) is this your purse?"

"If it has a gold tassel at either end (answered Julia) it is mine, Sir, upon my honour."

It had so, was delivered to her, and Mr. B—immediately retired back into his corner to sleep.

Julia now willingly paid all the de­mands made upon her; and the Presi­dent observed to her, "that as to be sure as how she was a good natured lady, and civil, and all them there things, and had given a good account of herself, why, to be sure, she might now go about her business."

Julia thanked him, but n. entioned, that she did not know whither to go till morning. "Not know! (said the Constable)—why there are five hundred beds round you, where you may sleep for half a crown."—But she was a stranger in town, and did not choose to venture into strange houses.

"Lord, Ma'am, (observed Snoring Dick) for sixpence I'll conduct you to a [Page 40] bagnio where you will be as safe as if you was in a tower."—She started at hearing a eagnio mentioned.—"Why then, Ma'am, if so be as you are so shy and a'n't proud, hire me well, and I'll let you sleep in my house.—There's no body there but my wife.—I'll seek but five shillings, and your purse can well spare that."

This proposal did not require to be repeated. Julia took him at his word. Even though he took her purse, as he was a poor man, she thought she might be safe in his house for a night. Besides, she was pleased with the thoughts of be­ing in company with a woman once more. With Dick, therefore, she went into one of the little streets behind Long Acre, and followed him into a three pair of stairs room, humble enough, indeed, but where all was silence. Dick awakened his wife, told her the story, whispered to her to look sharp after her lodger, and left them.

Julia chatted a little while with her landlady, and found her to be civil [Page 41]enough, for a watchman's wife. The first thing she begged of her was to be favoured with pen, ink, and paper. She got these readily; the landlady re­tired to bed; and Julia wrote the fol­lowing letter:

"Ah! my dear father, shall we ever meet again?—When shall we meet—?— Are you well?—Shall I ever see you? and ah! shall you ever see me?

"I am now—alas! I do not know where I am—nor where I have been— nor where I shall be to morrow. I seem an outcast from society: I have not met one friend since I left you: every one deceives me—every one insults me: they have treated me cruelly—they have broken my heart. Even Joe has forsaken me: he has deserted me, or he is lost—or I know not what is be­come of him.

"Ah, my father! my dear father!— that Heaven which we both serve, let that Heaven bear witness, that one wish alone fills my whole soul—the wish to see you, once more, to talk with you, [Page 42]to gaze upon you, to sit once more by your knee—I would rush into your bosom: I would wet it with my tears, but I would never forsake it—never, never!

"They are not mankind who sur­round me—I do not live among the human race: these are the habitations of the Furies. When shall I leave them? Shall I ever quit the dreary man­sion where I now write?—I tremble— Shall I never more see Elmwood?— Shall I never more fly into the bosom of my father!"

"And oh! (continued Julia, in words half stifled with grief) if it be possible, as my father has told me, that dreams have any meaning and that the soul is most susceptible of these visionary im­pressions when it is most o'ercharged with woe—most surely this night I shall converse with my father." She sealed these hopes with a shower of tears.

Now, gentle reader, if it has been at any time your fate, (as it has been mine, [Page 43]and as it is at this moment many a no­bler fellow's) to be sitting in that lofty habitation called a garret, plunged in deep distress—no two pence in your purse, no mirth in your heart, and no beef in your belly—when, throwing your eyes around the rayless walls, you are conscious that sighs and tears are the only commodities in plenty about you—if this has been your case, you must well know the comfort that arises from shed­ding your sorrows in secret—the relief that flows from a shower of solitary tears. In such a situation, next to in­stantaneous and absolute relief, it is the first of blessings, and Julia now felt it in all its force. Her heart was eased, and she hoped for a night of rest and for better days. Having then sealed up her letter, she retired to a bed so humble that it kissed the very ground.

Watching and grief had given her too good an appetite for sleep not to en­joy it. Whether or not she dreamed, I cannot really inform my reader, because she never informed myself of this cir­cumstance. [Page 44]This I know, that she slept nine hours incessantly, and, when she awoke, found her head resting upon the partition wall which rose at the back of her bed. It consisted only of a single file of boards, and was full of crevices. Her ear lay upon one of them, and it conveyed to her the most doleful accents that ever struggled from the human breast. She started, and applied her eye to the crevice, but every thing was solitary: she saw no one. The voice ceased. It ceased only for a moment. Again it murmurs, weeps, laments, sobs, and again it ceases. Her sympa­thetic soul followed it through all its va­riations; and, led by a soft humanity, she mourned with the mourner through every change of his woe. She applied her eye a second time, but could see nothing. A moment after, the voice was renewed. It was now more queru­lous, then more plaintive, and at length died away upon her ear, as if it had expired for want of strength. She heard it no more.

