CHAP. I.

THE eye that has witnessed the peaceful depar­ture of a just man's spirit in the presence of affectionate relatives, and revering friends, has be­held a spectacle solemnly delightful, and awfully in­teresting, beyond all power of description.—On such occasions the heart trusts not to the tongue's feeble utterance, but rushing to the countenance, there de­lineates its emotion in a language without words. Such was the scene at the rectory of Hanworth: its worthy incumbent had heard with resignation, the opinion of his physician, that no human means could save him. Mortification had advanced almost to it's last stage. Yet, though he felt no pangs of guilt, no dread of future worlds, though perfectly resigned to die, there were attractions, whose resistless▪ force still held his wishes for a longer life—Around that couch, from which he never was to rise, knelt objects that had awakened in his breast, the finest feelings of an husband, father, friend.

The amiable woman, who at an early age had given him her hand, and with it the worthiest of hearts, too deeply afflicted to weep, gazed alternate­ly [Page 8] on her expiring husband, and on those, who were so soon to be the orphan pledges of his love, with the soul-piercing wildness of despair.

Their son, a youth of sixteen, held his father's hand clasped firmly betwixt both his own, and bent his face over it to conceal his tears.

A daughter, somewhat younger, with tears and swelling sighs mingled ejaculations to the Deity to spare a life so dear.

Leaning his head against the feet-posts of the bed stood Dr. Hill, the benevolent friend and skilful phy­sician of the rector, whose serene countenance he appeared contemplating with pleasure.

"I could have wished he had arrived—I should have retired from the scenes of this life with less regret, had I committed these my only cares to his kind keeping" faintly uttered Mr. Barnwell. "But his own good heart," continued he, "will suggest to him all I could have said."

It was his brother to whom he alluded, who en­tered the room as he was speaking. His appearance changed the scene.—Mrs. Barnwell, Eliza, and George, clung round his knees, and seemed to hail him as the messenger of joy: but it was a momentary joy. Sir James had been anxiously expected, and his arrival as it ended that anxiety, occasioned a momentary impulse of pleasure. But no sooner did the melan­choly cause of his visit recur, than silence and sor­row ensued.

Sir James, after a pause, approached his dying brother, and an affecting farewell took place. Tears rolled down the pallid cheek of the worthy rector, as he pressed his brother's hand, and cast a meaning look upon his family. He sunk exhausted on his pillow.

"Think of this world no more, my brother," said Sir James: "from this moment this is my wife—these are my children—and all I have is their's!"

"My God! I thank thee," exclaimed the Rector and expired.

CHAP. II.

WHEN the first effusion of [...]orrow for the loss of friends is exhausted, and grief begins to listen to the voice of reason, there are certain arguments which custom, almost invariably▪ applies on such occasions; such [...] that—"we must all die,"—that "our loss is the gain"—that "sorrow is useless, and tears cannot restore them to us."

Sometimes it happens that Prudence steps kind­ly in with some such counsel as this—"that though a husband, or a father, is gone, it is a comfortable consideration that his widow or his children enjoy the fruits of his industry and oeconomy; and that, instead of grieving for a calamity that is past, it were better to rejoice in the blessings that remain."

Such are the reflections that sooth the breasts of many an heir, and many a widow, beneath the sable shew of sorrow; who oft times by their cheerful countenance, wisely endeavour to dissipate the gloom occasioned by the escutcheon that darkens the win­dow of their ball room, and the black equipage that conveys them to the opera—

The family of the Barnwells, inheriting from the rector little else than his good name, were in no dan­ger of insulting his memory by a joyful display of [Page 10] his wealth; nor would their grief have been lessened by the possession of thousands. Every branch of this bereaved family was sensible of the loss it had sustained, and felt, when the violence of grief was abated, a regret more calm indeed, but not less sorrowful.

Sir James was, perhaps, the individual among them who, possessing the least sensibility, was the least affected: not that the knight was deficient in those feelings which are the honourable appendages of humanity, but he was older than Mrs. Barnwell by at least ten years, and had spent the greater part of his life in a counting house, and on the Royal Exchange; which, though certainly the schools where industry may learn an honourable way to its rewards, cannot be deemed the most favourable soil for the growth of those sensibilities which, though not virtues themselves, are at least Virtue's faithful allies.

Sir James was the first, therefore, to call the at­tention of his sister-in-law from the tomb which held her affections, to those duties which she owed to society, to her children, to herself.

"I am a lone man," said the knight, "and, by the blessing of heaven upon honest endeavours, have accumulated more than I shall ever spend. My brother, I know, accumulated in another way—his stock was the treasure of the mind—a proper possession, doubtless, for a clergyman, but for which his heirs are little or no­thing the better.

"After the loss you have sustained, my sister," continued the night, "I am sure your inclination is to quit this place as soon as possible. I insist on a visit to my old mansion, where we may leisurely discuss the plan I have in contemplation to make us all happy."

A proposal so perfectly congenial to her wishes was readily accepted by Mrs. Barnwell, and a day was named for their departure; but whilst herself and Eliza impatiently desired that day's arrival, George deprecated its approach. To quit for ever his na­tive home—cost his young heart—which was the [Page 11] shrine of sensibility—some struggles. Among the various objects that called reflection to its pleasing painful task, there stood in the centre of the garden a small temple, built in the Gothic style, and dedica­ted to retirement. This was constructed under the direction of George himself, and was the favourite retreat of the rector. To this place young Barn­well would frequently retire, where memory would rehearse to him those lessons, to which he had often listened with reverent attention—and, aided by fan­cy, would place his father's countenance and form before him.—As he strolled round the grounds, in one place a plant, in another some little monument with classical quotation, would remind him of the pleasing-employment of his past hours.

"Days of happiness!—hours of hope!—farewell!" exclaimed the youth: "and you, sweet home, where first the light of heaven beamed upon these eyes—farewell! Oh, you have cheated me, false Hope! How often has my sainted father, too, added false prophecies to my delusive tales! How often has he said, 'When I am gone, my George, this plant shall speak to you of me—this tablet shall remind my son—that he must also die!' and now, alas! some stran­ger's eye shall gaze indifferent upon these plants—some fool, perhaps, shall scoff at Wisdom's lesson—whilst those for whom they were designed, like the wanderers from Paradise, are even to explore an un­known world!"

Such really were the reflections of a youth of six­teen, incredible as they may appear to those who judge of human nature, and it's faculties, by the same calculations as a surveyor values timber, its size and growth. Such persons would deny the existence of Chatterton.

CHAP. III.

ADJOINING the seat of Sir James stood the re­mains of one of those cemeteries for the living, call­ed monasteries.—These mouldering and moss-cov­ered relics afforded a more grand [...]coup a'ce [...]l, from his park, than can be imagined by those whose con­templations have been confined to the modern ruins, with which it is fashionable to decorate the grounds of modern villas.

One of the aisles of the chapel still remained in its original state, and afforded conversation matter for all the lovers of romance in the country, Spec­tres of all sizes and shapes, of either sex, had been seen, by moonlight or torchlight, at different times, playing most singular antics in the old abbey chapel. At one time it was a nun, at another a monk; and now assumed the terrific appearance of the fallen angel; and now danced along the aisle, in form most beauteous, to notes of most musical air.

Among other subjects which-engrossed the atten­tion of the company at the knight's table, a few days after his return from the rectory, the haunted aisle became a topic of conversation.

"Well, I don't know," said Sir James; "such things may be—spirits may walk. For my own part, I would neither obstinately deny all belief in stories of this kind, nor would I implicitly believe all I hear. What thinks my nephew George; he smiles as if he would convey a sort of contempt for things of this nature."

[Page 13] George blushed deeply. He had not been accus­tomed to speak in so large, and respectable a com­pany as the knight's hospitality had assembled, and felt considerable embarrassment in so new a situa­tion. He recovered himself, and, with some hesita­tion, said, "I confess, Sir, I have been taught to consider stories of this description as ridiculous."

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Mr. Sandall the chap­lain—"ridiculous! young gentleman; and where­fore, let me ask, ridiculous?"

"Because, being irreconcileable to truth and na­ture, they are beneath the dignity of serious argu­ment."

"It must be confessed, Mr. Sandall," said the knight, "that these appearances are supernatural."

"Allow me, to remark, Sir James," obsequiously said Mr. Sandall, "that is no proof of their non-ex­istence; besides, with all deference, I would ask how we, whose ideas are so finite, can pretend to limit the operations of the Author of nature."

And then raising his voice triumphantly, and fix­ing his small sharp eyes on Barnwell—"I believe, young gentleman," interrupted he, "if you had seen the appearances these eyes have witnessed, at the abbey, your courage would have fled with your incre­dulity."

George only bowed.

A Miss Lucas, a neighbouring maiden lady of fortune, could not suffer so charming a subject as ghosts to be dropped so easily.

"Surely, Sir," said this lady to Barnwell, "you cannot presume to put your opinion in competition with such high authorities as Drelincourt on Death, and Dr. Johnson. You will allow, I hope, there are ghosts, though it may not have been your privilege to have seen them."

"Without incurring the charge of vanity, I appre­hend," said Barnwell, "that I may hold an opinion even against the greatest authorities: for you will allow, that judgment should yield to argument, not names. [Page 14] I have never beheld a spectre myself, and I am in­clined to attribute the narratives of those, who say they have, to the influence of a weak or a warm imagination acted upon by accidental circumstances."

"It's rather singular, then," said Mr. Sandall, "that the greater part of mankind should have re­mained so long in error: for I conceive a majority believe in apparitions."

"There cannot be a doubt of that, Mr. Sandall," said Miss Lucas. "This is termed an enlightened age; and pray, does not the popular opinion sanction, almost exclusively, a novel, a romance, or a drama, where the prominent character is a ghost, or a daemon?"

"And yet," replied Barnwell, "I cannot bring myself to consider even this universal patronage as the consequence of a general belief in spectres; unless it could be first proved, that the mass of man­kind are most delighted with known truths: whereas I consider the chief source of the pleasure in read­ing or seeing such unnatural productions, is, their remote distance from probability; which, creating a monstrous novelty, excites the attention of those, whose sole aim is amusement."

"Pray, Sir," said Miss Lucas, "have you among other things been taught a knowledge of the holy [...]criptures?"

"My father, Madam, was a clergyman," said George, with a degree of warmth; "and I was in­tended for the same holy office;" added he, with an emphatic sigh.

"Then, pray," said Miss Lucas, without feeling the rebuke, "do you believe the story of the Witch of Endor?"

"Pardon me," interrupted Sir James; "but it is a custom I have established at my own table, these thirty years, never to permit the discussion of reli­gious or political subjects over the bottle. I beg leave, therefore, to propose a walk."

CHAP. IV.

WHY is curiosity most easily raised, or why most unquietly does it rest, in the female breast?

Eliza, whose modesty did not permit her to trou­ble the company with her observations, yet treasur­ed in her memory all that had been said concerning the abbey.

When she retired to her chamber, the windows of which commanded a view of the ruins, she ques­tioned the servant who attended her concerning the story of the haunted aisle. The incongruous nar­rative of Hannah served only to increase her curiosity, and she determined to pay a visit to the abbey the following morning before breakfast.

Sleep did not conquer the senses of Eliza, that evening, with its usual ease. She had extinguished her candle, had whispered a prayer from the heart, and sought repose. A slight slumber brought with it the following dream—

"She had reached the abbey ruins, and was just entering the haunted aisle, when a tomb which stood at the entrance seemed to rock at her approach. Whilst hesitating whether to retire or advance, the tomb became enveloped in an ascending vapour. In a moment the abbey ruins echoed the groans of one in the agonies of death; and as the vapour dispersed, there appeared kneeling on the tomb a most beautiful female, naked to the waist. Her eyes were swollen with weeping, her hair was dishevelled, and from her wounded breast blood trickled, whilst her hands in vain attempted to remove a dagger, whose fatal point was buried in her bosom. Eliza's attention [Page 16] to the spectre was so intense, that she did not notice the form of a man who stood contemplating with smiles the agonies of the female, until the sound of a harp, which he touched in a rapid manner, arous­ed her. His figure was handsome, his complexion a dark brown, and jet-black hair curled in ringlets on his forehead: his voice, which accompanied the harp, was melodious. Listening to his lively strain, Eliza was smote with horror and astonishment at the following rhapsody.—

Scarcely was the last stanza sung, when the tremb­ling Eliza awoke from her dream; doubting for a considerable time, whether what she had seen or heard was not reality. Just as she had overcome the impressions arising from so horrible a vision, the night wind wafted by the casement of her chamber the tone of an instrument so similar to those she had heard in fancy, that, starting up in her bed, she drew aside the curtain, under an apprehension of be­holding, awake, the vision of her sleep.

The chamber was in total darkness; but the same sounds were repeated; and hearing them now more distinctly, her heart sunk with terror at the certain­ty. She determined to quit her bed, and feeling her way to the window, opened it. The same sounds [Page 17] were heard again, yet more distinctly, and she was convinced they came from the abbey ruins. She bent her eyes towards the spot whence they issued: in a few moments all was silence, and she beheld a lighted torch borne along the ruins, but the night was too dark to [...] the person that carried it.

Returning to her bed, terrified and astonished, she began to reason with her fears. That the mu­sic was not imaginary she was convinced; and that its influence, added to the impression of Hannah's incoherent narrative, which bore a resemblance to her dream, had occasioned the vision, she no longer doubted: yet not less strange appeared the reality than the vision. For what purpose any one could ramble among the mouldering tombs of the abbey, she had yet to learn. Fear, at length, gradually re­tired from her breast; but its most constant com­panion Curiosity remained.

CHAP. V.

"THERE is a very singular coincidence of your dream with the music you really heard," said George to his sister, who had unburdened her mind to him, according to her usual practice. "Do you remember enough of the place you supposed was the abbey, to compare what you saw in your dream with the ruins themselves?"

"Beyond a doubt," said Eliza.

"We will take a ramble there in the evening," replied George; "and should there be a tomb in the [Page 18] old aisle resembling that in your dream, I think we should relate the whole to Sir James. Murder," added he, "is a crime, above all others, offensive to the Deity; and if ever the omnipotent, displays a miracle, I can conceive nothing more likely to oc­casion his supernatural interference than detection of so foul a crime."

They separated. At dinner they joined a numer­ous circle of the neighbouring gentry. It was the custom of Sir James, once a year, to invite them all without exception. At other times he indulged his pleasure in a selection. On this occasion he re­linquished his prejudices, and though himself a whig of the old school, and a high church-man, there were at his table individuals of as various a cast, as a circuit of ten miles round contained.

Among these visitors, there was one most oppo­site to the worthy knight in his principles and his manners, and whose residence was contiguous to Sir James's.

By the opposite to a whig, used to be formerly un­derstood a tory; and by the opposite to high-church, low-church was suggested. Now Mr. Mental was neither whig nor tory, nor a high, nor low church­man; yet were his principles more at variance with Sir James than a Jacobite presbyter's: the latter on­ly diffe [...]ed with the knight as to the person of a king and the modes of religion. Mr. Mental was supposed to be equally averse to all kings, and to all religion.

As his figure and dress were the most singular imaginable, they rendered him conspicuous in all companies. He was of a large make, but thin; his face pale; his hair, a coal black, cropped short in the neck; his dress, always the same, a suit of plain brown cloth. He would eat nothing that had ever enjoyed life; nothing in which sugar was an ingredient; and his drink was water. He never smiled; and the only pleasure he ever appeared to [...]njoy, was the triumph of argument. To obtain this [Page 19] this pleasure, he [...]ould constantly controvert the most allowed truths; delighted in attacking revela­tion, and was indefatigable in discovering the scru­ples of his hearers on religious points

The irremediable evils of society were his dearest topics, and the climax of his felicity was, by the abuse of the eloquence he possessed, to render discontent triumphant.

He had resided in the neighbourhood many years, but saw no company at his own house, and very rarely accepted an invitation to any other: when­ever he did, it was his invariable custom to single out one from the younger part of a company, with whom he would abruptly begin a conversation.

George and a young baronet, of one and twenty, were engaged in some trifling discourse, when Mr. Mental tapped the latter on the shoulder, and asked him if he had read a celebrated novel, much talked of.

"I never read novels" said the baronet.

"Why not?" asked Mr. Mental.

"It is throwing away one's time, to say the best," replied the baronet. "I make a point never to read any thing of that sort. I never read a novel in my life, and I never will: they're well enough for girls."

"Prejudice—Prejudice—Prejudice—how art thou worshipped in this isle!" exclaimed Mr. Men­tal. "I suppose, then, you [...] a pretty good depth in literature of a more [...] or erudite nature," continued he. "Have you looked into the Political Justice?"

"I make a point never to read works of that de­scription; I understand its object is to turn every thing topsy-turvy; and I feel no sort of inclination to be made giddy. I leave this sort of thing to your revolutionists."

"Prejudice again," cried Mental.—"Perhaps then, you dive into the mines of science. You read—"

"Oh, no, believe me, not I. I was obliged to [Page 20] do something in that way at Pembroke. But I've don [...] with lectures compleatly; and, to own the truth, the only science I care about now, is, to make an estate of ten thousand a year bring me happiness in the way I like it."

"I crave your pardon then," said Mr. Mental. "Had I known you were in the possession of ten thousand a year, I should by no means have suspect­ed you guilty of possessing a mind."

"Is there no prejudice in that observation, Sir?" said Barnwell, with a smile of modest diffidence.

Mr. Mental, instead of answering, fixed a pair of large black eyes on George; and, folding his arms upon his breast, examined every feature of his countenance. After a considerable pause—

"You, I believe, do not possess ten thousand a year," cried he; "but if I am not much, indeed, deceived, you have materials of which a skilful artist might form a great mind. Allow me to ask you—have you a father?"

George gave an expressive look.

"He has left you—Did I know him—was he of these parts?"

George satisfied his curiosity.

"Unfortunate!—unfortunate, indeed! contin­ued Mental, "that such materials should have fallen into such hands. You of course endeavour to compel your reason to adopt all those doctrines which priestcraf [...] [...]aches."

"Sir," replied Barnwell, with the glow of indig­nation on his cheeks, "the honoured person to whom, without knowing him, you apply a com­mon-place epithet, never strove to inspire a senti­ment in the breast of his children, to which the most enlightened reason could object."

"You rejoice me," cried Mental—"You have not then imbibed the jargon of superstition, called religion."^*

[Page 21] "Superstition and religion in your dictionary then, are synonymous terms," cried Barnwell.

"In the dictionary of truth they are so," replied Mental. "What is religion—but ceremony, or a set of ceremonies:—what are ceremonies, but super­stition! For instance; how absurd, how degrading to a human being, with faculties so comprehensive that all nature bows before him, to which she unfolds her secrets and submits her laws—I say then it must be beneath the dignity of such a creature to bend his knees, to bow his head, and mumble syllables of ab­surdities strung together centuries ago, when, by the exercise of his own powers, he might be introduced into the arcana of great Nature herself."

George replied—"The dignity of human na­ture, Sir, is no new subject to me. My father taught it me truly, and exemplified his doctrines by his conduct. He taught me, Sir, that the dignity of our nature cannot be degraded by a public ac­knowledgement of our obligations to the Author of nature, according to the customs and manners of our country; and that it is better to sanction, by exam­ple, even prejudices, which cannot be momentarily and safely removed, than by ridiculing those institu­tions, which the mass of our fellow citizens hold sa­cred, to give the reins to uncultivated nature."

"There is a vein of independence in your rea­soning I admire extremely, however much we may deviate in our conclusions," said Mental.

This introduction led to a long conversation, in which each seemed to take an interest. Mental appeared less and less disgusting in the eyes of George, and George delighted old Mental, who expressed a wish that this would not be the last of their conversations.—

"You are an inmate of Sir James's, I presume," said he.

[Page 22] "For the present," said Barnwell;—"but in a week or two I shall quit this place for London."

"For London!" cried Mental. "What takes you to that focus of corruption and folly?"

"My uncle has most generously entered into a treaty with a merchant there, [...] share of whose concern is to become mine, after the usual initia­tion."

"A merchant!" exclaimed Mental.—"Can you confine your capacities then to the boundaries of a counting-house ledger—and condemn your noble faculties to calculations of courses of exchange? Have you thought what you are about?"

"I believe I have thought too much about it," replied George. "To speak candidly, I have been at no small pains to make a match betwixt duty and inclination; but the latter receives the addresses of the former, even yet, but coolly."

Mr. "Barnwell," said Mental earnestly, "as you value your happiness for life, reflect—now is that important moment, in the period of your existence, that will gild with pleasure, or darken with discon­tent, every scene as yet behind the veil of time. I feel a lively interest in your welfare; and if you can trust yourself with me for an hour, to-morrow, I will venture to say you will not regret it."

CHAP. VI.

A SUMMER day drew towards its close—car­riage after carriage had rolled away the well-pleased guests of the worthy knight; and silence once more reigned in the temple of hospitality.

[Page 23] While Eliza, with a palpitating heart, accompani­ed her brother to the haunted aisle, the impressions of terror revived in her breast as▪ they entered the avenue from the park, which led directly to the ruins.—They were at the entrance of the aisle—Eliza trembled—

"Stay," said George; "it is dark, and we are far from the house. A thought strikes me—I have little dread of ghosts—but it is not impossible that this retreat may be the rendezvous of beings less merciful, and more powerful, than mere spectres. Were we to be attacked, our loudest cries would reach no friendly ear.—Do you wait a moment behind this old column, and listen attentively. I will go on. Should there be danger, you will hear my cries (they shall be loud enough) and immediately run as fast as possible towards the house—it's a straight road, and you cannot miss it."

When George had resolved on any purpose, he always adhered to it. Remonstrance on the score of his personal danger was in vain, and the anxious Eliza clung round the pillar in trembling expecta­tion. A few minutes elasped—Eliza grew impa­tient. A few minutes more passed away—no noise was heard—no brother returned. The whole space of time was less than ten minutes—but how much longe it appeared in the reckoning of suspense, is easily conceived.

At length she heard a distant sound of footsteps;—it approached nearer—she left her retreat, think­ing to meet her brother; when a form, muffled in a long black cloak, and masked, met her at the entrance of the aisle. She screamed—In an instant George was at her elbow; but the cause of her alarm was vanished.

"Surely I cannot be deceived?" said George. "'Twas certainly a man—I saw him most distinctly. A black cloak and a mask were lying on the very tomb you have described. As I approached it, a man, who was kneeling near it, started up, hurried [Page 24] on the cloak and mask, and, presented a pistol, spoke these remarkable words—'I am discovered!' Ere I had recovered from my surprise he vanished."

"For heaven's sake, my dear brother, let us quit this situation: it may be the abode of murderers," said Eliza.

They walked swiftly towards the house—"There are so many singular circumstances combined in this adventure," said George, "that I am determined to relate the whole affair to Sir James."

It was late when they reached home; the family were assembled at supper, and the looks of Eliza an­swered the purpose of a preface to George's narra­tive.

"Now, young gentleman," said Mr. Sandall, triumphantly, "I suppose you concede a little of your scepticism against apparitions.

"Not a scruple," said George.

"What! will you allow nothing supernatural in the dream of Miss Barnwell—nothing supernatural in the description she gives of the tomb she never beheld?"

"True" said George, "she never beheld this tomb; but Hannah has seen it, and in describing it to my sister, so impressed the image on her mind, that it [...] impossible to doubt the origin of her dream."

"Did Hannah, too, impress her mind with the poem she so well remembered?"

"Hannah told me a confused story, something similar in its circumstances to those in my dream," said Eliza.

"I have heard," said Sir James, "stories of this nature frequently repeated; but, till now, I own, I never paid a serious attention to them. What has happened, however, determines me to take some ac­tive measures towards unravelling the apparent mys­tery. In the morning I will myself see the place, and examine its appearances."

In the morning the knight, with a numerous train of attendants, sallied forth to survey the haunted [Page 52] aisle. He was supported on his right hand by the superstitious Mr. Sandall; on his left by Barnwell. A few armed domestics preceded them—Arrived at the entrance of the aisle, Mr. Sandall paused.

"If I might advise," said he, "the servants, I conceive should first search the place, for they are armed."

"But what are arms against incorporeal substan­ces, Mr. Sandall?" said George. "Besides, we can take the arms which the servants carry, who may wait here, and be within call, if their assistance is wanted."

"Foolish scheme enough!" said Sandall, terrified in no small degree.

"Suppose," continued George, "some daemon really tenants the old tomb, what do the servants know of exorcising? Come, Sir, let us enter. I'll take this musket, and if the inhabitants are formed of tangible stuff, a bullet may be useful, in case of attack; on the other hand, should they be spiritual residentiaries, I shall turn them over to the discipline of the church."

"Not so much levity," said Sir James. "I ap­prehend no danger; but there's no telling—so go on, Joseph we'll proceed—as we set out."

Some minutes passed in the most profound silence. Nothing was heard, nothing was seen, that could justify the most distant conjecture. George could hardly refrain smiling, and in his heart exclaimed—"I would this solemn mockery were ended;" but his uncle's reproof was yet recent. At length—

"Are you sure you saw upon this tomb—this very tomb, a mask and a cloak?" said Sir James: "that you also saw a man kneel near this tomb—saw him rise—put on the mask and cloak—Are you perfectly convinced no part of this was imagina­tion?"

"I am sure I saw all that you have stated."

[Page 26] "'Tis very strange!" said Sir James.

"Very strange!" said every one.—

"Could not this tomb be moved?" said George. "Where we in the forests of Germany, I should be induced to think, from circumstances, that it co­vers the trap door of some subterraneous cavern."

"Aye, Sir," said Joseph, an old domestic of the knight's, "you have hit the right nail on its head now. To be sure its no business of mine; but if I were a magistrate—"

"Hold your tongue, Joseph—What would you do, if you were a magistrate?" said the knight in a breath.

"Why, might I be bold to speak the truth, I do think murder lies hid under this here moniment; and if I was a magistrate, it should be all pulled down, and dug under; and my life on it, but murder lies at the bottom."

"That can't be done without the consent of the owner," said Sir James, "or some better grounds of suspicion than we have at present."

"Do you not own the ruins, Sir?" said George.

"Not this part of them," said the knight. "All the land on this side the row of alder trees belongs to the next estate."

"And who owns that?" asked George.

"Mr. Mental, the cynic you saw yesterday. What do you start at?"

"Nothing, Sir," replied George, hesitating;—"but—Mr. Mental—is—a strange man."

"Ah, God forgive him, if all they say be true," cried old Joseph, with an expressive shake of the head.

"God can't forgive him," cried Sandall: "he's an atheist."

"He is a singular man, undoubtedly," said Sir James;" "and people will talk. Nobody, it seems knows who or what he is, or where he came from▪ But I have heard old men, who remember his first coming here, whisper strange stories."

[Page 27] George was ruminating—After another fruitless search they returned home.

A variety of conjectures presented themselves to the fertile imagination of George, all pointed to Mr. Mental. He now conceived, that the man he had seen the preceding evening was Mr. Mental. He imagined the voice he had heard resembled Mr. Mental's, and built upon these impressions a suspicion to the disadvantage of his character. Quickly again his heart rebuked him for so illiberal a conclusion from a train of mere accidents. He recollected his invitation, and resolved immediately to visit him. Unwilling to awake those suspicions in the breast of another, which he was himself ashamed of cherish­ing, he determined to keep his visit a secret from the family; and merely observed, that as he wished to take a long stroll, it was doubtful if he should return before evening.

CHAP. VI.

THE residence of Mr. Mental was a short dis­tance from Sir James's. It was a large old-fashion­ed house, containing many rooms: of these only three were in use; one served as a kitchen, and chamber for an old woman, his only domestic; a second was a sitting, eating, and sleeping room of her master; and the third was a study.

George rung a bell at the iron gate, which open­ed on a plot of ground before the house, that was formerly a lawn. In its present neglected state it [Page 28] would be difficult to call it by any name that would convey an idea of its appearance.

The above named old dame appeared at a window, and demanded the business of Barnwell. Having informed her master, George was admitted. Wad­ing through 'weeds most rank and wile,' he had at length found himself in the aforesaid sitting room, where Sarah told him her master would come to him.

After some time most patiently occupied in con­templating the motly furniture of the apartment, and a few ejaculations of surprise at so strange a mode of life, George ventured to call old Sarah, and ask if her master was particularly engaged; if so, he would take another opportunity of seeing him.

"As to that, come when you will, he's always at his studies," said Sarah.

"Shall I go to him?" said George.

"God forbid!" exclaimed Sarah—"Go into the study!—I have been here these twenty years, and no living soul but master has been in that study."

Every moment the curiosity of George was in­creased, and he felt a great inclination to chat with Sarah concerning her master, when the original himself appeared. George gazed earnestly at him as he entered, but could observe nothing in his coun­tenance that in the least sanctioned his suspicions: there was no embarrassment, but an air of solemn [...]ase, a kind of look that indicated a familiarity with grief.

"And you are really come," exclaimed he. "Is it the spur of curiosity that has urged you to this com­pliance? Come, be honest, Sir. You wondered, doubtless, how an old fellow, like myself, could at first sight be smitten with an attachment to your countenance. Sir, I have read the wondrous vol­ume of this world—I have been amongst men—I have bustled in the crowd. I have also been seclu­ded from the herd; and in silent musings of full ma­ny [Page 29] a year I have contemplated the strange variety of human nature—Perhaps there is no passion, no impulse of the mind, that I have not experienced—Man is familiar to me—I know the whole machine—its movements—and the nature of the materials of which it is composed. Often by the countenance men are deceived. I may be so. If I am not, you have an honest mind; by which I mean, that you are sincere; that your tongue utters what your heart prompts, and your reason dictates. Now tell me, Sir, what kind of man you think me."

"Forming my judgment solely on appearances, I should suppose you a disappointed man; one whom misfortunes have induced to quarrel with the world."

"The very notions I should have entertained, had I seen my present resemblance at your age: for then I viewed mankind through the same fairy telescope that you do now. Then my delighted fancy saw such guests on earth, as Sympathy, Friendship, and Love; my heart hailed them for its own; it panted for inmates so necessary to its health and peace, and like you, I should have thought that man unfortunate who missed the bliss around him. But, "'tis delusion all!" Apathy is the icy ruler of the hearts of men—interest destroys all social union, and sinks the mas­ter passion of the human soul below the appetites of brutes. Oh, young man, distrust—distrust thy fel­lows; suspect the tear of sympathy, refuse the hand of friendship; and should some syren voice tell thee of love, fly from the serpent, that only charms to kill. There is no sympathy; no friendship, no love amongst the apostate race of man. Do I not know it—have I not felt it!—"

The gesture that accompanied this apostrophe was that of the extremest anguish. George was af­fected, and Mental saw the emotion he had ex­cited.

"Nay, nay," said he, "I mean not to insinuate, that I am peculiarly wretched—'Tis the common lot—the destiny of man—to be deceived, to hope and [Page 30] be deceived again. Just as an infant who sees the rising bubble, that his breath has formed, burst as it ascends, will still pursue another. But this is a som­bre discourse to a young man just stepping into life, and by no means the subject on which I wished to speak to you. You have received, I think, a liberal education."

George here expatiated on the benefits he had received from the tuition of his father in most live­ly colours.

"Your father must have been a man of erudi­tion; and not only so, but a man of taste and feel­ing. Do you imagine he would have approved of your entering into commercial concerns?"

"His intentions were very opposite."

"And I believe your inclinations are the same."

"I cannot conceal the truth; they certainly are."

"Are you aware of the consequences of entering upon a plan of life, where your duties and interests will excite a perpetual rebellion of intellect, and in which it is impossible to unite the cultivation of those mental powers you possess, with a respectable progress in business?"

"I have thought on this;—again and again have thought on it—but what can I do? The will of my benefactor, of my mother, o'erpoises all other con­siderations. To refuse the bounty of the former, would offend him, and render miserable a most ex­cellent mother. I must therefore entreat your for­bearance on this subject, however much I am ob­liged by your generous intentions."

"Nay, I will not forbear. Would you see a pas­senger approach a lion's den, from which you had escaped, and think it unpolite to interrupt him? Nor will I, who have experienced the miseries I see you running after, suffer any motive to stifle Cau­tion's voice. When you shall feel shackle's weight upon your prisoned mind, when the aspiring soul shall lift its wing to soar, in vain; then, youth, you will know the importance of this moment▪

[Page 31] "If the detail would not be tiresome, there are particulars in my own experience, that might, per­haps, teach you a lesson. I have not, for many years, talked of myself to others; but if you would not hold your time ill spent in listening to my tale—"

"I should ill deserve so great a favour, Sir," in­terrupted Barnwell, "if I could estimate its worth no better."

"I did not expect your compliment, nor do I ad­mire it," said Mental; "I merely obey an impulse, which would be painful to resist, in this mark of my regard for you. You have a heart of sensibility—you have a mind superior to your years—Don't think I compliment now, for it is matter, in my imagination, rather of condolence, than congratula­tion. But to my story.

CHAP. VII.

"THE father of the man you see before you," said Mental, was a tradesman. He was unfor­tunate in the concerns he undertook, somewhat neg­ligent in consequence of misfortunes, and, at last, broken-hearted with disappointment, sunk poor to the grave.

"My mother had gone there long before, when I was little more than five years old. My parents had brought up several of their children to the pe­riod of youth; but at the demise of my father I was their only offspring living.

[Page 32] "It may be well to remark to you a few traits of my earliest years, as peradventure you may some­where trace a resemblance. I remember perfectly well, that, when only four years old, it was frequent­ly my amusement to mount upon a chair, arrayed in my mother's white apron, and assembling round me my younger brothers, an old woman their nurse, and my mother, to preach with considerable vehe­mence.

"The prediction concerning me at that period, elevated my future fate to a mitre. After my mo­ther's decease, I went three or four times with a relation to the theatres, and I still recollect the won­derful impulse I felt to leap upon the stage, and join the performers.

"A similar sensation often seized me at church, where I always wished myself in the pulpit. I know now that this was ambition in embryo; and had my parents' situation in life placed an army within my early views, I doubt not I should have felt the same impulse to have seized the truncheon from a General, as I did to displace the clergyman from his pulpit, or thrust the performer from the stage.

"At seven years old I possessed all the gravity of a sage. The pastimes of other boys were my aver­sion. Books of all descriptions that came within my reach I read, but not with that delight that anima­ted me in scribbling over every piece of paper I could procure, with what I called my studies. The ef­fusions were generally of a similar nature with the book I had last read; and of course I was a theolo­gian, a dramatist, a poet, and a novelist, in turn. Nothing, however, at this period was a greater treat to me, than to be permitted to remain at table after dinner, when the other children were sent to play, that I might listen to the discourse of my elders.

"My bodily frame was such as may be expected from an indulgent mode of bringing up in a city, and my own sedentary inclination—weak and delicate. This consideration induced my father, for some time, [Page 33] to object to placing me in a public seminary, where a relation offered to provide for me. Poverty, how­ever, advancing rapidly towards his humble dwel­ling, and quickening its pace, after domestic oeco­nomy had quitted it with my mother, made him soon accept the offer of his cousin.

"I left my native roof ere I was eight years old, and became a member of the celebrated public school at Eton. This I esteem the first grand aera in my life. A public seminary is a little republic, where the honours and advantages of the commu­nity lie open to all; and in no other soil can the seeds of ambition be so well cultivated. Soon was the spark of emulation felt within my bosom, infu­sing energy and vigour into every action. The middling classes beheld me, with envy, pass their ranks; and the highest wondered at my▪ swift ap­proach. Success urged fresh endeavours, and ere I had attained my thirteenth year, I was qualified for the university; where I already was, in fancy, strug­gling for academical distinctions.

"Just before my fourteenth birth day, was the second grand aera in my life. My father died in­solvent. A letter from his cousin, my benefactor, acquainted me, that, in consequence of some con­siderable failures in his speculations, his fortune was much lessened; and that he could not fulfil his in­tentions of supporting me at the university; adding, that as I was now of an age to go into the world, he wished me to think of some trade I should like.

"You, Mr. Barnwell, can conceive my feelings; I cannot describe them. In the first moments of my disappointment, rage conquered reason, and I considered my benefactor worse than an assassin. 'My God!' exclaimed I, 'is he not a murderer? Has he not made me the parent of the fondest hopes, the brightest, dearest expectations? Did he not, him­self beget these dreams of bliss which I have che­rished? and now, with a word, he murders every hope!'—Trade!—my soul sickened at the sound. [Page 34] Apprentice!—horror was in the word, and every hope of happiness vanished from my sight. In another moment different feelings agitated me. My warm, romantic fancy, could not at once relinquish the views it had fostered. Pride aided fancy; and I persuaded myself, that were my genius but known, it would most certainly be patronized. I resolved to write to a celebrated nobleman, at that time a patron of literature. The same evening on which I received my cousin's letter, I wrote one for this no­bleman, intending to send it the following morning; but in the morning my mind was in a different frame.

"I resolved to see my benefactor. He was an opulent tradesman, and resided in the metropolis. 'You have received my letter, Henry,' said he. 'I am sorry you should be disappointed in your views, though I have not a doubt but you will do much bet­ter in trade, than by drudging all your life time over books. Have you any choice?'

"None that I can follow now, Sir. I have in­dulged a hope that my industry at college might possibly have recommended me—'To be some great man's toad-eater,' interrupted he: 'Is that what you mean?—It could do nothing else for you. The church is absolutely beset with hungry suppli­ants. There's no arriving at the bar without a for­tune; and as to physic, a man's talents will never re­commend him to a patient, if he keeps no carriage. I wish to be your friend, Henry; and I think I know how:—it must be by placing you in such a situation, as, however disagreeable it may appear on entering, will lead you to independence.'

"I began now seriously to reflect upon the truth of these observations. I recollected I was speaking to the only friend I had on earth; and though my pride suffered a severe wound, my judg­ment was improved in my own estimation.

"After a pause, I yielded my assent to the truth of his observations, and expressed a wish that I could write a fine hand, as it might possibly be in [...]is pow­er [Page 35] to procure me a genteel situation in some merch­ant's compting-house.

"He smiled at my wish—'You are in the same error there,' said he. 'I believe no set of men la­bour more, in general, than persons of that descrip­tion;—and what is their reward?—a clean shirt, and a shining pair of shoes; which is pleasant enough for a young man in his teens. But think of the situation of such men, if they marry—if they live to old age! A mechanic, who earns fifteen shillings a week, is a prince to them. I by no means controul you: if you think genteel misery desirable, you will be a merchant's clerk.

"I was humbled in my own sight; my heart no longer throbbed in the expectations that had delight­ed it; I felt it sinking, and a passive acquiescence in his sentiments was the consequence.

"We parted, with a promise from him to send me the address of a grocer the next day, on whom I was to wait as my future master.

"My colleagues at school saw an alteration in my countenance, and soon discovered my future destiny; which attracted the scorn of some, the pity of many.

"Instead of sleeping that night, my mind was busily employed in contrasting the real with the fan­cied situation that was to succeed my school days. My thirst for literature was never more to be indul­ged, but conquered. Ah! fatal delusion! I thought it might be conquered—But, hear me, Mr. Barn­well—and would to God all men might hear me—the thirst of knowledge is occasioned, Sir, by an un­quenchable spark, and must be gratified, or will con­sume. Imagine not I mean to sanction idleness, which oft assumes the mark of genius, but is not, cannot be allied to it. Imagine not that I would sanction restlessness of mind, which scowls, dissatisfied, at its own lot, and covets every other. Imagine not that I approve that morbid sensibility, so oft mis­took by its possessors for heaven-born genius—by no means! But if the soul perceives with itself that [Page 36] active principle, which ease nor gain can satisfy; which, almost overlooking common things and com­mon duties, soars into the regions of sublime in­quiry; and creative fancy gazing with eagle eye even on the source of light—Oh! then let him who feels the heavenly guest obey its sacred voice;—for I, who have contended with its power, know that Genius is not to be subdued!