[Page 45] For the present, Julia suppressed her feelings, and arose. Snoring Dick had retired for an hour, to sleep away the fatigues of the night and of the beer-pot. His wife was at breakfast, (tea) and invited Julia to partake. She con­sented willingly; and the woman, who had but one dish, politely offered it to her guest, and took for her own use a pint pot from which her husband had been drinking beer.

This repast over, Dick awakened; and Julia, who was during breakfast-time devising what measures to follow, proposed at first to engage him to go along with her to the inn where Joe and the stage coach were; but on recollect­ing the dangers she had already experi­enced in the streets, she resolved not to venture upon it again, without a better guide than her friend the watchman. She therefore judged it more prudent to hire him to go to the inn, and to bring Joe along with him to the place where she was. Dick readily assented to this proposal, for the hire of a half [Page 46]crown; which, he stipulated, should be paid him before he set off, as well as the crown for the bed. All this he re­cieved on the spot, with the letter for her father to be put into the Post Office. He now departed, assuring her, that though she had not the name of the inn to give him, he could discover it.

This business happily adjusted, the groans in the adjoining apartment rose upon Julia's mind. She had purposely delayed her inquiries till Dick's depar­ture, whom she knew to be unblessed with humanity. His wife, by a softer temper and a more complacent behav­iour, had recommended herself better to the observation of Julia, and she re­served her sympathies for her ear. Assuming, therefore, that eager and serious aspect which the face wears when we are in earnest, she inquired who were the inhabitants of the neighbour­ing mansion? "An old man, (answered the woman) who I fancy is sometimes in distress; but we have too many wants of our own to mind any others."—In­different [Page 47]as the woman was when she said this, Julia felt herself interested, and conceived much more than was ex­pressed. Seeing her hostess not very fond of social woe, she suppressed her emotions, and in a short time after stole out into the stair case. The door of the man in distress was exactly opposite to the watchman's, and she gently knock­ed at it. There was no answer. She knocked more loudly, but all was silence.—"Alas! (said she to herself) if your grief is past utterance, I must enter without leave." She raised the latch, and entered.—It was a piteous sight, and worthy of the tears of those bright eyes which now shed them so plentifully. Imagine in your own mind, this lovely girl bending over a bed, which contain­ed in it, stretched along under a tattered rug, a man upon whose features Heaven seemed to have poured its bitterest pangs. He was alive, but had ceased to groan because he could groan no longer. In his arms were two chil­dren. His left was circled round one [Page 48]who was asleep,—his right round one who was—dead. He gazed upon Julia without any emotion, and made not an effort to move even his head. He looked as if he was RESIGNATION. That great Poet who suffered no scene of the soul and no situation of nature to escape him, has almost described him. He seemed.

Here was that feast of exquisite grief, that luxury of sensibility, which is fit only for those exalted souls who move in the higher departments of humanity—It was fit for Julia.

At length Julia spoke. "Poor—poor man! what can relieve you?"—He shook his head—Nothing. Here Julia's sympathy once more broke loose: her tears poured down incessantly. Tears are infectious. Two or three trick­led down from the poor man's eye. "May [Page 49]God bless you! (said he) you have shed the first tears that have been shed for me these ten years. The fountain of my sorrows is almost exhausted, but I have still a drop to mix with your's." "Poor—poor man! (returned Julia) what shall I do to serve you?"—" O nothing! (he replied) nothing!—One of my children is dead, and the other will be so in half an hour—I am waiting for its death, and I shall then follow it."—"Alas! (said Julia sitting upon the bedside) would not you have it live? Is it impossible to recover it?" He answered, "I hope it is." She then attempted to take hold of if; but he pressed it closer to his side, and would not let it go. "I pity you, (said Julia) and wish to relieve you: you and your child may still live. Suffer me to be your friend." At this he only shook his head, and attempted to smile, as if to tell her it was impossible. How­ever, not to be guided longer by a man who was in despair, she was resolved to administer to the woes of the wretched. Sue left the room, and returned to the [Page 50]watchman's wife. She slightly men­tioned to her where she had been, told her there was great distress, and begged of her to go out for a little wine, to be warmed for the use of the sick. The woman (who was not destitute of much good nature, though it was strongly seasoned with that vice so peculiar to good natured people, indifference) read­ily obeyed. The wine which she brought was warmed, and carried in by Julia herfelf to the solitary father. She insisted that her landlady should not ac­company her; from an opinion, per­haps, that this scene of sorrows was too sacred for the profane eye of the vul­gar.

The man of despair, (naturally enough, in his situation) refused relief; but Julia insisted on the thing, and she had shed too many tears to be refused. He desired, however, that since they must be relieved, the child should be re­lieved first. "As for you (said he, withdrawing his arm from the child, which Julia was taking hold of, and [Page 51]turning to the one that was dead) as to you, my dear and lamented girl—my last and my best beloved—you have closed your eye upon me, and you are smiling at life in the bosom of your mother. You were weary of hearing your father's groans. You fled to invite him to follow." He now kissed it, gazed upon it, hugged it, and wept upon it; and then dried the tears off its face, as if it could be conscious of the favour.

In the mean time Julia was very busy about her child, but her assiduities were almost baffled. The child had opened its eyes, but it refused to open its mouth. In short, she was obliged to call to her assistance her hostess, who readily came, and between them they poured down some warm wine mixed with water in its throat. Still it was insensible; and at length it was thought prudent to carry it to the next room, to be nursed be­fore the fire; which the hostess did.

Julia now administered to the father, and he was revived. The balmy strength of the wine recalled his expir­ing [Page 52]spirits, and warmed a heart which was almost cold. The first use he made of his new acquired strength was to thank his benefactress, and to enquire for his child. Being informed where it was, he seemed to be satisfied. Julia soon after prepared for him a bit of bread, thin and toasted, which he ate with some difficulty. This, however, paved the way for his recovery; and in about two hours he was tolerably easy and strong. The child in the oth­er room made a slower progress back to life, but they did not despair.

This child (a boy) having been put to bed again, the watchman's wife resum­ed her usual occupations; while Julia, whose gentle faculties were still attuned to softness and distress, waited upon the father, and pressed him warmly to re­veal the origin and progress of his mis­fortunes. He shook his head at this re­quest; and told her it would be a hard task; besides that, she had already shed tears enough that day upon his account. However, he complied: and Julia, [Page 53]sitting upon his bed side, her cheek leaning upon her left hand, listened to a tale of deep and desperate distress. "Behold before you (said he,) starved with hunger and covered with rags, a man who has long fought for his King, and spilt for him his dearest blood— whose body is covered with wounds, in defence of that country which now leaves him as you see him! Such is the balm they have applied to my wounds!" —Though his notes were querulous, they were eloquent. But truth is always eloquent.—At present I am neither in leisure nor in the humour to repeat them; and perhaps I never shall.

When he finished his melancholy tale, he caught hold of the hand of Julia, and pressed it to his bosom.—"This bosom was once warm (said he): but though it is cold, you are welcome in it. I cannot thank you; but my boy will live and do it, when I am crumbling in that grave from which you have drawn me for a moment." Julia, with that true politeness which is natural to virtu­ous [Page 54]minds, begged him to accept some money for his present necessities, and promised to visit him till it could be no longer in her power

It was now rather more than dinner time, but neither Dick nor Joe appear­ed. Julia was growing uneasy. Four o'clock struck, out brought no comfort with it. It was five—but nobody ar­rived —Six—seven—eight—nobody! During these intervals she had paid fre­quent 02 visits to the man in distress, and applied every lenitive she could invent to his affliction; and she charged her hostess with great sincerity, at whatever time she went away, to be attentive to his necessities 'till her return, which would be hoth certain and quick. So he was for the present pretty well pro­vided for.

I have said it was now eight o'clock, and nobody appeared. She became very, very uneasy. It was now half past eight. "Still nobody!—Good Heav­en! are my misfortunes never to end?" —it seems not, Julia: for about a quar­ter [Page 55]before nine two of Sir John Fielding's men entered with Dick—drunk, very drunk—at their head.

Ah! it is as I always thought it— This dirty world has but few good per­sons in it, and these few it is continually harrassing and pestering with its evils— nor does it often cease till it breaks their hearts. Shame on it, that an in­nocent beautiful Curate's daughter, who never prayed for the good things of this world, nor for the evil upon its inhabi­tants, should not be suffered to go upon an errand for her father without molesta­tions and misfortunes! I repeat it— Shame upon so dirty a world!