"Let such a man resist the natural impulse he will feel to yield his inclinations to the well meant, but fatal, advice even of parents. Let no commands, no tears, no supplications, even of mother, bias him. Let sincerity be his guide, and firmness of mind his staff, and his pilgrimage will gro [...] pleasanter in his progress: but if, to dry a momentary tear, or escape a momentary pang, he submits to smother genius, he seals his own misery, and deceives, besides him­self, his friends. I did so; and mark my history.

"I waited on Mr. Nutting, the grocer. He re­ceived me in a little room at the back of his shop, where Mrs. Nutting was sitting. They appeared plain, plodding sort of folks, remarkably neat in their dress, and precise in their discourse. After a variety of questions, Mr. Nutting inquired if I was sensible of the importance of an interest in the merits and sufferings of our Blessed Saviour. I cannot des­cribe the astonishment this question occasioned me. Mr. Nutting saw my surprise—

'Well, well,' said he, 'I see you have not been brought up with a proper sense of your eternal wel­fare. It is however, a great mercy that you have been directed to this roof where you will have the benefit of instruction and example in the right road. You may tell Mr. Darwall (the name of my bene­factor) that I like you very well, and shall be ready to receive you to-morrow; and after a month's trial you may be bound.'

"Every necessary was provided for me at Mr. Darwall's expence, and I bade farewell, with a sigh, to my school and my school companions.

[Page 37] "I passed my month of approbation.—Night af­ter night, as I laid my head upon the pillow, I med­itated upon my situation; and strong was the strug­gle betwixt what I esteemed my duty and my in­clination.

"Often would the swell of independence elevate my mind to the contemplation of the most im­practicable scheme!—As often would a sense of gratitude to Mr. Darwall, as well as an implicit faith in his assurances that my present (almost in­tolerable) situation would lead to future ease and comfort, baffle the suggestions of my romantic fancy.

"Thus, Sir, were the embers of genius damp­ed, and the powerful energies of a thinking mind depressed, by the duties of a mean destination. The progress of my tale will shew, that totally to extin­guish the former, or destroy the latter, is beyond the power of circumstances, while the senses remain unimpaired."

CHAP. VIII.

"THE menial offices which my situation com­pelled me to perform, at first were grating to my pride; but I soon discovered that to be a false pride, and, by degrees, became its master. I could stand behind the counter and chop sugar without feeling the shame of a mean action; but I was often rou­sed from a reverie by my master, when I have been weighing out teas, and at the same time busily employed in the regions of fancy.

[Page 38] "When the business of the day was ended, my apartment was the kitchen, my companions a me­thodist old woman, who was the servant, and her friend a black cat. Here I might have regaled myself after the fatigue of the day with reading; but unfortunately, the old lady's library, consisting of the Pilgrim's Progress, the Holy War, and a vol­ume or two of sermons, was at that time little suited to my taste. The pious discourse of the old dame was still less pleasing; thus (too fatigued for bodily employment) sleep, or a meditation, were my only alternatives; and from these I was frequently roused by the tabernacle hymns, to the tune of which the old woman mended her stockings.

"On Sundays I constantly attended the meeting to which my master belonged, where I was com­pelled to hear doctrines, at which my blood chilled, and my heart grew faint.

"The gloom of Calvinism, the disappointment of my first hopes, the conquest of my pride, the dull and cheerless life I lead, in a short space of time so cooled the former ardor of my mind, that, if it is too much to say, I was heart-broken; I was reduced to that state of mind, which sees no brightening pros­pects in futurity, and which, ceasing to hope, studies and struggles to endure.

"Such was the state of mind in which, with a trembling hand, I signed the indentures that con­signed me for seven years to the gloom of a cloister, without its consolations or tranquility.

"Mr. Nutting, previous to my being bound, had often hinted to me, that I was slow in business; and thinking of one thing, whilst I was doing another; and having once caught me in the attitude of study, leaning upon a broom, with which I was sweeping the shop, he exclaimed—"Henry, this won't do; you seem more fit for a philosopher than a trades­man."

"With this opinion, which was certainly a just one, Mr. Nutting ought not to have taken me as his [Page 39] apprentice. But Mr. Nutting was not a rich man; and Mr. Darwall had promised him a premium of sixty guineas.

"From what I have related, you will readily con­ceive that I made but poor progress in the art and mystery of the Grocer's Company; and though cheer­fully and willingly obeying my master in all his commands, I yet failed to please him: the natural consequence of a want of that energy in my busi­ness, of which inclination must be the parent.

"I was more fortunate with my mistress. She was of a mild temper, and humane disposition, and was a strict Calvinist from sincere conviction. Su­perior to her husband in intellect, she would fre­quently, when opportunity offered, enter on a con­versation with me, and discovered an amiable heart. She was mistress of all the controversies upon theo­logical topics▪ and felt great delight in confuting the arguments of the opponents of Calvin.

"When you recollect, Sir, that Mrs. Nutting's was the only conversation I enjoyed, which embrac­ed in any degree mental topics, you will not be sur­prised, that, notwithstanding it was religious. I esteemed it highly. In short, I became delighted with these occasional recreations from the jargon of congou, bohea, souchong, and hyson.

"Sill more delighted was I to listen to her, while she qualified the doctrines of Calvinism, and labour­ed to reconcile the benevolence of the Creator with the doom of the created, and the unborn. Her language was warm:—her colourings exhibited the strongest lights, and deepest shades. She staggered my reason, opened new scenes to my view, and so far conquered my objections, as to make me wish and pray that I could believe her creed.

"She perceived the crisis, and gave me permis­sion to take what books I pleased from her book­case, which contained the whole body of Calvinistic divinity. Thus two or three years passed away, at the expiration of which I had become a zealous Cal­vinist.

[Page 40] "Power of the universe!—how I shudder, when I think upon the thousands, who at this hour, cher­ish in their breast those horrible ideas of Thee, which at that time formed my creed!

"I was about seventeen years old, when Mr. Nutting, one evening, was sent for in great haste to visit a stranger who had lately taken a lodging at the next door, and who was then at the point of death.

"This stranger was a man, who, having obtain­ed early in life the possession of a considerable estate, had given the reins to his passions, and had indulged in every pleasure that a vitiated taste and corrupt principles suggested. On the bed of sickness his heart smote him.

"Chance led him to the house he was in, and the landlord of that house was a strict dissenter, of the same persuasion as Mr. Nutting, whose sanctity and upright conduct had been frequently proclaimed in the hearing of the dying man. He requested to see him; derived a pleasing consolation from his dis­courses and prayers, and placed in his breast an am­ple confession of his crimes.

"There was only one object living, for whom, in his present situation, he felt any concern; and that was a daughter, the fruit of an illicit amour in the West-Indies.

"This daughter he had brought up with the true affection of a father, having bestowed a very libe [...] ­al expence upon her education at a very eminent school in the vicinity of the metropolis, where she then resided as a boarder.

"For this daughter Captain Ellison felt an increa­sing concern as his own end drew nearer. Himself grasping eagerly at the hopes and promises of eter­nal happiness offered to him by Mr. Nutting, on the simple condition of believing, he became anxious that his Elinor should share the same blessings, but which he now fully persuaded himself she would never taste, unless converted to the [...] faith with that which he himself had embraced.

[Page 41] "Such, at length, was the confidence he reposed in Mr. Nutting, that he made a will, by which he bequeathed an estate in Hertfordshire, and some considerable property in the funds, to his daughter, upon the express condition of her residing with Mr. Nutting till her twenty-fifth year, or till her mar­riage with his consent.

"So strictly was his will drawn up, that Mr. Nutting, who was his sole executor, obtained by it an unlimited controul over his ward during her minority, and an arbitrary disposal of her in mar­riage, besides the interest of her property while she resided in his house.

"The Captain died. Miss Ellison had visited him two or three times at his lodgings, and was ap­prized of his intentions respecting her. A day was appointed for her removal, and I was ordered by my master to take a coach from Hyde Park-Corner to Kensington, to bring Miss Ellison and her appur­tenances to the strand.

"Well do I remember the scene at Kensington. Affection truly maternal glowed in the charming countenance of the governess, who threw her arms round the neck of her departing charge, and buried tears of sensibility in her bosom.—The young ladies her companions, saluted her with a warm and sin­cere affection, whilst even the youngest of the scholars clung round her, kissing her hands and twitching her robe, while a buz ran round the room, of—'Remember me, Miss Ellison—Pray, remember me!'

"My native tenderness was rising;—but the gloomy principles I then nourished checked every gen­erous feeling of the heart, as allurements from the love of heaven!

"Miss Ellison at length burst from their embraces, and hurried into the coach. I took my seat op­posite to her, and imprinted on my memory a face and form never—no, never—to be erased!"

[Page 42] "As Mr. Mental uttered the last sentence, he sighed deeply, and covered his face with his hand. Recovering himself—

"Sir," continued he, "she was not, perhaps, the most beautiful woman in the world:—her com­plexion, when she left Jamaica as an infant, was rather tinged with an olive hue; but her features were the notices of those inmates of the female breast, which charm the soul of man—sweetness of temper, and conquering submission; whilst the soft expressions of her eyes indicated the superior cultiva­tion of an exquisite mind.

"She first broke a silence of some duration by asking me, if I was the sun of Mr. Nutting, which led to several other questions; the result of which was a short description of the family she was about to enter, for which she expressed her thanks, though I saw the pain which the intelligence occasioned her.

"I pass over her introduction to her guardian and Mrs. Nutting, but must not omit to mention a conversation which took place in the evening, while I was assisting in unpacking some boxes in the apartment allotted for her chamber. There were some shelves in the closet—'I am glad to see these shelves,' said Miss Ellison, 'for I have books enough to fill them.' 'Books—books!' said Mr. Nutting; 'what books, child? Let me see—its proper I should see what books you have.' 'Certainly, Sir;' was the reply; 'though I flatter myself you will approve the selection, for they have received the approbation of my dear Mrs. Herris.'—'I dare say Mrs. Herris is a good sort of moral woman; but what are her re­ligious sentiments? There is the important point.'

"By this time I had untied the cord, and began placing the books upon the floor. Mr. Nutting took up a volume, and opened it—'What a'-prize is this, child? Eh!—outlandish jargon, I take it. What is it?"

'It is a system of geography in French, Sir,' re­plied Elinor.

[Page 43] 'French!—ah, well; it may be Dutch, or Greek, or Algebra, or any thing else, for what I know; but I must take this here book, and all them there, that I don't understand myself—Pack of nonsense, I dare say—but they'll cut up for the shop.'

'Oh, dear Sir,' said Elinor, 'you would not, sure­ly destroy my library! If you do not approve of my reading French, I pledge my word I will not. But, pray, do not destroy the books: several of them are valuable.'

'Pledge your word—Yes—yes—pretty pledge enough. No, no—the safest way is to put it out of your power. I stand in a most awful situation, child. I shall have to answer for the great charge of your soul, that has been so providentially com­mitted to my care; and nothing shall you read that I do not understand.'

"Elinor looked ashonished, but Mr. Nutting did not notice her. Having laid his hand upon another book—

'Mercy on us!—here's a play book!' exclaimed he. 'Did your Mrs. Herris know of this too?'

'O dear, yes, Sir; there are eight volumes of them: they are the immortal Shakespear's.'

'God forgive you, child! Immortal!—Yes; he is, doubtless, in immortal torments. Here, Henry, take the immortal Shakespears away.'

"Poor Elinor trembled—Mrs. Nutting saw her distress.—

'You should consider, my dear,' said she, 'Elinor has been brought up by worldly people; and though it is an infinite mercy that brought her to our roof, there must be an inward change wrought in her heart before she can be brought to see the folly of her worldly wisdom.'—

"How I blessed my mistress. She spoke my thoughts. Mr. Nutting made no reply, put proceed­ed with the true zeal of an inquisitor.

'Milton's Paradise Lost! Aye, put that on the shelf if you will,' said he. 'Hervey's Meditations! that you may take. But, here, put all the rest up [Page 44] in the box, Harry, and carry them, for the pre­sent, up to the loft; take a hammar and nail the box down; I can't stand looking now; I've got some­what else to do. So, child, if you want books to read ax Mrs. Nutting, and she'll put what's proper into your hands; though I think the needle suits best of week days; and on the sabbath you may read your bible.'

"Surprize, regret, and something like anger, mingled their influence in the mind of Miss Ellison, and a tear stood quivering in her eye. I obeyed so much of my master's orders as to carry the box into the loft, and intended to finish my commission when I went to my chamber, which was one story lower than the loft. But, O, sovereign genius—invinci­ble power—inextinguishable spark!—then, again, thy smothered embers blazed!

"Taking my candle and my hammar, I ascended the loft, I placed my candle on the floor, and was about to drive the nail, when a sudden impulse of curiosity arrested my arm.—

"Suppose, thought I, I just look over these books. They are profane, said Calvin; they are the pro­ductions of men destitute of the enlightening spirits of God, and may tend to draw your affections from holy things.—

"Only one peep, cried curiosity; perhaps I may meet some old acquaintance that I have almost for­gotten; for it was full three years since I had look­ed into any book save the theological labours of Cal­vinists.

"Down I dropped upon my knees. 'If it be a sin, God forgive it; if it is temptation, Lord deliver me.' I opened the box, trembling; I took up a volume and opened it. It was a volume of Shakes­pear, and the passage that caught my eye was the speech of Portia on mercy. As I read, my heart grew warm; as I proceeded, it grew warmer; and when I came to the line—'It is an attribute of God himself,' it literally glowed within me.

[Page 45] "This speech had been my favourite at school, and I had spouted it an hundred times. It brought to my recollection another, for which I eagerly searched and found in the same author: 'O gentle sleep, &c.' My spirits seemed to have gained a deliverance from fetters; my heart beat quicker than for a long time past; and I went on devouring the contents of the box with as much appetite as a hungry man would a dinner. I tasted every dish that presented itself, and found each dish a dainty. Nearly at the bot­tom of the box was a volume of Sir Charles Grandi­son, which I opened at the interesting conversation of Sir Charles and Lady Clementina upon the topic of religion. Conceive the interest I felt; and judge my regret when I heard the clock strike three, and saw the approaching departure of my light, which glimmered in the socket of the candlestick. I found my way to bed in the dark; but sleep was far off.

"The spring of reason, that had been stretched to impotence by bigotry, seemed by this accident to have recovered its elasticity, and once more resumed its operations—O Superstition, how great­ly to thy prejudice!

"I recollected the scene in Miss Ellison's cham­ber. I placed before my fancy the ignorant piety of my master, and the profane intelligence of his ward. I dared even to trace the origin of their principles. I did more; I inquired, if it was a con­sistent idea, to suppose a beneficent Creator would grant a special light to a few of his creatures, by which they only should be guided to eternal bliss; while the multitude are doomed to wander through a dark passage to the precipice of everlasting woe? And when I had inquired—I blushed!"

CHAP. IX.

WHEN George arrived at the baronet's, a coun­cil was sitting to consider of proper measures to be adopted relative to the nightly appearances at the abbey.

George had been meditating all the way from old Mental's upon the same subject, and had determined to watch this night among the ruins. Over-ruling every objection that was started, he abided by his resolution; and when the rest of the family retired to their chambers, he muffled himself up in a box coat, armed himself with a brace of pistols, and sal­lied forth towards the ruins.

Darkness and silence reigned; with difficulty he discovered his way, and ere he reached the aisle, the echoes of the midnight chimes rolled amongst the ruins. At the same moment he observed a light­ed torch glide slowly towards the avenue that led to the aisle: at the entrance the person who carried it turned round—George stepped behind a column, and saw the same masked figure he had beheld on the preceding evening.

After gazing earnestly round him for a few se­conds, the figure moved slowly towards the aisle. With a gentle tread George followed him, but stop­ped at the entrance of the aisle, and reclined his head against the remains of a stone arched gate­way, in the attitude of listening.

Presently the tones of a harp struck his ear: they were solemn, slow, and melancholy. After a few interesting movements, a voice accompanied the in­strument. George could no longer resist the im­pulse [Page 47] of curiosity; but, creeping softly, entered the aisle. The Unknown sat with his back to the en­trance upon a little stool, near the tomb, upon which lay his mask. A lamp burnt upon the ground, and the torch was extinguished. The anxiety of his mind prevented George from hearing distinctly the words of a ballad, but of which his memory re­tained the following fragment.—

[Page 48] During the time this ballad was singing, George stood motionless, with his eyes fixed on the singer. When it was concluded, he withdrew a few paces back, to a spot where he might see, unobserved, what should pass.

As soon as he had finished this ballad, which ap­peared to agitate him extremely, the Unknown start­ed from his seat, and, clasping his hands together violently, exclaimed—"O! what torments—what tortures could cruelty invent equal to thy stings—thy scorpion stings—O, inward hell of guilt!—O, conscience! Am I for everlasting to endure these pangs? And will this worm for ever live within me?—O! that a blow could strangle it;—that leaping into burning liquid could annihilate all thought! Why—why—fool that I am—why do I hesitate to try?"

As he uttered the last words he drew a pistol from his bosom—"This, in a moment, brings me to my—Would I could say, my end! But, no—no—no!—She did not cease to be, when this accursed arm plunged this bloody steel into her beauteous breast! (holding up a dagger, bloody at the point)—"Some­where she still exists; for still her spirit haunts her ruthless murderer!—steals from his pillow peace; and makes the light of day more hedious than dark and gloomy night!—meets me in every walk—crosses me in every path; and here—even here—where like an outcast wretch I mourn away my nights—here, too, it follows me, and makes a hell. O, wretch!—wretch!"

As he spoke, he threw his arms upon the tomb, and buried his face in his hands. The suspicions of George were just: his voice, his face, declared this confessor of murder to be Mental. Horror and astonishment struck him to the soul; he tremb­led, and shuddered at the discovery, while a varying train of ideas floated in his brain.

In a few minutes his attention was again arrested. Mental exclaimed—

[Page 49] "Away this dream of horror! Was she not faithless?" And then, in a softer tone—"Yes, faithless as fair!"

He flew to his harp, and moving his fingers briskly, seemed endeavouring to recollect some air. "Aye—that was a favourite," cried he: "how char­mingly did she look when her snow-white arms were extended to touch these strings—her flaxen hair flowing in ringlets about her lovely neck—her expressive eyes beaming glances of love upon me—while her coral lips moved to the melody of an angel's voice!—And yet I could destroy her!—could change that breathing beauty into putrefac­tion! I was that monster; and now, like an in­fant that has broke his toy, I could sit down and weep a life a way! O! if repentance were availing—what do I not suffer! Foolish mankind!—among thy race how many a holy penitent have I viewed whose lengthened visage, and briny eye, has soothed away remorse! Why, then, in what a mould was I formed, that my wounds should resist all healing applications? Is there no balsam that may cure my soul?—'Physician, Omnipotent Physician!—"

Here he sunk upon his knees; but in a moment starting up—

"Mental! ar't turning Monk," exclaimed he, "as if an intercession could more avail with the All-powerful than his own benevolence? Call back time past—undo past deeds—bid the dead live—and then expect the peace that thou hast parted with for ever!"

Not a syllable that sell from the lips of this mise­rable man was lost by George. Three hours pas­sed away, during which Mental occasionally broke out into similar ejaculations, or played upon the harp. Soon as a distant bell tolled three, he lit his torch; and removing a large and heavy stone, which lay at some distance from the tomb, a kind of grave appeared, in which he deposited the harp, the lamp, [Page 50] and the stool, and replaced the stone; then mask­ing himself, he left the aisle, and George, at a cautious distance, followed him.

CHAP. X.

UNDETERMINED in his mind, whether to reveal or conceal the discovery of the preceding night, George joined the family at breakfast. To avoid their questions, however, he informed them generally, that he had been partly successful in his research; and that in another evening he expected to be able to unravel the whole mystery.

Fortunately a letter arrived from the knight, which turned the conversation from a subject that George would have encountered some difficulty in disguising, and which he did not wish to reveal till he had heard the sequel of old Mental's story.

This letter came from Mr. Freeman, a merchant of the old school, to whom Sir James had written concerning his nephew. Its contents ran thus—

Mr. Emery's letter was as follows—

The discourse that followed the perusal of these letters was interesting; in which the benevolence of the worthy knight, and the gratitude of the Barn­wells, were warmly delineated. That day week was fixed for the departure of George.

CHAP. IX.

VARIOUS were the emotions which agitated the mind of young Barnwell, as he strolled towards the house of Mr. Mental. When he was introduced into his presence, he trembled.

[Page 53] "Ere we parted, Sir," said Mental, abruptly, "I think I had introduced Miss Ellison to your acquain­tance, and bestowed some praise upon her person. It is absolutely impossible to pourtray her mind, at once simple and noble, condescending and dignified. I will not attempt even to sketch its outlines, but shall confine myself to a single narrative of facts, in which her actions will more faithfully unfold her mind, than can the most labouring description.

"However dissimilar the manners of the Nuttings were to those which a polished state had made her own; however abhorrent their gloomy notions of religion to a mind of exquisite sensibility, and an understanding of uncommon strength and cultivation; having once brought herself to believe it her duty to obey the injunctions of her father's will, she sub­mitted, without sullenness, to their mode of life, and paid a decent respect to those duties which their re­ligion enjoined them to observe.

"But do not imagine she played the hypocrite. She never avowed her dissent from their doctrines. and scrupled not to confess her dislike at their re­cluse way of living. Honored—shall I not say bles­sed—with the confidence of this charming woman, my situation seemed changed from the most cheer­less to the most blissful. We read, we conversed together; we wrote, and submitted our performan­ces to the criticisms of each other. In short, we seemed mutually to confess, that in that house, at least, there was no pleasure but in each other's socie­ty. What the library in the loft had left unfinish­ed, Miss Ellison's conversation completed; and my soul once again glowed with hope.

"I looked forward with impatience to the ter­mination of my servitude, when I imagined, I should burst forth upon the world as a prodigy of genius. The hours of pleasure which were heretofore gloo­mily spent in reading the horrors of Calvinism, were now employed in perusing various authors, or in the [Page 54] composition of verses. The subject of my verses of course, was my Elinor.

"Having, one day, stolen a volume of Shenstone from the box in the loft, the melody of his metre chimed in my ears, and I strung together some lines, which I'll repeat to you, that you may form some judgment of my romantic notions. You will re­member, I was little more than eighteen.

"Having copied this effusion for Miss Ellison, un­fortunately I left it upon my master's desk. He sound it. Not with more voraciousness does the hungry tyger seize upon its prey, than did Mr. Nutting up­on my poor morcean. Foaming with anger, he flew towards me, and tearing into ten thousand atoms the cause of his indignation, he threw them in my face; 'Here's going on,' exclaimed he:—Here's atten­tion to business. Why its an abominable hea­thenish [Page 55] hymn, or love elegy, or some such stuff; trumped up to seduce the affections of my ward. But I'll put a stop to it. If ever I see you speak to her, or look at her, I'll—'Here, choaked with anger, he stamped his foot, and threw down three pots of honey; an accident that by no means helped to restore him to reason.

"The consequence of this discovery was an abridgment of the opportunities of conversing with my Elinor, and a more rigid line of conduct towards Miss Ellison herself.

"Shortly after this event, another occurred of most decisive consequences towards us both. A relation of Mrs. Nutting was taken ill, and re­quested her attendance. She went to reside with her a few weeks at Hampstead. On the Saturdays Mr. Nutting went to sleep there, and returned usually on the Monday morning. Miss Ellison was left in the Strand, as a guardian to the house. On one of these Saturdays Elinor and myself had planned to bribe the old woman, I have mentioned as the ser­vant, to secrecy, and to embrace the opportunity of going to a play. The old dame, would never have consented to our visiting the 'Devil's House,' as she termed the theatre; and therefore it became neces­sary to deceive her with the tale of a visit we were going to pay Mrs. Herris, the former governess of Miss Ellison. To this she yielded, after a few weighty arguments.

"I can now see a great inconsistency in Miss Ellison's conduct, as well as a great impropriety in my own, in thus abusing the confidence placed in us both. But, Sir, at the moment I am speaking of, temptation was irresistible; you cannot conceive its strength.

"Elinor was as passionately fond of theatrical performances as myself. I had not seen one in the space of four years, nor had she since her entrance into our family; nor was there the remotest proba­bility that any other opportunity would occur during our stay with the Nuttings.

[Page 56] "The play to be performed that evening was Shakespear's Romeo and Juliet; and the Romeo was Garrick.

"There were several scruples to conquer; but, in the end, temptation triumphed.

"Taking some precautions to disguise our per­sons, we went and mingled with the crowd that had assembled at the pit door of Drury Lane theatre. Unaccustomed to the place, and surrounded com­pletely by a concourse of people, Elinor began to tremble with terror.

"The attraction of Garrick had drawn an unusual throng: the heat and pressure became almost insup­portable to Miss Ellison, and, added to her fright, at length overpowered to endure it. She told me that she felt herself fainting. I attempted to make a retreat through the crowd. It was impossible. She faint­ed in my arms. At the [...]ame instant the doors open­ed, and, being deprived of the use of my arms, we both sunk together, and I became senseless.

"When my senses returned, I found myself in a strange bed, with several persons standing round me. Astonishment seized me for a moment; but when the memory of the scene that had passed recurred, it was like an arrow shot through my brain—'The lady!—the lady!—Elinor!—Miss Ellison!—is she alive!—where is she!' exclaimed I in the agony of the most torturing suspense. In lifting my hands to my head, I found I had been bled.

"The people around me stared in my face, and at one another, but made no reply to my questions. 'My God! will you not tell me?' They shook their heads in sign of pity. 'She is dead!—she is mur­dered then!' exclaimed I. 'Poor youth!' cried a man who stood nearest to me; 'poor youth!—his brain is quite disordered. I believe we must take a little more blood.' 'You'd better look, whose to pay you, first,' cried a fat man in a red worsted cap; 'I think instead of bleeding, we'd better see and get [Page 57] a chair, and take him to the workhouse. He can't stay here all night. I don't know what business some folks have to bring all casulties to my house.' 'Why, as to that, Mr. Brown,' cried a decent-looking man, 'where could we take him so proper:—who would have thought, to look at him, but that he was dead; and in that case, the coroner would have sat upon the body at your house, and you'd have had no ob­jection.

"Where am I, then? exclaimed I—'Where are you!' cried the fat man:—'why, you're at the Dolphin, in Drury Lane: and as you seem in your senses now, young man, pray, where do you live—who are your friends?'

"My God! what a thunderbolt was this question. Instead of answering this man, I repeated my ques­tions concerning Elinor, but could procure no in­telligence. My anxiety made me strong. I deter­mined to arise; nor could the whole College of phy­sicians have prevailed upon me to relinquish my pur­pose. I dressed myself with assistance. I was severe­ly bruised in several places, but had received no mate­rial injury.

It was nine o'clock when I left the Dolphin. My inquiries after Elinor were for along time fruitless. All the intelligence that I could gather in the neighbourhood of the theatre was, that a young lady had been tramp­led to death, and conveyed away in a hackney coach, but whither, nobody knew.

"I went home, with a faint hope that she might have been conveyed thither. I rung the bell; the old woman appeared, and her first inquiry was—'What have you done with Miss?'

"Without answering her question, I ran away I returned back to the door—Again I left it, and, from the anxiety of mind, played the antics of a madman.

"The whole of the night [...] wandered up and down the streets, stopping every hackney coach, inquiring of every passenger after the object of my search—Imagination tormented me with a thousand horrible [Page 56] ideas—I saw her dead!—worse than dead!—I saw her person violated!—I heard her shrieks!—I saw her agonies!—and my reason absolutely reeled. Morning appeared; I had walked the whole night; I had taken no refreshment; and I found myself sink­ing with fatigue.

"As I passed the Chapter Coffee-House in St. Paul's church yard, the servants were taking down the shutters. I went in; and, leaning my head upon a table, indulged a sile [...] grief. I remained in this posture some time, till several persons came into the room. After them was a short, neat looking man, who seated himself near me—'How is your patient this morning, Mr. Brookes?' said a gentleman to him. 'She still remains insensible,' replied he; 'but her fever is lower.' 'Poor thing!' said the other, 'and was there nothing about her that could give you any idea who she is? There are some aching hearts on her account by this time.'

"Merciful Providence!—have I then found her? exclaimed I▪ in a tone that alarmed the whole com­pany.

"If you have any heart!—if you would relieve the most wretched being on earth!—continued I; pray take me to my Elinor.

"The people gathered round me with astonish­ment. An ecclaircissement took place. It was my Elinor. The humanity of Mr. Brookes, who was a respectable bookseller, had saved her life; and she was then at his house in Paternoster Row.

"I saw her, but she knew me not; though, in the [...] morning sentences she uttered, my name was often mentioned. A physician attended her, who pronounced her out of danger.

"Relieved from the heaviest part of my anxiety, I had now leisure to think of my own situation; but could not resolve how to act. Mr. Nutting I dared not to see; Mr. Darwall I shuddered to meet.

"I made Mr. Brookes my confidante, who humane­ly offered me an asylum in his own house, till he [Page 59] could reconcile me to Mr. Nutting, or at least to Mr. Darwall, whom he determined to see the following morning.

"His endeavours were unavailing with both. The former firmly protested against ever receiving me again into his house; and so represented me to the latter, that his heart was completely steeled against me. Thus did one trivial event deprive me of the only friend I had on earth. Thus were nearly five years of my life fooled away, without affording the least advantage to myself, or satisfaction to my ben­efactor.

"I had now, indeed, my liberty; but indepen­dence came too late, and in too melancholy a way.

"I perceive, Mr. Barnwell, I must be less prolix. One incident leads on insensibly to another. I must content myself, therefore, with a more general ac­count.

"Passing over, then, many tender and affecting interviews I had with Miss Ellison, on her recovery, at the house of Mr. Brookes, ere she was well enough to be removed to her guardian's, I will confine my­self to the one in which a mutual confession of love, (for we really loved) took place.

"She had that morning received a letter from Mr. Nutting, urging her return.

"And when do you mean to go, Miss Ellison? said I.

'Never! replied she with firmness. 'I will not sacrifice independence and happiness to wealth!'

"Miss Ellison, are you serious?

'I am resolved. I went there in obedience to my father's will. I found the situation barely tolerable.

After this unfortunate accident it will no longer be so. I shall, therefore, relinquish all claim to my fortune, and retain the rights of a human being!'

"My God, Elinor!—Madam, what are you pur­suing—what means of living, what prospects even of a subsistence have you in view?—

"Let me retort your questions, Sir—You have [Page 60] on my account, lost your late prospects. What is your determination?'

'I—I—Madam—I—I am a man—

'And is the privilege of procuring a subsistence confined to men exclusively? Have women, then, no hands to labour, no judgment to plan, or resolu­tion to pursue a project? I am ready to concede to your sex superior prowess in bodily exercises; but I am yet to be convinced, that nature made the female that passive animal, which custom exhibits in our cities. My resolution is fixed—my plan is arranged—Mr. Brookes approves it—at least acquiesces in it.

May I ask the nature of it?

'I have no desire to keep it a secret, particularly from you. I am going to commence author by pro­fession. For the present I shall remain in his house, as a boarder. 'Tis no hastily formed project, but the result of serious consideration.'

I was struck dumb with surprise and regret.

'What ails you, Mental?' said he; 'are you unwell?'

Why did you not acquaint me with this plan yesterday? said I. It perhaps would have been possible to have procured some similar employ myself.

'Certainly nothing is more easy. Mr. Brookes himself means to offer you a proposal this very day.'

Why did he not propose it yesterday?

'What happened yesterday, then, Sir? Is it too late? Tell me, what of yesterday?'

"O, Madam!—O, Elinor!—yesterday was a fa­tal day. Depressed with gloomy ideas, I wandered through the busy streets of this metropolis, rumina­ting on the past, and on the future. I looked back, without much regret, at what I have left, but with sorrow at what I have done. I had sacrificed the most important part of life to an implicit sub­mission to another's judgment. I had lost that "tide in the affairs of men, which leads to fortune," and nothing but miseries and shallows presented themselves in the [Page 61] rest of my voyage.' In all the boundless ocean of fu­turity I could behold no single spot on which to cast Hope's anchor.

"As I walked on, musing in this strain, the car­riage of a celebrated Pleader passed me, in which he lolled at [...]ase; and opposite to him sat his son, a youth seemingly about my own age. I sighed; per­haps (I ought to own the truth) I envied him. Yes, Elinor, envied him; for that which is emulation where competition is open, is envy where it is shut.

"Would I were that happy youth, sighed I. What admirable exercise for the mind does such a profes­sion open!—what opportunities for displaying its powers! And it is mere prejudice to imagine a man cannot possess a liberal mind, who is a lawyer.

"The carriage stopped—Instinctively I followed them into the Guild Hall. The courts were sitting. A cause was arguing—I listened—I became interested in the arguments—I wondered at the omission of many, which would have made for or against the question. The judge rose to give his opinion. I had anticipated much that he said. My proud heart fluttered; I was a pleader in imagination, I applauded myself—was happy in my fancies. The verdict was given; the crowd dispersed; and then—I felt what I really was!

"As the concourse of people separated at the door, one cried, shaking another's hand—'I must go—so and so—such business calls me.' Another replied—'I should have been at such a place.' Every one appeared to be running after some object that occu­pied his mind, and brought emolument to himself. 'And where shall I go!' sighed I.

"In King Street I met a mob, dragging a poor ragged wretch to justice, who had been detected in picking a pocket. I mingled with the crowd to hear the examination—'What means have you of get­ting a livelihood?' said the magistrate. The cul­prit was silent—'Why then, to save you from the gallows, I shall send you for a soldier.'

[Page 62] "What means have you of getting a livelihood! rung in my ears. I traversed street after street. Often would I check myself with the question—What means have I of getting a livelihood? Where am I going? Not to my father, mother, sister, or brother—these are unmeaning sounds to me! Not to my home—even that cheering sound, which delights the poor­est, was but a mockery to me—Then darted across my mind—yes, let me own it—your image, Elinor. I saw, at that moment, the utter impossibility of your ever being mine—nay, bear with me a moment!—I saw you given to some rich idiot, whose bigo­try might please old Nutting; and I almost cursed existence!

"Just then the martial sound of fife and drum struck my ears. A recruiting party appeared—I paused!—What means have you of getting a livelihood! still rung in ears. Phrenzy seized me—I ran to the lieutenant, and offered him my hand—'I'll serve the King!' cried I. The men pulled off their hats, and gave three cheers. The lieutenant shook me by the hand; and, after looking in my [...] exclaimed with an oath—'Harry Mental! He had been my chum at Eton.'

'Merciful heaven! and I have been the cause of this,' cried Elinor. 'O, then, it is time, my Henry—my love—it is time to throw off every little affectation of our sex, and let you see my heart—a heart, my Henry, that, whether you accept or re­ject it, is only your's. I love you Henry; and, go where you will, no earthly power, that leaves me life▪ shall separate me from you.'

Excuse these few drops of weakness!' said Mental, as he wiped his eyes—"They are sacred to the memory of a martyr!—Yes, Sir, she made this frank avowal of her love, whilst her beauteous face concealed its virgin blushes in my bosom—O! memory—memory!—too faithful memory!"—

And again the tears would flow.

"A declaration so frank, so noble, so worthy of [Page 63] her uncommon character, was met, on my part, by one at least as sincere, as ardent, as disinterested, as her own.

"The lieutenant being my friend, by his interest I obtained a discharge from my rash engagement; and Elinor and myself were shortly after married.

"Mr. Brookes continued the friendly rock on which we built our little bower of bliss. His coun­sel directed, his benevolence aided, his generosity munificently remunerated our labours. He was engaged in a very extensive concern, and found us abundant employ. Elinor wrote a Novel, which succeeded well. We published jointly a volume of Poetry; and we mutually laboured at translations.' Competence was the sweet reward of our labours, supplying us with all the necessaries, and many of the decent luxuries of life. We resided in a small but neat cottage at Walworth; only visiting the metropolis occasionally.

"The life I now lead was the very reality of that picture which imagination had taught my youthful heart to doat upon; and yet, possessing this reality, I was not content. When literary compositions be­came the means of my subsistence, I found it irksome; I fancied it a mean employ of talent to let out for hire. I grew dissatisfied, I formed a variety of new schemes, which alternately delighted and disgusted me.

"A period however approached, which compelled me to submit to the irksomeness, and even meanness (as I deemed it,) of my employment. My Elinor bore me a daughter. I wept tears of joy; my heart beat with rapture; for at that moment, Sir, I did not dream how many curses, in disguise, I hailed as blessings—I sometimes laugh to think how my silly heart was cheated."

[Here Mental laughed, but in a manner that con­veyed the misery and horror of his recollections!]

He continued—

"A year or two marched onwards in the track [Page 64] of time unmarked by any record of the memory; but about the time my little girl was three years old, and began to prattle, there happened an event which is so firmly printed on my mind's register, that not even the flaming fingers of the fiends of hell can burn the page, nor all the pitying dews that drop from angels' eyes blot out the bloody character!

"But spare me now a task I feel beyond my pow­ers—Retire—retire, my young friend—See me to-morrow; and come prepared to hear a tale of horror—!"

The anguish of his heart was visible in the strug­gling features of his face, and he breathed painfully convulsive sighs. George pressed his hand and re­tired in silence.

CHAP. XII.

"THIS tale of horrors, to which he alluded," said George, musing on his way home, "must be the murder of the Louisa of his ballad, and the Elinor of his tale. Why does he change the name then?"

A chain of conjectures on poor Mental's tale oc­cupied his mind till he reached home, when a fresh occurrence demanded his attention.

Upon entering the drawing-room, he started back with surprise, at the sight of the harp, the lamp, and the stool, which he had the preceding night seen de­posited by Mental, under the stone in the haunted aisle. There was nobody in the room—he had found the hall door open, and had entered without seeing any of the servants. Descending the stair­case he met old Joseph.—

"O, Sir!" said Joseph, "such discoveries!"

[Page 65] "Such discoveries!" cried George—"Where?"

"At the haunted aisle, Sir. Have you not seen the music, and the lamp?"

"Yes:—but how were they discovered?"

"I discovered them—" with an air of impatience. "This morning, Sir, I was going to the doctor's for some conserve of roses, for Mrs. Meredith, the house­keeper, who has got a terrible blight in her eyes, as I take it, by sitting in the garden when the night air—"

"Well—well, Joseph—you were going to the doctor's—never mind what about."

"True, Sir, as you say, that's no matter; that's neither here nor there as to the discovery. Well, Sir, the nearest way to Doctor Saffron lies through the park, and the ruins; and though I have many times gone round by the road way for fear, I was determined this morning to go boldly on through the haunted aisle: and so I did; for, since our search there, I began to think less of the matter than I used to do. I did tremble a little, to be sure, when I got there; but some how or other, as if Providence had ordered it so, I grew bold when I had been there a while; and finding myself a little fatigued with my walk, I sits me down boldly upon the very tomb where they say the naked lady sits every night. Now only mind, Sir, what great discoveries sometimes happen from trifling things. I had a hat on that was bran new last Sunday; the day was hot, so I pulls off my hat, and lies it down upon the tomb.—Well when I had rested me, I takes my hat up, and, behold, all the top of the crown was soaked in lamp oil. I was struck very strange, to think how this could happen:—when, lo, and behold ye, I find a quantity of oil, as if it had been spilt upon the tomb stone; and I find it had dripped, dripped, dripped, all the way along the moniment to a large stone covered over with moss, and beyond that stone not a drop of oil was there to be seen or smelt. Then all of a sudden, it came into my head about the light that has been so often seen of a night. And—"

[Page 66] "Enough—enough—" cried George with his usual impetuosity of temper—"I know the rest, good Joseph, and will spare you the trouble of re­citing it—You moved the stone—and there the harp and the lamp was sound—But here comes Sir James."