Now, gentle reader, whatever your thoughts upon this affair may be, cer­tain it is that Sir John Fielding's men are come in quest of Julia; and (as one of our great Poets says in one of his Tragedies, which, however, he styles a Comedy) I'll lay you plums to pippins that you cannot conjecture their business with her.

To understand it, then, your men­ory [Page 56]must recur to the adventures of Julia with the highwayman. He had met her in the bagnio, and given her a purse with money in it, and in their de­parture together from thence the high­wayman was apprehended. Julia fled, and was afterwards by chance conduct­ed to the round house—as we have be­fore related at large. Now the high­wayman was apprehended upon the in­formation of the courageous Officer of the Guards, of whose heroic and military virtues we have already spoken so loudly. Just when this coxcomb arrived at the office, the fat woman of Holborn had alighted there upon the same business. When the highwayman therefore was apprehended, the first business thought necessary was to search him, and all the different purses of the company were found upon him, except that of the fat woman. It was agreed that he could not have spent it in so short a time: ergo, he must have given it away. To cor­roborate the suspicion, the men recol­lected that a woman was along with [Page 57]him when he was apprehended, and the coxcomb Officer confirmed it. The case was therefore plain: Julia must have the purse in her possession. Away they sally, with the Officer at their head, through streets, bagnios, taverns, and night houses: but in vain: she was no where to be found. The next night, be­tween eight and nine, one of them met Dick the watchman. (Dick was at this time returning home to Julia without any answer or information; for instead of going on her errand, he went to get drunk with her money.) The thief taker inquired of him by chance, as the adventure happened within his cir­cuit, if he had seen such a lady—after describing her very minutely. "Seen her (says Dick)! why, she is at my house." This information was suffi­cient for the servant of Justice: he took Dick by the arm, and summoning one of his companions, set off for the lodg­ing of Julia.

We have already seen them introduc­ed where she was. They seized her [Page 58]without ceremony, and proceeded, as usual to search her. The fatal purse, so remarkable for the golden tassel at either end, was in a moment found.—This confirmed the suspicion, and she was carried away as an accomplice.—When will persecution cease to follow Virtue?

Sir John was not that night at home, and they informed her that she must be imprisoned till morning. Imprisoned! She shrieked at the very sound—"Pshaw! (said one of them, seeing her confusion) you need not be terrified, I assure you, Ma'am: we are not going to a common prison. I have a pretty, little, snug house, and as close as a cage, where you may sleep as safely and soundly as in your own bed chamber. No difference in the world, I assure you, Ma'am—only that every door and win­dow in the house is inclosed with strong and triple iron bars. That's all, I assure you, Ma'am: and notwithstanding all these advantages, it will cost you only a guinea for your bed—not a farthing [Page 59]more, I assure you, Ma'am. I keeps the best usage, the best tendance, and the best wines in the garden, I assure you, Ma'am!—Lord, Ma'am then, what do you pout at? no cause to be terrified, I assure you, Ma'am!"

Eloquent as this language was, and comfortable, it did not greatly gladden the heart of Julia. But there was no choice in the case, and she followed her guides. Arrived, they led her into an upper apartment, where there was a fire, and good furniture. She was left alone for ten minutes; at the end of which the landlord waited upon her, and asked what she chose for supper. "Noth­ing"—What did she choose to drink, then? "nothing." (Oho, replied he) an' if so be that you are so rusty, good night to you with all my heart." He then turned upon his heels; and pulling the door after him with fury, locked it with a key which grated as it turned, amidst the rattling of chains and the clanking of iron bars.

Dreadful sounds to such an ear as [Page 60]Julia's! Her teeth gritted, and her joints trembled. This was the severest stroke of all. To be imprisoned! and as an accomplice of a highwayman too! "But she submitted to Heaven, where all her wishes rested: her hopes leaned upon that, and upon the prayers of her father."

She retired to bed, but could not sleep; her misfortunes still interrupted, and occupied her whole soul. She tried again, but in vain: and to this purpose she recollected the lines of her favourite Young. Sleep, says he,

Her mind recurred to the scenes that were past, and reluctantly brooded over the gloomy assemblage. And in truth, when we reflect upon it, her case was rather hard. It was now only the third night since she had quitted the peaceful mansion house of Elmwood, and the [Page 61]arms of her father.—The first night she was somewhere upon the road; the second she was in a bagnio, and in a round house, and in a garret; and the third she was in prison. Each of these misfortunes was a mountain upon her mind, under which it struggled; but by the struggle it only became more feeble.

At length the soul by its powerful and violent workings, overcame the body. Wearied with affliction, her spirits languished, and nature sunk into slumber. Sleep of this kind, though not always the most placid, is the heav­iest. She slept till eight in the morn­ing, when she arose. At nine they paid her a visit, and she ate some breakfast; and at ten she was carried, with a beat­ing heart, in a coach to Bow street.

Here she did not wait long for the appearance of the Justice, for every thing was prepared; even the unhappy highwayman was in waiting, as neces­sary to the examination. Indeed, it was thought most proper to begin with questioning him apart upon the subject, [Page 62]and then with examining Julia; and by the comparison of their respective evidences the truth might be easily dis­covered.

When the highwayman had been examined upon his own account, an obstinacy natural to men in his desperate situation prevented him from giving any account of the purse which was missing. But now, when he was informed that Julia was really in custody, that honour which was not yet entirely extinguished in his heart, was roused for her safety. He ingenuously told Sir John the histo­ry of the purse, with even its most minute circumstances; that he had robbed her amongst the rest! that he afterwards met her accidentally in the bagnio, and gave her the money only with a view of restoring her own; that he had not been above ten minutes in her com­pany, and that she was in every respect innocent of the crime with which she was charged.

Julia was next examined, and her evidence most exactly squared with the [Page 63]former. Ingenuous as usual, she took up the story at Elmwood, and carried it forward to the story of the purse; and she told her little tale with that truth and simplicity which can never be counter­feited. Yet frequent attempts are made to imitate these amiable virtues, and the Justice was sensible of this: he had heard her mention that she had letters for Lord C—, and he desired to see them. These she instantly produced to vouch for her sincerity. She added too, that there was somewhere in town a per­son who could confirm her words beyond suspicion; but alas! poor Joe! she knew not where to find him. "Joe! (said one of the Justice's men who stood be­hind Julia)—what, is your name Julia, madam?" Yes (replied Julia)." The man immediately ran out, and brought back in his hand the Daily Advertiser, in which he read the following adver­tisement.

"If a sarten yung Lady, Miss Jullia—(whose name is nothing to nobody, and which I doan't mention here, because I [Page 64]doa'nt think it proper)—sees this, this is to let you kno, Miss Jullia, that Joe dusn't kno where you be, and that you dusn't kno where Joe is, for he is to be found at the sine of the Swain with too Necks in Lad Lane, and no where else, as wit­ness my hand by me. JOE—,"

This very extraordinary advertise­ment is copied verbatim et literatim from the real paper, which I have now in my possession. Julia listened to it with attention, and confessed her feel­ings in her eyes, which glistened with expectation. Not contented with an aural information, she snatched the pa­per, and devoured the precious morsel with her own eyes. In short the simplic­ity of the thing spoke for itself, and Joe it was most undoubtedly.

But it may be necessary to explain this affair. I again summon the mem­ory of my readers back to that time of our history, when Joe and Julia un­luckily parted in Holborn. Joe did not look for her till the coach stopt in [Page 65]the Inn yard, and then he waited at the door of it for her appearance. He thought her long in coming, but his patience was not exhausted. The rest of the company had been out of the coach some minutes. At length he ventured to thrust in his head—but she was not there! He started back on his heel, and gazed wildly round the yard, but in vain. Opposite to him he saw the door of a public room open, and he rushed in without ceremony: from thence he sallied into the kitchen, strode into the parlour, threw his eye into the bar, and peeped into the larder. Wounds! he looks furious, and he is almost breathless! He marched into the stables, and in short into every place where he saw a door open to receive him—but all would not do: she was not to be found. He returned to the coach, took one peep more into it, but all was solitary! "God bless my heart (said Joe to himself fidgetting, and scratching among his auburn hair) pro­tect and save me from all temptations [Page 66]and evil spirits! I wish I could see Miss Julia again." Now, at last, he be­thought him of what he ought to have done at first, viz. to question the coach­man concerning the affair, and the coachman informed him of the whole truth. This information in no degree abated his anxiety. "Didn't she leave no word with you for me?" (said he to the coachman.) No.—"Don't you know where she went?"—No.—"Don't you think she'll come here this night?"—I can't tell you upon my word—Joe with downcast looks and folded arms measured the space across the yard with long and melancholy strides. He walk­ed into the passage of the house, and marked the clock. He counted the hours, as they rolled slow and heavy, but he saw not his mistress. It was now ten o'clock, but no Julia came.—Alas! alas!