"The strangest discoveries!" said the baronet.

"Joseph has been relating it, Sir," replied George.

"Well," continued the knight—"and what con­jectures do you draw from it?"

Mr. Sandall, Mrs. and Miss Barnwell joined them.

"The music that has been heard, and the rights that have been seen, are rationally accounted for, at least, by this discovery," said Gearge; but the performer of these nocturnal orgies we have yet to discover. I should think, Mr. Sandall, a ghost would not be at the trouble of hiding those things?"

Mr. Sandall was silent.

"It seems a strange propensity," said Sir James, "in any man to amuse himself in such midnight re­creations. I know nobody I could suspect of such exploits; unless, indeed, the strange old fellow, who is the proprietor of the ruins."

"And who else would you suspect, Sir James," said Sandall, "Is not the man known to be every thing that's bad? Who knows for what infernal purposes he might hold his nightly sittings there? These are strange times, Sir James. I was reading to you the History of the Illuminati, a book which proves the existence of conspirators against all the world; and I believe that this country is not free from them. The place is retired; Mental's house is large; and no one is seen to enter his door by day light. Now, who knows but he may entertain in that house, or have concealed about the ruins a gang of these horrible villains, who would go any lengths to overturn all religion and order. I should not pre­sume to dictate to you, Sir James; but you are a [Page 67] Magistrate, Sir James; and a hint to a man of your penetration is sufficient.—"

George would certainly have incurred the dis­pleasure of the knight by a hearty laugh at his chap­lain, had he not been prevented by a noise in the hall below, and alarmed at the voice of Mental him­self.

The rumour of the discovery had spread widely in a short time, and had gathered numberless addi­tions in its progress: till at length the story of a mur­der, committed by Mental, had actually gathered an assembly of peasantry about his gate, who were point­ing to his house, and significantly lifting up their hands and eyes to heaven. The old man had noticed them; and by piecemeal had obtained information of the discovery.

Rudely rushing into the drawing room, to the extreme terror of Mr. Sandall and the ladies; his head covered, his hands clenched, his eyes darted anger and revenge—"By what authority, what law—by the shew of what prerogative, is my proper­ty removed from my own state, and placed here? exclaimed he—"Yet do not answer me! I know the tale that hangs upon your lips. But I demand to know the author of those vile calumnies, which the deluded peasantry are blowing round my dwelling. I think, I trace the infamous suggestion in the cow­ard countenance of yonder priest," pointing to Mr. Sandall.

"Me!—me!" exclaimed Sandall, skulking be­hind Sir James' chair. "Mr. Mental, I assure you, Sir, I have had no hand whatever in the business."

"What! can you lie?" said Mental—"O, how ill does it become the man whose lips spout forth the purest and sublimest doctrines ever taught man­kind, to retail calumnies: How ill does it become a man, of any faith, to wound the reputation of his ab­sent fellow; then shrink at his approach, conscious of the injury bestowed, and yet most dastardly disown the blow!"

[Page 68] Mr. Sandall was of a pale complexion; but at this moment his lips were paler than his cheeks, and he could not stand upright.

"Does your reverence know this man?" asked Mental. [It was farmer Cornall.] Sandall trembled. "The tale you have instilled in this man's ear, was wanton, or malicious. Be it as it may, Sir, it shall be refuted. You have spread stories of en­chantment, necromancy, nay, of murder! to my prejudice; that I conceal banditti of Illuminati in my house. Now, Sir James,"—to the knight—"you are a magistrate—I surrender myself on the charge of this zealous Protector of the christian faith, and am your prisoner till acquitted. Go to my servant, take the keys, search▪ every room—nay I insist on it—search every drawer, examine every paper. I fear no discoveries."

After many objections, Sir James consented to visit the residence of Mr. Mental, as the only means of averting the threats of the labourers, assembled from the neighbouring villages, to pull down the house.

Accompanied by Mr. Sandall, and George, he walked towards the house; and at the particular re­quest of Sir James, Mental went with them, smiling as he passed the insulting throng assembled round them, which all the eloquence and authority of the knight could scarcely keep in order.

As they were entering the house, Mental took an opportunity of whispering to George, unnoticed—"You have not tattled, boy?"

"I am no babbler," said George.

"Then whatever you may now observe, be secret still. However strange or mysterious may appear my future conduct, at present disclose nothing that you know concerning me." Then squeezing his hand—"Let this memorandum sometimes claim a place for me in your thoughts!"—and he sighed heavily, as he slipped a miniature into his hands—George put it in his bosom.

[Page 69] By this time they had reached the sitting and sleeping room—"Here, Sir James," said Mental, "I eat and sleep; 'tis my whim; there's no statute to the contrary, I believe, Mr. Chaplain! That clo­set will open, by turning the handle of the lock. It contains my wardrobe, a few changes of linen, and a roquelaire. The bayonet and belt, that hang up­on that peg, I once wore, nay, I once used! I drew hu­man blood with that weapon—Christian blood, Mr. Sandall;—English blood, Sir James. 'Twas an un­happy cause: but I was then a soldier in the ranks, and endeavoured to annihilate the powers of mind that I possessed, for they were useless; and my arm sent death where the discretion of my officers direc­ted. It makes me cold to think on it. I see the belt is mouldy, and the bayonet rusty. I wish they were buried in the plains of Quebec. There is nothing else worth notice in this room."

They entered the apartment of poor old Sarah, who was in tears.

"Why—why—Sarah—Come, come, dry these tears—I can bear any calamity better than to see a faithful creature, like you, miserable through my means," said Mental.

"It han't for myself, its for you I cry. I always thought it would come out.

"Come out!" said Sandall. "What do you mean, good woman?"

"O, the study—the study!"

"Poor wretch!" cried Mental.

"What about the study, good woman?" said Sandall: and then taking Sir James' arm—"Come, lead us to the study."

"I lead you to the study!—God forbid! no, no—let them that will, go for me," cried Sarah.

George recollected her former dread of the study.

"This faithful creature has resided with me twenty years," said Mental. "In all that time she has not seen the inside of my study. I spend many hours there alone; and often the whole night if it [Page 70] rains, and I am prevented from walking in the abbey, which I prefer in fine weather. The circumstance has created a mysterious fear in poor Sarah's brain, and she would not enter the study, I believe, to save her life. But you shall yourselves judge how little cause of terror exists there."

As they were leaving the room, Sarah took an opportunity, unperceived by Mental, to pull Sandall by the coat, and make earnest signs to him not to go. George himself was staggered for a moment by this circumstance—But Sandall seemed petrified with terror.

"Come, Sir James," said Mental, "I'll shew you this study."

"They moved on. At the door of the kitchen Sandall turned round, and perceived that Sarah had dropped upon her knees, and was in the attitude of praying. His knees tottered as he ascended two slights of stairs, which led to a gallery, at the end of which was a door, which Mental informed them was the study. He opened the door, and the first object that struck their sight was, the lid of a coffin covered with black cloth: there was a plate fixed on it, with this inscription—

‘Mrs. Elinor Mental, Died July 12th, 1772; Aged 22.’

George cast his eyes curiously about the study, and appeared entering in his memory an inventory of its contents.

The coffin lid was placed upright in one corner of the room; on a corner shelf over it was a human skull, in excellent preservation; near it was a writing ta­ble, on which burnt a lamp, the shutters of the windows being continually closed; the floor was strewed with books, pamphlets, and newspapers. A chest under the desk contained a large quantity of ma [...]script. In another corner stood an electrical machine, cov­ered with dust, the cylinder broken. In another, a furnace had been raised for chemical experiments, but had evidently been long in disuse, and was half [Page 71] concealed by broken crucibles and charcoal dust. The general appearance of the place conveyed the most gloomy ideas, and its furniture constituted mel­ancholy memorandums of energies of mind decayed and faded; as tattered banners and broken helmets tell of some valiant arm laid low!

As Mental stood with his arms folded, leaning against the wainscot, Sir James and Mr Sandall al­ternately fixed an eye of wonder on the apartment and its mysterious owner. After a considerable silence—

"Well, Mr. Sandall," said Mental, "you are now in the very council chamber of your supposed secret committee!—You have my willing permission to in­spect any paper, book, or drawer; and if the appear­ance of this place, or any thing in it, suggests any question, even of curiosity, I will as truly answer it as if I were on oath.

"That piece of elm, covered with black cloth, was intended to be buried with the person whose name is inscribed on the plate. I had some regard for her memory, and chose to have it preserved.—'Twas a strange fancy, you may say—Be it so.

"That structure of bone, on the shelf over it, I also kept as a memorandum—It was once the repo­sitory of much intelligence; and in those sockets once beamed eyes, which glistened with the dews of sensibility, and won the gazer's admiration ere their owner spoke. Yet, Sir, there was a something contained within that skull, which plotted and execu­ted the most mischievous damnation that ever blasted the tender blossoms of human hope!—I now gaze upon it by the hour, and wonder where the anima­ting spirit of the deserted cavity has fled?—We can gather no intelligence of this nature, Mr. San­dall. Science is ignorance, and genius madness, as to such information.

"That machine, whose electrical powers have amused me many a year, attracted for a while the powers of my reason; till, having gained a thorough [Page 72] knowledge of its principles, my mind sought novelty. The labours of chemistry kept me still longer in play; till at length research was satisfied. But no­thing I can read, nothing I can study, resolves me what I am!—whence I came!—or whither I shall go! This perplexity, may, and I know does, trouble me more than many men. I own, too, its inutility—Yet, be the torture of doubt its punishment; and let me not incur suspicions that I do not merit. I know no Illuminati, Mr. Sandall."

"Why, Sir, I—I—am surprised at—your odd ways. I—I—have no reason to doubt your good intentions—But it appears strange, that a person of your sense—that is, it is—as I may say—it is surprising"—stammered out Mr. Sandall—

"Spare yourself, Sir," said Mental—and I will spare you also; for I perceive you are not such a be­ing as a man of any strength of mind ought to be of­fended with. Therefore, though you are the means of again unsettling me—the busy meddler that once more drives me from a spot I chose to die on—yet I, atheist as you deem me, can be so much a christian as to forgive you.

"To you, Sir James, I owe a fuller explanation. In a few words then, Sir—I am a miserable man!—whose views of happiness have been almost constant­ly obscured by unexpected blights and storms, just as I thought them mine: and being of a frame and constitution, perhaps, ill suited to these buffetings of fortune, I find they have inflicted wounds upon my heart which have engendered a disease, whose baneful influence has made me seem the thing you see me—What I really am, is my own concern—But I am sorry that, if by word or act, I have offended you; and I know I have.

"You, Sir James, are happily not troubled with the mania of inquiry, and are content to take this world as you find it. I have too frequently indul­ged a pettishness of mind at your expence, when I have aimed to decompose that order of things, and [Page 73] system of society, with which I am dissatisfied. Let me, then, make you the only recompense I can, by a solemn and sincere assurance, that what I have fre­quently uttered in your presence, has been the off­spring of a distorted fancy—a sickly heart—a feverish, giddy brain.—Let me assure you, Sir, I am no wiser man, because I can detect an error in another's creed—I am no happier man, because I laugh at others' hopes of future life and bliss. No, no Sir; I know now less than when I was a boy: the learning and the sciences of men have but confused the simple thoughts of nature; and as to happiness—Ha!—ha!—ha!—(grinning horribly)—this world affords me no prospect of peace; and as to futurity, my doubts obscure all hope.

"Thus much I owed to you, Sir James; but the suspicions of this reverend gentleman are as ground­less as they are mean, and unbecoming that faith which teaches charity!"

Sir James apologized. Mr. Sandall bowed, and stammered; and, after examining a few empty apart­ments, they retired.

On their return home, the knight published Mr. Mental's innocence, and sent a servant to his house with the articles found in the haunted aisle.

CHAP. XIII.

TOWARDS evening, on the following day, as George was sauntering near home, a postchaise pas­sed him, in which were Mental and his old servant▪

[Page 74] At the lodge gate the porter delivered him a pack­et. Concluding it came from Mental, he hastened with it to his apartment, and broke the seal. On a slip of paper was written the following note—

The narrative ran thus—

CHAP. XIV.

THE departure of Mental from the abbey was soon buzzed around the country, and various stories were circulated concerning him.

Whilst curiosity, or the love of scandal, actuated the many, George felt his heart warmly interested in the fate of so unhappy a fellow creature, and sigh­ed earnestly for the power of alleviating his sorrows.

The tender hearted Eliza and the benevolent Mrs. Barnwell, to whom he had communicated the outlines of the melancholy tale, united in commiser­ations for the sufferings of a man, whose life, al­most from infancy, had been marked by disappoint­ment and sorrow.

"How much is he to be pitied!" said Mrs. Barn­well:—"his heart torn with the keenest sorrows, and his mind prevented by scepticism from reposing in the consolations of religion. Let his story, my dear George, teach you the value of those truths a departed saint early instilled into your mind, and never suffer the subtilty of eloquence to destroy those impressions which christianity has formed in your heart."

"How unfortunate for him," said George, "that doctrines, so admirably adapted to the human heart, should have been presented to his view in so distorted a shape as they were by the Nuttings. It surely is no [...] assuming too much, to attribute his rejection of all revelation to that circumstance. Such a mind as Mental's would doubtless have received the uncorrupt­ed principles of christianity as congenial to its wants, [Page 82] and its expectations, and would not have remained, as at present, an unorganized mass of useless energies, which are attracted to one center; but, flying off at all points, rouse the imagination of the most painful doubts, and leave the heart unbenefited by their operations.

"Your remarks are certainly just," replied Mrs. Barnwell; "and it affords me the greatest pleasure to hear such observations fall from a son I am so soon to part with. In the long absence we are to suf­fer, it will be no inconsiderable source of pleasing reflection, that you leave us with such sentiments.

"The scenes, in which you are about to perform a part, my George, are of a complexion that dazzle and intoxicate the mind; and you will have occasion frequently to recur to those principles for direction; let me hope you will ever make them your guide, and then, I am persuaded, I shall never blush at the mention of my son."

Conversations of a similar nature frequently took place till the day of departure arrived, when George, with abundant proofs of the liberality of his uncle, quitted his hospitable roof, which still remained the asylum of his mother and Eliza.

For the first time George entered the metropolis—for the first time, breathed the fashionable air of Portland Place, where, Mr. Emery resided.

From the account George had received from Men­tal of the meanness and avarice of traders, he was not a little surprised to observe the elegant appear­ance of Mr. Emery's residence. His astonishment increased, when, upon admission into the hall, he was surrounded by four or five stout, tall fellows in blue and silver, large bunches of flowers in their bosoms, and white cambric handkerchiefs in their hands. The youth was absolutely confused, and felt some difficulty in persuading those gentlemen of the cere­monies to procure him an audience of Mr. Emery, who was entertaining the cabinet ministers that evening at dinner, at his own table.

They condescended, however, at length, to show [Page 83] him to a parlour, where, in about an hour afterwards, Mr. Emery came to him; George having sent in his name.

Instead of the merchant of the old school George expected to meet, Mr. Emery was a man of the most elegant deportment, dressed in the extreme of fashion.

He entered the room in [...]stile so commanding, yet easy, that his presence bespoke the most accomplish­ed manners.

"I am extremely concerned, Sir," said he "that very particular people are with me to day, and pre­vent my receiving you more agreeably with my wishes, and the respect due to a nephew of Sir James Barnwell. Allow me, however, to congratulate you upon your safe arrival, and to introduce you to Mrs. Emery and her daughters."

George apologized for his appearance, and would have avoided the introduction.

O, by no means, said Mr. Emery, ringing—In what part of the house is your mistress, said he to the servant who appeared.

The ladies have drove down to the pavilion this morning, Sir; and do not return till to-morrow.

That's unfortunate, indeed: but you will ex­cuse me, I'm sure; we shall be better acquainted soon, and apologies will become unnecessary.—William, serve dinner in this room to my friend Mr. Barnwell, and tell the butler to bring what wine he orders.

With a cordial shake of the hand, Mr. Emery left his young friend to a soliloquy, full of wonder, at the scenes before him. The manner in which he was received astonished him:—Cabinet ministers dining with a merchant—was a novelty to him; but more strange than every thing else, appeared to him the idea of a man's not knowing whether his wife and daughters were at home, or in the country.

A profuse dinner was served up, consisting of every delicacy that the season afforded, and in a stile of legance beyond all George had ever seen.

[Page 82] It was near ten o'clock when he had finished his sumptuous dinner; and about eleven, he was think­ing of retiring to rest, when Mr. Emery entered, introducing a young man, apparently about twenty, of an [...] countenance and delicate frame.

"Mr. Barnwell," said he, "this is a pupil of mine. Mr. Rigby, let me recommend Mr. Barn­well to your friendship: I have mentioned him to you before."

"I shall be very proud of rendering you any ser­vice, Sir," said Mr. Rigby.

Mr. Emery retired, calling to the servants in the hall—"The chariot in a quarter of an hour."

The pupils were left together. What a contrast did they form! George's cheeks glowed with health—Rigby's were sunk, and pale; George's form and and limbs proclaimed the temperance and exercise he used—Rigby's slender legs and shrivelled arms as plainly declared a life of sloth and intemperance. The dress of the former was simple and manly—that of the latter, disgustingly effeminate: his whole appearance prejudiced George against him, whilst he in return considered George as a boor.

—"The chariot in a quarter of an hour" was echoed three or four times in the hall.

George could not refrain from asking whether any thing particular drew Mr. Emery abroad so late.

"So late!—Eh, demme!—that's neat—Excusez moi—Upon my soul I can't help laughing!"—which laughing was merely a hectic barking. Why, my dear fellow, you must be very raw—very green, indeed!—excusez—moi—its not eleven!"—whirling a gold watch round by the chain—"The Principal's only going his usual round."

"May I be so free as to inquire, what you mean by that phrase, Mr. Rigby?—I believe you know I am a stranger in London."

"O yes—excusez moi—that's plain enough! However, one should not be too severe—I remem­ber when I—I—I—was as great a quiz—excusez [Page 85] moi—as you, Sir—By going his round—I mean, looking in at the opera—squeezing a few figurante—lounging in the way of the scene-shifters, and getting hissed off the stage. Then whirl to Lady Srongbox—Splash away the Spanish—make an assignation for the morn­ing—and off again to the House—take a lounge there for an hour—get a bow from the Treasury Bench—gape at Doctor Sceptic's doubts—and then to Brookes's—lose a trifle—get the head-ach—and dash home with two flambeaux by day light!"

"You are very happy at a description, Mr. Rig­by," said George:—"a little ad libitum in the co­lours though, I presume."

"No, demme, not I—I'm a plain matter of fact, absolutely. But what are you going to do with yourself till bed-time?"

"That time is come with me, Sir, for I am fa­tigued."

"To bed at eleven o'clock—O, horrible! For heaven's sake sham sick, my good fellow—sham sick—or the servants will die with [...] convulsion of laughter!"

George smiled; Mr. Rigby supposed, at his wit: it was, in fact, at his folly.

How wide a field for reflection did the incidents of the last few hours open to a mind like George's, ever active and discerning, and—"never less alone, than when alone."

CHAP. XV.

FROM the specimens he had seen on the day of his arrival, George was prepared to expect a very [Page 86] different style of living, from that which he had an­ticipated in the country, and such was the reality.

He was established in Mr. Emery's house in the capa­city rather of a private secretary than a clerk. Instead of being confined from an early hour in the morn­ing till late at night, in posting ledgers, and copying invoices, as Sir James had taught him to expect, and as was th [...] case with all merchants' clerks when Sir James was in trade, George found that the sons, or nephews, or cousins of merchants, who threw a capital into the firm, under-went no such drudgery, which is consigned to boys who had learnt to write fine hands at charity schools.

About eleven o'clock George usually went from Portland Place to the 'compting-house, Broad Street Buildings, where Mr. Drudge, the fagging partner, resided. Any communications of consequence, betwixt Mr. Emery and Mr. Drudge, were convey­ed by George; as well as papers that required the signature of the former, who seldom visited the count­ing house himself.

From Broad Street Buildings to Batson's coffee­house was a regular one o'clock walk for George, where he met the rich Jew brokers, and made Mr. Emery's proposals for the barter of bullion, consols, omnium, or lottery, according to previous instruc­tions; which, from his intimacy with ministers, gave generally the tone to the market.

At three he paraded the Royal Exchange, and in­vited the foreign merchants to dine in Portland Place, which completed the labours of the day; ex­cept upon particular occasions, when letters of con­fidence were to be copied, or memorials for con­tracts sent to the Treasury.

Such a slender portion of employ, left void a large space of time for his own inclination to fill up.

It being but the commencement of the season, Mrs. Emery and her daughters were seldom in town; and Mr. Emery was scarcely visible in his own house, except at a few dinners, surrounded by company.

[Page 87] Mr. Rigby, in addition to an extreme opposition of taste and pursuits, had the motives of jealousy and envy to render George disgustful to him; and there­fore, beyond the ceremonials of occasional meetings, they never spoke to each other.

Thus leisure, for a considerable time, was also sol­itude to George, who had refused several invitations to visits, for the vulgar reason of not liking the party.

A well stored library was his usual lounge after din­ner, and in the evening he amused himself with mu­sic, or drawing; in a familiar correspondence with his sister; and occasionally in attempts at poetry, of which he was fond to excess.

The library of Mr. Emery comprised an assemblage of literature in all its branches, and the privilege of access to such a store was, perhaps, the greatest happiness George had ever experienced.

Having, one afternoon, finished reading Dr. Gre­gory's life of the unfortunate Chatterton, he was de­tected in tears by the servant who brought him his tea and the evening papers.

George hastily snatched up the newspaper, to conceal his emotion, and cast his eyes rapidly over its contents.

Whilst his heart beat indignant at the fate of Chat­terton, a paragraph presented itself, in which the enormous sums paid in one season to Didelot and his wife for dancing at the opera were enumerated.

"Good God!" exclaimed he, when left to him­self, "how small a portion of this wealth might have saved to England, and to the world, another Milton!"

His ardent mind pursued the melancholy thought, and he penned the following sonnet:

Such were his pursuits, such his propensities; a conduct so different from other young men of his age, was the source of ridicule all over the house. The footmen, as they picked their teeth after din­ner, "wondered where the devil the Hottentot was bred?" The maids "never saw such an insipid creature in their lives—supposed he had left his heart behind him, if, indeed, he ever had any;" whilst Mrs. Jennings, the housekeeper, vowed "that she verily believed, for her part, that he was sent into the house as a spy upon their conduct."

This latter suspicion aroused the jealous resent­ment of the butler, and the whole corps domestique re­solved upon a war of indolence against him, which, however, the engaging suavity of his manners soon converted into the homage of grateful respect.

Such was the situation of George, when orders arrived from the Pavilion to prepare the house for the reception of its mistress during winter.

Though, to the rusticated mind of George, every apartment seemed an assemblage of splendid unneces­saries, yet every apartment was thrown into confu­sion by the addition or exchange of sofas, cabriolets, tripods, chandeliers, and chimney ornaments, as if the house, for the first time, was to be furnished.

CHAP. XVI.

NEW scenes now opened. The reign of dissipa­tion commenced for the season by the arrival of Mrs. Emery and her daughters. George was introduced by Mr. Emery. "Lord, child," said Mrs. Emery, "you can't think how excessively I've been longing to see you, ever since I knew of your arrival. Well, how do you like London? Is not it delightfully charming! Don't you think yourself transported to Paradise? What do you think of the theatres? Which do you like best, Drury Lane, or Covent Garden? Have you seen Parisot? Have you heard the Banti?"

George was never so confused in his life, as at the abrupt volubility of this lady. He was thinking how to reply to her string of questions, when all of a sudden, she exclaimed—"O, pray do me the favour to write a note to the Countess of Codrington, to say we are come to town, and mean to be at the opera to night; and do me the favour to write to the Duch­ess of—O, no—now I think of it, it will be quite delightful to take them all by surprise—and I'll positively frighten them all out of their senses. Come, Emma—Come, Charlotte, looking at her watch, "we have just time enough to drive round the squares before we dress;" and away they flew, leav­ing George in a state of perfect astonishment.

At dinner he saw them again, and more particu­larly surveyed the Miss Emerys. They were mere fashionables; their countenances rather pretty than handsome, without any traces of intelligence or sen­sibility. The youngest possessed most vivacity, and [Page 90] the eldest more sense; the former loved laughter, but the delight of the latter was scandal.

As they were reputed fortunes, they were not without admirers, whom they both kept in that doubting state of vassalage, so pleasing to the vanity of the giddy part of the fair sex, but at which a wo­man of virtue and understanding revolts.

By the attention of Lord Morley to Miss Emery, and the Rev. Mr. Eastwood to Miss Charlotte, George easily discovered the favourites of the day.

The hour for the opera arrived; the carriages were ordered; each of the favoured lovers handed his idol to his own chariot, whilst Mr. Emery's was reserved for Mrs. Emery and her new friend, George, of whom she affected to be extravagantly fond! and kindly undertook to lead him through all the mazes of the high world.

When they entered the magnificent structure of the opera house, which was extremely crouded, George was absolutely overcome by the strength of the new impressions which so sudden a blaze of splendor [...]reated.

The opera was over, and the overtures of the bal­let was performing. Upon a mind tasteful by na­ture, and uncommonly susceptible, charms of music were not lost. While every one else had seated themselves in the box, and were busily employed in nodding round the brilliant circle, exchanging looks of smiling affability, and at the same moment whispering mutual calumnies, George stood absorbed in exquisite sensations. A tittering sort of laugh aroused him, and he found he had been the laughing stock of the party.

"In the name of wonder," cried Lord Morley, "what have you found so petrifying?"

"Why, child," said Mrs. Emery, "you have used an attitude in the wrong place. Nobody ever lis­tens to the overtures; and as to being astonished, you must remember its the vulgarest thing in the world to be surprised at any thing one sees!"

[Page 91] "Possibly," said Mr. Eastwood, "this is Mr. Barnwell's first appearance in this character."

George assented.

"O, monstrous!" screamed Mrs. Emery. "Thou brute!—A month in London and not one night at the opera! How can you have possibly amused your­self?" said Lord Morley. "Have tragedy and com­edy entirely engrossed you?"

He had not seen either.

"Mercy on me," exclaimed Mrs. Emery, "what a task have I undertaken!—Mon petit enfant, come, tell your mama what you really have seen, and what you really do know."

Such was the trifling that prevented George from paying any attention to the music or dancers.

For what purpose do so many persons assemble here? thought he. The entertainments of the orchestra or stage might certainly as well be altoge­ther omitted, as so slightly attended to. All that he had been permitted to see or hear, only served to excite his curiosity, and determined him to take an early opportunity of visiting the theatre alone.

As they were leaving their box—"I must relin­quish going to the Duchess's delightful party to night," said Mrs. Emery, "or dismiss my noviciate; for positively, George, you would disgrace me. Besides nobody knows you. I should have imagined Mr. Emery might, at least, have introduced you to a few fashionables. But he is so necessary to the ministers. Do you think they'll give him a coronet, my Lord?" turning to Lord Morley.

"I know they can refuse him nothing," said Lord Morley.

"Well," said Mrs. Emery, after a pause, "I shall certainly dismiss you, George. And merely for your sake, I'll positively give a route on Thursday, (though its abominable early in the season) ask all the world, and introduce you myself to every body. So, go—go your ways."—George parried these blows very well; for, though unlearnt in the fashionable jargon [Page 92] of the beau monde, he was wanting neither in gen­teel deportment, or even an elegant and agreeable manner of expressing his ideas, which were superior, beyond all comparison, to the united efforts of his party.

As he was making his bow to Mrs. Emery, at the chariot door, three gentlemen, walking abreast, pushed the soldiers on one side, and were passing on, when Mrs. Emery's carriage attracted their no­tice, and they stopped to pay their respects:—"O Middleton," said the lady, "are you here?"

"We've just looked in," said a florid face man, with an amazing large cocked hat, and an insolent air:—"but, who the devil's that Quiz?" in a whis­per.

"A very particular friend of Mr. Emery's just escaped from rural fetters. Have a little compassion on him, for our sakes. George," continued she, "this is Captain Middleton; he wishes the pleasure of your acquaintance?" and the carriage whirled off.

George now found himself in a new society. Captain Middleton took his arm in as familiar a style as if they were old acquaintances, and began a sort of catechism, and soon discovered his own most libertine principles, and proved to him the unsullied mind of his new acquaintance.

It was a dark night, and began to rain; a hack­ney coach was called, and orders given to drive to St. James's Street. They alighted at a coffee house; and George, having acknowledged that he had no engagement, felt compelled to sit down with them to supper. Wine was quaffed in goblets, laughter expelled thought, and was kept up by a continued series of obscene merriment.

Unaccustomed to such scenes, George performed his part but indifferently. It was the first time in his life he had ever listened to an unbridled ridicule of religion and morality. Religion was absolutely scouted; and as to what was, or was not morality, it was so indefinable to the comprehension of those wits, that according to their system, a man of liberal [Page 93] ideas had no other guide for his conduct than his own convenience.

As the wine circulated through their veins, their stories gained a richer colouring, and their principles became more naked.

In this situation was placed a youth of seventeen, whose heart had hitherto ever beat in unison with reason. It had known no irregular desires; had never felt the fire of lust, or cherished any inclina­tion unsanctioned by his head. Yet was his heart not stoic; it was open, generous; glowing with good will to all around him. Thence sprung that gene­ral wish, so fatal in its effects, to accommodate his conduct to his company—to do as others do. To re­fuse a glass, is frequently to refuse a toast; and to refuse some toasts, would so impeach a man's prin­ciples, that he would be for ever after pointed at as a monster of virtue!

George was too good natured to refuse his wine, and too unaccustomed to its effects to keep pace with his companions. The consequences were, insensibil­ity for the night, and a most inveterate head-ach in the morning, with reflections more painful to his mind than any he had hitherto experienced.

CHAP. XVII.

EVERY succeeding day now brought with it some novelty. The route at Mrs. Emery's was as splendid as any in London, and as crouded as her ambition could desire.

At this route George was introduced to a numerous host of personages, male and female; and their va­rious titles, names, and descriptions, danced in his [Page 94] brain the whole night: yet amongst them all there was but one for whose further acquaintance he felt the least inclination.

A very genteel young man, in mourning, who with his two sisters were introduced under the names of Mr. and the Miss Lambtons▪ had left a very fa­vourable impression upon his mind.

His manners would have passed, with many, as proudly forbidding; but George, with more dis­cernment, saw in them the effects of a dignified re­serve.

His conversation was elegant, and rational. He appeared to possess a considerable knowledge of the world, and to be familiar with the etiquette of the higher circles.

The Miss Lambtons were pleasing and intelligent young women.

Having passed an hour in delightful converse with Mr. Lambton, George felt extremely concerned at his departure; and the more so, as not the most dis­tant hint of a second meeting fell from his lips.

Upon inquiring, he learned from Mrs. Emery, that this gentleman was the son of a deceased Welch squire, who had left his children the fame of a libe­ral hospitality, in return for having frittered away, almost to nothing, his estate.

Mr. Lambton was studying the law; and his sis­ters, who had just arrived from Wales, at present resided with him in town, and were entirely depen­dent upon his generosity.

George sighed to think, that the only individual he had met with in London, whose friendship he should wish to cultivate, he might in all probability never behold again.

He was agreeably disappointed. A few days af­ter the route there was a masquerade at the opera house. Mrs. Emery had engaged George to accom­pany her, and a party was accordingly formed.

They had scarcely entered the room, when a black domino, with two females under his care, advanced [Page 95] Mrs. Emery, with her usual volubility, was trying the patience of George just as this party passed.

"I have heard that voice before," said the black domino, to his companions.

George instantly recollected Mr. Lambton's voice, which was confirmed by the reply of his sisters. Noti­cing carefully his dress, he determined, if fate re­lieved him of his patroness, to make himself known.

Lord Morley and Miss Emery came running out of breath, to acquaint them that there was a most singular character at the other end of the room.

Mr. Eastwood and Miss Charlotte Emery arrived with a confirmation of the same intelligence. At the same instant Captain Middleton appeared, and Mrs. Emery taking hold of his arm, relinquishing George's, he made his escape, and went in pursuit of Mr. Lambton. In a few minutes he discovered him; and walking a small distance behind him, listened to his voice again, that he might be confirm­ed in his opinion.

"Well, then, my girls," said Lambton, for 'twas he, "masquerades will not be among the number of those indulgencies you may sigh to think a parent's indiscretions have deprived you of. What but in­anity of mind can find pleasure in a scene like this? Are you not already tired with it?"

George was now convinced; and walking up to him, respectfully said—"Am I mistaken—or have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Lambton?"

"My name is Lambton, Sir; but I have to learn that of the person who honors me with his notice."

"Barnwell," replied George, unmasking.

Lambton bowed, and presented his sisters.

"I must absolutely offer a sacrifice to chance for this unexpected good fortune," said Barnwell. "I think it so long since I had the pleasure of your conversation, that I began to despair of its renewal."

"Do you expect me to [...]reply sincerely, or fash­ionably, to so handsome a compliment?" said Lamb­ton.

[Page 96] "That will depend, I apprehend upon your own opinion, of which I am most likely to be pleased with; though, if my own assertion will pass for any thing, I prefer sincerity, and yet desire to receive no greater than I bestow."

"Am I to understand then, that residing with the most fashionable Commoners, in the metropolis, with the most easy access to every amusement it af­fords, you can find leisure and inclination for so dull an employment as conversation?"

"I am happy to find you do not judge of me per­sonally, but relatively."

A pause ensued.

"I am surprised to see so few characters," said George.

I am rather surprised at the contrast for the real and assumed character of the metamorphoses we have. What, for instance, should you suppose was the real character of that prim Quaker!—The dress of puri­ty conceals one of the most celebrated votaries of impure pleasure in this city. With the imbecility of accelerated old age is combined the folly and dis­sipation of youth.

He has the disposal of immense wealth, which he lavishes upon the lowest objects of pollution; yet, to discharge a just debt is painful to him.

He disgraces the patrician order, by having been born to a dukedom; nay, he lessens the dignity of human nature, by shewing that the spirit of a Satyr may animate the resemblance of a man.

"Miserable old man!" cried George.

And yet, observe how his company is sought af­ter. His riches procure him the attention of a train of parasites, whose praise is infamy, but which he, poor man, gratefully receives, as the only substitute for those pleasing sensations, which play about the heart where virtue is respected.

That fine form in the vest of a Nun, who seems so desirous of attracting the Quaker's attention, is one of the wildest daughters of fashionable levity, [Page 97] Her parents are respectable and opulent citizens; but Matilda unfortunately has an aunt, who is a widow of quality, with whom she resides at a distance from parental observation. If she has not yet absolutely bartered virtue for pleasure, she cannot justly be surprised that the world has already attached that infamy to her character, which she so sedulou [...]ly courts.

You will observe, that if she fails in obtaining the notice of the Cyprian Quaker, which would be the climax of notoriety, that she will attack at least half the young men in the room, be familiar with each, and tells them all, that she perfectly despises the last she flirted with.

"How much to be pitied!" said George.

How much more to be blamed! replied Lamb­ton: for, though we make every allowance for an improper education, what can palliate such a con­temptible thirst for admiration. Her errors are not the offspring of nature, but a mean and disgusting self-vanity, which impeaches her heart as well as her understanding. I can admit the volatility of youthful blood as an excuse for vivacity; but where that is natural, it never permits a disguise.

Matilda is a mistress of cunning, and to obtain notoriety, would sacrifice the feelings of half man­kind.

It would be a task for the night to enumerate the uneasiness she has occasioned in various families the discord she has fomented betwixt friends and lovers. But see, she has relinquished the Quaker in despair, and is crossing herself in the attitude of supplication before a Monk.

"And does your information extend to a know­ledge of his reality?"

"He is the son of a courtier; a young man whose acquaintance is covetted by such as prefer a warm and luxurious description of obscene incidents to ra­tional conversation. He has travelled, and will re­count to you the intrigues of convents in such glow­ing [Page 98] language, as delights the depraved taste of such of his company as would be fatigued to death with any thing intellectual. I believe, in general, his stories are credited; but for my own part I cannot help a little scepticism, that makes me revolt at nar­rations so full of the marvellous. In fact, I have heard well informed people say, that in the company of men of sense, he will himself laugh at the cre­dulity and false taste of his dupes."

"Do you observe a very well sustained resemblance of the Tragic Muse?" said George.

"It is an exception to my former remark," repli­ed Lambton;—"and is supported by an amiable woman, as melancholy at all seasons as she now appears. Her fate excites the sympathy of all who are susceptible of pitty. With an admirable mind, and beauteous form, Fortune had also bestowed up­on her riches and independence.

"Her ambition was a title. The Earl of—wanted materials to repair an impoverished estate, and possessed art sufficient to intangle her judgment. She became the Countess of—and, too late, dis­covered that, for the inanity of a title she had ex­changed independence and all prospects of happiness: she discovered that she had married a libertine, and a gamester.

"Her friends interposed; and have saved just so much from the wreck of her fortune as maintains her in oeconomical gentility.

"She is separated from her husband; and with the title of a Countess, is compelled to live in lodg­ings, and seldom appears in public.

"The frivolous part of her former acquaintance shun her with silly scorn; and the more sensible and sincere few, who still visit her, can afford her little else than their pity; the consolations of which, a dignified mind like her's would much rather dispense with.

"Without a husband, without progeny, she is still a wife; and her present misfortunes are in no [Page 99] small degree heightened by the painful reflection, that they are attributed to her own fatal error."

"How much I am obliged by your communica­tions," said George, "and how much would my dis­like to London, and its Harlequinades be softened, could I have recourse to the intelligence of such a mind. Why are the terms friend, and friendship, become so ridiculously unmeaning," continued George, "that, whilst one's heart is prompted to confess its attachment, the force of ridicule repels the generous instinct?"

"But for this, Mr. Lambton, I would not hesitate to ask a probation of my professions; and am not without hope that I should obtain your regard."

"Its well the party you have left do not overhear you," said Lambton. "Had Captain Middleton heard such a sentimental speech, you would never have been admitted into any of his parties; and the rejection would have marked you for a milk-sop all the rest of your life."

"Would to God he had been here, then," cried George.

"Softly, young man," said Lambton; "you are not sufficiently aware of the evil you so bravely spurn. Could you be content to be sneered at by the men, and laughed at by the women of your acquaintance?"

"Would all my acquaintance," said George, arch­ly, "act so absurdly?"

"I perceive your allusion," said Lambton, smiling, "but you are too young for a philosopher—What comes here?" continued he.

A mask now approached, followed by a crowd, which his strange dress, and still more strange beha­viour attracted.—He appeared as a Hermit.

"Does any one know him?—Does any one know him! was buzzed about the room.

Captain Middleton, Mrs. Emery and her daugh­ters, with Lord Morley and Mr. Eastwood, were among the followers of the Hermit.

"The man should certainly be confined," said [Page 100] Captain Middleton: he must absolutely be mad."

"Somebody had better take care of him," cried Mrs. Emery; "he may commit some mischief."

"Its excessively unpleasant to be so bored with his sermons," said Lord Morley.