They are not the severest, but they are the most anxious moments the mind knows, when the possessor of it, simple, timid, and honest, feels himself far [Page 67]from home, and forsaken in the midst of strangers. These moments Joe now felt in all their bitterness. He went to bed without hope, and he arose in the morning in despair. He grieved in­cessantly, and he wished for the bosom of a friend to lean his griefs upon it. At length he disclosed his mind to the hostler, and the hostler gave him his ad­vice. It was this: to advertise. Every body, he said, did it, upon every sub­ject. "Always when he lost a horse, he advertised for it; and why might not Joe do the same now for Julia? It would certainly lay open the whole af­fair, for advertisements could do any thing."

At this time Joe stood too greatly in need of comfort, not to take any ad­vice that was offered to him. But he thought this advice excellent. He ac­cordingly wrote with great care the ad­vertisement we have already repeated, and the hostler sent one of his boys with him to the Daily Advertiser.—And [Page 68]this is the history of this extraordinary advertisement.

When the Justice found so many cir­cumstances spontaneously conspiring to vindicate her innocence, that her amia­ble simplicity subjected her to so many dangers, and that she was the object rather of a polite humanity than of persecution, he resolved to interest him­self in her safety. And in the first place, he ordered one of his men to go and conduct Joe to his mistress. As to the fat woman, the Justice told her that her money should be taken care of; and the highwayman was remanded to prison.

Joe arrives. I have not time to de­scribe every thing; but my readers may be assured that the meeting. between him and Julia was full affectionate. Suffice it to say, that Julia pressed him warmly by the hand, and half cried with joy; and that Joe took fast hold of the skirt of her robe, as if he dreaded her running away from him once more.

The friends thus met, the Justice [Page 69]politely asked Julia how he could most effectually serve her? She replied, that her only business in town was to deliver her letters to Lord C—, and that if he would favour her with a guide thith­er, she would always remember him with the most unfeigned gratitude. This she obtained; and, once more ac­knowledging her obligations to the Jus­tice, they all set off for Berkeley square.

Here they soon arrived. The guide leaving them at the door. Joe imme­diately took off his hat, for he thought it high treason to be covered within six yards of a Lord's door: they knocked, but were told by the porter his Lordship was not at home. Julia said she was sorry for that, because she had letters of importance for him. "I can't help that (answered the porter,) he's not at home; and he'll not be at home—I don't know when he'll be home."—But could not you guess Sir;—because a great deal de­pends upon it.—"Lord, Ma'am (replied Cerberus)! I tell you I know nothing about it."—Sounds so ungentle, utter­ed [Page 70]by so rude a voice, frightened Julia effectually, and she hastened away from the door; and Joe, sorrowful enough, was preparing to follow—when the porter beckoned him back with a hem! and the motion of his finger. "Pray, my lad, (said this dog in office) who is that?

My mistress (answered Joe.)

"Ay—from the country, I sup­pose?"

Yes (replied Joe): I come from the country too.

"O—so I see—so I see.—You are not acquainted, I find, with the ways in this town?"

No, Sir, (said Joe)—not with all of them.

Why, then—(come hither—your ear a moment) I have the honour to be Lord C—'s porter) and my master has or­dered me—that is, I and my master have agreed—to receive no letter here, unless the bearer gives me a crown.—However, as you and your mistress are strangers, and I am a man of honour, [Page 71]I'll be more merciful to you, and so consent to take only half a crown—But mum—sly—not a word for your life—for if my master was to hear I take so little, he'd turn me out of my place.

Sure I am, master, (answered Joe) we are both very much obliged to you for being so kind.—But then what can you do for us, if so be that my Lord a'n't at home?

"Pshaw, man! (said the porter) run after your mistress and bring the mo­ney, and I'll satisfy you about that."

O—an' that be all (replied Joe) I can pay the money myself.

He drew out his last half crown, and gave it. He then ran after Julia, and as he went he murmured to himself—"Icod tho' wern't that a Lord's house it looks hugely like bribery and corrup­tion."

Our two travellers now returned, and were received by the porter with a more gracious complaisance. He now in­formed them that, tho' his Lordship was [Page 72]out of town, he was only at his villa, and would certainly return to town to dinner; but that if they were in a hurry, my young Lord was at home, and that he had leave to open his father's letters in his absence. Julia delivered her pack­et to the porter, and they were or­dered to walk into the anti chamber. The letters were sent up to the noble youth in his dressing room.