"Insects, away!" cried the Hermit, in a voice which George immediately recollected to be Men­tal's. "Insects, away!—Ye flies of fashion!—Ye fluttering nothings!—Devoid of thought—caprice impels, or folly leads your steps. Leave me—leave me to my own reflections—Aye—Can you laugh!—Grin on—'tis Levity's meridian now, and this the paradise of Folly! Oh, how delightful to flutter in the blaze of such a sun!—sipping the dews of pleasure, and breathing the soft [...] of [...] respiration!—'Twere well were this your everlasting region. But, O! ye silly ones—how will ye bear the nipping frost, when chill adversity obscures a distant sun!—how will you palate the bitter cup of misery!—How will you meet the herald of your dissolutions, who have never fostered the unfortunate, or sympathised with the miserable, or the dying!"

"Lord!" cried Charlotte Emery, "let's leave him:—one had as well be obliged to listen to the man that preaches to the Jews."

"True, my sweet girl," said the Rev. Mr. East­wood. "Morality is certainly very necessary in the world; but there are times for all things: besides, one may contrive means to acquaint people with their duty, without a breach of good manners."

George had stood silently observing what passed; but when Mental and the crowd had passed him, he could not help exclaiming—

"Good heavens! the last man in the world I should have expected to meet at a masquerade!"

"Do you know him, then?" said Lambton.

George briefly related the outlines of his story, which, with the remarks of Lambton on the tale, occupied the remainder of the time till they separa­ted; when, to the great pleasure of George, Mr. [Page 101] Lambton gave him his address, and requested the favour of an early visit.

CHAP. XVIII.

SEVERAL weeks passed away unmarked by any event of consequence.

Mental never appeared, though, since the night of the masquerade, George constantly expected him.

New [...] of business [...] amusement, succeeded each other so rapidly, as to leave little room for re­flection, or little leisure for the conversations of Lamb­ton, which were the source of considerable improve­ment, and real delight.

Imperceptibly his mind became moulded into a compliance with fashionable life, and his manners assimilated to its modes; yet still the native purity of his principles remained unshaken: honour still glowed in his breast, and sincerity dwelt on his tongue.

He had now passed his seventeenth year, though the expression of his features, and his manly person, made him appear considerably older.

About this time Mr. Freeman wrote Mr. Emery intelligence of his intention to comply with his re­quest, and permit his daughter to visit the metropo­lis; and added, that he meant himself to accompa­ny her to town.

The agitation of Mr. Emery at this intelligence surprised George extremely. Uneasiness of mind became evident in every transaction. He would order the chariot, and forget his orders [...]he would [Page 102] employ George to copy statements of accounts, which he would alter as frequently as if it depended upon his fancy to arrange the figures.

Mr. Drudge, the acting partner, was closeted with him for hours together. Letters after letters were dispatched to the Treasury; and anxiety was expressed in his looks, words, and actions.

At length Mr. Freeman and his daughter arrived. The latter was a beautiful girl, about the age of seventeen.

George, who happened to be with Mr. Emery when their chaise st [...]pt at his door, was struck with his exclamation, as he went to receive [...] them—"He's here, by G—! Then there's nothing for it but deception!"

In a moment the chagrin of his countenance was half concealed by an hypocritical smile of welcome.

"Well," cried Mr. Freeman, as he stumped through the hall, leaning on a gold headed cane "Well, Master Emery, here am I, once more, in London. Upon my conscience, but you've an elegant house here. Aye, and here are my old ac­quaintances, Emma and Charlotte. Why, they are grown out of mind; and so fine too—why, Maria," to his daughter "our country clothes will make our fashionable friends here blush for us. Where is my ward, Georgina? and where is young Barn­well?"

Congratulations and embraces now took place; and about six o'clock the servant announced dinner.

"Dinner!" exclaimed Mr. Freeman: "by my credit, but I'm shocked! What have you not din­ed! Well, well—I suppose its the fashion."

By design, Mr. Emery had no party that day. As they were at dinner—"And, pray, how go things now in London. Have sugars advanced as much as was expected?"

"Sir,—Eh—sugars—" cried Emery, and looked significantly at George.

George answered the question.

[Page 103] Mr. Emery, fearful of more questions, began talk­ing himself.

"Have you heard how many millions Mr. Pitt wants?"

"No," replied Mr. Freeman; "nor I don't care."

"I beg your pardon," said Emery; "but it will make some material difference to us, that I happened [...]o know to a certainty. The turn of the market hangs on that point."

"What market?" said Mr. Freeman.

Mr. Emery appeared confused.

"I mean," said he, "the funds. You are aware, that during the war, part of our capital would lie dead, were it not for the opportunities offered by loans.

"Why, truly," said Mr. Freeman, "loans, or those things, I don't know much about. Merchan­dize in my younger days, consisted in imports and exports; a good cargo outwards, or homewards [...] and I can't say I much like the new sort of mer­chandize, where the freight is invisible, and the bills of exchange are abundant. Not but, in my time, if the state stood in need of assistance, the merchants of London could advance their cash at fair interest; but they never made the distress of their country the means of their profit, or degraded the character of an English merchant into that of a money lender!"

"But you must con [...]ider the difference of the times, Sir," said Emery. "Things are much altered since then."

"I'm afraid they are," said Mr. Freeman em­phatically.

After dinner Mr. Freeman, Mr. Emery, and George, were left to themselves. Mr. Emery drank glass after glass till he seemed to have conquered his feelings, and George thought proper to leave them together.

They soon, however, joined the ladies in the draw­ing room, and were scarcely seated, when Lord Morley was announced.

[Page 104] "Lord who?" cried Mr. Freeman. "Why, you did not say you expected any Lords."

"O dear, Sir," said Mrs. Emery, "they tire us to death with their freedom."

"Either, then, the dignity of a nobleman is di­minished, or the consequence of Master Emery con­siderably advanced," said Mr. Freeman.

A hectic cough introduced his lordship. My dear creatures," cried he, entering, "am I the first to give you joy—have you heard it—Eh—But I beg par­don, I did not observe—"

Mr. Freeman was introduced.

"What's the news, you tiresome creature?" said Miss Emery. "How can you keep us in such sus­pence!"

"Any thing of importance, my Lord?" said Mr. Freeman.

"News of the first consequence, Sir," replied the Lord.

"From the continent, I suppose [...] ▪" said Mr. Free­man.

"You are right, Sir—from the continent. We totally despaired of such good fortune; for though we would absolutely not have scrupled sending over a whole corps in exchange for him, the Great Nation would have still persisted in detaining him, had he not escaped sans ceremonie."

"He is safe arrived, then?" said Mr. Freeman.

"I have seen him," said his lordship.

"Bravo!—Bravo!" cried Mr. Freeman, rubbing his hands. "He is a brave and gallant fellow, and I am glad of it with all my heart; and hope it won't be long before they send him upon another blazing expedition against their navy."

Lord Morley stared—"Blazing expedition!—Navy!—You'll pardon me, Sir; but, [...]pon my hon­our, I don't comprehend the allusion."

"Why, I'm alluding to Sir Sidney Smith, who you say has escaped from the French."

"Sir Sidney!—the devil!" exclaimed his lord­ship. [Page 105] "No, Sir, I do not concern myself about any such gunpowder gentry. I—Sir—am alluding to that dear delightful creature—Monsieur Caperonis—the first dancer in Europe."

"Psha!" said Mr. Freeman; "is that your im­portant intelligence?"

"Delightful!—Charming!—charming!"—cried Mrs. and the Miss Emerys.

The Reverend Mr. Eastwood now entered the room: his pretty features screwed into a simper—twirling an eye glass in his hand, which was suspen­ded gracefully round his neck by a purple ribband; a white Cambrick handkerchief hung half out of his pocket; his left toe just touched the ground, and he stood the complete image of the most disgusting character in the world—"a clerical fop!"

"Have they imposed upon me, my dear Lord Morley, or is it really true—The Caperonis—is he really arrived?"

The conversation flowed now solely in this chan­nel, and Mr. Freeman, evidently disgusted, strolled out of the room, and Mr. Emery followed him.

The ladies engrossed Maria to themselves; and George could only now and then make a remark. When, however, he had that opportunity, the sense or feeling of his observations was eagerly noticed by Maria, who failed not to contrast them, to their advantage, with the insipidity and impertinence of the rest of the party.

The appearance of Lambton was a relief to Barn­well, who called by appointment, to introduce him that evening to one of Mr. Heaviside's converzazioni.

"What a comfortable escape," said George to his friend; "and yet these are the beings so em­phatically stiled, by Shakespear, the 'makers of man­ners!'—Well may our manners be vapid Here, however," continued he, as they entered Mr. Hea­viside's theatre, "we shall meet minds of a dif­ferent mould."

Mr. Lambton found pleasure in answering the questions of George concerning what he saw, for [Page 106] he was perfectly well read in the theory of anatomy, and was in the habit of intimacy with several pro­fessional men. Among a group that were assembled round the fire, he pointed out to him a young man, as a poet of uncommon genius.

"He has the fire of Milton," said he; "but wants judgment. His writings resemble a wild, uncultiva­ted spot of ground, where the most beautiful produc­tions of nature occasionally surprise and delight the eye, but wanting the uniformity of design, and arrange­ment of taste, fail in making any lasting impression on the fancy. It is exactly so with the works of that young enthusiast, who has published already enough to raise the highest ideas of what he might have been, and at the same time to show the world, that he will never reach that eminence.

"I perceive," continued he, "he is now deba­ting most vehemently. We will join the party; but let me first guard you against the warmth of his language and sentiments. He is a democrat from feeling. The French revolution burst upon his opening mind like a new created sun, and the rays of the new philosophy have so dazzled his discern­ment, that his mind, enlightened only on one side, can discover neither beauty or truth out of the new system."

They joined the group, which consisted of sev­eral celebrated characters—George, all ear, lis­tened with avidity to the conversation, and felt a real delight when it was proposed to adjourn to a tavern, to supper.

During supper the conversation was general, and not very interesting, but when the waiters withdrew, and the glasses were placed on the table, George's heart beat high with expectation. When he saw such celebrated characters seated with himself at the same board, he almost debated with himself, which he desired to hear most drawn out: and justly imagi­ning, that, most probably, he should never behold such another meeting, he hoped they would all en­ter into the conversation.

[Page 107] How unstable are human hopes! The young poet, whose ardent fancy had formed some hundred lines, which he presented to the managers of the theatre, as a tragedy, now appealed to the company for their opinion of his production. Then pulling out a bun­dle from his pocket, he began reading his tragedy, nor once attempted to desist, till the exeunt omnes of the last scene of the last act.

The production, which at any other time might have entertained him, appeared to George now per­fectly disgusting; as, by its obtrusion, the mouths of the whole company were closed, till the salutation of "Good night" broke up the party.

CHAP. XIX.

AFTER a week spent in London, during which time he had inspected the accounts which his partners laid before him, Mr. Freeman returned to his seat in Yorkshire, leaving his daughter Maria in Portland Place.

The remainder of the winter was passed by the fashionable family of the Emerys in a round of amuse­ments, of which the repetition would be tedious. The theatres, the opera, concerts, balls, routes and faro banks at length, however, yielded their influ­ence over the bea [...] monde to the various attractions of summer.

Away flew the Emery's to the Pavilion; which was a most beautiful Villa built by Mr. Emery, from a design of Wyat's, on the bank of the Thames, near Richmond.

[Page 108] To this delightful spot George frequently rode on an evening, and returned to town in the morn­ning; or sometimes would remain there two or three days. The whole family delighted in his company; and though the Pavilion was never without a party of six or seven besides themselves, yet the additional society of Mr. Barnwell was always matter of plea­sure. But to none was his converse so sweet, his manners so pleasing, as to the gentle Maria.

Nor was her well cultivated mind, her well groun­ded principles, her grace, her elegance of manners, and winning softness of disposition unnoticed by Barnwell. A mutual esteem was the result. It may be properly called esteem, for it was the homage of the judgment and the heart, unblended with passion: it was the delightful dawning of love; a serene, pleasing sensation of the mind, unruffled by desire.

In their walks, they would ofttimes hear of each other's benevolence from the neighbouring cotta­gers.

In their mixed companies, a smile of approbation from one, rewarded the expressions or sentiments from the other. In the library their choice of authors was frequently the same; whilst their private confer­ences still more fully discovered their conformity of sentiments and taste.

Dividing his time betwixt the Pavilion and Port­land Place, alternately enjoying the society of his friend Lambton and the amiable Maria, with just enough of business to make his leisure more agreea­ble, George passed the months of this summer more pleasantly than any former period of his life.

The letters he received from his mother and Eliza, every week brought him the happiest accounts of their health, and comfortable situation. The world appeared to his glad view a pleasant garden; and blossoms of delight decorated his tranquil path.

Such was Barnwell; when, towards the close of day, about the middle of September, a person muf­fled [Page 109] up in a long black cloak, inquired for him in Portland Place; and upon being shewn into a par­lour, discovered himself to be Mental. He was grown paler, and much thinner, than when George saw him last.

"Are you alone?" cried he.

"Yes," replied George.

"And are you at leisure?—Does no banquet wait for you?"

"None, I assure you," replied Barnwell, "Mr. Emery is at Buxton, and the rest of the family at the Pavilion."

"Is the door fast?—Bolt it—I have a secret to im­part."

George began to survey him more closely. His manners seemed even more wild, and his words more like madness, than when he parted with him. He obeyed him however, and repeated his assurances that they were alone.

"When I last saw you, I gave you a miniature," said Mental. "Have you it about you?"

George drew it from his bosom.

"Yet do not shew it me!—Confirmation is un­necessary. Put it up—put it up!—O, horrible!"—and he shuddered as if seized with an ague.

Barnwell was affected—"Whatnew sorrow, Sir," said he, "afflicts you thus?—May I be en­trusted—?"

"Sorrow!" cried Mental; give it not so soft a name! Fools, women, children, can be sorry. If it rains, if the dews of heaven wet their silks, they are sorry. If a dance is postponed, or a play deferred, or a dinner spoiled, folks are sorry. What, then, but horror is it that a man must feel, who having murdered his wife, drives his child to perdition!—My Elinor!—my daughter!"

"Have you heard any tidings of your daughter, Sir?" said Barnwell.

"Look at that miniature," said Mental. "It is the counterpart of that which you possess."

Walking three or four times up and down the [Page 110] room, which happened to be a dining parlour, and drinking a tumbler of water which stood on the side­board, he appeared, after awhile, more composed, and threw himself into a chair.

"It was my intention when you you came to re­side here, of which I was apprised, to have visited you, but a strange discovery prevented me. Saun­tering, one day, through the streets of the metropolis, my eye was attracted by a brilliant show of jewellery and trinckets in the window of a pawnbroker. Among a crowd of other articles, in one corner of the window, were three miniatures, one of which (imagine my surprise) struck me as greatly resem­bling what I had once seen. Upon a closer exami­nation, not a doubt remained of its being the coun­terpart of that which I presented you at the abbey. The villain Linmore, in our happy days, painted the two likenesses. One was my poor Elinor's, which I gave you; the other was given to the governess of my daughter, to be presented to her, and I know was presented to her, on her twelfth birthday.

"To see this miniature, then, was to see my daughter, and brought to my mind the painful re­collection of her uncertain fate. I purchased it; and then, with an earnestness that surprised the pawnbroker, requested him to relate to me all he knew concerning it.

"Barren was his intelligence, amounting mere­ly to the recollection, that it was pledged there a­bout two years ago, by a woman who lived as a ser­vant to some ladies, at that time lodging nearly op­posite, at a house that had since been pulled down.

'The woman,' he continued, 'still very often comes here; and you may, perhaps, learn some­thing further from her.'

"Day after day, forgetful of every thing else, I waited on the pawnbroker, and, in about a week, was informed the woman had been there, and had left her direction. I sought her residence—a mise­rable one it was—the abode of infamy and lewd­ness! [Page 111] O, how my heart sickened at the picture of misery and vice, wretchedness and debauchery!—and how fearfully I gazed at each countenance▪ dreading to behold among the hirelings of prostitu­tion, my poor, abandoned child!

"The woman who had pledged the miniature told a plain tale frankly, that made the blood freeze in my veins! The ladies with whom she resided, she owned, were of that description I feared—that the miniature, she believed, belonged to the one who went by the name of Ellen, who had been well brought up, and had eloped very young, from a board­ing school, with an Irish officer.

"I doubted no longer. Ellen, I persuaded my­self, was an abridgment of her own name; and I determined not to rest till I discovered her retreat, if living—her grave, if dead.

"The clue I gathered was, that, soon after the miniature was parted with, these unfortunate wo­men quarrelled and separated. Ellen went with a young nobleman to Bath, and the other Unfortunate went [...]broad.

"To Bath, the next day, I travelled post; and, by inquiries, found that the poor wretch resided there about six months, and then quitted that place for Bristol, where she opened a little shop with the wa­ges of her infamy, the nobleman having quitted her. Here she resided nearly twelve months, when having met with impositions and losses, she became invol­ved in debt, and was compelled once one to seek refuge from her creditors in the crowd of this me­tropolis, and returned to a miserable trassick of shame! O, what a year of misery have I since endured!

"Every place of amusement, every haunt of plea­sure, every mart of sham [...], I have visited, I have strolled whole nights through the streets of London, viewing each female with a dreadful curiosity; but all was in vain: 'till, about a fortnight ago, at the corner of Exeter Street, in the Strand, I met the wo­man to whom I first applied. She knew me, and accosted me—

[Page 112] 'Ah! Sir,' cried she, 'poor Ellen!'—

"I seized her by the arm—What of Ellen?—Where is she?—answer me!—shew me where she is!—exclaimed I.

'Haven't you seen her, then, Sir?—Poor thing, she wou'dn't know you now, then—She's quite delirous!'

"Take me to her this moment! said I. I fol­lowed her silently through several lanes and allies at the back of the Strand; till at length she stopped at a dirty old house, kept by a woman who sold green grocery. Feeling my way up two pair of dark stairs, I entered a miserable apartment. The walls had once been white-washed, but were now covered with smoak and dirt. A dull light was admitted through a small casement darkened by pieces of old rags stuffed in several places where the glass was broken. Not a chair, nor [...]able, was in the room; no grate, nor stove, was in the fire-place; but a few bits of wood were burning in one corner, over which an old woman, covered with rags and filth, was warming something in a pipkin.

"On the floor—On the floor! Mr. Barnwell," repeated Mental, "was a sight to agonise a heart of stone! A thin mattress only was betwixt the bare boards and a poor emaciated wretch, breathing out the last sigh of anguish and despair!

'There's poor Ellen, Sir,' said the woman who conducted me. And then addressing herself to the old woman—'Here, Mother Andrews,' said she, 'is a good gentleman come to see poor Ellen!' 'God bless him for it,' said the old woman: 'but I'm afear'd its all over. I've been warming her a little tea—its all I've got to give her.'

"All this passed during my profound silence, for I could not speak. I knelt by the poor dying object; I took her senseless hand, but in vain searched for the resemblance of my Elinor. The agonies of death had already deformed the countenance; and in a few moments, with a groan, she expired! I dropped [Page 113] a [...]ear upon the lifeless hand—the first I had [...] shed—and it greatly relieved me.

'God receive her poor soul!' said the old wo­man.

"This aroused me. 'Ill fated child! of an ill fated mother!' cried I, and embraced the senseless corpse. 'O, what a change from the blooming cherub of innocence, that I abandoned!' I sunk in agony upon the body. At length the voice of the old woman again aroused me—'Is there a Deity!—is there a Deity!' exclaimed I; 'and is this his world—and are we his creatures?—O, no, no, or these things would not be!' It was an ejaculation extorted by the keenest anguish, that ever pierced the human breast. The poor wretch gazed at me with a sort of horror—

'Ah! Sir,' cried she; 'don't talk so!—There is a God who knows what's best for us all; and if we suffer in this world, he can reward us in another!—and I am sure, poor soul, she went through enough to atone for her folly. Poor creature!—nobody knows, but them that sees, what they go through!'

"And who art thou, that hast seen so much?" said I. 'Come—sit you down;—[there was a wash­ing tub and an old box, which served for chair and table]—and, if you can, relate me the story of this poor wretch!'

'I only know'd her lately. In their best days they keep higher company. I have lived ten years in this room; and, though Ellen is the first that died here, I have 'tended many a one in sickness on that bed. But then, if they get worse, they mostly got into some hospital, or went to their parish.'

"And were there no hospital, or parish, for her?

'Why, you shall hear. Its about two-months ago, since, one very rainy night, this poor creature was brought here by one, that had formerly had half of my bed. She was that day thrust out of doors by a hard-hearted creature, who thought her­self [Page 114] an angel, truly, because she did not send the poor soul to jail, for about two and forty shillings, that she owed her.

'She was as thin as a lath! and had a cough; it made one's heart ache to hear it. The clothes up­on her back, and two shillings and a pocket-piece were all she had in the world. The girl that brought her was a tender hearted thing, and promised that, if I would let her have half of my bed, she would see me paid my groat a week regularly; and for a while sure enough she did, and brought her poor friend, now and then a raspberry tart, and a little wine. But all of a sudden she left it off, and I have never seen her since. God knows but she may now be in want herself.'

"This is Society! cried I, shaking as with an ague. 'Anan?' said the old woman, not under­standing me. She went on.

'So, then, I was obliged to break into her two shillings; one went all at once for a bottle of stuff for her cough; and soon the other was spent also. Then the poor clothes went; one thing after another. And at last she grew quite delirous.

'I had saved up about a crown, but that I know'd wou'dn't last long; and as I could do no washing for the other girls, while I tended her, there was nothing coming in; and so I was obliged to apply for an or­der for her to be moved to the workhouse, where she was to have gone this morning; but last night she changed so for the worse, I thought it cruel to move her; and as she wanted nothing but a little moisture in her mouth, I said I'd 'tend her till she was released, and then they might send for a [...]offin—.'

"No—No—cried I—I will provide what's want­ing n [...]w. Perhaps an earlier meeting might have saved her life."

She was decently interred. The good Mrs. An­drews was rewarded. Good, I call her, for what­ever in her youth she may have been, she now pos­sesses [Page 115] a heart that wills all good imaginable to her fellow creatures.

"Thus far I had acted upon the presumption of her being my child. There was little doubt upon the point, indeed; but still it was not certain: when a circumstance took place that confirmed me in doubt­ing rather than believing. I applied to the woman who so inhumanly thrust her from her house, for in­formation; but she could afford me none. There was a trunk of her's, she said, in her possession, which, upon paying what was owing, I might receive. She believed it was full of letters.

"I eagerly consented; and, upon opening the trunk, found it, as she said, full of letters. Among them was a bundle written in a neat female hand. I untied this bundle, and found the letters signed "Elinor." They are compositions of uncommon merit, as to stile and manner; but the matter, though ingenious, is highly exceptionable.

"This circumstance staggered me extremely. That the letters were wrote by my daughter, is be­yond a doubt. They had been sent under cover, and began "Dear Friend;" but no address was upon them.

"The only conjecture, then, that can reconcile the deceased's having these letters, written by her­self in her possession, is, that they have been returned from the person to whom they were written."

"It may be so," said George; "but surely it is not too much to hope, that the deceased, after all, was the friend who resided with your daughter; and that she herself may yet be living."

"Not for the wealth of worlds would I change the certainty of her death for such a torturing sus­pence. No—no—no—I will cherish the thought of having laid her in the silent grave, though it be de­lusion.

"Come with me—Come with me—I'll shew you the spot where she lies. I'll repeat to you the story of her sufferings; for, O, young man, in such a house [Page 116] as this, these lessons are not common. The riot, the mirth, the glitter of guilt alone, you behold here. Come—come to the abodes of the dying, and the graves of the dead, and learn its certain consequen­ces!" They walked out together.

CHAP. XX.

A FEW days after Mental's visit, and while the Emerys were yet at the Pavilion, Barnwell received the following letter:

Curiosity and compassion were awakened by this letter in the breast of Barnwell. Repeatedly, and distinctly, he read its contents. There was distress, yet delicacy—there was an appeal to his heart through the most fine-wrought [...]lattery.—Above all, there was praise to the memory of a father, whose shade he adored—In the warmth of his first impres­sions, he was going immediately to Berners Street; but the impropriety of such a step soon occurred. This incident occupied his entire thoughts: he formed a variety of conjectures, planned his conduct according to the supposed cases, and as speedily renounced his imaginations as absurd.

That the purport of this visit was to afford him an opportunity of displaying his generosity, seemed certain; and he began a calculation of his finances. His uncle had remitted him large sums. His ex­pences, though great, were well managed. He was a strict economist; and therefore, though his hand had been liber [...] his purse was not empty.

If, therefore, thought [...]he, a temporary assistance will avail, I shall have the satisfaction of affording it; and if, on the contrary, a more deep calamity, than my ability can disperse, claims the just notice of dis­criminating benevolence, there is my uncle, or even old Mental, who, I am sure, will thank me for the information: and surely the writer of this letter cannot be unworthy of their favour.

Such were the reflections of inexperience, and such the feelings of a benevolent and uncorrupted heart.

He wrote an answer, appointing the next morn­ing, at twelve o'clock, for the interview; and felt no inconsiderable anxiety till its arrival.

At the appointed hour he repaired to Berners Street, and was ushered into a very neat and elegant drawing room. In a few minutes a lady entered, [Page 118] in deep mourning, with a work basket in her hand. She seemed almost sinking with dissidence; and the struggles of her wounded pride appeared depicted in her countenance. George rose, and bowed res­pectfully.

"This condescension, Sir," said she, hesitating;—"the condescension of this visit, is, at the same time, the source of so much satisfaction and pain!—that I must request your pardon:—but—I really—I!—." And she sunk into her chair, and ap­plied her handkerchief to her face.

Barnwell stood mute with surprise. Instead of the female of his imagination, worn with woe, and wasted with despair—a form and [...]ace had burst upon his view, the most beautiful he had ever seen. Her figure, considerably above the middle size, was majestic, dignified, and elegant: her countenance admirably corresponded with her person. Dark hair, flowing in luxuriant ringlets on her forehead, and hanging loose on her neck, greatly heightened the effect of a most delicate complexion, still fur­ther assisted by well formed eye brows, and lips of coral hue.

Her dress was simply elegant, and displayed the beauteous symmetry of her person to advantage. Af­ter a pause of some duration—

"Pray, be seated, Sir," said she, recovering her­self;—for Barnwell, unconscious that he did so, had stood silently gazing on the form before him—"How weak are our strongest resolves!" continued she. "I had, I imagined, prepared myself for this interview; and thought myself strongly armed against all the attacks of pride: but the remembrance of what they have been, is among the last things with which the unfortunate are compelled to part."

George, extremely afflicted at her distress, attempt­ed once or twice to speak himself, but failed in the attempt. The lady continued—

"Many and powerful, were the struggles I have en­countered, ere I resolved upon soliciting this inter­view; but the character of Mr. Barnwell, so op­posite [Page 119] to the volatile and unthinking youths of fash­ion (to whom a story of distress is the source either of spleen or scorn) added to the very encouraging traits of benevolent sympathy so strongly portrayed in his countenance, at length emboldened me to take a step, I have since, more than once, repented. I have therefore, Sir, to entreat your pardon for so great a liberty; and hope you will completely erase from your memory the indiscreet request I have made."

"Madam—I—If I can—if it is in my pow­er—I shall be happy, Madam—I hope—if there is any thing that—."

Such were the incoherent words of Barnwell, in whose breast pity, which was its constant guest, now mingled its influence with a new and strange sen­sation;—so strange, so new, as to create a wild alarm not only in his countenance, but in his words and manners.

"I perceive your generous intentions; but I can­not—I ought not—to take advantage of so much good­ness!—How strongly you resemble your worthy father!"

"You know my father?"

"Yes, Sir, I knew him once—They were happy days when I knew Mr. Barnwell!—I little dreamt how severe a destiny was to succeed those joyful days. But, alas, how feeble is our hold on earthly bliss—how fleeting our joy—how unstable our hopes of happiness!—O, painful to contemplate the picture of what I have been—and view the gloomy scenes before me [...] ▪ Wealth, and friends, and hope, were then all mine. Now poverty, and enemies, and fell despair, surround me; and the worst that Fate can ordain to mortals, is my gloomy expectation!"

Barnwell had struggled to overcome his embar­rassment; and collecting himself as much as possible, he said—

"If the calamity, which has wrought so unhap­py a change, may be communicated without pain, believe me, Madam, the confidence with which you [Page 120] honour me shall be respected, by one who has ever felt for the unhappy, but who never felt so deeply as at the present moment."

"Ah, Sir!" said Milwood—and sighed—"The soothing voice of friendship," continued she, "has been so long unheard; my ear has been so used of late to the sounds of anger and defiance, that the tenderness of your expressions has the influence of music on my mind. But when you are acquainted with my story, I much fear that your language will be altered; and that, ceasing to pity my misfortunes, you will only censure my misconduct."

"Pardon me, Madam," said Barnwell. "The emotions of pity are arbitrary sensations, for the justice of which we cannot be presumed responsible; but the voice of censure ought at least to have the sanction of experience, and the motives of preven­tion. To add poignancy of reproof to the stings of conviction, betrays an unfeeling heart at all times; but most unpardonable, indeed, would it be to pour reproach into the breast that seeks, by confidence, the balm of consolation!"

"Cease, Sir! I beseech you, cease to speak thus! You are not aware how much you increase the wound you seek to heal!"

Then rising from her chair, and walking with con­siderable emotion about the room—

"I have borne oppression!" continued she; "I have suffered, with some degree of dignity, the 'stings and arrows of outrageous fortune;' but your pity, your sympathy, Mr. Barnwell, disarms me of my pur­pose, and increases the weakness I had almost sub­dued. I will hasten to relate to you my errors, that your scorn and contempt may subdue the baneful effects of your too cruel tenderness!"

"Mysterious!" exclaimed Barnwell, in a low tone of voice.

"Hear me, Sir.—My name is Milwood: my family is one of the most ancient and respectable in the county where they reside. My parents both died ere I had attained an age to be sensible of their [Page 121] loss. I was the youngest of six orphans. My eldest brother who succeeded to the title and estates of his father, was at the period of his decease, a student at Cambridge university; another brother was an en­sign in the militia of the county; and a third served as a midshipman in the navy.

"I had two sisters, who, with myself, were taken under the guardianship of my mother's brother, the Dean of—. With this gentleman we re­sided, enjoyed every advantage which his fortune or abilities could bestow. As my father died intestate, and the whole of his property was in landed estates, every branch of the family was left dependent on the discretion and generosity of my elder brother.

"Poor Edward! Thy memory shall never be in­sulted by me, however severely the consequences of the errors fall on thy unhappy sister: Suffice it, then, to observe, that the indiscretions of the youth at col­lege were made the means of enriching a few worth­less characters, who preyed upon the openness of his soul, and consigned to poverty and dependence those, who were born with far better expectations.

"The remorse he felt, that a fate so unworthy of his house should be brought upon it by himself, drove the ill-fated Edward to those wretched expe­dients, which, lulling for a moment the pangs of recollection, increase the dread of thought, and hur­ry those who seek them to a grave of shame.

"So 'twas with my poor Edward! Peace to his spirit! My other brothers are each rising to wealth and eminence in their professions. The eldest of my sisters married to the satisfaction of the Dean, and is now the happy mother of several children. My other sister died.

"Now, Sir, I am to speak of myself. From a long residence in his family, from his parental fond­ness, I had imbibed for the Dean, my uncle, all the tender feelings of a daughter. The Deanery was as my native home; and every desire that the young heart knows, was gratified as soon as known. 'Twas [Page 122] here I once was honored with the society of your father. He was an excellent man." [George bowed.] "I have no particular event to detail," continued Milwood, "till, about two years ago, when a dis­tant relation of the Dean's who had been some time upon a visit at the Deanery, did me the honor to offer me proposals of marriage. It was not the first offer I had received; but it was the first that had re­ceived the pressing recommendation of the Dean.

"I answered, however, to this proposal, as I had uniformly done to others; and candidly intimated, that I did not feel that affection, on which alone I built my hopes of happiness in the married state; and without which, it was my firm determination never to approach the altar!

"Why, then did he still pursue me? Why did he commence a persecution, that can only terminate with my existence! Or why O, my beloved uncle▪ why did the cold calculations of interest outweigh, in thy breast, the pleadings of nature!

"I must check myself.—The wealth and honors of the gentleman who was my suitor were among his inferior recommendations. Elegant in his person and manners; happy and uniform in his temper; mild and benevolent in his disposition; learned without pedantry; witty, without satire; he possessed al­most every qualification that could render him amia­ble and estimable. Yet, Sir, I felt for Lord Naresby nothing like love. I admired his accomplishments; I respected his virtues; but, alas! this state of mind is far short of love. You, perhaps, Mr. Barnwell, as well as myself, are, I presume, sensible how dif­ferent the operations of our hearts are from the cool exercises of our understandings!"

The abruptness of this appeal, and the penetra­ting look that accompanied it, overwhelmed with confusion the youth to whom it was addressed. Barn­well blushed deeply; he stammered; but his words were incoherent sounds.

Of love, as a passion, he had hitherto known no­thing [Page 123] but the name. There was, perhaps, something extremely like the beginnings of love now strug­gling for existence in his bosom; but it was a new, a strange sensation, of whose origin he was ig­norant; of whose influence he had no conception.

Milwood, whose penetration and art equalled her beauties, observed with satisfaction, with delight, the disorder of which she well knew herself the creator. Dissembling, however the joy she felt un­der the well feigned semblance of sorrow, she con­tinued her tale.

"My uncle," said she, "so warmly espoused the cause of Lord Naresby, as to descend to threats of his displeasure, if I persisted in refusing his proposals. He is naturally a humane man; but, in this instance, his anger overcame him, and his expressions were harsh and cruel. Still, Sir, I persisted in my refusal.

My brothers, were appealed to. My married sister, and her lord, were also made my judges; and with one voice they all condemned me to the cruel alternative of marrying a man, for whom I felt no preference; or of forfeiting, for ever, their protec­tion and esteem!

"The most insulting and unfeeling motives were attributed to me in rejecting so splendid and hon­ourable a proposal. I was shunned by the whole family. My walks were at first watched; at last, prohibited. I was detained a prisoner in my uncle's castle, nor ever permitted to walk beyond the boun­daries of his Park.

"As my relations increased their cruelty towards me, Lord Naresby redoubled his tenderness and at­tention; obtaining by his interest occasional liberties, and some few marks of concern from my tyrants; but, instead of gaining, by this conduct, any advance in my esteem, it sunk him beneath the former level of indifference, and I became disgusted with a man, who would consent to receive such mean advantages.

"My situation grew daily more and more into­lerable. A faithful servant, who had attended me [Page 124] for many years, was discharged, upon the pretended suspicion of aiding me in an ideal correspondence, which they said I carried on with some low born wretch, whom I had the meanness to prefer to the man of their choice.

"Alas! how much were they mistaken, if, in­deed, they imagined my heart at that time had a preference among mankind. No, Sir, not even a friend, beyond poor Mary, whom they discharged, had I in the whole world. When she was gone, they placed over me a cruel, insolent old woman, in the capacity of a servant, but with the powers of a mistress.

"Debarred the comforts of society, of reading, drawing, or any other amusement, my mind, un­shaken in its resolution, became desperate; and af­ter duly weighing all the obstacles that opposed themselves to such a step, I determined to quit, for ever, the house that had hitherto been my asylum.

"My faithful Mary found means to acquaint me, in my captivity, that, after her dismissal, she had tra­velled, at her own expence, twenty eight miles from the castle to an old lady who was my father's distant relation, but an inveterate foe to my uncle, and all my mother's relations.

"This lady, a widow, and childless, was extreme­ly rich; and though she had never seen me, such was the success of Mary's tale of my sufferings, that she commissioned her to tell me, she would receive me as her daughter, if I could escape from the castle.

I did escape; and Mary and I were received by my relation with every mark of kindness and res­pect.

"I have particular reasons for concealing, for the present, the name of this lady and her residence.

My uncle soon discovered my retreat, and wrote a letter filled with indignation at my conduct, and a formal renunciation; in which he was joined by my brothers and sisters.

"In my new situation I was, for some time, as [Page 125] happy as I could wish; till an event—But let me stop in time—If I proceed with sincerity to relate the cause of my unhappiness, I am afraid—indeed, Mr. Barnwell—I am much afraid, the loss of your esteem would be the painful consequence; and hea­ven only knows how highly I esteem your good opinion.

"Madam!"—exclaimed Barnwell.

"Aye, Sir, you may well be surprised!—My face, my voice, are new to you; but not so your's to me."

"Indeed!" said Barnwell. "Where, pray, have you then seen it?"

"No matter, Sir—since I now see it for the last time!"

"I hope not!" said Barnwell, with warmth. "Stranger as you are to me, Madam, I feel so deeply interested, so much concerned, for your welfare, that, excepting my sister and my mother, I know no person in the world I more ardently desire to serve."

"You are kind—you are very kind!" said Mil­wood.

"Can I serve you, Madam?"

"You alone, can serve me; but you will not, nay, you shall not serve me."

"You speak mysteriously, and look wild. Fear not, I beseech you, to confide to me your sorrows!—my bosom shall be their sacred repository."

"Generous—generous youth!" said Milwood; and, with a seeming unconsciousness, threw her arm upon his shoulder: then, appearing to recollect her­self, hastily withdrew it.

Every moment now increased the desire of George to be made acquainted with her distress. He gazed earnestly upon her face, endeavouring to read her sorrows in her countenance. He ventured to take her hand—

"Dear lady, let me intreat you no longer to de­lay the recital of your woes. Of whatever nature they may prove, God only grant me the power to remove them, and I shall be the happiest of all men."

[Page 126] "Your generosity of mind, your tenderness of heart, are indeed the objects of my admiration! But, alas; my calamity is of so peculiar a nature, that the most generous mind, the most susceptible heart, cannot conceive any thing that can alleviate it. Mine is a silent sorrow, that broods within my own breast. A sigh is its only expression—a tear is its only re­lief:—no tongue has proclaimed it: no ear has re­ceived its complaint. To you it desires to speak—to you alone it will ever speak; but—spare me—pardon me—leave me!"—And she wept.

How strange is her behaviour, thought Barnwell:—how wild, yet how mournful her countenance! After a pause, Milwood, recovered her former seren­ity, and continued—

"I am to blame, Sir, thus to trifle with your time. I will endeavour to conclude my dull narrative, and at all hazards venture to explain the motive of my request to see you.

"My benefactress, whose bounty was my only resource, continued to treat me with the affectionate regard of a parent; my days rolled on in comfort; and my heart knew no distress, till that event to which I before alluded. O, God! how shall I re­late it!—But it must be told.

"There resided near our dwelling a family of res­pectability, but not wealthy; they therefore did not visit our house, but we once or twice met in the neighbourhood. Of the father—of the mother—of the daughter, I shall say nothing; but of the son!—Pardon me—Indeed, I cannot proceed!"

"Wave this reluctance," cried Barnwell. "Con­fide in me, as your brother:—you shall find me as tender of your feelings, as zealous in your service, as if one womb had borne us."

"What do I hear!" cried Milwood, with quick­ness. "Is it possible! Did you say, you loved me as a brother!—Happy, happy moment!" She took his hand, and kissing it with warmth, exclaimed—"My brother—my brother!"

[Page 127] Barnwell starting from his chair, and snatching away his hand, seemed thrown into a delirium; whilst Milwood, appearing to recollect herself, hung down her head, and blushed.

"In the name of heaven, Madam, tell me, who and what you are? Finish, I beseech you, this mys­terious tale, and quickly, that I may, if possible, serve you; or if not, may instantly escape a presence that creates emotions of pain and pleasure, too pow­erful to be long endured!"

"I entreat your forgiveness," cried Milwood. "But go, Sir—go—ere you know the misery you have occasioned—the storm of ruin that you have raised—Go ignorant of my wretchedness, which to know, would perhaps excite a painful pity in your breast, but no relief to me!—Since to behold me is so painful—"

"I did not say so!" cried Barnwell "or if I did—"

"I see," said Milwood, "we are both too much agitated. Your surprise, and perhaps your pity, have overpowered you; whilst I—I am the prey of feelings which rack my bosom with torture inex­pressible!"

"'Tis suspense alone that tortures me," cried Barnwell. "Your manner—your mysterious words—and the wildness of your eyes, make me dread a something, which I fear—yet ask—to know!—You speak of a youth who resided near you—You talk of ruin, of misery, of which I am the au­thor—You request to see me—You desire me to leave you, as ignorant as I came!—Whence spring such inconsistencies?"

"From a source you have never dreamt of," said Milwood, with firmness;—"from Love!"—

Her countenance was now altered from the pic­ture of contending influence, to a portrait of deter­mination! Her eyes were fixed firmly on Barnwell:—she remained silently gazing on his face a con­siderable time. Barnwell himself was dumb.

"'Tis over!" at length cried Milwood: "I have [Page 128] conquered!—The youth to whom I alluded, is—George Barnwell!—Yes!—he it is, whom Fate has ordained my destruction! For him, I quit my friends, my country—For him, I forfeit affluence, and embrace the horrors of poverty, in a foreign and distant clime!—Was it, then, too much to ask the favour of one hour's interview, merely to declare how ardently I love, and how largely I sacrifice to an hopeless passion!

"O Nature!—can I thank thee for the liberal share of personal attractions thy hand has given me, since they have but served to heap upon my head the persecutions of a train that I cannot help despising, while on that heart alone, which I esteem, their in­fluence is too weak to impress even a cold regard!"

Barnwell was lost in wonder! after various at­tempts—"I do not remember ever to have seen you before!" said he.

"I can too easily believe you, Sir."

"And yet, I think, if ever I had beheld such a countenance as your's, surely, Madam, I could not have forgotten its interesting traits!"

"Nay, Sir," cried Milwood, I must not hear you, if your voice assumes that strain. Do not imagine Sir, my declaration meant to claim your pity! No,—my resolution is fixed as firmly as the decrees of Fate. One moment longer let me detain your ear and then, farewell for ever!—Briefly, then—the same persecutions, though from different quarters, rendered the abode of my benefactress as miserable as my uncle's, with this addition of wretchedness—that in the latter, my heart was wholly disengaged; in the former, your image, your worth, barred all avenues to affection for another.

"The object so dear to me was unknown to my benefactress—to all the world—but myself. My refusals were therefore deemed obstinacy; my per­severance became rebellion; and I was at length driven to the dreadful alternative of quitting, for ever, the refuge I had obtained, or to approach the solemn altar, and vow fidelity with my lips, whilst my heart would be adulterous for ever.

[Page 129] "Such was the choice held out for my adoption: and could I hesitate? No, not for a moment! I waited not to be driven from a home—Voluntarily I departed.—I have remained some time in the me­tropolis—I determined to see you;—and now will for ever quit the country that gave birth to my ex­istence and my woes!—I will seek in some corner of a distant land, that grave, which can alone restore peace to my heart, by an oblivion of you!"

She ceased. Barnwell, who had risen from his chair, and was walking about the room, was deeply in­volved in thought, combatting one suggestion of his fancy after another, till his head became giddy.—He threw himself on a sofa, and leaned his head on his arm. Milwood with the tenderest expressions of concern, took his hand, and pressed it warmly.

"If I have given you pain—if I have relieved my own breast, at the expence of a moment's uneasiness, to you—what a source of eternal regret! Or, if I have rendered myself odious, by a declaration which custom condemns, and have erected a monument of scorn in that remembrance, where I sought to de­posite the pearl of pity—O, how miserable has my folly made me! Say then, only, that you do not des­pise me—that you do not abhor me—and I will never—never—trouble your quiet more!"

"His heart must be differently moulded from mine," said George, "that can despise, or abhor you, Madam. Your confession has so much in­fluence on mine, I would say more—but, at present, let me, at least, entreat you not to quit this place, till I have been favoured with another interview. I have a mother—I have—"

"Hear me on my knees, Mr. Barnwell," inter­rupted Milwood; "if you do not wish to drive me to the most awful crime our nature can commit, grant me my request:—silence, silence, eternal silence to my story. There is not a calamity in life I should so hardly bear, as the discovery of my imprudence! Then swear to me—nay, I will not quit this posture [Page 130] till you do swear to me, that you will not, to your dearest friend, utter a breath, that may betray me!"

"Good God, what do you ask!" cried Barnwell, "In the most trying situation of my life, would you deprive my inexperience of their superior council, who love me, and have wisdom to direct me?"

"What council can you want—what is there to determine?" cried Milwood. "By to-morrow's setting sun, I shall be the ocean's charge. All that you have heard will then be only as a vision, that may occasionally ask a sigh; whilst it reminds you, that there is one in the universe, on whom the night will never steal, or the dawn break, without a pray­er to nature's Author for your heart's peace! Why, then, should you wish to make her errors tales of common tattle, or give her conduct to the examina­tion of beings, who have not her feelings? Will you deny me this oath then?"

"Rise! I beseech you, rise!"

"Not till I have received your solemn promise!"

George hesitated some min [...]tes; during which time, she held his hand betwixt both her own, and leant her warm cheek upon it.

"Will you, then, promise me," said Barnwell, to remain here till to-morrow?"

"By no means!"

"Will you permit me an interview this even­ing?"

"For what purpose, Mr. Barnwell?"

"Nay, I know not!" cried Barnwell; "but my heart tells me—that I am to blame. I would pre­vent the necessity of your leaving England."

"Necessity!" interrupted Milwood. "'Tis my choice!"

"But if—if—" cried Barnwell; and his breath grew short. "Why—why do you wish to restrain me from consulting my friends? I have an important, very important, point to decide; and I dare not trust my feelings with the decision."

"I understand the insult now!" cried Milwood, [Page 131] rising, scornfully. "You would insinuate, that, if your relations can find no just objection to my cha­racter, and fortune, you might condescend to pity me, and perhaps, if, and supposing so and so, you would then offer me a love, not the offspring of my creation, but a condescending acceptance of overtures, you may imagine I have made to you! I had conceived your heart a different composition, Mr. Barnwell; or mine would never have been known to you."

"You judge wrong, Madam, I assure you! Your candor, your noble mindedness, have impressed me with reverence, not contempt; and if this new sen­sation in my bosom be not—But, spare me only for a few hours—Permit me to see you in the eve­ning—and if, then, you require the oath, I will most solemnly take it; and till then not a whisper shall escape my lips concerning you."

After a pause—"I cannot see the necessity for this, Mr. Barnwell. Why should we meet again? Why not immediately separate for ever! But—" pausing again—"since your request is otherwise—be it so, Sir. I shall expect you in the evening; till then, farewell!"

"Adieu, Madam," cried George, and with trem­bling feet retired.

CHAP. XXI.

IN the most profound reverie Barnwell passed the distance betwixt Berners Street and Mr. Emerys'. The crowd that surrounded him, the bustle of car­riages, were insufficient to arouse him from a sort of stupor into which he had fallen.

When he arrived at home, he rushed through the [Page 132] hall, and hurrying to his own room, threw himself into a chair—"Milwood!—Milwood!" mutter­ed he; 'I never heard the name; I have no recol­lection of the face before to-day.—O, what an im­portant day! Those looks!—that form!—never will my memory lose the impression!"

He sighed deeply, and painfully.—"Love me!—Yes, she loves me! She owns it: nay, her beha­viour declares it more powerfully than her words! What a wond'rous effect has she wrought upon me! What means this swelling of the heart this quick­ness of the pulse—this difficulty of respiration? Can I imbibe a partiality so instantaneously? Are our na­tures, indeed, so susceptible?—Surely, it cannot be! 'Tis pity for Milwood—for her sufferings—that pains me thus. Then let me soften them as much as pos­sible—let me send her in writing the oath she requires, and spare her the pain of another interview! and yet—never to see her again!—Why do I feel a dread at that thought? Suppose she should be alrea­dy gone? Forbid it heaven! Once more—once more, let me behold a form so lovely! What brilliant expression in her eyes!—what sense! what anima­tion in her countenance!—How happily might I pass my life with such a woman! But then her situ­ation—my own too! Madness alone can suggest such a thought. She is proud—I dare not offer her pe­cuniary aid. Where can she go? What part of the globe does she seek? Unhappy Milwood! Would I had never seen you!—Would to God I had never seen you!"

Such were the meditations of Barnwell—Mil­wood absorbed all his thoughts, while her beauteous [...]orm floated in air before his imagination! Never, till this day, had his imagination been heated by the charms of woman!

I [...] Maria Freeman he beheld an amiable compan­ion, whose modesty and beauty mingled won the esteem of his heart, and the approbation of his un­derstanding; but in Milwood he saw a far different female.

[Page 133] This woman was beautiful in the extreme. Na­ture had, indeed been liberal of her gifts, and educa­tion had increased the value of her bounty. Milwood had once possessed every thing desirable in the female character; for she once possessed virtue and inno­cence. But she parted with innocence, and in its stead had admitted, as the guest of her heart, the most accomplished cunning.

At an early period of her life she had surrendered all claim to chastity, and had since then submitted to that miserable traffic, which is the most severe libel on civilized society.

Too aspiring to herd with the unhappy class to which she had reduced herself, her strong and tow­ering mind was perpetually busied upon schemes more valuable to herself, and far loftier in the scale of wickedness than the generality of those unfortu­nate beings, whose daily infamy is their daily bread!

In her own fall, she was the dupe of a professed rake; and her own schemes upon the tranquility of others were all infused with a large portion of re­venge. Man at large she deemed her enemy; and the talents, and the charms she possessed, she consid­ered as the weapons of revenge.

Unlike many a sighing wretch, whom severe dis­tress urges to compunctive acts of shame, Milwood was systematically vicious. The present world bounded her views of futurity, and the struggles of the present scene ended, in her imagination, the drama of existence!

Thus, no principles of a religious nature swayed her thoughts, no checks of conscience ever intervened betwixt the inclination and the deed: Pity, and all the tender sensibilities which many natures feel, were her inward derision; but their semblance was per­fectly at her command.

Such was Milwood! Such was she, for whom Barnwell, at first sight, had unconsciously imbibed the most powerful love!

She had never once seen his father, or any of his [Page 134] relations; nor had ever beheld Barnwell himself, till his arrival at Mr. Emery's. Having learnt the very great confidence reposed in him, the large sums en­trusted to his care, she was not long in arranging a method to ensnare him within her power. For this purpose, she had spared no pains to obtain the intel­ligence she had gained concerning his family, and had feigned the story she had related to him, and which containad not one syllable of truth.

Her sentiments, her tone of voice, her gestures, were studied for the occasion; and she was guided, from moment to moment in the plan she would pur­sue, by the effect which her penetration discovered she had wrought on her victim.—Thus artfully had she prepared the ground-work of her plot; and had thus far succeeded to the extent of her wishes.

The interim, betwixt his departure and the hour at which she expected his return, was anxiously spent by Milwood; and she repented, more than once, that she had suffered him to leave her: a step to which she had consented, chiefly to carry on appearances, and from a persuasion, in which she was not mistaken, of her power over him.

Meanwhile he, for whom her machinations were devised, was planning the means of rendering her happy. Many and various were the resolutions he formed, but all unstable. His heart had admitted a spark, which his reason was too impotent to extin­guish, and which was rising rapidly into a flame, of whose influence he was ignorant, but whose warmth he began to discover.

If the imagination of Barnwell was already wro't to a dangerous warmth, the next reception he met with in Berners Street was well calculated to increase it.

On a crimson damask sofa, placed under a brilliant mirror, illuminated by wax lights, reclined the Syren Milwood.—A most elegant white dress had superse­ded the sable weeds of the morning; with a Turkish turban, ornamented with gold cords and tassels. The [Page 135] solemn air of dignified sorrow was exchanged for the most fascinating smiles; and instead of the reserved and bashful demeanour, Barnwell had prepared him­self to meet, he was thrown off his guard by the most alluring glances.

She did not rise when he entered the room, but holding out a most beautiful arm, encircled at the wrist with a brilliant bracelet—

"Mr. Barnwell!" said she, with an enchanting softness.

George approached in the most profound aston­ishment, and received her offered hand.

"Am I not a strange creature!" continued she. "My trappings of woe, you see, are soon thrown off. But, in truth, I did not think it consistent with the pleasure I expected, in your society, to wear the sem­blance of sorrow!"

George was petrified with amazement, and doubt­ed, for a moment, whether the woman of sentiment he had seen in the morning, and the wanton form now before him, were the same. As she still held his hand in her's, she fixed her sparkling eyes full on his face—

"You have an uncommon countenance!" said she. "You are very severe—and yet have great sen­sibility. You are a compound of the stern and the tender: I scarcely know which preponderates in your nature. You do not lack courage, or fortitude; at the same time you will weep at a tale of misery, and the unfortunate are sure of your sympathy. Is it not so? I have studied Lavater. Now, let me try if I am mistaken. Place that harp nearer me, and I'll sing you a ditty about a poor simple maid—'who never told her love, but let concealment,' as the poet says—and so on—Now be silent!"

It is difficult to convey an idea of Barnwell's situa­tion at the present moment. The feelings with which he had entered the room were changed so suddenly, it seemed the work of inchantment. Pity for the sorrows of Milwood was absolutely forgotten in the bewildered admiration of her charms; and the [Page 136] determination of his reason, as to the steps he should pursue, was lost in the delightful and intoxicating dream of the existing moment.

He placed the harp—and Milwood, changing her features from the wanton to the languishing, gave him the manuscript to hold, while she sung and ac­companied a simply pleasing ballad with exquisite taste and melody. The expression of her eyes was perfectly in unison with the words; and her voice uttered the sweetest sounds!—It was a pathetic story, and affected Barnwell extremely.

"There," cried she, "I knew you would weep—at a fiction too! And will not real sufferings," con­tinued she, in a tender voice, "at least as much af­fect you!—Ah! Mr Barnwell—to me only you are insensible! My abrupt sincerity has made me the object of your scorn!—Yes, cruel and in­sensible, you return the most glowing affection with the coldest disdain!"

"Disdain!—O, no!" said Barnwell:—"say, rather, admiration and esteem! Where is the being, who could gaze on such charms, and disdain their pos­sessor? How must the heart be formed, that can remain insensible to so much beauty!"

"There are hearts, I fear," said Milwood, "round which the [...]cy hand of worldly prudence forms a cir­cle, that freezes every passion of the soul. There are beings, who can love according to a scale of rea­son, and model their affections by a standard! But I do not—cannot—think so young a heart as your's—"

"Our Reason," interrupted Barnwell, "should regulate, not destroy our passions!"

"Charming philosophy!" cried Milwood, with a satirical smile. "And where did you learn that maxim? I should suppose some ponderous folio so says. But have books hearts? No, no, Mr. Barn­well. Ask those who wrote the senseless lies, what is this Reason, that is so omnipotent? Where is it to be seen—or who possesses it?"

"Astonishing!" said Barnwell. "Do you, then deny the existence of Reason?"

[Page 137] "Yes, such Reason as the black letter gentlemen depict. Can Reason quench the thirst, or satiate the appetite of hunger?—Ah! no—no! And is the strongest impulse of our natures to be so easily swayed by Reason then? Why have we passions—merely to torment us! O, infamous libel on the Author of our existence, who has given his creatures all things to enjoy.—Well sings the poet—To enjoy is [...]o obey!"

The air, the doctrine of Milwood now roused, for the first moment, a suspicion in his mind of her in­tentions, which startled Barnwell. He sunk into a profound reverie, his eyes cast on the floor.—Mil­wood observed it, and saw the struggle that was ri­sing in his breast. Perfect mistress of her art, she was aware how imperceptibly her bold advances had stolen into his heart, and with a cunning caution re­strained her efforts, and changed her operations.

Instead of attempting to continue an argument, at which she well knew he revolted, she touched the strings of the harp, and raised an inchantment of mel­ody: from the slowest and the softest, to the most brisk and lively measures, her fingers swept the trem­bling chords. The effect on Barnwell was instan­taneous. In vain did the enamoured youth aim to repress the rising flame—in vain attempted to resist the maddening impulse of desire!—On the precipice of danger, he was ignorant of his situation. His cheeks flushed, his eyes looked wild, and he fell back on the sofa, overcome with the force of such new and powerful emotions.

The syren saw her time. She struck the harp again, and—

She sighed—she gazed with looks of warmest love—she seemed to yield her soul to her desires—sunk by the side of Barnwell—reclined her head upon his cheek—pressed the warm lips to his, and con­quered.

CHAP. XXII.

"NOT at home all night!" exclaimed Mental, in the hall at Mr. Emery's—"not at home all night!" repeated he.

Whilst he was speaking, Barnwell knocked at the door. At the sight of Mental he started back, and hung down his head. His hair was undressed, his eyes were read and swelled, and his whole appear­ance proclaimed the revelry in which the night had passed.

Mental surveyed him leisurely from head to foot; during which time Barnwell recovered from his sur­prise, and invited him into a parlour.

"Having a few hours of leisure this morning," said Mental, throwing himself into a chair, and lean­ing on an oaken staff, "I came to have some con­versation with you. I am sorry that my visit is so ill rimed. I really had no intention of breaking in up­on your hours of rest; but my vulgar ideas had not associated going to bed with the sun in the meri­dian."

"You are satirical," said George, endeavouring [...]o force a smile.

"You are hypocritical," replied Mental.—

"Sir!" exclaimed Barnwell.

"He who attempts to put a simper on his coun­tenance whilst his heart aches with remorse, is a hypocrite!" said Mental.

Barnwell's cheek glowed with the blush of shame.

"Young man," continued Mental, "accident has brought us acquainted with each other. I love you, sincerely love you. I have wealth—I have no [Page 139] one to inherit it. The grave has covered those, who were mine: You know my history—you know my heart—I ask, in return, your's—Give it me—Let me know its emotions—its trials! Tear from it with noble indignation, the veil that would conceal it. I know it is human—I know it cannot be per­fect. O, let me at least receive from a life of pain­ful experience, the rewarding pleasure of being use­ful to you. I know, by your countenance, that you have committed some act, which reflection condemns as indiscreet—perhaps vicious. Tell me, sincerely, where have you spent the night—in whose society—in what pursuit?"

"Spare me—spare!" cried Barnwell.—"I have fallen sufficiently in my own esteem—Let me not for­feit your's!"

"You, Mr. Barnwell, who possess faculties of no common magnitude, cannot have [...]o far descended from the dignity of a human creature, as to have surrendered the distinguishing powers of intellect to the grovelling pleasures of the bottle?—You have not, I am sure, devoted a whole night to inebriety!"

"No—no, indeed, I have not."

"Nor can I, for a moment suppose you have yet sunk into the despicable character of a gamester!"

"Never—never," cried Barnwell, with warmth, "shall you have to upbraid me with so mean a vice!"

"There is but one conjecture more, then," said Mental, with peculiarly satirical expression:—"but that would scarcely make you sad! Besides, at your age—in this hot-bed of the passions, London—I pre­sume chastity has long been relinquished, as a vir­tue unsuited to the times in which you live;—an incumbrance, indeed, which young men of fashion must not be suspected of retaining.—Long ere last night, therefore—"

"Forbear, I beseech you, Sir!" said Barnwell; "you strike a painful chord!—'Till last night I had not to upbraid myself with a crime, beyond all others base—seduction!"—

[Page 140] "Hold—hold—hold!—if you would not have me curse you!" cried Mental.—"Do you not re­member," continued he, clasping his hands together, "that I once possessed an angel, till Seduction tore her from my arms!—that I had once a daughter!—that I abandoned her; and that she, too, was seduced!—driven to infamy!—to death! And can you con­fess yourself a Seducer! O, how often have I invok­ed eternal vengeance on the deliberate betrayer of confiding innocence!—Recal the odious charge, or you will become more loathsome to my sight than leprosy. But it is impossible! You a Seducer! It cannot be. The deliberate Seducer must be a be­ing—allied to natures differing from human. His heart must be a salamander's bed; his head the cool repository of design and artifice. The passions that rob other men of prudence, increase his cunning, and render him the agent of the deepest villainy! Such you cannot be!—But you are agitated—I speak too warmly—My feelings must excuse for me."

Changing his voice and manner into the softest and most gentle, he ceased not his importunities till he had obtained from Barnwell a relation of all that had passed betwixt himself and Milwood.

When he had heard the whole narrative—"'Tis a strange tale!" cried he: "a very strange story! But as you relate it, you charge yourself with too large a share of blame. I have strong doubts of this Milwood."

"O, Sir, you have not seen her—or her counte­nance would prevent such undeserved suspicion."

"You have promised to see her again, of course," said Mental.

"See her again!" echoed Barnwell:—"what tortures would be severe enou [...] for the wretch who could abandon her!"

"Do you mean to marry her, then?" said Mental.

Barnwell started at the question.

[Page 141] "Your uncle Sir James, your mother, your sister, perhaps will scruple to receive into their family a relation of so mysterious a character!"

"You have taken me by surprise, Sir," said Barnwell: "I have as yet determined upon nothing. My mind has not yet recovered from the emotions that have so powerfully agitated it. I thank you sincerely for your generous concern; but I want reflection—I want to be alone!"

"I will leave you, then, to yourself awhile; but I will not relinquish my claim to your confidence. Thus far you have acted openly, and worthy of your­self:—but, if I am not deceived, it is but the com­mencement of a struggle, in which you are at pre­sent victor. Adieu, youth, adieu!" and abruptly he departed.

Barnwell immediately retired to his chamber, and threw himself upon the bed. Overcome with want of sleep and anxiety of mind, he fell into a slumber; but even in his sleep Milwood haunted his imagina­tion. He dreamt—'that he was sitting in the little temple dedicated to Retirement, in his father's gar­den, and that, from a window, he beheld a wide ex­panse of ground. His mother and Eliza were sit­ting near him, and he was reading to them Spence's Judgment of Hercules. After he had recited the poem, as he reclined his head on his arm, and mus­ed upon the view before him, two female forms ap­peared, at a distance, resembling in every respect those described by the poet—

'As they drew nearer, a voice which seemed to descend from above, proclaimed, that the trial was at hand which was to determine his future doom; and that his happiness or misery depended upon the choice of the present moment. The females contin­ued to advance, and he now beheld their counte­nances [Page 142] distinctly, and immediately recognised two well known faces—those of Maria Freeman, and the syren Milwood. The former supported on one arm a bee-hive, on the top of which, linked by a golden chain, perched two turtle doves: her other arm re­clined upon a pedestal of white marble, on which was inscribed—"LOVE born of ESTEEM, and cher­ished by CONSTANCY:—PLEASURES the produce of INDUSTRY!"

'He was on the point of kneeling before the lovely vision, when the other female stepped gaily on, and placed herself before the pedestal. Arrayed in a robe,

'Her right hand held a chalice, into which drop­ped, unpressed from a cluster of grapes suspended by her left, the intoxicating juice. Light as the mo­tion of the air she danced awhile, and then, with graceful agility, sprung on a pedestal of ruby, on which, inscribed in golden letters, were the words—"LOVE, free as air!—PLEASURES stolen from other's TOILS!"

'He quitted his mother and sister, and descended into the plain. As he stood wavering before these forms, his soul, now swelled to virtuous atchieve­ments, by the majestic look and inspiring language of the one;—now sinking into wanton ease, be­neath the alluring glances and the syren songs of the other. A chorus, in sound like that which fills the vaults of heaven, from golden harps and angels voices, struck his enamoured ear—

[Page 143] 'As this chorus was singing, the female, who re­sembled Milwood, scoffed by her smiles and gestures the warning voice, and in derision flourished her cluster of grapes in the air; whilst the form that bore the countenance of Maria, raised her fine blue eyes in calm and tranquil contemplation. He turn­ed his attention now wholly on the latter; and the more he gazed, the more lovely she seemed.—He was approaching respectfully to take her hand, when the Wanton descended from the pedestal, and again intercepted▪ him. She danced before him, and threw herself into the most captivating attitudes—at intervals kneeling before him, and earnestly entreat­ing him to accept the chalice, which she held in her hand.

'As his mind wavered, and his eyes roved from one form to the other, he reflected on the chorus, and was spurning the importunate Wanton, when another chorus arrested his attention. It ascended as from a vault beneath his feet, and was preceded by loud peals of laughter. It was accompanied by music, but of a different nature from the former: the notes were brisker, and louder, but wanted har­mony and sweetness. He listened, however, and this was the strain—

'Whilst he listened to this song, the syren had wove her arms around his neck, and placed the cha­lice to his lips. He tasted the intoxicating draught! [Page 144] —At that moment the shrouded shade of his fa­ther approached solemnly from the temple, with his mother and Eliza in either hand.—As they pas­sed him, they looked on him with a countenance of deep felt pity, and walked on towards the pedestal where the semblance of Maria still remained; but her appearance was changed: the emblems she had held were vanished, and she looked pale as a spec­tre. As soon as the group reached her, the pedestal became changed into a sepulchre, which inclosed within its womb his father, his mother, and Maria, whilst Eliza stood weeping over the tomb as it sunk.

'He trembled, and exclaimed in agony—"O, Beauty, what a sacrifice have I made to thy charms!—Too powerful Beauty, what hast thou done!" As he spoke these words, he turned round to Milwood, whom he thought he addressed, and found he was clasping a skeleton, which grinned horribly at his surprize;—and striking him with a lifted dart, occasioned him so severe a pain at his heart, that he awoke in inexpressible horror.'

"Merciful Heaven, what a dream!" exclaimed he.—"My mother!—My sister!—my sainted fa­ther, too!—O, God! how sadly did they gaze up­on me!—What can such a vision portend? Surely, I am upon the brink of some dreadful pre­cipice! Milwood!—Milwood!—shall I ever have cause to curse the day we met!—Already have the guilty pleasures I have—yet, why guilty? Can a form of words be of so much import? No, surely! Our hearts are united, and our vows are registered in heaven! Why then do I feel as if I had committed a crime? Why does my heart deny me its wonted approbation? Why am I tormented with such phan­tasies? If our passions have been strong, still they are not impure!—nor, on my part, shall they be ever so. To one only object have they yielded—and the same pure affection shall controul them ever! Yes, Milwood, enveloped as thou now art in mystery, I [Page 145] will soon rend the veil from thy character, and pre­sent thee, deserving as thou must be, to those that will love thee for the sake of thy, Barnwell. Haste, then away, ye intervening hours! and let the moment come, that shall for ever ease my breast of anxious doubt!"

Such was the state of mind in which Barnwell passed the remainder of the day. He anxiously look­ed forward to the hour they had appointed to meet, and, pleading indisposition, remained in his chamber, musing on the prospect before him, and endeavour­ing to mark out a suitable course to pursue.

CHAP. XXIII.

ABOUT an hour before the time appointed for Barnwell to be in Berners Street, the following let­ter was delivered to him:—

Thunderstruck at such an unexpected proceed­ing, Barnwell was for some time incapable of deci­ding what steps to take. While he hesitated, Mental entered the room—He still held the letter in his hand—

"You are engaged?" said Mental.

"No, Sir—Yes, Sir—that is—I—"

"Well, Sir," cried Mental, "I'll not intrude. I may, perhaps, bring stale news too. I have in­quired twice, to-day, in Berners Street. At first the lady was not visible; the second time, I learned that she had taken post horses, and left town. You may possibly know the route."

"No, Sir—Yes, Sir—" cried Barnwell, again hesitating

"Ah!" said Mental—"how difficult does na­ture find the winding paths of mean dissimulation! If you would retain your peace of mind—O, youth, retain sincerity!—And remember, that shame or danger will prove as unwelcome at the end of a maze, as if boldly met at their first appearance!"

Ere Barnwell could reply, Mental took his hand affectionately—"One caution let me impress upon your memory, and I am gone—Make no promises of secresy!—Farewell."

Barnwell, had not the power, nor indeed, just then, the inclination, to detain him; and he re­tired.

"He has called twice in Berners Street!" said Barnwell, after his departure. "Perhaps, then, Milwood may have imagined his inquiries to be her [Page 147] uncle's. But why that caution as to promises of secresy? Surely Milwood—But whilst I am arguing, she spends the moments in anxious expec­tation!"

He rushed towards the door, and desired the man who waited, to conduct him to Milwood.—Immediate­ly they met, she ran to him apparently in the greatest distress of mind, and hiding her face in his bosom—"O, hide me—hide me, my dear Barnwell, from my pursuers!"

"Dispel these fears, Madam!" said Barnwell.—"Your alarms may be groundless—'Tis possible you may have mistaken the description of another per­son for your uncle."

"O, no!" cried Milwood—"I have [...]een him. He pursues me, and will tear me for ever from these loved arms!—O, how cruel—how peculiarly cruel is my destiny! Perhaps already he has traced my chaise to this very door, and will soon be here. Let us quit the house!"

Barnwell, alarmed and greatly concerned for her distress, thought of nothing at the moment but re­lieving it. "Where will you be safe?" exclaimed he.

"Alas! I know not!—But let us this moment quit this place—My trunks may be left here for the present—Come, come!"

She hurried on her cloak, and leaning on his arm, walked towards the door.—They had walked a con­siderable distance from the house ere Barnwell had sufficiently recovered from the surprise her conduct had occasioned.

"I am faint!" cried Milwood. This aroused him; and being near the coach stand at Hyde Park Gate, he called a hackney coach. When they were seated—"Where am I to drive, your honour?" said the man.

Milwood leaning her head against the side of the coach, remained silent—Barnwell knew not how to answer. After a considerable pause—"The case is [Page 148] this," said Barnwell; "this lady is just arrived in town, and we want lodgings—Drive slowly along the Brompton road, and if you observe an advertise­ment at any door, stop there."

The coachman obeyed—They stopped at a house kept by a widow, and Barnwell hired the lodging at the rate of two guineas a week. Milwood, thus placed in a safe retreat, as she pretended, from her uncle, gradually reassumed her serenity of countenance, and expressed her gratitude to Barnwell in the warmest language, and by the most seducing endearments.

CHAP. XXIV.

THE pretended fears of Milwood, so admirably played, completely answered the purpose for which she had assumed them. Her penetration had easily discovered that Barnwell's mind, if time was allow­ed him for reflection, would too scrupulously ex­amine the question of propriety. She therefore artfully resolved to take him by surprise.

The apartments in Berners Street she had taken for the express purpose of their first interview, where she had resided but a few days, and had actually dischar­ged them in the manner she had related. The story of her uncle's pursuit was entirely a fiction. Her present aim was to obtain an habitation at the expence of Barnwell; and this, it is seen, she accomplished.

Having thus far succeeded, a pause in her opera­tions was necessary. She now, therefore, dallied with the unfortunate youth, who was the victim of her arts, and evaded all his inquiries as to her future designs. When an air of sadness marked his features, she would sing—when he hinted his wish that they were married, she sighed deeply, turned her head away from him, and talked on some different subject; [Page 149] when he spoke of his friends, she affected the extre­mest agitation; wept (for she could weep at will,) and implored him, as he valued her life, to retain their connection an inviolable secret, for at least some time to come.

Barnwell started, as the caution of Mental, 'never to promise secresy,' rushed across his memory.—"Why, why should there be secresy?" he exclaimed.

"Our fates have rendered it most necessary," she answered.—"Ah! Barnwell, you know not yet all the perplexities that rack this heart. Pardon the mysterious veil that for a moment conceals it, and confide in the assurance, that it is wholly and for­ever your's. 'Twere to be wished, that we—yes, we (for I will not affect to throw the guilt whol­ly on you) had not yielded to the too powerful im­pulse of our passions!—But, who can recal the past? How useless, then, it is to repine! Let us, my dear Barnwell, rather conquer, then submit to our fate, and employ ourselves in a prudent anticipation of the future, in preference to a gloomy retrospect of the past!"

Such were the blandishments with which the syren soothed the regrets of Barnwell, and such the arts by which she bound him in unfelt setters.

At his return home, the following morning, he sound a packet of dispatches from his uncle's. Soon as he saw the well known writing, his heart smote him.

For some days previous to the unfortunate meet­ing with Milwood, accident had prevented his wri­ting to his sister, with whom he had hitherto regu­larly corresponded, since his arrival in London; and the events which had occurred since then were such as he felt no inclination to relate. With the just ap­prehensions of reproof, therefore, he broke the seals, and read the following letters.

These letters, the simple genuine effusions of af­fectionate hearts, were perused by Barnwell with mingled sensations of pleasure and pain. When he compared the last of them with his situation with re­spect to Milwood, he shuddered.—

"What steps shall I pursue?" said the distracted youth. "They charge me with silence—How shall I ever write again!—I have pledged myself to Mil­wood—I have sworn to be secret. If I write, there­fore, [Page 152] I must conceal from them my perplexities—I must disguise my feelings—I must invent occurrences to account for my time.—Dreadful situation! And who can foresee its duration? How long may the too lovely Milwood envelope herself in this impenetrable veil of mystery!

"I have incurred a certain expence in a provision for her—perhaps too far—Oh, God! what a pre­cipice am I descending! There is no possible way of sustaining my ground, but by a timely disclosure of my errors—and from that I am prevented by a rash oath! Long this secrecy cannot last. Liberal as my uncle is, his generosity cannot equal wants of which he never dreams. Why did I make so rash a promise! Why should she exact it!—So contrary to my na­ture, to my practise too!—I hate, I abhor secresy! 'Tis but another name for deception! I will fly in­stantly, and retract my engagement. I will convince her how necessary it is that our marriage should im­mediately take place, and be declared;—then, even if the anger of my benefactor should overpower his ten­derness and affection, I have the world before me—Industry shall supply the necessities of nature; and the sweet reward of sincerity, my heart's approbation, shall make ample amends for the luxuries I lose. But to continue the mean paths of dissimulation—to start at every noise—to tremble at every glance—existing under the uplifted rod of Fear, is worse, much worse, than any evil which can result from an opposite con­duct. This is the voice of prudence, of interest—and is in unison with the lessons of morality, and the precepts of religion.—I will obey it instantly."

Such were the inward musings of Barnwell; such was the noble resolution of his heart. As he was completely master of his own time in Mr. Emery's absence, he answered some letters received that morn­ing from Buxton, and went immediately to Brompton.

CHAP. I.

"THIS is an unexpected pleasure, indeed, my Barnwell," said [...], as she received him with a well-feign [...] of satisfaction, though she would gladly [...] with his presence; "how much I owe you for this endearing atten­tion!"

"Hold!" cried Barnwell, seriously;—"be first certain that my visit is volunteered!"

"By so grave an address, you terrify me!" cried she, pretending excessive alarm. "Tell me, my dear Barnwell, why are you so serious? Where are those smiles that have gained such a triumph?"

"They are [...], I hope, only for a time," said Barnwell. "It is in your power to recal them."

"O, say by what means?"

"Give me back my oath of secresy, for I cannot be secret—it is contrary to my nature, and my heart will be never at ease till my countenance is at lib­erty."

[Page 154] "Absurd!" said Milwood, with a smile half satire▪ half scorn. "Are mankind, then, to walk the paths of society with transparent breasts? Are we to give the world the clue of all our actions? Secrecy, my Barnwell, is a virtue of the first class in the present system of things; and the being is as mad, who throws it aside, as he who rushes with a naked breast upon an hostile spear! You are too unacquainted with a tricking world, my Barnwell. When you shall know its wiles, how will you laugh at your present childish notions!"

"Then may I never know them! I cannot, and I will not be a hypocrite!"

Barnwell spoke this with so much earnestness, that Milwood trembled for its consequences. Turning her powers, therefore, against this rising strength of resolution, which alarmed her, she burst into tears, and throwing herself into a chair—

"Go, then, proud youth; proclaim, through the wide circle of your friends, the triumph you have gained; display the spoil your conquering charms have won; exhibit my disgraoe; summon to my ears the songs of Scorn; and give to foul-mouthed Calumny the prey that you despise!"

"How wildly you talk, Madam!" cried Barnwell, still struggling to resist the tender influence he felt.

"Madam!" echoed Milwood—"Madam!"

"Pardon me—my—what name—what title shall I give you? Why will you not this moment give me a right to call you wife?"

"Merciful Heaven!" cried Milwood; "are you delirious? What can add to the right which I have granted you?—What mean you, then? Do you allude to the mummery invented for the use of those who have not faculties of their own to define the laws of nature? Am I the less your's—are you the less your Milwood's because a ceremony is omitted?"

"No, Milwood, no.—In my own estimation, you are mine as sacredly as possible. Have we not sworn a mutual faith in His presence, who is every where! Our vows are registered by Him—

"The solemnity of an earthly temple, or the sanctity of temporal altars, therefore, cannot increase the force of obligation with a mind, that thinks as mine does! But O, Milwood! I am not a solitary being—I have a mother, a sister, whose happiness is wove with my own.—I have a benefactor, too, whose generous kindness deserves the warmest gratitude! Can I tell them, that I—Could I introduce—."

"'Tis because you can not do this, that I requi­red your secrecy."

"But, you will permit me to add, that if we had the sanction of Custom (not to say the obligation of Law) to our connection, there would exist no cause of secrecy! Those who love me will receive you as my wife; and—"

"Surely, surely you will not imagine my dear Barnwell, that from choice I throw an obstacle in the way of your proposal;—it is impossible you should think so!—but at present, for some time at least, we cannot marry!"

"What mystery veils you, Milwood! O, cast it off. There cannot be a thought that, either of us should engross to ourselves: let me beseech you to confide in me."

"Only for a little space of time, my Barnwell, spare me. Soon shall the veil, that now conceals my heart, for ever be removed:—then shall our breasts be the common repositories of our mutual thoughts—there shall not be a hope or a fear of one unknown to the other; but so blended shall become our very thoughts, we shall together form but me existence!"

"And why is that moment postponed?"

"You know not, my dear Barnwell, how you wound me by this useless importunity. I do not form my resolutions on caprice, but on the [...] right or wrong I see before me; and therefore, I never change my purpose, but with the revolution of [Page 156] existing causes. I act from motives, not from im­pulse; else I might, by your persuasions, be moved to reveal a secret, that my reason now denies you. However much, therefore, your importunities may afflict my heart, they shall not, they cannot, subdue the sovereign power of intellectual decision!"

"Extraordinary woman!" cried Barnwell. "How, then, am I to act? Say, Milwood, had you a mo­ther and a sister whom you loved, and to whom you had been accustomed to reveal your inmost thoughts, could you refrain from recounting such [...] train of interesting events as have occurred to us within these few important days?"

"What can be more easily decided than your question? Ask yourself, what benefit you can expect from revealing these events?—You would merely create an host of painful apprehensions in those breasts, which you wish should be the mansions of peace; and the only possible result of their knowing what has passed, would be a painful anxiety to know more than it is at present in your power to reveal."

"And yet, to conceal the true state of my mind, I must fein a satisfaction I do not feel; I must assume an indifference to which my heart is a stranger. How can I answer such letters as these?"

Barnwell then gave her the three letters he had re­ceived in the morning.—When she had perused them—

"Your sister is an amiable girl; and your mother is, doubtless, a good woman," said she; "but I scarcely know how to pronounce on your uncle. His letters of prudence seem more the acquisitions of habit, than the suggestions of his own reason. He is very rich, I presume?"