Now in order to prepare my readers for a very important aera in the life of my heroine, it may be necessary to re­late what this noble youth was. A foolish grandmother had lest him three thousand a year independent of his fa­ther, and of his age; all which, with three thousand more, he gallantly spent like a man of spirit, long before the year was done. He used to say, that every kingdom in Europe contributed to furnish his seraglio: he only meant by this, that he kept in pay one French, one Spanish, one Italian, one Scandina­vian, one German, one Irish, and one Bri­tish nymph, all at one time; which he [Page 73]actually did. He was deep in the se­cret at Soho, very deep in the mysteries at Arthur's. He boasted—and he had a right to do it—that he had killed five waiters, and shot two clergymen, and seven hundred sheep; which last feat he performed as follows. He was a fowler when at his father's estate in the country; and when he had been unsuc­cessful in pursuit of game, he always discharged his piece into the body of a sheep. As this amusement exactly hit his taste, he would sometimes recharge, and redischarge, till perhaps before his return home, he would leave half a dozen dead upon the field. He fre­quently observed, that this was an a­musement which ought to be practised by all Noblemen, in order to fit them to command in the field in time of war, in the service of their country.—He boast­ed too, that he had killed fifteen women by breaking their hearts with a hopeless passion. This, however, was (to use an old and honest English phrase) a lie: for he never killed but one woman, and [Page 74]that was by breaking—not her heart, but her neck, and then throwing her into the horse pond, where he swore she had drowned herself—But she was only a dairy maid. He boasted also—But, in short, we are tired with repeating his glories. Suffice it to say, that he is at present the pink of the young Peerage, and the ornament of mother II—'s—and St. James.

Such was the youth to whom the let­ter of the father of Julia was carried. He opened it, and on reading the fol­lowing paragraph,

"I have presumed, my Lord, to send my Daughter as the bearer of this petition," &c.

On reading this, he rang his bell with great haste, and enquired if the bearer was below? Being informed that she was, he flew down the stairs, and, look­ing in Julia's face, with the most polite courtesy be desired her to walk up stairs while he considered of her letter. The servants were ordered at the same time to conduct Joe into the hall, and be [Page 75]civil to him. Julia ascended after her noble patron.

— Hic pauca defunt. We must here pass ever the history of half an hour, because it is not yet ripe for relation. —

In the mean time Lord C—'s Chaplain, who had been with his Lord­ship in the country, arrived at the house. He came home before his Lordship, to finish some business of im­portance to himself before dinner time. When he entered, he observed Joe staring about in the hall, and perceiving him to be a stranger from the country, entered into conversation with him. He had not many questions to ask, for Joe with his usual frankness told him the [Page 76]whole history—about himself, about Julia, and Julia's business, and where she was now, and with whom. Now this Chaplain was plain in his manners and equally plain in his dress—so plain that he scarcely appeared to be of the cloth. Though an enemy to blood­shed, he was far from being a coward; though a Churchman, he was no hypo­crite; and though he detested subscrip­tion to the Thirty nine Articles, he was allowed to be a very honest man.

The Chaplain, having finished his in­terview with Joe, was retiring to his own apartment. He had not opened his door, when a loud shriek saluted his ear—then another—and another. A thousand ideas rushed upon his mind. He knew Julia by report, and he knew his young Lord by experience. There was no doubt of the business below. He hastened down the stairs, and listen­ed a moment at the key hole. He could only perceive that some persons were engaged in a violent struggle, and that the chairs were knocked against [Page 77]each other. He tried to enter, but the door was locked. Placing his shoulder against it, therefore, he forced it for­ward with gentleness and with ease. He entered; and lo!—Innocence was once more in distress!

The hair of Julia was dishevelled, and a handkerchief was drawn close over her mouth, which prevented her cries. Her cloak and handkerchief lay upon the floor, and the arms of her ra­visher were twined closely around her. A shoe had dropped from her foot, and many of the pins had quitted her bos­om.—Unfortunate girl! doomed con­tinually to be the prey of cowards and scoundrels!

The noble youth quitted his hold when the Chaplain appeared, and, ad­vancing to him, exclaimed in a thtreat­ening tone, "How dare you, Sir, force your impertinence upom me in my own dressing room?"