"I understand so."

"And as no children?"

"None."

"Your mother and sister reside with him:—of course to acquaint them with our connection, would be the same as informing your uncle."

"Does that follow?"

[Page 157] "Yes; unless they can feign a satisfaction they do not feel, and assu [...]e an indifference to which their hearts are strangers, you know!

Barnwell smiled.

"I perceive, my Barnwell," continued she, "the state of your mind. It has hitherto been too much swayed by prejudice early imbibed, and still unexam­ined. But as you advance in life, you will discover, that the wisest and the best of mankind find it im­possible to model their actions by given rules. The incidents of life hinge so entirely on chance, that our situations, relatively and individually, assume many complex shapes; and are perpetually at variance with defined notions of duty. 'Tis, therefore, im­possible to exhibit a standard of virtue or vice.

"Let us apply this observation to your present situa­tion:—You say you cannot be a hypocrite! I grant you, hypocrisy is classed amongst what are called vices; but will any one say, that to distress the feel­ings of a mother and sister, to wound their hearts with the arrows of perplexing doubts and apprehensions, is more virtuous, than simply to conceal the events which have passed, and which were not the effects of our own designs? Such a doctrine scarcely merits a moment's thought!"

By these and similar arguments, did this mistress of dissimulation at length defeat the noble purposes of that sincerity which hitherto had dwelt in Barn­well's breast, and he fatally resolved to keep his friends in ignorance of his situation.

In the honesty of his nature, he had confessed to Milwood, that he had mentioned the affair to one friend, but that he was ignorant of any thing that had occurred since their second interview; and over­come by her tears, her arguments, and her persua­sions, he promised he would never allow himself to mention her again even to this one friend, nor would ever suffer him to name her to himself.

This was the precise point which the arts of Mil­wood aimed to accomplish; for she well knew that, [Page 158] among the many and various errors to which youth and inexperience are exposed, there is none more fatal in its consequences, than the concealment of having committed them. The first deviating steps from the paths of rectitude, may often be retraced by the aid of friendly council; but he who denies himself that timely aid, will in vain implore its ef­ficacy when entangled in the maze of deception; and when every avenue on the return to happiness is obstructed by some unexpected obstacle.

CHAP. II.

THOUGH Barnwell's inclination led him to de­vote the whole of his leisure to the company of Mil­wood, respect to Mr. Emery pointed out the proprie­ty of a visit to the Pavilion, where he had lately be­come a stranger.

'Twas a delightful evening in September, when, for the first time since his acquaintance with Mil­wood, he arrived there. A period of ten or twelve days had elapsed since his last visit, and he was fram­ing his apology as he walked his horse slowly round the paling of the Park, and was near the Porter's Lodge, when he was aroused by the sweet notes of a guitar, issuing from the Park. When he alighted, as he gave his horse to the porter, he inquired who was the performer.

"'Tis one of the young ladies that be here on a visit," said the man. "I thinks they do call her Miss Freeman; but our young ladies do call her Maria—a sweet young lady she is too! she do a world of good wherever she goes;—old and young [Page 159] do pray for blessings on her: and yet I be hugely out in my reck'ning and she be'nt very unhappy!"

"Why do you think so, Wilmot?" said Barnwell, who was interested at his account.

"Why your honour, she be so mopish, and lone­some, and do never seem to make merry with the gentlefolks; but walks, and walks, alone, all day; and then she do sigh mightily—and be grown so pale!—It is a main pity, your honour, that she, who do take such pains to make every body happy, should not be happy herself!"

"Pity, indeed!" replied Barnwell, who encoura­ged his loquacity, that he might discover if any thing had occurred in his absence—for old Wilmot had the talent of extracting from one or other of the domestics the whole news, of the Pavilion. One of the grooms having taken his horse, he followed Wil­mot into the Lodge, under pretence of admiring his grand-children—"What a fine fellow this!" said he, patting a chubby-faced little boy on the head;—"and those are charming little girls!"

"I do thank heaven," cried the old man, "they be brave and hearty."

—"And only look, an' please your honour," said the mother, "what beautiful fine dimity coats, and what lovely fine frocks the dear Miss Freeman has made for them, with her own hands!"

"Ah!" resumed the old man, "she is to be pitied, sweet lady!"

"Yes," cried his daughter; "if what Mrs. Watson, my lady's maid, says, be true, it is a hard case for such a beautiful and lovely charming good angel to be crossed in love!—for every body says it is love. Lord, I declare it makes one's heart ache to see her moping about, when all the rest of the grand gentlefolks are riding out, or fishing, or dan­cing, or archering, or—"

Just as she was speaking, Maria, ignorant of Barn­well's arrival, strolled into the Lodge. Her eyes were thrown pensively upon the ground, her guitar [Page 160] hung on her arm. She appeared much changed in her countenance, and sighed deeply still. Barnwell could not behold her without a recollection of his dream. He sat in a corner of the little room, and Maria, lifting up her eyes, saw him—

"Mr. Barnwell here!" exclaimed she, with a mo­mentary blush that suffused her pale cheek. The sur­prise appeared to have overcome her, and she trembled.

"I am admiring Wilmot's grand-children," said Barnwell, with some hesitation.—"I have been—that is, I have been—I mean, it is a considerable [...] since I have been here."

"How is the poor woman at farmer Jasper's," said Maria to old Wilmot, appearing not to notice the too evident embarrassment of Barnwell.

"O, my sweet lady, she be quite another guess thing; and she do talk of nothing but her good angel. To­morrow she do mean to pay you her respects, and re­turn thanks for—"

"Nay, nay," interrupted she, "I must [...] hear you talk thus, good Wilmot:—but if the poor wo­man should come to-morrow, detain her here, and send in for me. I charge you not to let her come into the house;—her too grateful heart would pour [...]rth effusions I should be pained to hear in the pre­sence of others.—Good evening"—and she walked out of the Lodge. Barnwell followed her.

"Permit me to carry that instrument," said he.

"No, Sir," replied Maria, coolly.

"You seem fatigued—will you honor me by ac­cepting my arm?"

"No, Sir," replied she again.

[...] I so unfortunate,' said Barnwell, "as to have [...] Miss Freeman's displeasure, that she denies [...] the pleasure of rendering her assistance?"

She walked on in silence. Barnwell was really concerned. He esteemed Maria ere he felt the fer­vor of love, and valued her good opinion too highly to part with it with indifference. They reached the house without exchanging another word.

[Page 161] As they entered the saloon, Miss Emery was play­ing a serious air of Banti's on the piano, which she immediately changed for—"See the conquering hero come!" which she accompanied with her voice.—Mrs. Emery, Miss Charlotte, Lord Morley, and Mr. [...] were present, and laughed so heartily, that [...] could not return the salutations of Barnwell, or listen to one word of his apology. As soon as silence returned, Charlotte opened the battery of raillery.—

"Most puissant, and renowned Conqueror of hearts, Colonel Commandant of the Corps of Cupids! whose head-quarters are your brilliant eyes, whose [...]rtillery is your smiles, condescend to accept the congratula­tions of the meanest of your captives, upon your safe arrival, after so long and painful an absence!"

Barnwell was astonished!

"Sterling!—sterling!—upon my honour," cried Mr. Eastwood; and the whole party, except Maria, joined in a most hearty laugh.

"The annals of Love are but the records of your conquests," continued Charlotte, "and wherever we turn our wondering eyes, we view the victims of your charms!"

As she said this, she fixed her eyes significantly upon Maria, who seemed hurt by the allusion. Barn­well was no better pleased. Regardless, however, o [...] the pain she created, so long as Mr. Eastwood admi­red, and the others laughed, she continued—

"But cease, mighty conqueror, cease this havoc among beauties; deign to consider the misery you extend, and the woes you increase. Let the languid eyes, the pallid cheeks, the painful sighs, the palpi­tating hearts of those, who have already fallen, suf­fice for sacrifices; check the cruel career of conquest, and distribute the consolation of your presence more equitably among your slaves! Forget not, that while the cheering beams of your countenance dispen­sing life and vigour at Brompton, their absence is fatal in other quarters! Only conceive the effects to the earth of twelve days' absence of the sun, and emulate [Page 162] in justice, as you do in splendor, the equal revolutions of that glorious orb!"

Barnwell was petrified with astonishment at this rhapsody. He could not fail to understand her meaning, but was lost in wonder how his visits to Brompton could have reached the Pavilion.

"Come, come," cried Lord Morley, "be merciful, Charlotte, as you are powerful. You see how you make the poor youth blush!'

Barnwell was really embarrassed—"Upon my word," cried he, after several attempts, "you are very entertaining!"

"Do you think so?" cried Charlotte archly. "Well, then, now I'll be serious—quite in right ar­nest;" and drawing herself stiffly upright in her chair, with her thumbs twirling round each other—"If you please, Mr. Barnwell, how do you like the air at Brompton? I hope it agrees with your health."

"I beg your pardon—I—really don't understand you."

"Shall I explain myself then, Sir, before [...] whole assembly; or will you have the house cleared, and strangers excluded, before I rise to explain?—Be quick, Sir, in your choice; for I perceive I have al­ready caught the Speaker's eye."

Maria was looking earnestly at her whilst she spoke. Barnwell beginning to apprehend she really knew more than she had yet hinted, found no way left but to return her raillery, however severely he felt her observations—

"I think I have a right to call for an adjournment," said he, "as your proceedings are as irregular as un­just. You should certainly have given notice of the measure you intended to bring before the house."

"Guilty—Guilty, upon my honour," cried Lord Morley; or he would never have evaded a trial upon a point of form."—

"Well," cried Barnwell, "I suppose you under­stand one another; but it is all cross purposes to me."

"O, I dare say you think them cross enough," cried Charlotte; "but if people will set themselves [Page 163] up for Josephs, and one should by accident discover them to be no Josephs, why the consequence is—What ails you child!" breaking off, and addressing herself to Maria, who complained of a giddiness in her head, and fainted.

A bustle ensued, during which, Barnwell, finding his services useless, retired to his own room.

His own reflections were no more pleasing than the railleries of Charlotte Emery. His connection with Milwood was evidently known at the Pavilion. It might also have reached the ears of his mother, and his uncle. Milwood herself was grown, if possible, more mysterious. Her expences increased rapidly, and his own finances became straitened, notwith­standing his excellent management previous to his acquaintance with her. The disdain of Maria, too, sat not easy on his heart: he knew her to be as ami­able in mind as lovely in person; and no longer doubt­ing but the report of a clandestine connection had lost him her esteem, if not a more tender regard; he most bitterly lamented the fate, that prohibited his offering any explanation in justification of his con­duct.

The long intervals betwixt the broken slumbers of the night were, therefore, occupied in a train of thoughts, neither satisfactory in a survey of the past, nor in a contemplation of the future. Regret follow­ed, and Fear preceded him.

Nor was the breast of Maria tranquil. Her mind, endowed by nature with a quick susceptibility of ten­der sentiments, had imbibed for Barnwell an affec­tion fatal to her peace. His person was handsome, his countenance interesting; but those exteriors had little influenced the thinking Maria. 'Twas the na­tive elegance of his manners, the integrity and gene­rosity of his sentiments, and the noble tenor of his conduct, that had gained him so honorable a distinc­tion in her bosom. This distinction had increased continually by a comparison with the young men who visited Mr. Emery.

[Page 164] Among the swarm of fashionable flies that buzzed perpetually about her, she sought in vain for his ori­ginality of mind, his purity of thought. One was conspicuous for his disgusting rudeness, practised by mistake for affability; others, for an equally disgust­ing obsequiousness, that set all appreciation of their minds at complete defiance: this entertained her with the history of the theatres, and retailed the scandal of venomous tongues to the prejudice of the per­formers; whilst others, could she have listened to them, would have taught her the whole art of farri­ery, and stored her mind with the true principles of nicking, docking, cropping, and training horses.

But when opportunity favored her with the society of Barnwell, her mind expanded in the pursuit of his ideas her heart glowed at the congenial effusions of his; and she felt at once delighted and improved. Such a distinguishing esteem naturally, though imper­ceptibly softened into Love; and Maria was surpri­sed at her own situation when she first discovered how necessary was the presence of Barnwell to the satisfaction of her heart.

This discovery she made, when, day after day, he absented himself for above a week from the Pavilion; which, all gaiety as it was, appeared in the estima­tion of Maria the very temple of Dullness, without the society of Barnwell. But if a doubt was left on her mind respecting the state of her heart, it vanish­ed at the pain, the most exquisite pain, she endured, when through the tattle of servants, (which Barnwell never suspected) his nightly visits to Brompton were made known at the Pavilion.

Then did the bosom of Maria swell with anguish, unfelt before. She doubted, she scrupled to believe, that Barnwell would be guilty of intrigue; and yet there was no way of acquitting him, but by supposing he had entered into more solemn, and lasting engage­ments. Either supposition wounded her heart. She grew melancholy and thoughtful; and the struggle of her reason and her love sapped the foundations of her health.

[Page 165] Such was the situation of Maria, when the beha­viour of Barnwell in the saloon confirmed her in the opinion that, if ever he had been worthy of her esteem, he had now relinquished that claim. The anguish such conviction occasioned her, was too pow­erful for her delicate mind, and was the cause of her fainting.

With Maria therefore, as well as with Barnwell, the night passed heavily on; and when the glorious orb of day chased darkness from the earth, neither Barnwell nor Maria could hail, with a tranquil breast, those gladdening beams, that heretofore had kindled in their hearts the glow of grateful joy.

CHAP. III.

A POSTCHAISE and four was at the door when Barnwell arrived, the following morning, at Portland Place. Mr. Emery had just returned from Buxton. He immediately paid his respects to him in the li­brary.—

"So Barnwell!" said Mr. Emery, as he walked hastily about the room:—his eyes were red and swell­ed—his aspect lowering—his brows knitted—not one trace was left in his countenance of his former ease and gaiety.

Barnwell was hesitating whether to retire or re­main; when Mr. Emery, putting his hand to his head, exclaimed—

"What an infernal crew!—What devils upon earth!—Blood-suckers that feed upon the vitals of their fellows!—Curse them!—curse them!" Then [Page 166] turning suddenly round—"What are you staring at?" cried he to Barnwell.—"Did I send for you? Go—Stay—Where's my wife?"

"At the Pavilion, Sir."

"Pavilion! Ha—ha—ha!—"'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands!"

There was a wildness, approaching to madness, in the manner and words of Mr. Emery, that struck Barnwell with surprise and horror; yet, ignorant of the cause, he was unable to offer consolation to his despair, had his situation allowed him the privilege. After two or three paces round the room—"Write me a note," cried Mr. Emery, with a quickness that startled him. Barnwell listened to his indicting—

"Mr. Emery will esteem himself highly obliged, if Mr. Negotiate will call in Portland Place, as early this morning as possible."

"Take this no [...]e yourself:—see Negotiate, and know the exact minute he will be here."

Barnwell obeyed his orders with promptness, and returned with intelligence, that Mr. Negotiate was just stepping into his chariot, to fulfil an appointment at the Treasury, and would wait on Mr. Emery as he returned.

Mr. Negotiate was a money-broker; a man sup­posed to be immensely rich; who, from the facility with which he could convert remote securities into ready cash, was a necessary confidante of the needy, both at Court and 'Change. He was a little thin man, and always seemed ready to sink [...] the weight of Exchequer bills, Scrip receipts, and money bonds, with which his pockets were continually load­ed. He was pompous and proud to those who want­ed his assistance; obsequious and meanly submissive where he wanted assistance.

About one he arrived. Barnwell was withdraw­ing when he entered the library—"Stay;" said Mr. Emery, "we must have a witness; and you who al­ready half know my embarrassments, may as well know the whole."

[Page 167] "There, now," cried Negotiate, who was a Jew, "I vas thought as much.—Embarrashment, embar­rashment!—Every body [...] out that tone, Em­barrashment. Public affairs—Private affairs—Great men's affairs—Marchant's affairs—Banker's affairs—Tradesfoks' affairs—all vas embarrashment! Vell, vell—vat vas I to do with it. I vonder vat peoples takes me for! There is the Minishtry—and there is the Upholsterer—all come to Mishter Negotiate. Marcy on me!—they vorry me to death! And pray, now, Mishter Emery, vat vill relieve your embarash­ment?"

"Why, for the present," said Mr. Emery, "six thousand will do."

"Got Almighty! Vere vas you think I can scrape so much money? 'Tish impossible! Good morning, Mishter Emery—Good morning—You must inquire furder. But I vill tell you one thing—your friend, the Ea [...], is as embarrash as you. Here! see, Exche­quer bills—Exchequer bills—and the market!"

"D—the market! cried Emery, furiously. "I must—I will have the money!"

"Marcy on us, [...] [...]varm you grow! Be quiet! be easy! be calm!"

Negotiate always made it a point to refuse in the first instance, that, by the effects of disappointment upon his victim, he might judge of their emergency, and offer terms accordingly. After a variety of dif­ficulties were, at length, dispatched, he advanced the sum required, upon the security of the estate at the Pavilion, at an enormous premium, and on a bond to reimburse stock to the amount sold out, be the price at its expiration ever so disproportionate.

This transaction opened a new scene to Barnwell, and filled his mind with the most serious reflections, in which the peril of his own situation was not for­gotten. Every hour it grew more dangerous. A clandestine connection with a person, of whose fami­ly or friends he could procure no sort of intelligence, whose story was mysterious, and in several points [Page 168] contradictory, sat not easy at his heart. The follow­ing letter, from his sister Eliza, by no means lessened his regrets.

The heart of Barnwell suffered the severest con­flicts from the perusal of this letter. The fallacious arguments of Milwood, respecting the propriety of concealment were answered, as completely as if he had expressed them to his sister. His mind was clear­ly convinced of the folly, as well as guilt, of any fur­ther secrecy; and he once more determined to ac­quaint Milwood, that he could no longer submit to a clandestine connection.

CHAP. IV.

THUS determined to rend the veil, which screen­ed the situation of his heart from those to whom its [Page 171] most secret thoughts had been ever open, Barnwell again bent his footsteps towards Brompton.

As he entered the house, Mrs. Griffiths, the land­lady, accosted him, and requested he would walk into her parlour, as she had something of consequence to say to him. Barnwell was by no means in a humor patiently to listen to the harrangue with which the widow had prepared to amuse him, yet his politeness prevented a refusal.

Mrs. Griffiths had, about five months since decent­ly interred the poor dear soul, her second husband, who had been pastor of a dissenting congregation. The relics of her two husbands' effects, and an annuity of twenty pounds a year, allowed her by the church to which Mr. Griffiths had administered, afforded her the means of living decently, with the help of letting lodgings. Having seated herself in her elbow chair, smoothed her apron, and taken a comfortable pinch of snuff—

"It doesn't become me, Mr. Barnwell, to pry into other folks' matters, no more than what I've a right, and that my duty calls upon me to do. I am left, as I may say, to my own look out, and to do for myself; for as to depending upon others, I sees the foolishness of that every day. My last poor saint was too good for this world a deal: he spent his breath and his spirits for other people's good, and did it, as he said, from a sense of duty, and was always for relying up­on their gratitude for my future support. You must know, Mr. Barnwell, that my first husband drove the Lord Mayor of London in his state coach, in the year seventy-six, and saved something pretty, I assure you, besides getting his freedom. I mought have done better, to be sure;—but what is to be will be.—We were married, Sir, and did very well for some years, in a house, though I say it, that drawed as good a butt of beer a week as ever came ou [...] of Whitbread's store, besides compounds and cordials in proportion. But he, poor man, could net resist the temptation of one and another; and at last, by drinking too freely, [Page 172] I must own, brought on a dropsy, and went off [...] the snuff of a candle, though as fine a man at one time as ever you clapped your eyes on. Well, Sir, there was I left a widow, and had every thing to manage, and to do. But, as I said before, what is to be will be; and," lifting up her hands, "so it will!"

"It will, indeed!" said Barnwell, scarcely able to refrain a smile.

"Ah! Sir," continued the widow, "who would have thought, when Mr. Griffiths came to measure my poor first husband for his coffin, that he was to conduct me a second time to the Halter of Im [...]d! But so it was. He was then 'prentice to an undertaker, and not more than nineteen; but he had such a tongue!—It was as good as a cordial to hear him talk. I am sure I may say it wasn't his person that gained my heart, for he was very tall, and very thin; his face was as pale as a tallow candle; his eyes large, but sunk, and his cheeks hollow. But I soon larnt that he was dissatisfied with his sittyashon, and had a turn for larning. To make short, Sir, I pitied the poor young fellow; and he used to come now and then, of a Sunday, and dine; and then he would read books, and make out such meanings from the Scrip­tures, as nobody else, but a great genus, would think of. At last he prevailed upon me to believe, that keeping the sign of the Goat was a sinful way of life; and turning what I had into money, I entered the holy state once more, and we lived at a little place a few miles from London. Here he got acquainted with some people that belonged to the Meeting, and they made him their parson. I saw then how it would turn out.—'What does it signify, Mr. Griffiths,' says I, 'your tearing your lungs to pieces, four times a day, in this manner, to people who won't give a bit of bread to your poor Dolly, when you have got your death by them?' and so, sure enough, it was. He preached himself into a galloping consumption; t'other dri [...]ked himself into a dropsy; and now they are gone—and [...] am I le [...]t to my own look out!"—

[Page 173] The patience of Barnwell, was, by this time, com­pletely exhausted; and he was rising to depart, when Mrs. Griffiths prevented him.

"But now, Sir, I comes to what I was agoing to re­mark to you. You see how I am sittyated; and that I am not able to afford to loose by my lodgers. To be sure, the church does allow me a paltry twenty pounds a year; but that's no dependence, as I don't go to their place, and, indeed, don't much like their pray­ers without books, where one don't know what they're agoing to say. Besides, if I should alter my condi­tion again, which there's no telling, I dare say they'd take it off: and so, what I say is—its my own look-out I must depend on; and I can't afford to lose."—

"I don't understand, Madam, what all this leads to," cried Barnwell, interrupting her. "You are very regularly paid, and well paid."

"As to that, two guineas a week for what this Mrs. God-knows-who has, its little enough."

"More respect, if you please, when you mention that lady!"—

"I doesn't mean to affront you, Sir; but I must look after my own. To be sure, you have paid re­gular enough as yet; and so did the gentleman, at first, that I lost—"

"Mrs. Griffiths," said Barnwell, extremely vexed, and taking his hat in his hand—"if you have any thing to say that concerns me, pray say it at once; but if you are going to begin any more stories, you must excuse me."

"Why then, Sir, if you are for being so blunt—pray, who are you, and what are you? When you took my lodgings, it was all in a hurry, as I may say, and I went upon your appearance; but it is my wish now to have a proper reference for your cha­racter. I have particular reasons for it!"

"Barnwell started involuntarily, and blushed—"What reasons?" exclaimed he.

"Nay, for what I know, you may have your ene­mies!"

[Page 174] "Explain, Madam—I insist upon it. I am nat­urally warm and hasty in my disposition; and I hate all this preface"

"Why then, Sir, I'll tell you the whole business."

"As briefly as you can," cried Barnwell.

She then related that—"this morning, as she was sitting at the window, she noticed an old gentleman, plainly dressed, who walked three or four times past the house with particular observation. At length he bowed to her, and knocked at the door. Upon be­ing shewn into the parlour, he bluntly asked her, if she let lodgings; and then as abruptly desired to know the name of her present tenants. When she informed him, Barnwell—he exclaimed—'Then I am right. Is the lady within who accompanied Mr. Barnwell here?' "Upon finding he knew the circum­stance," continued Mrs. Griffiths, "I answered, yes. He then desired to see her. I went up stairs, and told the lady; but she refused to see him unless he came with any message from yourself. The old gen­tleman was too scrupulous to tell a story; but sent up word—He did not come with your knowledge, but that he came as your friend; and only wished to intrude upon her time five minutes. But she positive­ly refused him. 'This looks ill!' said the old gen­tleman; and he sat talking to himself a good while.—'I should like too see this lady,' said he, 'even if I did not speak to her. Could you manage this for me?' I told him, that she generally walked in the gar­den in the course of the morning; and that, if he pleased, he might stop and see her pass the windows of the back parlour. He did so; and we talked of you, Sir. He acquainted me, that this lady was one of those despicable hussies, that ought, in my opinion, to be burnt alive; and that you was going to ruin head­long; and that it was ten to one if you was able to pay me, for that you was only a marchant's clerk."

"He told you this?—He say this of me?—Im­possible!" cried Barnwell; for he instantly conclu­ded it could be no other than Mental.

[Page 175] "Yes, but he did; and much more he would have said, had not the lady just then passed the window. She turned round to pluck a flower, and so he had a full view of her face. Starting up like a madman, as soon as he saw it, he clasped his hands together, and, striking his forehead, rushed out of the house before I was aware."

"This is all very extraordinary," cried Barnwell—"very extraordinary, indeed!—Pray, have you acquainted the lady with this circumstance?"

"No, not I, Sir. The lady, as you call her, must find more suitable companions; and you, if you please, a m [...]re pr [...]p [...]rer place to keep her in."

"Barnwell, at once disgusted, vexed, and surprised, left her without a word, and sought Milwood. She met him as he entered the room—

"Why, my dear Barnwell, is your brow thus con­stantly clouded?"

He answered not, but throwing himself on the sofa—

"I shall never be happy again," murmured he "O! Milwood, what a wretch have you made me! I was basking in bliss—I knew not a painful reflection—and now, I can neither consult my friends, nor my own heart—I have grown despicable in the estima­tion of both!—You have destroyed my tranquillity for ever!"

"From you this language, Barnwell!—From you, for whom I have sacrificed not only friends, but for­tune—nay, for whom I have sacrificed the delicacy of my sex—and have incurred a shame never to be effaced!—Who is most the sufferer, Barnwell—you, who have shared equally in all the pleasures of our connection, and, in the world's opinion, have ob­tained a triumph—or I, who, for my portion of rap­turous moments have to encounter the evils of years, unborn?—Yet will I never repine—I, who am a woman, will yet be philosopher enough, not to la­ment the price of my pleasure!—No, my Barnwell," throwing her arms round his neck—"no!—though [Page 176] existence was that price!—What, then, can you repine at?"

"At the mystery which encircles her I love!" said Barnwell;—"at the necessity of secresy, which I ab­hor! Milwood, I feel about my heart the weight of a crime!—Never shall I feel one happy moment till I can introduce you to my friends—solicit their for­giveness—and regain their esteem. Let me, then, hasten the return of happiness to us both, by the on­ly means that are left us."

"I understand you, Barnwell—I perfectly under­stand you; and would to God that obstacles, insur­mountable obstacles, did not prevent our adoption of those means. But, once for all—know, that the step, to which you allude, is—quite impossible."

"Impossible!—Milwood, do I hear you rightly—Impossible?"

Milwood wept, and sighed.

"Tell me, most mysterious woman, and, by one word, for ever seal my doom—Are you already married?"

Milwood remained silent.

"Nay, answer me, I beseech you," continued Barnwell. "The certainty that it is so cannot be more tormenting than this suspense. Tell me, then, at once, how guilty and how miserable a wretch I am."

"O, Barnwell!—thy cruel penetration has woun­ded my soul!—I am—nay, start not, fly not from me—I am—already—married!—"

Barnwell, in an agony, burst from her arms, and rushed towards the door. He had seized the handle of the lock, when, with a shriek, Milwood fainted on the safa. His tenderness returned in an instant, as he saw her beauteous person extended lifeless on the sofa. He rang the bell violently; Mrs. Griffiths and her servant came up, and he assisted them in their services. Half opening her eyes, the artful Milwood observed his attentions—

"He has left me—he is gone—he is gone for [Page 177] ever!" exclaimed she. Then appearing to recover, and starting at the sight of him, she caught his hand, and kissing it rapturously—"O, this is god-like, indeed!" said she.

Barnwell, finding she recovered, dismissed the landlady and her servant, and tenderly supported her in his own arms. He could not, however, so far disguise his feelings, as to appear otherwise than of­fended.

"Ah! why was this cruelty exerted!" said she—"why have you saved me from death, if thus you gaze on me!—Never! never can I bear those reprov­ing eyes!—Never can I support your anger, Barnwell. This scornful silence too! The bitter reproaches were kinder than this cold silence, Barnwell!"

"What can I say to thee, thou dangerous woman?—You, Milwood, may deem adultery no crime; but I—."

"You, Barnwell, are no adulterer—you are in­nocent—I, indeed, am guilty!—But the love I cherish for you is all my heart approves.—Com­pelled to marry another, I have vowed at the altar to be his; but never have those vows been sanction­ed by my heart—they were tortured from my lips—but never has my person yielded to such legalized pollution. From that memorable day I became a fugitive, and only approached the altar with that view. A prisoner, in the strictest sense, I had no other alternative, than to yield my hand to a loathed bridegroom, whom, from that hour to this, I never have beheld."

Barnwell sat silently musing on the sofa; his hands were folded in each other, and his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Still you are silent, Barnwell. I see the rising scorn, that sits upon your lips; I know the innate delicacy of your pure mind revolts at the desperate actions of a phrensy stricken woman, whom cruel tyranny and unbounded love unite to plunge into despair. I will not aim to lessen your disgust; it is [Page 178] the only remedy for my ill-fated passion. Go then, too lovely youth; go, and forget for ever, the lost—lost Milwood!—Go, and in some other's arms, be blest!—while I, in a lone corner of the earth, mourn [...]'er thy memory, and bless thy name."

"Yes, Madam," cried Barnwell; starting from his reverie—"I perceive no other mode of action:—there appears one only outlet from this sea of guilty pleasures;—where, longer to remain, must be de­struction!"

"I know your dreadful meaning, Sir:—'Tis cru­el, but 'tis necessary. We must part; and, since I have become so loathsome to your sight, the rudest desarts will be preferable to your presence. No—I could never stay to be despised by you!"—

Here the syren shed a flood of artificial tears, that tortured Barnwell to the very soul. The extreme sensibility of his nature subjected him to extremes in sentiment: now, most tenderly he pitied the miseries of Milwood; then, the memory of his family rushed across his mind—he saw their indignant frowns, he heard their rebukes, for a conduct so unworthy of them, and of himself. Again, when he reflected on the dreadful fate of her, who had abandoned so much for his sake, he was ready to extend his hand, and vow eternal truth. Again, the taunts of the world, the revenge of an injured husband, and the ignominy to himself and friends, of a public accusation, check­ed the softness quivering on his lips, which only esca­ped by a painful sigh.—

In this conflict of his mind, memory placed before him the vision he had seen in his sleep: he felt the allusion of the scene most strongly; the very counte­nance of his father was present, and summoned a re­solution in his breast, that conquered every opposition. Approaching the sofa with tremulous voice—

"Painful to me, Milwood, are those tears; but, after the knowledge I have obtained of your situation, to continue a connection—"

"I know it must not be," interrupted she:—"I [Page 179] know the jaundiced eye of prejudice views in it all the hideous colorings of vice! I ask it not, my Barn­well—heart-breaking is the sacrifice; but to your peace of mind, I will surrender, even yourself! Yet, do not add to the horrors of such a separation, by in­flicting the misery of thinking that I am despised by you. Say that you do not hate me; and—"

"Hate you!—O, Milwood—have I not preferred you, even to virtue? And now, if you knew the strug­gle of my heart, you would see it is impossible to hate you!"

"Generous—generous Barnwell!—why should the cold and rigid arbitration of an ill-judging world sever such hearts as ours!"

As she spoke, she twined her arms around his neck; her palpitating heart beat against his bosom, and her warm kisses brought on a delirium of ecstasy.

At this moment the door opened, and three men, in masks, rushed into the room. Milwood shrieked and fainted. Two of these intruders held Barnwell on the sofa, and prevented his cries; whilst the other conveyed Milwood away in his arms.

Barnwell in vain exerted himself against superior strength, as no person came to his assistance. In about ten minutes the third man returned, and beckoned the other to follow him. They left Barnwell gagged and bound. A considerable time elapsed before Mrs. Griffiths and her servant made their appearance, crying and lamenting most bitterly, having under­gone the same treatment as Barnwell.

When they had released him, he raved with the fury of a maniac; impeached the integrity of the poor women, who stood trembling at his anger; and gave the reins to the passions of jealousy and despair.

The strength of his unhappy attachment, was at no period so visible as now. The uncertainty of her fate, the tormenting apprehensions he felt for her safe­ty, engrossed his whole soul.

The house being situated at a distance from any other, he could obtain no intelligence by inquiries.

[Page 180] Having, after a considerable time, somewhat ex­hausted the first and violent bursts of passion, he be­gan to listen to the reasonings of Mrs. Griffiths; and the only probable conclusion that he could draw, was, that the old gentleman, who had been there in the morning, and was so desirous of seeing Milwood, and who, he had supposed, was Mental, must have been her uncle, who had taken this method of carrying her off to her husband.

As his present state of mind prevented his return­ing immediately to Mr. Emery's, he remained some hours at Brompton, contemplating what steps to pur­sue. The suggestion that best pleased him, of the many that presented themselves, was, to seek out Mental, relate to him all that had happened, and be guided by his opinion.

Just as he was preparing to put this resolution in practice, a boy delivered a letter at the door, address­ed to Barnwell, and which he said had been given him by a man, who directed him to the house, and then ran away.

There was neither name nor address affixed to this letter; but its contents stung Barnwell to the soul. It confirmed his opinion as to her [...]ate, and his own. He now hesitated, whether he ought to apply to Men­tal, under his present circumstances; and yet to whom else could he apply. He shuddered at the very idea of acquainting his mother or his uncle—The thought was like lightning thro' his brain—

[Page 181] "Never, never," exclaimed he, as he paced the room with the letter in his hand—"never could my hand be firm enough to write them such intelligence. What! tell my benevolent benefactor, that, in return for his generosity to me, I have branded his name and family with the crime of adultery!—tell my affec­tionate sister, my honored and widowed mother, that, instead of the consolations I owe her, she must expect to read the crimes of her son exhibited in the public prints, and listen to sneering tattlers, while they point to her venerable form, and cry, 'that's the Adulterer's mother!'—O God, can any man do this?—No, no—let me hide my guilty head in some dark cavern, far from the haunts of men, ere such tidings reach their ears! O, that the oblivion of death were shed over me ere that day come!"

When the powers of his mind had been stretched to the extent of pain, by reflecting on his mother and Eliza, and some little relaxation of grief ensued, ano­ther source of misery sprung from the image of Mil­wood. He felt all her sufferings; he listened, in imagination, to her groans; and his heart sickened at the thought that he should never see her more. Thus tortured by remorse, and jealousy, the unhappy Barn­well, with trembling steps, once more gained his mas­ter's house; and without resolving on any measure to adopt, he passed a sleepless night, in anxious dread of what to-morrow would produce.

CHAP. V.

THE first intelligence that Barnwell received when he arose, was the arrival of the family from the Pa­vilion [Page 182] the preceding day, which he gathered from the servants, who were packing and cording trunks for a journey. Mr. Emery himself had risen early, and encountered Barnwell in the Hall. There were no traces of uneasiness now to be observed in his coun­tenance, and Barnwell was not a little surprised at so sudden a return of his former gaiety.

"We're going to Ramsgate," said Mr. Emery, "and Mrs. Emery insists upon your accompanying us. Indeed I wish it myself."

Barnwell was thunderstruck—"Ramsgate, Sir!—I really am not prepared. If I might be excused—"

O, by no means; any thing you may have occa­sion for can be sent after you. The plan is arrang­ed;—you are to drive Miss Freeman in the curricle; and there will be three or four other carriages. We breakfast early. The carriages are ordered at eleven. You'll be ready.

Before Barnwell could reply, Mr. Emery was gone; "Ramsgate!" said he to himself. "Curricle!—Miss Freeman! This is sudden indeed! Just at this crisis to be obliged to leave the metropolis!—What can be done?—Even should I acquaint Mental, what could he do towards concealing a transaction, that must come before a public court of justice?—His ad­vice, at least, may aid me!"

It was yet but eight o'clock; he determined, there­fore, to wait upon Mental immediately. When he arrived at his lodgings, to his infinite concern, he learnt that he had discharged them the day before, at a moment's notice; but had left the following note, which was to have been delivered to him that morning.

[Page 183] The hope of meeting Mental at Ramsgate, tended to make the journey thither no longer a matter of re­gret; and as he flattered himself, that his prosecutors would at least acquaint him with their proceedings, he left particular directions to have all letters imme­diately forwarded to him; and, assuming as serene a countenance as possible, he joined the party in the breakfast room, which consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Emery, the Miss Emerys, Miss Freeman, Lord Mor­ley, Mr. Eastwood, and Capt. Middleton.

In spite of his efforts to prevent it, the countenance of Barnwell spoke a language different to his tongue, and but ill accorded with the vivacity he assumed.

"Knight of the woeful countenance," cried Char­lotte Emery, "whence springs thy sorrow?—"

"Really, young man," cried Mrs. Emery, "you assume a kind of gravity by no means becoming at your age—you positively vapour one!"

"What's the matter, Barnwell?" said Mr. Emery.

"I believe, 'pon my honor," cried Lord Morley, "that we are too severe upon so susceptible a youth."

"Dear me!" cried Charlotte—"only look, Miss Freeman, how prettily he blushes!—Nay, child, I did not tell you to blush; but, really, there is a very lively sympathy betwixt you."

"Suppose I were to publish the banns of marriage; at once," said Mr. Eastwood, "betwixt George Barn­well, of the parish of—"

"I forbid the banns, in the name of one Milwood of Brompton!" interrupted Charlotte.

Barnwell turned pale, and the tea-cup clattered as he held it in his hand.

"I have been a silent auditor, Sir, of this kind of raillery some time," said Maria, addressing herself to Mr. Emery; "but I now demand your interference to check such levity; since, it my friend feels no concern for the pain she inflicts on the feelings of others, I can no longer endure the insults she bestows upon mine!"

[Page 184] Charlotte looked grave.

"O dear! Miss Freeman," cried two or three at once—"O dear!—really you view the matter too seriously by half—Consider it as a joke."

"You will excuse me," replied Maria; "but I can­not so far forget the respect due to my character, as to yield it to the amusement of jesters! I am sure my dear Charlotte will acquit me of unnecessary severity in my present appeal; and I hope, from this moment, to feel its success."

"Very well, Madam—very well"—cried Char­lotte;—"you may talk us down with your notions of propriety, and all that sort of thing; but you can't prevent grooms and stable boys from telling what they see and hear to the footmen; and if the footmen should whisper the chambermaid, and she should con­fide in the valet, and the valet should drop a word or two as he combs my Lord's hair, and then his Lord­ship reveals it to me—why have not a right to tell my story again?"

"What does all this allude to?" said Mr. Emery.

"You must understand," said Lord Morley, "that my valet—."

"Give me leave to tell my own story," interrupt­ed Charlotte.

"Only remember, I do not vouch for your embel­lishments, Charlotte," replied his Lordship.

"You know, Sir," returned she, "that when we first saw Mr. Barnwell, we all concluded that the young man had been bred in a monastery—he had all that cold sort of gravity, that monks are said to possess; and was for ever preaching about virtue, and propri­ety, and such things. Who would have ever expect­ed then, to hear that such a being had actually under his patronage one of the finest women in England; of whom he is so extremely jealous, that he keeps her locked up in a sort of citadel at Brompton.—They say he employs two eunuchs and an old woman to attend her; and never permits her to approach the window, or walk in the garden, except by moonlight. We were all excessively astonished at this intelli­gence; [Page 185] but as for Miss Freeman, she has been me­lancholy ever since!"

"You see, Maria, what an incorrigible she is!" said Mr. Emery.

"It's perfectly amazing to me," said Mr. East­wood, in a tone of fulsome adulation, "how any one can be otherwise than enamoured of such an enchant­ing vivacity!"

"For my part," said Lord Morley, "I think it a most enviable talent which Charlotte possesses, of re­lieving a dull story, by throwing in a few dashes of light and shade. How intolerably petrifying it is, to be obliged to listen to the dull matter of fact style, which some people narrate in!"

"Splendid fiction obtains a preference with your Lordship, then, over plain truth," said Maria.

"Out of all doubt! said his lordship.

Barnwell, glad to put an end to the conversation, ran to the window, and announced the arrival of the carriages. A delay now commenced, by the positive refusal of Maria to ascend the curricle, and ended not till a considerable time was spent in forming a new arrangement, which gave the curricle to Lord Morley and Emma Emery, placed Maria in his lordship's coach, and delivered Barnwell over to Captain▪ Mid­dleton's post chariot.

CHAP. VI.

AFTER a journey interrupted by no incident wor­thy of relation, the travellers arrived at a house, pre­pared for their reception, at Ramsgate.

[Page 186] Mrs. Emery and her daughters were delighted with its situation, commanding fine views of the sea in the front, and an extensive sweep of country behind; and having no single care upon their spirits, they were negatively happy in participating, with others of the first order of people, the amusements of the season.

Lord Morley and the polite Divine also killed their time tolerably to their satisfaction, with the aid of bathing rooms, libraries, theatres, raffles, danci [...]g, sailing, riding, driving, eating, drinking, and sleeping.

Captain Middleton and Mr. Emery had other oc­cupations; they were gamesters in the confidence of each other, the former had been many years of the profession, the other was of later practice.—Mr. Freeman, his godfather and master, had married him to his ward, an heiress, and had given him a share of his concerns.

Mr. Emery entered life with the fairest prospects, and the best intentions; but unfortunately connect­ing himself with courtiers, and by their interests with the government itself, his vanity defeated his interest, and he had injured, most deeply, not only his own fortune, but that of his early benefactor. By the ar­tificial aid which his court friends afforded him, he was enabled to extend a credit, which imperceptibly, but inevitably, undermined his fortunes; since, in re­turn for that credit, a reciprocal accommodation was expected, which could only be yielded by narrowing their capital, whilst additional credit called for its en­largement.

It is matter of peculiar regret, that the only me­thods which persons in Mr. Emery's situation can adopt, to retrieve their errors, are precisely those which are equally likely to render them fatal. Thus, had Mr. Emery possessed the resolution to have nar­rowed his concerns, confined his trade, and lessened his expences, his consequence in the eyes of the world would have sunk, his Court friends would have vanish­ed, and those whom he could no longer serve, would at once have withheld their countenance from him; and the consequence is obvious.

[Page 187] In addition to this consideration, Mr. Emery was naturally vain, and shrunk from the idea of a tempo­rary degradation. Hope pointed from one specula­tion to another, till, in the pursuit of reparation, he found destruction; yet, though in sight, he struggled to conceal it from himself: he trembled with horror at the recollection of the wide ruin he had wrought, and, by various methods, strove to murder his own thoughts.

Middleton was a man, whose very heart was bad, and within whose breast the voice of Conscience had long been stifled. The necessities of Emery made him the dupe of this wretch, who, by pretending to initiate him in the mean arts of gaming, only secured him the more easily his prey.

The amiable Maria carried with her to Ramsgate a silent sorrow, and concealed affection which preyed upon her health and spirits; and cast a gloom over those scenes that enchanted others.

Barnwell, the unhappy Barnwell, was the prey of the most afflicting remorse, and tormenting uncer­tainty.

Such were the party, who by the splendor of their establishment, attracted the admiration of the rich, and the envy of the poor; that poor, who would often exchange their envy for pity, if, through the dazzling exterior of grandeur, they could view such hearts as Emery's.

Two or three days elapsed, and brought no success to Barnwell's search after Mental. He inquired minutely, and sought diligently, but to no purpose. Nor had he received any intelligence from London. The fourth day, as he was returning from a walk, his attention was drawn to the sea shore, by the arrival of the hoy; and he stood some time contemplating the motley crew as they disembarked.

Among a variety of strange figures, he particularly noticed a tall, thin man, dressed in a slovenly manner, in a shabby suit of black, who, the moment he land­ed, seated himself on a firkin of butter; and, pulling [Page 188] out his pocket-book and pencil, began scribbling, and exclaimed aloud—

"Dam'me, that'll do—fresh water sailing—the Sprightly Kitty—Battersea Bridge—Chelsea Wa­ter Works—Splash—Spanish—Keep moving—Push on—What's to pay?—that's your sort—It'll do, dam'me!"

Every body stared with astonishment.

"Who is that gentleman, pray?" said Barnwell to another passenger, who stood near him.

"Hum!" cried the stranger—"Only notice him!"

In a minute the other started from the butter-tub, and set off a scamper, exclaiming, as he ran by Barn­well—"Dam'me, I've every thing but a plot!"

"Sir," said the stranger to Barnwell, "that's one of the first dramati [...] geniuses we have. He came down in the hoy, merely to study characters; and, I warrant you, we shall have a play next season some­thing about failing."

"Next season!" replied Barnwell: "he must be a quick hand, then, at these matters."

"O, Sir, he'll turn you out two in a winter; and one shall be equally as good as the other. But, pray, Sir, may I ask if you can direct me to a Mr. Emery's residence here?"

The smile which hovered on the lips of Barnwell, at the eccentricity of the dramatist, fled in an instant; he trembled as he answered the inquiry, and was un­able to ask the man his business there, much as he wished to learn it.

"Perhaps you may know the person I want to see,' cried the man:—"its a Mr. Barnwell."

"Fortunate enough," said Barnwell, with a look ill according with the sentence:—"My name is Barnwell. I reside with Mr. Emery."

"You, Sir!—Is it possible?—If you are the per­son I want, you know a lady of the name of—."

"Milwood," interrupted Barnwell—Is it not so?"

"The same, indeed," replied the man.

"Tell me, then, instantly, your business—have [Page 189] you any letters from her—any message—any—"

The man retired some paces from Barnwell, and looking him full in the face—"Any message from her!—Pray, Sir, what do you take me for?—No, Sir; you mistake the person you have to deal with, I assure you. I come, Sir, from the injured husband, from the enraged uncle, of that unfortunate woman—and I come, Sir, upon most serious business—but this is not a proper place for such conversation as we must enter into."

They retired to—'s Hotel.—When they were seated, and alone, the stranger, pulling off his hat and stroaking his chin with an air of vast impor­tance, began, in a pompous tone of voice—"My name, Sir, is Blackmore—Nehemiah Blackmore, of Hatton-Garden; a name not altogether new, I flatter myself, to the ears of the world. Few peo­ple, of my standing, have had half the practice in certain causes, vulgarly termed crim. con.; which causes, as you doubtless must have noticed, tend, more than any thing else within the pale of the courts, to fix every one concerned therein upon a perspicuous eminence of notoriety; as they form, Sir, a species of news, which the public [...] gree­dily devour, than the description of a sea sight, mili­tary operations, theatrical intelligence, parliamentary debates, court dresses, and voluntary contributions!—You must, doubtless, Sir, have observed the eagerness with which every body skips over those columns of a news paper which contain the afore­said articles, as well as the dull advertisements of of­ficers' widows in distress; lieutenancies to be dispo­sed of; mendicant clergymen, with fifteen children, and thirty pounds a year; presentations to livings in a sporting country to be sold by auction; the Tem­ple of Flora, and Dr. Nostrum; bankrupt lists, and curricles to be sold cheap:—but, Sir, when, at the top of a column, the eye catches—‘Court of King's Bench—Crim. Con.—I his was an action brought by the plaintiff A, to recover of the defendant B, satisfaction in damages—’—Then, Sir, the attention is fixed [Page 190] through five columns of Mr. Erskine's pathetic open­ing—Mr. Garrow's tart examination—Mr. Law's reply, and Lord Kenyon's severe remarks on the crime; nor is the eye ever once moved, till the conclusion of "the Jury returned a verdict for the plaintiff with heavy damages of 10,000l."—I dare say, Sir, you must have observed this?"

Barnwell too deeply felt the truth of these ill-timed observations—"Certainly—Yes—true—" replied he; but to your business, Sir."

"Why, Sir, you are young, I perceive, and new to the world, or it would not be necessary to men­tion, that you are extremely fortunate in having fallen into such hands as Nehemiah Blackmore, of Harton Garden; whose character is that of a peace­maker.—Upwards of a thousand law suits have been prevented by your humble servant; though I would not, for the world, have it known, as I should certain­ly be kicked out of the profession."

"Still, Sir," said Barnwell, "you wander from the subject—I desire to know your instructions."

"As to my instructions, they were to proceed im­mediately against you, to recover damages [...]—."

"Less prolixity, if it be possible."

"In short, then, Sir—being ordered to prosecute, I reflected upon the certain consequences of such a measure, which always exposes both parties, and fre­quently sixes three or four heads in a sixpenny maga­zine—."

"For heaven's sake, man speak to the purpose," cried Barnwell, starting from his chair, and walking about the room—"spare yourself this needless pre­face to your demands—Say honestly, at once, that the wretch who married this lady, is willing to heal his wounded honor with gold; and that, if I will give it him without the mandate of the law, he will accept it—Is it not so?"

"Something like it, I must confess."

"Well, Sir—and the sum—?"

"One thousand guineas."

[Page 191] "Tell the mean wretch, then—that it is impos­sible to comply with his terms," said Barnwell, and walked towards the door.

"Stay, Sir—stop—you are very rash—very rash, indeed—Do you consider the consequences?"

"Yes, Sir—and shall provide against them?"

"You look wildly, Sir—for God's sake, think upon what you are about to do. I understand your expectations from your friends are great—Surely you could not hesitate betwixt a measure that will conceal this transaction from them for ever, and one that must speedily expose you to their displeasure, and them to the ridicule of the world?"

"I cannot be said to hesitate, where there is no choice—my fate appears to be determined—and I must meet it. Shall you, Mr. Blackmore, ever see—"

"I understand you, Sir—It is quite uncertain—She was to have le [...]t Dover yesterday, but her un­cle has been prevented from accompanying her; and I know not if they have yet sailed."

"Dover—you say?—Farewell, Sir—and he rushed out of the room, leaving Mr Nehemiah Black­more, of Hatton Garden, in no small consternation at his behaviour.

CHAP. VII.

TWO days more elapsed without affording Barn­well any intelligence of Mental; and he concluded, that, having accomplished the purpose of his journey, he had returned to town. The mind of Barnwell, in the mean time, was suffering the severest pains of which its nature was susceptible. In addition to the acuteness of his own feelings, the letters of his mo­ther [Page 192] and Eliza inflicted agonizing wounds upon his heart. The state of his mind became more and more evident to observers; and from an object of ridicule, he had become the subject of pity, even with the volatile Charlotte herself.

But the utmost powers of language are inadequate to describe the conflict of contending influences in the bosom of the amiable Maria. Pity was a nursling which she had fostered there from the first moment she was capable of receiving impressions. Benevo­lence was the instinct of Maria—and to dispense around her comfort and peace, was the business of her hands, and the object of her thoughts.—When the merits of Barnwell had kindled in her heart a new and strong emotion, she had cherished it without the remotest apprehension of danger. When she discov­ered that virtuous sympathies, and congenial tastes, imperceptibly had wrought a passion in her breast, she started not with shame—she examined the ob­ject of her admiration in every point of view, and found him worthy; while the similarity of their dispositions and pursuits, drew from Barnwell an at­tention, which Hope had painted to her mind in the colours most agreeable to her wishes. It was not, therefore, till the quick echo of scandal had vibrated to her [...]ar stories to the prejudice of his moral character, that the breast of Maria ever felt a pang. But when his subsequent behaviour sanctioned the surmises formed upon report; when she beheld his former openness of countenance changed into a con­tracted brow, and a timid eye; when she saw his for­mer polite attentions converted into the most ill­timed absences of mind—his occasional starts—his abrupt sighs—and various other symptoms, that too plainly say—"My heart is not at ease!—" then was Maria miserable indeed! She felt his sorrows, and would have healed them by the sacrifice of all that was dearest to her in existence.

As she pursued this train of thought, however, and traced the supposed cause of his inquietudes to Mil­wood, [Page 193] pity for his sufferings became diminished, by a jealous apprehension, which she found it impossible to conquer. In vain she reproved the selfishness of her feelings: she found, that the heart will act as a free agent; and often, very often, against the cool, dissuading admonitions of the judgment.

That heart still cherished for Barnwell the glow of love; and, in spite of her efforts to dissemble, the effects of that love were conspicuous in many of her actions.

The whole of the party, except Barnwell, being en­gaged on a sailing trip, to visit the fleet, then anchor­ed in the Roads, he had spent great part of the day in writing letters for Mr. Emery; when, towards evening, a person inquired for him, who would im­part his errand to himself only. He had the ap­pearance of a fisherman, and, upon being introduced to Barnwell, delivered the following letter—

Without a moment's deliberation Barnwell follow­ed his guide. At a small detached hut, near the sea side, the fisherman halted. A clean, neat, elderly woman sat at the door, mending nets, and four or five children were playing before her—

"This is my bit of place, please your honor; and there is a grand lady within, who gave me that letter for your honor."

Barnwell entered, and discovered Milwood, ele­gantly attired in a travelling dress. The fisherman retired to the outside of the hut, and they were left alone.

"How came you hither?" cried Barnwell. "Where is your uncle?"—

There was a wild horror in her looks—she fixed [Page 194] her eyes on him, grasped him by the hand, and made no reply to his questions. She conducted him in this manner, through the fisherman's garden, to an aven­ue that led direct to the cliffs.—Barnwell began to tremble for her intellects, so well she feigned the cha­racter of confirmed Despair. When they had ascen­ded a stupendous height, she approached the extre­mity of the cliff that overhung an inlet of the sea, whose billows tumbled at its base with an awful roar­ing.

"Here, Barnwell, we must pause," said she, in a tone of voice expressive of the firmest resolution—"we are alone—unheard—unseen by mortal!"—then fixing her eyes on the setting sun—"Witness for me, thou glorious orb, descending now beneath the expanse of waters—If these eyes for the last time are fixed on thee, O, bear me witness, in the chancery of Heaven—here stands my murderer!"

Barnwell started!—

"The agitation of the mind," continued she, "consequent on an adventure like that which severed us, so rudely, from each other, is now over, Sir. There exists no more within this bosom, doubts and desires, contending for empire:—the conflict is deci­ded. I am free from the controul both of my uncle, and the being, who imagined that the mummery of a ceremony could consign my heart to his possession. They have both sworn never to see me more."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Barnwell.

"Yes," replied she; "but you, Sir, they mean to pursue with all the vengeance with which the law invests them.—It seems you have thought fit to reject their overtures to compromise, and have deter­mined rather to suffer a ridiculous exhibition of yourself and me, than part, a little sooner than you must, with a few filthy counters!"

Barnwell was amazed!

"It would be absurd, through a false delicacy, to speak less to the purpose, Sir.—We are not now mingled with the subjects of prejudice and forms, in [Page 195] what is termed society. You and I are, upon this spot, ourselves alone; and the expression of our feelings to each other need suffer no restraint. All that we view around us, at present, is the work of nature, save these artificial habiliments that deck our persons.—Be ours, then, the language of nature. For myself, I am determined to speak no other. Thus, then, says my heart—that it will exist upon no other terms, than the possession of your love. Say, then, Barnwell—Do you bid me still enjoy the cheer­ful rays of life—or shall I quickly seek the shades of everlasting night?"

"How wildly you converse!" said Barnwell:—"surely your reason, Milwood—"

—"Has thrown off the fetters that controuled it," interrupted she. "The true end of reason is to lead us to happiness. Two paths are opened to me, and one of them is—Death!—Surely that trembling is feigned, Sir—or you would not hesitate to pre­vent a catastrophe which so seriously affected you."

"How prevent it, Milwood?"

"By acceding to the propositions offered you."

"It is impossible!"

"Nothing more easy:—your bond for the greater part would be accepted; and, surely, three or four hundred might be raised immediately. I have some baubles, which I should deem well disposed of in procuring your peace of mind. But, Barnwell, there is a deliberate coolness, too evident to be overlooked, that tells me, 'tis your wish, that the affair should burst upon the public ear. I must have been mista­ken in you, Sir, when I thought otherwise. But, mark me, while I swear, in the hallowed presence of Omniscience!" (and she knelt) "not beyond the limits of another day will Milwood live, if you per­sist in a refusal of the terms!"

"Hold, hold—for heaven's sake, retract!" cried Barnwell.

"'Twas not rashly sworn, and shall be sacredly observed," said she, rising with a firm, majestic air.

[Page 196] The soul of Barnwell was tortured with severest conflicts. He could not gaze upon her form without a love, that equalled adoration. His own heart, [...]void of guile, suspected not deceit in her. He conceived he saw before him, misery and despair of his own creation; and his countenance proclaimed to Mil­wood, that the moment proper for the attack was come.

Somewhat softening her voice and her manner, she pressed his hand—"Could I have ever thought [...] would have doomed me to destruction, Barnwell!—me, did I say? Is it not possible, that with me may pe­rish one, whose future smiles might have blessed us, Barnwell?"

"O, hold!—My wife—my guide—my fate—lead, direct, controul me, as thou wilt!—Live, Mil­wood; live, on any terms you please."

▪With matchless art she guarded against this over­flow of his affection; and cautiously reflecting upon her situation—"Nay, Barnwell," cried she, "add not this cruel pity to my sufferings! If it is resolved, that I must die, in mercy do not shake my resolution, by the thought that you would feel a pang, when I am dead!"

"Talk not of death," said Barnwell. "Do I not say, that I will sign the bond?—Ay," continued he, wildly, "though sure destruction were the penalty. Come, then, let us seek this Blackmore."

"O, Barnwell, how has this tenderness altered all my thoughts. No; you shall not sign this bond; at least not at present. Here are some jewels of my mother's; take them; they have been valued at six hundred pounds. You can dispatch some confiden­tial person to London, who may dispose of them. But, in the mean time, it is absolutely necessary, so well I know the wretch's mercenary spirit, to pro­cure three hundred pounds this night. I [...] you could borrow so much till the jewels are disposed of—"

"O, with ease," cried the poor victim. "I have always more than that of Mr. Emery's in my posses­sion, and I am sure he will oblige me."

[Page 197] "And yet," said Milwood, "would it not lead to a variety of questions, and conjectures, if you were to ask him? As it will be but, at farthest, for a few days, could you not without his knowledge—"

Barnwell started—"What! steal it, do you mean?"

"If you must put so harsh a construction on my meaning, why, call it stealing. I conceive, merely to borrow from an idle fund, for so short a time, and with such security for the repayment, differs essen­tially from stealing;—but use your own discretion. I merely hinted the objection, from the motive of desiring to save you pain; since you must either con­fess our connection too abruptly, (which would be conveyed to your Eliza, and your mother) or evade it by a falsehood—a meaner vice, in my estimation, than even stealing!"

This sophistry was a stumbling block to Barnwell. He sighed—he inwardly lamented the alternative to which he was reduced, but was silent. They now walked towards the fisherman's hut.—Milwood de­posited the jewels in his hands, which Barnwell said he would not sell, but pledge for the sum immediate­ly required, and would soon redeem them. He en­gaged to return to the hut in half an hour, and de­parted.

He entered the residence of Mr. Emery—he open­ed his bureau—his hands trembled—he counted out three hundred pounds in bank notes. In wri­ting his name on one of them, a tear fell, and blotted it;—it surprised him:—"Why do I weep?" said he—"Childish weakness!"

As he returned through the town he kept his eyes fixed on the ground; he imagined every passenger looked suspiciously upon him. When he entered the room, Milwood received him with open arms. He breathed hard—his countenance was pale, and his knees tottered.

"You are unwell, my Barnwell," said [...]e.

"A little sick—It will be over soon."

[Page 198] "If this is the consequence of your effort to pre­serve me, Barnwell, rather let me perish than exist upon your misery.—Go—replace these notes—and be happy!"

"Milwood—it is not easy to vanquish those out­posts of virtue, which have long repelled within my bosom the approach of a mean thought. A reverence of honour is the strong guard of virtue. I have bro­ken down the trenches of self-approbation, by the commission of a mean, if not a vicious act!—But it is done—and—I shall—I hope—soon forget it!"

"Indeed—indeed, my Barnwell you think too se­riously. Had you even committed a robbery, you could not have discovered more remorse. Surely, there is something like weakness in yielding to these vapourish impressions."

"It may be weakness—but—"

"Come, come, no more of this—I have another subject now for your attention. Do you observe a little cottage at the foot of yon ascent that winds up to the cliffs? I have engaged a small but neat apart­ment there, for a few days. Shall I have your ap­probation?—Come, 'tis but a few minutes walk.

There was a magic surrounded this woman, which Barnwell had long found omnipotent. He was sur­prised upon entering the cottage to find it most ele­gantly, though simply, furnished. The evening was warm—Milwood conducted him to an alcove in the garden, that commanded a near view of the sea. A gentle breeze floated melodiously on the surface of the ocean; the moon's image was reflected in the deep, and her silver beams shed an undazzling splen­dor on the surrounding scenery. The soothing silence of the hour was uninterrupted; save, now and then, the nightingale sent forth her soft and sweetest notes; or the dashing of distant oars murmured melan­choly on their ears.

A repast of fruit and home-made wine furnished the table; whilst Milwood, by every artifice in her power, essayed [...]o sooth his melancholy, and turn the current of his reflections.

[Page 199] The sensibility of Barnwell's soul was exquisite, and in some fatal moments gave passion a superiority over principle. 'Twas thus that, in the enchanting caresses of this beautiful woman, he forget all other existence. Rapture succeeded to bliss, and his whole soul yielded to the ecstacies of love!

An hour or two had passed away in these endear­ments, which Milwood artfully mingled with short accounts of her release from her uncle and husband, and her vows of future fidelity to him. Still she hinted the necessity of a little longer concealment of their connection from his friends; well aware that the whole force of her enchantment rested on that point—one breath of suspicion would have ruined all her deep-laid schemes, and one effort of his friends would have released her victim from the sacrifice, to which her most infamous arts had doomed him.

There cannot be a more dangerous situation for youth, than that which, from any motive, induces them to withdraw a confidence in those, who by experience, interest, and affection, are always best, and often solely, qualified to advise them.

It was nearly midnight, and of course too late to return to Mr. Emery's; but this occasioned him no uneasiness, as from the irregular mode of living at watering places, the individuals of the family seldom saw each other, except at dinner.

As they were about to retire, a little sail, which had hovered in sight for some time, made the shore immediately under the alcove. Two persons landed, one of whom, muffled up in a black cloak, said to his companion, in a voice which Barnwell instantly re­cognized as Mental's—"We must, if possible, ob­tain a lodging at the hotel to-night; or if not, a ram­ble among the cliffs and rocks will occupy the time till morning."

"Ay, master," said the other; "but I'd rather be comfortably tumbling about on a soft feather bed, than be climbing hard rocks by moon-light."

"You might," said Mental; "but think you now, [Page 200] that the villain who seduced, and then abandoned, my poor child, and who with justice may be deemed her murderer, sleeps undisturbed upon his bed of down? Alas! there is a difference in the moulding of the human heart, if it be so. I, who am innocent by comparison, sleep not without such dreams of horror, as chill the blood to think upon."

They then wandered out of hearing.

"Poor Mental▪" said Barnwell.

"Mental!" exclaimed Milwood, trembling.—"Do you know that person then—and is his name Mental?"

"Yes," replied Barnwell, "'Tis an uncommon name. Do you know any of the same?"

"I did, once!" said she, with a sigh, more sorrow­ful than even she could have [...]eigned. It came from the heart. Masking her feelings, however, she con­tinued—"But this person cannot possibly [...] the Mental I knew!—Come, my love, the morning air grows cool—let us retire."

CHAP. VIII.

THE certainty of Mental's being at Ramsgate, was some slender relief to the agitated mind of Barnwell. The next morning, therefore, he busied himself in inquiries, and at length discovered his residence. The whole of that day, however, Mental was from home, and Barnwell merely left his address.

The house and family of Mr. Emery grew hateful to his sight; his own reflections were intolerable; [Page 201] and the only resource left him, was the society of Milwood. This consummate mistress of hypocrisy now amused him with the relation of a new tale, of the manner in which she had disposed of the three hundred pounds. Mr. Nehemiah Blackmore, of Hatton Garden, was once more brought to figure in the scene. He produced a fictitious release from the pretended husband of Milwood, and a bond for five hundred pounds, payable to himself, with interest, at the expi­ration of three months.—The artifices of this man (who was, perhaps, one of the [...] base among that class of attornies, which calls down unmerited censure and infamy upon the profession at large) added to the arts of Milwood, overpowered the scruples and hesitations of a young man half distracted with the perplexity of his situation, and he signed the bond.

He now considered Milwood as his wife, and was only restrained by her entreaties, for yet a little more delay, from acquainting this parent and his sister with his situation. He was determined to confide imme­diately in Mental, and went early the next morning to his lodgings.

Soon as that extraordinary man observed Barn­well, he ran to him, and shaking him by the hand—"I have discovered him!" said he:—"the monster shall not escape the vengeance due to his enormous crimes. I will be revenged—a daughter's shame—a daughter's death, must be avenged—Middleton, or Mental, dies.

"Middleton!" exclaimed Barnwell▪

"Ay!" cried Mental, "Middleton—Captain Mid­dleton—the friend, the intimate, the familiar, of your Emery—He it was who destroyed the innocence a father had abandoned!"

"Astonishing!" exclaimed Barnwell.—"Have you ever seen the Captain?"

"Never," said Mental: "but I have learnt his character—which is a blot upon the name of man! Mark how accidentally I discovered the betrayer. The distressing scene of my poor daughters death so fastened its reflection on my mind, that my waking [Page 202] thoughts, and my midnight dreams, seemed with im­ages of similar distress and misery. Thus haunted by the wretchedness of my fellow creatures, I began to contemplate how far my own abilities might les­sen or alleviate their sufferings, I shuddered to reflect, how large a portion of time I had devoted to una­vailing sorrows and remorse; and how useless, had remained the property I possessed. I determined im­mediately to change my course of action; and, for the purpose of discovering those whose lot I might ameliorate, I chose the path of that superior man among mankind, whose life was spent in doing good—the GREAT HOWARD!

"O, youth, had you beheld with me the specta­cles of misery within the prisons of the proud city, how would your youthful heart have sickened! Tears would have stained your cheeks; and as yo [...] listened to their doleful stories, you would have lifted up your eyes to heaven, and have said—O Love omnisic, why must these things be? The hours fly too fast, or I could croud thy memory with many a melancholy proof of man's ingratitude!—of man's revenge!—of man's injustice to his fellow man! I could recount such tales of tyranny of Office, the Law's most tortur­ing delay, and Justice trampled under the insulting foot of iron-hearted Wealth, as should make 'each hair to stand an end!' But I must confine myself to one narration—one display of villainy;—I will exhi­bit one black group of fiends infernal, masked with the semblance of man's nature, in which this Middle­ton stands infamously conspicuous!

"In the prison, which is called the Fleet, there are ranges of little rooms on the ground floor, resem­bling cells. I had visited several of them, and con­versed with their sad inhabitants; I say sad, because there is a merry class of prisoners, who tenant the up­per rooms, and are generally young men of family, who take the method of confinement, merely to ex­tort the price of their release from their friends; or they are villains, who riot there, in complete safety, [Page 203] upon the spoils of ruined families. Thus the upper apartments frequently resemble the galleries of an ho­tel, where waiters are groaning beneath the weight of wines and tavern dainties; whilst the lower range more generally assumes the appearance of an ill-pro­vided lazar-house. 'Tis to one of these rooms that I am now going to introduce you.

"Figure to yourself a stone arched roof recess, about ten feet square, which contained a bed, a table, two or three chairs, some boxes, and five inhabit­ants. One was an aged man, bald and blind:—he sat in an armed chair by the fire; one of his arms was wrapped in flannel, being paralytic; whilst with the other hand he kept constantly feeling his grand­daughter, a girl of about nineteen, with an intelligent countenance, but pale and sickly from confinement, who was reading to him. His son appeared rather more than forty, and was employed at a press, in one corner of the room, in cutting smooth the edges of some pamphlets, which his wife was stitching. A little boy of six years old, who was in bed, sick with the small-pox, made up the group.

"When my conductor introduced me, as a gen­tleman who had been relieving several of the prisoners, and who was desirous of knowing the particulars of their debts, the old blind grand-father grasped tightly his grand-daughter's arm, and drew her nearer to him. The woman rose, and curtsied; but the man kept on working, without bestowing the least notice upon his intruder. "Who is the gentleman?" said the old man. One, said I, whose name is doubt­less strange to you, but who, possessing the power to soften sorrow, has taken the liberty to intrude on yours.

"The old man sighed. The poor woman looked as if she wished to welcome me; but her husband, still with his back towards me, called to her, in a rough tone, to sit down, and go on with her work—"Haven't you been duped enough with flummery al­ready?" cried he. "Co on—go on, do—Get these [Page 204] home—let my father have a dinner to day, for God's sake!" "Nay, nay, Ned," cried the old man, "don't be cross now—but give a civil answer to the gentle­man. Is it a young gentleman, Patty?" [to his grand-daughter.] "No, grand-father," said Patty. "Speak to him, Ned," said the old man. "I've nothing to say," said his son, "that it concerns him to hear."

"Have you no wants, my friend?" said I. "Would you not be happy to be able to render your father and your family more comfortable than they are?" "That's no concern of yours," replied he: "I la­bour from morning to night, and they exist by the fruits of it—But, come, Kate—" [to his wife]—"What do you snivel at?—The brat will be waking soon, and you'll not get these finished. What busi­ness has that fellow to bring people here to stare at me?—Come—quick—quick—I stand still."

"Struck with the uncommon behaviour of this man, I became more curious to learn his history, in pro­portion as he discovered less inclination to reveal it. I therefore addressed myself to the old man:—Your son, Sir, said I, appears to me to have suffered so much from false professions of benevolence, as to have made him spurn with indignation, all pretensions of that nature. "Alack-a-day! good Sir, whoever you be, I am sure you deserve better treatment:—but my poor Ned!—" "Hold your tongue, father," cried the son.

"I could no longer refrain—I approached him, and laying my hand upon his shoulder—Friend, said I, you mistake my character: I come not to wound your honest and praise-worthy pride—I honor inde­pendence of spirit—I am myself, also, a sufferer by the false colours with which men paint themselves. My heart is not whole, but my purse is heavy—too heavy for an individual. I have no prospect of hap­piness before me, but in rendering service where me­rit demands it. Then, taking his hand—Let me, my friend, serve you. I see your heart—I feel your [Page 205] feelings—Come—come—trust me—I am no de­ceiver.

"The man looked stedfastly in my face—I never beheld so harsh a set of features—His countenance was almost savage. After he had stared at me a few minutes—"You may mean very well," said he:—"'tis possible your intentions may be good—But go, Sir, go—we are a miserable family, and too far sunk in wretchedness for any rescue but death!—Don't hinder us, then—but go." Just then a man tapped at the door, and entered. "Who's that?" exclaim­ed the grandfather, again drawing his lovely charge nearer to him. "Its lawyer Blackmore, father," said the woman.

At the name of Blackmore, Barnwell started.—"Blackmore! did you say, Sir?" cried he.

"Yes," replied Mental, "Do you know such a person?"

"I—I—have heard of him," said Barnwell, glow­ing with confusion.

"Well," continued Mental, "this Blackmore en­tered, and with a supercilious air approached towards the old man—"Once more, Mr. Norris," said he, "I am come with offers of clemency to your son. My client by no means wishes to detain him here; it is far from his intention; it is by no means his wish; he don't desire it; it is far from pleasant to him; and I hope, therefore, you have prevailed upon him to—." "Wicked, wicked man!" cried the grandfather;—"you share in the guilt of this trans­action, by becoming the bearer of such proposals!"

"Less calm was his son. Quitting his work▪ he seized the lawyer by the shoulders, and thrusting [...] out of the apartment—"If ever you enter this place again, on this errand, rascal!" cried he, "you will not quit it living." He followed the lawyer through the passage to the gate, exclaiming violently against him.

"Whilst he was out of the room, his wife came to me—"O, God bless you for your goodness! I [Page 206] hope you will excuse my poor husband; but his brain is almost turned, Sir, by bad usage. I wish I could tell you our story; but he is grown so wild, we dare not contradict him. O, he is so altered!—There was not a kinder creature living, a more tender and affectionate husband or father, till that bad man, Cap­tain Middleton—."

"Here the husband returned, and the poor wo­man, with evident symptoms of fear, went to her work.

"Son, son," said the old man, "I charge thee, let this kind gentleman know our story. Come, now, I pray, do. I am sure he is a good-hearted gentleman, and will serve thee."

"Poor old man!" said his son; "and you my dear girl [to his daughter;] my little boy too; and you Kate [to his wife,] I feel for you all! But, psha, what but pain results from feeling! I will not yield to tenderness—Come, come, to work, to work, I pray you, Sir, to leave us."

"Here there was a violent burst of laughter in the court yard, just within hearing. Not far from the window, a party of young fellows were playing with some of their mistresses, and their mirth was as loud as obscene.

"Daughter," cried the younger Norris, "stop your ears—Leave the room."

"O, no! no!" cried the old man, still holding her.

"O, God!" exclaimed the son—"where is the equity of our laws—where is the justice of our land?—To be caged, thus, amidst the most abandon­ed of society!—and for what crime?—Refusing to prostitute my own child!"

"How!" exclaimed I."

"Even as I have said," replied he. "Come, sit you down, and for very madness will I tell you our tale. But mark me, I court not your pity—I spread no [...] for your compassion!—That venerable old man, my father, about sixty years ago, entered into business in the city of Canterbury. I was his only [Page 207] child; I learnt his art, that of bookbinder and sta­tioner. My mother died—I married; and as my fa­ther declined in years, I conducted our concerns. Nineteen years of time had passed since my marriage, when there came to be quartered in our city, a regi­ment of militia. We kept a library, and of course our shop became a sort of lounge for the ladies of Canterbury. The officers of the regiment soon dis­covered this, and pestered us with their company. My girl, there, though now pale and sickly-looking, was then as fair a wench as any in all Canterbury. Her beauty obtained her many fulsome flatteries, of which we endeavoured to shew her the insignificant value; and I believe the girl had sense enough to treat them for the most part, with just that civil indifference they deserved:—but there was one scoundrel—a handsome fellow, too—a captain in the regiment, who made a a more than ordinary impression upon my poor girl's heart. His attachment was evident; his attentions too conspicuous to be overlooked; but his purposes, his infernal purposes, he well concealed. Under the mask of kindness for me, and my family, he held out a bait, which my active and industrious spirit too eagerly grasped at. About that time a li­brarian at Margate failed; the shop and business were to be disposed of; and having obtained, by his frequent visits, a most familiar footing in our family, Captain Middleton, after a proper introduction, of­fered to lend me a sum sufficient to purchase them, upon the joint bond of my father and myself; with the simple condition, that an elderly lady, his friend, should board and lodge there. Unfortunately we ac­cepted his treacherous offer; we completed the pur­chase; and my father, being indisposed, and having gradully lost his sight, removed to Margate, accom­panied by my daughter.

"'Twas not long ere the real purpose of this seem­ing generosity was exposed, by the following accident:—Captain Middleton frequently rode from Canter­bury to Margate, and never failed paying his respects [Page 208] to the old lady, whom he settled in our house. I myself, having to superintend the business both at Canterbury and Margate, also had frequent occasions to be there. It happened, that, one evening as I walk­ed round the garden at the back of the house, I heard the voice of Captain Middleton, loudly disputing in a summer house with Mrs. Masters, the old lady; and as I passed the door, which was shut, I heard him distinctly utter—'My God, Madam, I am trifled with:—do you imagine I have been paying three hundred pounds for mere gape seed! I tell you, the stay of the regiment at Canterbury is uncertain; and I am determined to possess this jewel before I quit Kent.' 'I say, Sir,' replied the old Beldame, 'that your im­patience will ruin every thing. The girl loves you, I am certain; but she has been strictly educated, and her notions of virtue are not to be overcome so easily as we conquered Elinor Mental's.'

"Judge," said Mental to Barnwell at this part of his narrative, "how I felt at that name, and at the subsequent remarks!—I struggled hard; and, in part, concealed my emotion, as I longed to hear the con­clusion of the tale.

"Presuming," said Norris, upon what I heard, how much I was interested in their discourse, I con­tinued to listen. 'Ay,' cried Middleton, 'that affair was well managed:—to the last hour of my life, Mo­ther Masters, I shall be indebted to you for that bu­siness; but here you boggle cursedly; and yet this chit has not half the cunning of the jilt Mental.' 'True' replied the other; 'but there is so much more virtue and fuss in the way than there was with Mental. Besides, here are a father and mother; Mental was the cast-away charge of a neglectful boarding school governess.—I repeat, Sir, you must have patience, or you will spoil all.' Here their con­versation broke off; but I had heard enough to kin­dle a fire in my veins. I am by nature warm, and impatient of insult;—bursting open the door, I seiz­ed the villain, and exhausted my rage in curses on [Page 209] his head. Guilt made him coward—He submitted tamely to my anger.—The woman left the arbour, and in a few hours the house. In vain he attempted to palliate his intentions. I was deaf to every thing he said. I continued roughly to handle him, and never relinquished my hold, till I had kicked him complete­ly out of doors.

"Every hour since that, the mean and cowardly villain has been planning the ruin of my family. His first step was, to put the bond he held, immediately in execution against me; and, as a fit engine for his infernal purpose, he chose the man you have just now seen as a lawyer. If you know any thing of law, you need not be told, Sir, that, in the hands of wicked men, it may be easily made the destruction of poor debtors.

"My business was neglected, in the attendance necessary to carry on a fruitless defence against his extortions; my little capital was exhausted; my fa­ther's houses were sold; my customers forsook me; my real creditors flocked about me; my effects were seized, and sold. But the aim of this vil­lain was revenge; he therefore preferred seiz­ing my person; and having hunted me from one part of the kingdom to another, for some months, he has at length succeeded to the utmost of his malicious wish. My poor, infirm parent will not quit me, but prefers this dungeon to a workhouse. My daughter he will not trust a minute from him, being tormen­ted with the notion that Middleton will will yet ob­tain her.

"I have had friends, false summer friends, whom now I never see. Judge then, Sir, if there is not some excuse for my ferocious disposition. I am like a hunted beast taken in the toils; and have lost all hope in heaven, all confidence in man. I labour hard to gain a slender sustenance for my [...]; and here, even here, my pursuer worries me with his damned proposals, to release me from my cage, up­on yielding my poor child a prey to his lewd desires. But rather would I dig her grave with my own hands [Page 210] —ay, rather would I dig one general gulph, and plunge wife, father, children, self, all living, to its bottom, than prostitute the child I have given birth to!"

"Is there such a villain in existence, said I, as this Middleton? Where is his residence?

"Six months," replied Norris, "I have been im­mured in this prison; of course he is living but where I know not. He has never been here himself, but all his proposals are made through the [...] of the lawyer Blackmore.

"I have heard that the wicked wretch, who has been his assistant in many a scene of infamy, the Mrs. Masters, is now dangerously ill at Ramsgate, and lingers under all the horrors of remorse, in expecta­tion of her dissolution.'