"My Lord—(returned the young man, putting his left hand in his bosom, and giving him a full but indifferent [Page 78]look)—My Lord—does it suit your high spirit to be told, that you are the meanest—O by far the meanest creature in your father's house? Noble, without worth—and proud, without dignity— you are beneath the pimp who caters for your appetites.—Poor, pitiful, wretched animal! I do not pull you by the nose—I do not kick you on the breech—I do not lash you round the room—I do not in any degree deign to chastise the wretch, who has stooped to insult a woman.—Go, then, you boaster! retire into your closet, and blush in pri­vate; and remember that you have re­duced yourself to be forced to hear these stinging truths even from so hum­ble a man as your father's Chaplain.—I scorn, Sir, to tell your father that you are a scoundrel; but do not forget that for the future I consider you as my in­ferior."

He finished: and taking Julia by the hand, he led her out of the room, and drew the door behind him.

He conducted her into his own apart­ment, [Page 79]and sympathized with her in that strain of humane politeness which is ever inseparable from undebauched minds. After she had composed her­self, he distantly enquired (as if he had not known) into her business. This was exactly a repetition of Joe's narration.

"I thank you, Madam, (said he) for your politeness. You will see Lord C— in about an hour; but previ­oulsly I think it my duty to inform you of what ought not to be longer conceal­ed from you—it is now one o'clock— Exactly at ten—about three hours ago—Lord C— appointed me to the Curacy you are come to solicit. This information in no degree startled Julia, nor unruffled her features. She observ­ed that since her father had not been lucky enough to obtain the Curacy, she was happy the appointment was be­stowed upon a man who resembled him so much in his virtues.

At the time specified Lord C— arrived. Julia was introduced o him by the Chaplain, and he sent to his son [Page 80]for her letters. On reading them he confirmed what the Chaplain had men­tioned.

He then turned to Julia, saluted her with that virtuous freedom for which he was always remarkable, and fondly conversed with her about the moments he had spent with her father about fifty years ago. He next insisted that she should stay with him two or three days; to which she with the utmost difficulty assented, and of which she informed her father by letter. When the young Lord heard that Julia was to continue her visit, he assumed some pretence for retiring to his father's villa till her de­parture.

Need I mention, that the Chaplain selt the force of the eyes of Julia? Alack! from the moment he first saw her in tears, his heart was wounded to the core—for the tears of a woman are irresistable. Indeed the only good lines in one of our new tragedies are to this purpose:

Now with regard to this Chaplain— Julia, on her part—But I will not say any thing about it. Be it suffcient to observe, that from the moment a man evinces his courage and his honour, the heart of a virtuous woman is ready to receive him.

—Hic multa desunt. Here we must leap over the history of three days, for Julia will have it so.—

On the morning of the fourth day, Julia and the Curate were preparing to set off on their journey for the banks [Page 82]of the Avon: she to her father, and he to take possession of his Curacy. Before their departure, he begged once more a word with her in private. He led her towards a very distant part of the house, into an humble apartment pos­sessed by one of the old family nurses, whose favourite he long had been. Now, though it may seem strange that he should lead her thither as a place of retirement, certain it is that it was by far the most retired and secret spot in the house, for the old woman was completely deaf, and almost blind: A few more days would close her eyes for­ever. In this humble mansion, he sat at one side of a table, opposite to Julia, and he told her he had one favour to beg. "Three days (said he,) my be­loved Julia, are past, in which I told you the true tale of my heart You listened, it is true, but so faintly listened, that my hopes are scarcely kept alive. Before we depart—before we enter up­on the bustle of a high road—deign to bestow on me one mark, to give me [Page 83]one assurance, that you do not detest me. Were it but—" The blushes and smiles of Julia interrupted him. She stretched her hand to him across the table, and he almost devoured it with kisses.

In short, they sat off on their jour­ney, attended by the trusty Joe. Without any accident, they arrived in due time at Elmwood. The father, overpowered by love and tenderness, sunk at the side of his daughter. The daughter, agitated by affection and joy, filled the bosom of her father with sighs, and revived him with the plenty and warmth of her tears. The evening was spent in the recital of her adventures: while Joe, in the centre of the green, had the whole village col­lected around him, and related to them the wonders of London.

I must now close this history. Sev­eral months have elapsed since the a­bove events happened, and the young Curate is now happy in the warm bos­om [Page 84]of his Julia. Julia too is blessed, for the houses of her husband and of her father are adjoining to each other.