"At Ramsgate!—Can you address me to her, my friend, said I. I have inducements to see this wo­man, of which you have no conception. You have mentioned, in your narrative, the name of one, whom I ought to have cherished in my own bosom, but whom I abandoned to the loose guardianship of an hireling. The Miss Mental, alluded to by the base Mrs. Masters, must have been my poor, deserted daugh­ter.

"Gracious Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Norris lifting up her eyes; "and what has become of the' poor creature!"

"Dead!—to my comfort—dead!—exclaimed I. But if her seducer lives; and if, by the instructions of this Masters, I can discover him, vengeance shall yet o [...]ertake him.—This very night I will set off for Ramsgate; and a part of the vengeance I will hurl on this wretch, shall be the deliverance of your per­secuted family."

"Alas! good gentleman, you know not how deep­ly our distresses have involved us," said the elder Norris. "A thousand pounds would hardly clear us; and then my poor Ned would be ashamed to see Canterbury again."

"No!" exclaimed I, "he shall not be ashamed.— [...] [Page 211] had resolved upon my conduct; and contriving to slip my purse into Mrs. Norris's hand, unobserved by her husband, I took my leave of these victims of ini­quitous power. The necessary directions for their liberation were given; and I arrived at Ramsgate in time to hear from the lips of the dying wretch, Mas­ters, the horrible tale of my Elinor's destruction. I obtained the address of Middleton, which was in London. I returned thither the next day, and traced him to Emery's, in Portland Place, where I learnt, that he had accompanied the family hither.

"After spending some time in a necessary attention to Norris's family, which will soon be at liberty, I re­turned to Margate, and from hence in a little fishing boat to this place."

"What an extraordinary discovery!' said Barnwell, when Mental concluded.

"Yes," replied Mental; "and I am determined to act decisively upon it.—Where is Emery's house?—I'll see this Middleton to-day."

"I will conduct you, if you please," said Barnwell. "But, before we go, if you could bestow an hour's attention upon a circumstance, that involves in its consequences my future destiny—."

"That Milwood, you allude to.—I have not for­gotten, amidst my own concerns, your danger, youth! Nor, believe me, am I indifferent to your welfare. If you will unburden your breast of its anxieties, you shall experience from me all that a fond parent is desirous of bestowing on his son."

Barnwell related every occurrence that had taken place since his connection with Milwood.

CHAP. IX.

WHEN Barnwell had concluded his story, having concealed nothing from Mental, but the means by which he obtained the three hundred pounds, the latter fixed his eyes upon the former, and in an affectionate tone of voice—"Beware, youth, beware!" said he. "I shall think on your story: in the meantime, lead me to Middle­ton."

"Upon their arrival at Mr. Emery's, they were surprised to find the whole house in confusion. Maria Freeman, whose health had been some time declining, was that morning so extremely indisposed, as to be confined to her bed with symptoms of a de­lirious fever. Upon their entering the parlour, Miss Emery, and her mama, immediately began a most lamentable duet upon the monstrous disagreeableness of people's being ill—

"It makes one," said Miss Emery, "so vapourish, to see the old doctors, and the apothecaries, and nurses!—"

"O! absolutely," cried her mama, "its the most excessive dull thing in the world!—May be she may die, too!—Really, Emma, I'll return to the Pavil­ion—I do hate any thing that reminds one of one's latter end. Where's Charlotte?—I hope she is not so mad as to be in Miss Freeman's chamber!"

At that instant Charlotte entered—"So, Mr. Barnwell," said she—here's havoc you've made! Why, Sir, if Miss Freeman dies, you'll be indicted for murder! She is screaming after Mr. Barnwell, do you know, in such a violent manner that all the old Quizzes are frightened out of their wits."

"What's all this trifling?" cried Mental, starting from his chair, and thumping his oaken stick on the floor. "Shew me to Captain Middleton, Sir—I did not come here to do penance, in listening to the [Page 213] vapid effusions of empty heads, and iron hearts—Shew me to Middleton!"

The ladies were quite terrified—"Lord bless me, Mr. Barnwell," cried Mrs. Emery, "who have you brought here?"

"This gentleman, Madam, has very particular business with Captain Middleton."

"Do, pray, then, have the goodness to shew him into the library. Mr. Emery and the Captain are both there."

At the door of the library Barnwell announced, that a gentleman desired to see Captain Middleton; and Mr. Emery was politely retiring—

"Let me request your presence, Sir," said Mental: "the business I am about to enter on requires evidence."

Mr. Emery returned. Captain Middleton bowed to Mental, and entreated him to sit.—Barnwell, by desire of the latter, also was seated. After a pause—

"Gentlemen," said Mental, "I am commissioned with the execution of a most unpleasant business. A person, whom I sincerely regard, has sustained a most serious injury. He was unfortunately deprived, by death, of a most amiable wife, at a period when her maternal attentions began to be loudly called for by their daughter, a beautiful girl of three years old. His affairs, about the same time, compelled this per­son to leave England for some years: being unwill­ing to take his daughter with him abroad; and, hav­ing no female relative or friend with whom he could deposit his heart's sole treasure, he was compelled to place his child with the governess of a respectable boarding-school. Here she remained, and increased in beauty and accomplishments as she grew in years.

Well, gentlemen, her father returned, after a long absence, to his native home, and settled in affluent cir­cumstances, in a retired part of the country. Re­maining still a widower, for that, and possibly for other reasons, he did not immediately after his return send for his daughter from the seminary, where, he was convinced, she was improving herself in the attain­ments adapted to her sex and fortune.

[Page 214] "Thus she continued at school till she was about seventeen years of age. You'll say, perhaps, her fa­ther was to blame to continue the care of her, at that thoughtless season of her life, in the hands of a mere school mistress. Events have proved that it was wrong; but he, a sort of a Recluse, little imagined that there were beings base enough, among mankind, to plan the slow destruction of innocence and beauty. We, who are men of the world, know things better, Captain Middleton. We know, that girls at the age of seventeen, under no other controul than that of a negligent governess or a depraved teacher, are very comeatible articles— [...]?"

There was an expressive sneer that accompanied this last sentence, which made Middleton tremble.

"Sir! Eh!" cried the latter; "I don't clearly understand your drift."

"You will soon," said Mental. "I meant mere­ly to remark on the extreme ignorance of the old fool, who could trust such a charming temptation in the way of us red coats! (for I've served, myself in the army) and then be surprised at its consequences.

"But, to proceed with my tale. In the neigh­bourhood of this young lady's residence there was quartered a regiment of militia, which was graced by a Captain of most elegant exterior, and perfectly ac­complished; that is, he had run one man through the body, and wounded several; had figured in a crim. con. action, knew the use of loaded dice, and would see you a three-bottle man under the table.

"For the accommodation of these dashing gentle­men, there are certain beings, who assume to them­selves the name of women; and, under the character and appearance of gentlewomen, contrive an intro­duction to the young and inexperienced part of their sex, with the infernal design of debauching their mo­rals, and rendering them an easy prey to seduction. Unfortunately for my poor friend, a wretch of this description found means to gain the confidence of his daughter, whose volatile disposition, and full flow of [Page 215] careless spirits, exposed a heart, unguarded by princi­ples, to the easy conquest of this harridan.

"The Captain was introduced to the poor victim, as a friend of this creature's; and, to be brief, [...]he consequences were, the ruin of the daughter, and the consummation of many miseries to the heart-broken father!"

"Unhappy man!" said Mr. Emery: "is he still living?"

"You shall hear," cried Mental.—"The arts of those experienced practitioners in iniquity were so refined, that the deluded girl eloped from the house of her governess, and not one probable clue to a discov­ery was left.—You are a father, Sir; Captain Middleton, I believe, is not: but any man, who has the common feelings of his nature, may picture to himself the agony of her parent, when he heard the dread tidings of her fall, and was doomed to remain ignorant of her fate!"

Captain Middleton, upon whom Mental all along kept his stern eyes fixed, began now to half-rise from his chair, wiped his face with his handkerchief, twirled the chain of his watch round his fingers, and betrayed various other symptoms of uneasiness.—Mental continued—

"But, gentlemen, there was an hour approaching replete with yet more piercing anguish for his soul. The unhappy parent lived to see that daughter—but, O, God! what a sight—He beheld her, suffering the last agonies of death, on the bare floor of a mean hovel, surrounded by misery and want! and whilst the poison of prostitution consumed her frame, the horrors of reflection on a guilty course agonised her mind! He saw her die! !—If, then, the wretched parent, at that moment, had seen and known the au­thor of this misery, should you, gentlemen, have been surprised to hear, that in the phrenzy of his despair, he had imbrued his hands in the villain's blood? But 'twas not so. Ere he became acquainted with the story I have related to you, his agonies had mellowed into grief, his phenzy into settled melancholy.

[Page 216] "Meanwhile the perpetrator of this deed was busi­ly employed in fresh pursuits of the same nature, aid­ed by the same infernal spirit, in the form of woman. Undaunted by any of the vulgar prejudices of humani­ty, or feelings; unchecked by the incommodious principles of honor, or virtue, he plunged boldly on, to prosecute the ruin of more beauty; and further to extend the desolations of domestic peace—a family, raised by his perfidious promises to the pinnacle of prosperous hopes, was hurled from thence to the abyss of wretchedness, poverty, and the views of endless thraldom: this was the pastime of the all-daring villain!"

Captain Middleton's behaviour now expressed those feelings he could no longer smother.—Starting from his chair—"You have fixed your eyes on me, Sir, in a manner I am unaccustomed to, and accom­pany your dismal stories with such significant glances upon me—I can't mistake their meaning: but, Sir, whoever this friend of your's may be, he is deceived, if he has insinuated the most distant charge of this sort upon a man of my respectability!"

"Your respectability!" ha, ha! cried Mental, with a sneer.

"D—n me, Sir," cried Middleton, "I will not brook this conduct. Let me see this injured father, and I will confront him to his face!"

"You will—then do" said Mental. "Behold him, thou reptile! behold him here!!"

As he spoke, he rose with a majestic air, and fold­ing his arms, stood opposite to Middleton, with a look expressive of the deepest indignation; whilst the astonished Captain staggered back a full pace, and trembled; Mr. Emery, remaining in complete amaze­ment.—A silence of some minutes ensued.

"The names of Masters, and Norris, [...]ill convince you, Sir," said Mental, "your iniquities are no lon­ger secrets. The steps that have led to this discovery I shall not retrace. I know you are the seducer and betrayer of my child, the oppressor of innocence, and, [Page 217] this instant, I demand the paltry satisfaction of your life.

Middleton remained dumb. Mr. Emery, extreme­ly terrified, attempted to interpose.

"Silence, man," cried Mental: "You don't know me. I am not one, who frames, destroys, and frames anew his resolutions! I come not in the moment of passion, to wreak revenge, but calmly to inflict upon a villain the punishment of death!"

"You come to murder, then?" cried Emery.

"Sir!" said Middleton, after a long struggle of cowardice—"Sir—I—see—that—you are—deter­mined, not to listen to any thing I offer in my de­fence; and, therefore, name your place, and time, and take what satisfaction you please."

"To-morrow, at break of day, which will be four o'clock—behind the mill, two fields from the adjoin­ing lane," said Mental, in a firm tone.

"I'll meet you there—" said Middleton, who, on this occasion, was indeed a coward; though, till this moment, he had always retained the credit of great courage. But there was an inexpressible something in the countenance of the father, which the seducer of the daughter trembled to gaze upon, in spite of his insensibility to all virtuous emotions.

"Shall we meet alone, or shall those who are now present attend us there?" asked Mental.

"Is it impossible to prevent this meeting?" said Emery. "Can no concessions—no recompence—."

"Are you a father," interrupted Mental, "and you talk of recompense?—If, indeed, he has power to raise the dead, and make that pure and spotless, which his lust has sullied, there might be meaning in your speech:—I know no other recompense that he can offer, or I can receive."

At length the meeting was arranged. It was agreed, that Mr. Emery and Barnwell should attend; and Mental retired.

CHAP. X.

NO sooner had Mental left the house, than Mrs. Emery and her daughters, attended by their shadows, Morley and Eastwood, rushed into the library, to learn the errand of so strange a Quiz, as he was term­ed by Lord Morley.

It was in vain to attempt concealment, and there­fore, partly by Emery, partly by Middleton, and part­ly by Barnwell, the whole history was related of Barnwell's first acquaintance with him—of the loss of his wife—the fate of his daughter—and the result of that morning's visit.

"A duel!" Screamed Mrs. Emery. "Captain Middleton it shall not take place—Run, my Lord—Run, Mr. Eastwood, to that fat, ugly fellow of a justice we saw yesterday; and, for heaven's sake, entreat him to get all the constables in the place rea­dy to keep the peace."

"I insist upon it, my Lord, you do not obey such orders—as you will answer to my honor. I must confess that I, as well as many others, have been guilty of improprieties in my younger days, of which I readily acknowledge this one of the worst. As to the death of the girl, God knows, I was perfectly ignorant, and of her want, for I have not seen her for years [...]in fact, I had almost forgotten her. The encountering the old man in this way is awkward, certainly, very awkward; but it is unavoidable."

"O, you cruel wretch, you," cried Mrs. Emery—"when you know the value of your life to Mr. Emery, to myself, to thousands—thus to sport with it! A figure like your's, Captain Middleton, to be [Page 219] shot at by such an old, ugly, wizard-looking being as that— [...] shall not be—I will go myself, [...] mo­ment, to—."

"Lor, Ma'!" said Miss Emery—"Do you think Captain Middleton can't level a pistol better than old Mental? I have not the least fear, but he'll kill the old brute."

"And then, will he not be obliged to fly the king­dom?"

"O, only for a little time, till its blown over?"

"Only look at Mr. Barnwell!" cried Charlotte, who had been watching his countenance some time: "really, now, by the excessive length of his visage, one would imagine he were going to fight a duel."

In fact, Barnwell's mind was absorbed in very dif­ferent meditations. He was anxiously calculating the time that had elapsed since he had dispatched the jewels to London; and reflecting on the horrible consequences, should the man prove dishonest. Arous­ed, by this remark of Charlotte, from his reverie, he unfortunately betrayed his absence by a sham laugh, and exclaiming—"A duel! What duel?"

"There's a hard-hearted wretch, now!" said Char­lotte, "to laugh at such a serious thing as a duel!"

"Whatever the event of to-morrow may be,' said Middleton, "this trifling upon the subject is unbe­coming. I have made up my mind, Madam:" [to Mrs. Emery] "I am bound in honour to give the meeting; and whoever attempts to prevent it, will throw a stain upon my character, that nothing but suicide will efface."

Mrs. Emery shrieked and fainted; her daughters flew to her assistance, and the party separated. Mr. Emery gave directions to Barnwell to discharge some debts of Captain Middleton's, and retiring with the Captain, to arrange some mutual concerns, he desired Barnwell to let him have his accounts to examine in the evening.

Upon the arrival of the post, Barnwell was sur­prised to receive a letter, in a strange hand writing; [Page 220] but his surprise was soon lost in stupefaction when he read the contents, as follow—

Some minutes had elapsed before Barnwell remov­ed his eyes from the paper; and when he did, they were covered by a thick film, that obscured every ob­ject around him. Cold sweats succeeded; and he had nearly, very nearly, fainted.

"O, Milwood!" exclaimed he—"Milwood, thou hast destroyed me!"

He rushed out of the house, and immediately ran to the little cottage. Breathless and pale, he ap­proached the siren, with the letter open in his hand, and gave it her to peruse. With the most complete hypocrisy imaginable, she shrieked—she raved—and imprecated curses on the man, though the sham jewels had been made to her own orders. She pro­tested most solemnly and impiously called on heaven to witness her oaths, that they were her mother's jewels; and either the man, she said, must have ex­changed them, or some secret thief in her former re­sidences—

"Can my Barnwell," said she, "for a moment harbour a thought so much beneath his liberal na­ture to indulge, as to suppose me privy to a fraud? What is there, Barnwell, in my nature like such mean dishonesty? Reflect, and answer, Sir, whether a per­son of my spirit, even were she vicious, would stoop to the paltry pilfering tricks of a Ring-dropper? [Page 221] Barnwell, it would have hurt me less, had you ac­cused me of a murder!"

"Nay, Milwood," said the youth, "I have not ac­cused you; but I am distracted by the event! What can be done? Mr. Emery has ordered me this eve­ning, this very evening, to make up my accounts.—I am lost for ever! Never more can I return to him—And whither, O, whither can I go!"

In the utmost agony, he threw himself into a chair, and leaned his head upon the table. Milwood, af­fecting the profoundest thought, walked about the room.—"The deficiency must not be known," cried she. "We must prevent this discovery by any means."

"I see no possible way," said Barnwell.

"I see but one," said she; "and that you will scru­ple to adopt. 'Tis indeed, one that, upon a small necessity, ought not to be resorted to; but when, if adopted, it will, to a certainty, prevent disgrace to yourself and family, the utter ruin of all your future prospects, the horrors of a prison, and the character of a thief—I think, self-preservation calls on us to adopt it."

"Name it," said Barnwell.

"FORGERY."

Starting from the chair, with all the wildness of despair expressed in his countenance—"Wretch!—Sorceress!—Away—Away! There is a dreadful ruin waits on thy accursed beauty, and I now see it in all its horrors!"

He would have left the room; but Milwood, seiz­ing his arm, detained him.

"Barnwell, were I that daemon your despair now exhibits to your mind, I should at once relinquish you. What more could such a spirit wish, than that, in this disordered state, you should seek your master. Detection and disgrace, chains and imprisonment, would follow; but, no, Barnwell!—too closely wo­ven is my own destiny with thine to suffer this: too deeply impressed upon my heart, O, youth, are thy [Page 222] endearments, thus to be relinquished. And, by the power that sees that heart, I swear, no fate shall se­parate us. No, though thine obstinate resistance should doom thee to the unwholesome damps of a dark dungeon—should load these manly limbs with fetters—I would follow thee, and share in all thy wretchedness. I—innocently though it be—yet, I have been the cause of your calamities; and never, never will I yield my title to a share of the bitter draught."

With all the softest, tenderest expressions, she hung upon him; she embraced him, and bedewed his cheeks with her tears. The soul of Barnwell was in an agony—He sighed—he sobbed aloud—He cal­led upon his mother, his Eliza, and invoked the de­parted spirit of his father to direct him!

"O, think upon the agonies of thy dear friends!" cried she. "Can you reflect a moment on the phrensy that will seize your venerable mother—the pangs that will rend your sister's heart, when they hear a son, a brother—."

"Hold, hold!" cried Barnwell. "They must not, shall not!—Tell me the means that can prevent discovery—Quick, quick, unfold them, that, with­out the possibility of a retraction, I may pledge my soul's eternal welfare to their adoption!"

"Suppose a bill of Exchange was drawn upon Mr. Emery; say for five hundred pounds at two months, could you not imitate his acceptance?—If so, I would myself undertake to negociate it; and long ere it became due we could provide means to prevent its being presented for payment; and thus the whole transaction would remain a secret within our own breasts—You hesitate!—"

"O, Milwood, what a proposal! Miserable wretch, that I am, how am I fallen, that I can with patience listen to it!"

"Is this a time for abstract reasonings? Is this a moment to moralize, Barnwell? If you are not de­termined to surrender every hope—if you are deter­mined [Page 223] to expose yourself, and all that are dear to you to infamy—you must act—"

"I do not hesitate at the crime—for I am sunk beneath those scruples; but I tremble at the dread­ful consequences of its discovery."

"Absurd argument!" said Milwood. "A pre­sent, an almost instant discovery must take place, if we do not resort to this, or some similar preventive. Against the chance of future detection there are ten thousand odds. Time, at least, will be gained; in which we may guard ourselves against the worst consequences. Ruin is at the door; and you are weakly arguing, if it be wise to fly from it, because there is a possibility we may again encounter it."

"But," said Barnwell; "even if I were to adopt this dreadful alternative, how are you sure that you could procure money for this bill?"

"I will engage for three hundred of the five in less than six hours time."

"But—But—I—cannot—it is impossible!"

"Barnwell, this weakness is unworthy of your nature.—Determine—Are you prepared to tell Mr. Emery, that you have robbed him of three hundred pounds?—Are you prepared to meet the anger of your benefactor, the curses of a parent, the madness of your sister?—"

"Hold—Hold—for heaven's sake—or you will drive me to commit that, in desperation, which, on reflection to have done, will [...] to the grave of suicide!"

"And rather, Barnwell, much rather, would I see you dead at my feet by your own hands, than behold you among felons at the bar of justice, a spectacle to a gaping multitude!"

"O, God! that must not be!—He would not, he could not, surely, proceed to such extremity!"

"Will you, then, trust to the hazard of his clemen­cy a matter of such import?—Puerile folly!—Barn­well, I will myself save you from the effects of your own cowardice."

[Page 224] She produced a stamp from her pocket-book, and drew a bill of Exchange upon Mr. Emery, payable in two months, for five hundred pounds.

"In vain Barnwell asked her a string of questions—How she came by the stamp—for what purpose she could have it—if she had ever indulged such a thought before—and many others.

"When you receive the money to replace what you have taken, I will answer all these jealous ques­tions; till then, I am dumb.—There," [having fin­ished it] "I have drawn it in the fictitious name of Emily D'Alembert, and dated it from Southampton: I shall pass it as the signature of an emigrant friend. Now, in a word, will you put Mr. Emery's accept­ance to it, or not?"

"Oh, Milwood!—over what a dreadful precipice do we hover!"

"And yet, insensible to the danger, you loiter up­on its very brink.—Barnwell, if you have the cou­rage of a man; nay, if you merely possess the policy of a coward, hesitate no longer. If you persist in these obstinate scruples—by every thing most sacred, I swear, these eyes shall never view the misery that awaits you!—If you leave this room with a refusal, I will not quit it living! I have endured wretched­ness enough already in this accursed world of woe, and will endure no more. This steel is my sovereign antidote against all future misery. I will henceforth live happy—or will cease to live!"

She drew the dagger from her bosom, and, in the act, threw back that part of her dress that concealed the most lovely neck and breasts—that ever kindled anarchy of desires in the heart of man!—Fixing the dagger's point to her left breast—

"Barnwell—my fate is in your hands—Approach me not—You know me resolute—If you stir one pace from the table, that moment the dagger shall be sheathed here; nor will I remove its point till you accept the bill, or quit the room:—Now, choose."—

[Page 225] "Where are the boasted powers of Reason now! I know you resolute, indeed!—and am thus reduced to Murder—or Forgery!—If there is a Power, who sees the struggles, the desperate conflicts of this hour, O, let me hope, that, in my account hereafter—Why do I reason?—All clue of right or wrong is lost—my brain is fire—my heart is ice—I have no more the agency of my own will!—Woman—or daemon—whichsoe'er thou art—I am your slave, for ever!—Lead me, then, onward in your own paths, be their termination Heaven or Hell!"

He forged Mr. Emery's acceptance!—Milwood sprung towards the table, hurried the bill into her bosom, and covered her dovoted victim with caresses.

CHAP. XI.

AFTER an absence of two hours, Milwood return­ed to the cottage, where Barnwell waited in a state of mind beyond the powers of language to describe—Guilt, terror, and remorse, haunted his breast, and created there a hell torments!

She tendered him a Bank note of three hundred pounds. Hastily snatching it from her hands, he cast on her a look of mingled love and horror, and rushed out of the room.

As he was turning quickly round the corner of a street, he almost stumbled over his first London ac­quaintance, Mr. Rigby, who had left Mr. Emery's the first winter of his arrival.—

"Barnwell! In the name of Oddity, what makes you from London? Positively, I should as soon have [Page 226] expected to see the statue at Charing Cross trotting ten miles an hour, as to meet you at a Watering­place:—but excusez moi—yo [...] look upon the queer—What's the business? You were running; Excuse moi, but I met Nick Snatch the bailiff here—I beg you'll make no ceremony, but trip."

"Bailiff!—Nick Snatch!—I really don't comprehend you, Sir!"

"No matter; change the subject. All the world talks of a smash in a certain quarter—Perhaps that's the business that queers you. Expensive style—specula­tive man—loan at a discount, and no bonus—Poor Emery!"

"Really, Mr. Rigby," cried Barnwell, vexed to be detained at such a moment, and by such a trifler—"Really, Mr. Rigby, when you and I converse, we should call in an interpreter."

"O, excusez moi—Change the subject—Do you want a horse; my Fireball, sorry to part with him, perfectly sound, good wind, full of flesh, fine figure, fast trotter—must go—want Spanish!"

"Spare yourself, Sir; I am in no want of a horse; but rather in haste."

"O, change the subject. What do you think? bought a curricle, two chesnuts, plated harness—knocked down at—what think you?"

"No matter what, Sir," said Barnwell. "Good morning."

"Why, where the devil are you running? Change the subject. Who's in Ramsgate?"

"The whole family."

"O—excusez moi—Promenade—nous allons—and seizing hold of Barnwell's arm, he was constrained to submit to his company. "Change the subject—What do you think? Such a mess! quarrelled with dad—wouldn't bleed—cut him completely—never speak—drain mama—coax sisters—come over the Isra­elites—all won't do—hardly enough to buy Jew bail—afraid of the Morrow of All Souls—curse their Terms—wish old dad would trip—snug coffin—neat monu­ment [Page 227] —rummage the parchments—annuity mama—pair off the girls—marry Kitty—get a seat in a certain House—and laugh at Nick Snatch!"

Slender was the attention of Barnwell to the [...]illy effusions of this profligate young man, who was be­come completely the dupe of a set of unprincipled beings, who made him at once their prey, and the object of their ridicule.

Such was the extreme volubility of his companion, that Barnwell's silence was unnoticed. They arrived at Mr. Emery's. Mr. Rigby could by no means ob­tain an audience of any of the family. The ladies were quite a [...] aesespoir for the event of to-morrow; Mr. Emery and the Captain were close closetted; and therefore, after tormenting Barnwell an hour longer, he retired, and left him to the most excruciating re­flections.

CHAP. XII.

BY a letter, the preceding evening, Mental had requested Barnwell to be with him by three o'clock on the morning of the duel. He was punctual to the hour. He found that extraordinary man clam and more collected in his manner and speech than he had ever beheld him. There were two packets lying on a table, which he pointed out to Barnwell.

"Uncertain of the events of the next hour," said he, "I have prepared either for death or flight. If I should fall, let this packet be opened immediately after my remains are brought hither [...] it contains directions for the disposal of my property. If [Page 228] Middleton should fall, and I survive, let this be open­ed the day following my flight: It contains some few requests, which I persuade myself you will not hesitate to comply with. Now I am ready; and be the issue what it may, I am content."

The state of Barnwell's mind was ill adapted to remonstrate at that time, even could he have imagin­ed remonstrance of the least avail with such a man as Mental. Much, indeed, he wished to relate to him how far he had himself deviated from the paths of rectitude; much he wished to declare the horrors of remorse, and fears of disgrace, that tortured his af­flicted soul; but the solemnity of the hour forbid him. He could not disturb the tranquillity of Mental's bo­som at a time, when, of all others, it became him, if possible, to increase it.

As they were walking towards the field, Mental, gazing round upon the opening beauties of the morn­ing scene, said—

"In a little time, probably, this vast and wond­rous Theatre of Nature will be for ever shut to me! and what shall succeed it?—Vain inquiry! That something will succeed, I feel—for nature shudders at the idea of total annihilation. Nor is this longing, anxious hope of "living-on," the mere effect of edu­cation, as I myself once thought. The various pros­pects of that Future may, and doubtless do, receive their several colorings from education; but the ex­pectation of some hereafter, seems to me, upon mature consideration of all opinions, and a scrupulous investi­gation of my own thoughts, to be the only innate idea of Man, a universal principle implanted by the common Parent, and influencing, under various forms, the ten­ants of each quarter of the globe. But beyond this conviction, the powers of my mind do not go one step. In England, this [...]uturity is represented in one form to our senses; in Turkey, it assumes another; in Hindostan, another; and among the Africans, ano­ther still; and he who, dwelling under either dispen­sation, is ignorant of any other, feels no difficulty in [Page 229] blending his belief of what he hears with the conviction of what he feels. Not so the man of more enlightened mind; who, unblinded by prejudice, surveys the nu­merous creeds of various nations. He hesitates, ere he can affix to any little spot on earth, the Divine Revela­tion of Futurity; and rising superior to the little­ness of self, inquires how he may reconcile the Jus­tice of Omnipotence with so confined a notion.—Hence, he no longer broods o'er forms and ceremo­nies; he ceases to let down the energies of thought to silly scrutinies of trivial exteriors; but, unfettering his soul from chains of human workmanship, gives it bold flight, e'en to the stretch of Reason. In conse­quence, he acts, he speaks, he thinks—deeds, words, and thoughts, truly his own.

"One error generally accompanies this originality of mind, from which I have been far from free—"forgetfulness of the general state of mankind"—which calls for the slow and gradual removal of the veil of prejudices, and on which too sudden a glare of light must necessarily produce effects, the very op­posite to those intended by the benevolence of true philosophers.

"A deep consideration of this fact has made me lament having published some strong truths, which have unsettled many minds from that foundation on which they had rested, ere any new and more solid base was formed for their support; and has con­firmed me strongly in the opinion, that REFORMA­TION is much better adapted to the purposes of phi­lanthropy than the best planned REVOLUTION. I feel a relief to my mind, in making this free apology for my own conduct, and sincere confession of my sentiments, at this time, most probably so near my exit from these scenes. And permit me, my young friend, earnestly to recommend to your remembrance, that, at the closing hour of his life, there was nothing so anxiously employed the thoughts of Mental, as th [...] future effects of those doctrines, which he had pro­mulgated [Page 230] among mankind. May it impress upon your mind a caution, which will most carefully regu­late the propagation of your sentiments, and even the effusions of your fancy."

This sermon (for such the solemnity of Mental's manner made it appear) finished, as they were within sight of the mill.—They had not arrived three mi­nutes before they were joined by Captain Middleton and Mr. Emery. The paces were measured, the pis­tols loaded, and the antagonists took the ground. The surprise which had made a coward of Middleton, had worn away, and he now resumed that courage for which he was celebrated. They were to fire to­gether, at a signal from Mr. Emery. The word was given—Mental's ball grazed the shoulder of Captain Middleton, who fired in the air.

"How is this?" exclaimed Mental—"why did you fire in the air?"

"Having received your fire, Sir," said the Captain. "I presume I may now, without the imputation of cowardice, solicit your attention for a few minutes to some observations I would offer. When you have heard me, it shall remain for your decision, whether this affair shall proceed. If it is your wish to fire again, I shall think myself justified in returning it, after the explanation I may offer, and the satisfaction I have already afforded by receiving your ball."

"I cannot refuse to hear you, Sir; but our situa­tion requires you should be brief."

"If I could prove, from the most certain evi­dences," said the Captain, "that your daughter lives—."

"My daughter lives!" exclaimed Mental, start­ing.—Psha, psha, psha!—I saw her die—I saw the earth receive her poor remains into its bosom! Why, then, this paltry evasion?"

"I am patient," said the Captain, "I bear with the effusions of your sorrow—but, believe me, Sir,—if the unfortunate girl, whom the madness of desire urged me to seduce, and whose name was Mental, [Page 231] residing at Mrs. Orme's—if, Sir, this was your daugh­ter—she still lives—I saw her last night."

"Saw her last night!" echoed Mental, clasping his hands together—"I hope not—No, no—it cannot be—I saw her die."

"You must have been deceived, Sir, by some strong resemblance of person, or some striking coin­cidence of circumstances—for, by Heaven, I repeat, Miss Mental lives!"

"Wonderful, wonderful!" said Mental, in a voice barely audible, with his folded hands placed to his eyes.

"After the strong impression of her death, which you have received," said the Captain, "nothing will, perhaps, convince you of her existence, unless you were to see her."

"See her! see her!" exclaimed Mental, fearfully looking around him!—"Is she near me?—I would rather embrace the severest tortures Cruelty ere fram­ed!—See her!—horrible!—horrible!"

As he ceased, the teeth chattered in his head, and his whole frame was convulsed.

"Your arm, my friend," continued he, to Barn­well. "I am faint."

He reclined his head on Barnwell's shoulder. Mr. Emery then advanced, and proposed retiring to his house, that Captain Middleton might relate the dis­covery of the preceding evening, from which Mr. Mental might draw his own conclusions. He sub­mitted; and by a slow walk they arrived there. Men­tal asked for a glass of water, and, after taking it, requested Captain Middleton to proceed.

"It is a very considerable time, Sir," said the Cap­tain, " [...] Miss Mental and myself separated—I would, if possible, avoid shocking your mind; but I am compelled to say, that Elinor's infidelity was the cause."

"Facts, facts, Sir, if you please, and spare your comments," said Mental.

"Since our separation, I understand, she visited [Page 232] Rome, Florence, and several of the Italian States, in company with a young nobleman, whom, at length, she left, and sunk into that way of living."

"I understand, Sir—" interrupted Mental—"Pray, go on."

"From that period, till last night, I have remain­ed ignorant of her entirely. In consequence of the intended meeting of this morning, I had occasion for my attorney. Fortunately, I learnt he was in Rams­gate, and he waited on me. The cause of our meet­ing, of course, was mentioned; when to my astonish­ment, he declared, your daughter was at that moment alive, and in Ramsgate! He cannot be deceived, for he knew her as early as myself, and has corresponded with her ever since."

"In Ramsgate!" muttered Mental; "so near me, too!"

"Yes," replied the Captain. "She resides in a small cottage near the sea, and assumes the name of Milwood."

Barnwell turned pale as the dead; his knees shook, and his head sunk upon his breast. Mental, almost as much affected, had yet more presence of mind; and said, with particular emphasis; We must inquire into this▪ and endeavour to conceal our emotions for the present."

Barnwell took the hint; and continuing to hold down his head, made every exertion in his power to screen his astonishment from observation.

"Where is this attorney, Sir," said Mental.

"In this house," replied the Captain. "Hoping to gain your attention, I requested he would be ready to corroborate, by his testimony, what I have asserted. I will step for him."

"Nay, Sir," said Mental; "I will examine him in private. Lead me to him."

This manoeuvre of Mental's, to prevent the meeting of Blackmore and Barnwell, was truly acceptable to the latter, who would, most probably, have been be­trayed by the presence of Blackmore, into a prema­ture confession of his connection.

[Page 233] The time that Mental was out of the room, was occupied by the observations of Mr. Emery and Mid­dleton on this discovery; whilst Barnwell's mind was absorbed in contemplating the consequences it would produce.

At length Mental returned, and, addressing himself to Captain Middleton—

"I am convinced," said he, "from the narrative of this man, that she, over whose grave I have wept, was not my daughter. I doubt not but she lives.—This discovery gives birth to many difficulties, which I must overcome; my life, therefore, is necessary; and I am thus obliged to relinquish, at least for the present, any further claim which the laws of honor may allow me." He then beckoned Barnwell, and they left the room together.

CHAP. XIII.

MENTAL and Barnwel passed the distance from Mr. Emery's house to the lodgings of the former, in the profoundest silence. When they entered the room, the sight of the two packets affected Mental extremely.

"I did not expect to see these papers again," said he; "but who could have imagined the events of this hour! Who could have doubted such appear­ances? The miserable being whom I deposited in the grave, Barnwell, was the friend and companion of [Page 234] Elinor when she resided in Holborn; her name really Ellen. Thus whilst I have imagined she had with­drawn from our world, the guilty wretch has been saying snares to entangle you. O, my poor brain!"

Overpowered by the strength of his feelings, he sunk into a chair, and reclined his head on the table. He wept.

"Tears!" exclaimed he. "Well—well!—a few struggles more, and nature must yield. But you, O, ill-fated youth, what must be your feelings! The dupe of such consummate artifice—how must your bosom burn with indignation against the—against my daughter!"

"O, Sir!" exclaimed Barnwell, with a heart too full for further utterance.

"Fly to her," cried Mental: "upbraid her! heap on her the curses of a father!"

"Hold—hold!" said Barnwell. "It cannot be—it is impossible—that a countenance, which bespeaks the calm, serene felicity of angels, can disguise so de­praved a heart! There must be more Milwood's than one. She, whom I know, cannot be your Elinor▪ and yet such mysterious secresy—such contradictory narrations—such evidence, too!—O, God! if it should be so!"

"Poor youth!" cried Mental. "Fain would I comfort you; but when the recollection of the source whence flows your misery darts through my brain—can I reflect upon a prostituted child—can I contem­plate the ruin of innocence I ought to have preserv­ed, and be calm?"

In agony the wretched father stamped his feet, and clasped his hands together, with a groan that pierced the heart of Barnwell. Then, with an effort, recov­ering himself—

"But this is woman's weakness; this is disgrace­ful impotence of mind, thus to be startled at a phan­tom! for what more is it? I will still suppose her dead—she shall be as dead to me—ay, and to you, too, youth!" continued he, taking Barnwell by the [Page 235] hand, ho had shaken his head significantly: "Yes, we must each console the other, as though each had followed to the grave the object of his hopes and love. Let us upbraid each other's weakness, if a tear glisten in the eye, or a sigh escape its prison of the heart! there, close captives, let our sorrows lie; and, though they struggle with a giant's strength to escape their bonds, not till the bursting of the heart, in death, be they our conquerors! How say you, boy, can you do this? Or will you crouch before the rod of Fate, smart under the discipline of foolish griefs, and whim­per like an infant for a broken toy?—Come—let us swear, never to behold her more!"

"O!—Impossible—impossible!" cried Barnwell. "The love I cherish has become the source of my existence; it is woven with life itself;—and their duration is coeval, Nor can I—pardon me, Sir—approve your conduct. What if she be fallen as low in infamy as we are told—what if her former life has been a scene of vice!—Might not a father's hand, extended, preserve her from still lower depths of sin? Is it not possible your Elinor might yet become the solace of your latter days?"

"What madness!" said Mental.—"Wild in­fatuation! Do you not know that the lost being has be­come a professor of iniquity? 'Tis not a lapse of human nature should make me thus resolve.—Had she sought these arms, when the accursed seducer first abandoned her; had she brought to me the heart that he spurned from him; think you a man, so much above the prejudices of the vulgar, would have disclaimed her for the weakness of her nature? No! I would have nursed her penitence in my pitying bo­som—I would have healed her wounded heart with a father's best affections! But, now—when the im­pulse of her nature is exchanged for the sordid purpo­ses of interest; when the affections of her heart are all evaporated, and in their channel flows a stream of putrid passions—pride, envy, l [...]st, revenge against mankind—what can you imagine would result from [Page 236] overtures of reconciliation on my part, but insolent denials? The delight that swells the bosoms of the parent and the child, is virtuous joy! The smiles of a father, is bliss unspeakable to a virtuous breast; but, to a corrupted heart, is as the sight of heaven to the fallen angels!"

Barnwell listened most attentively.

"If, indeed, you are pursuaded," said he, "that she is so far abandoned, which I, who have so lately seen her, cannot allow, yet, even then, admitting she spurned all overtures of a father's aid in a return to virtue, would not the thought, that you had offered it, afford some consolation?"

Mental started, and paused a considerable time.

"No, no—it must not be," cried he. "Your sug­gestion struck me for the moment; but, upon con­sideration. I am convinced it would prove a fruitless offer, and only add to her despair."

"Still you argue," said Barnwell, "on the ground, that she is irreparably lost. If you could see her—if you but heard her sentiments—."

"Deception is her trade," cried Mental. "But, yet, I am half inclined to see her."

"O, do!" cried Barnwell, with quickness.

"If I were sure she would not know me—And so little resemblance to the portrait do I now bear, that, I think, it is impossible she could—I would see her."

"Obey this impulse, Sir—it is the voice of nature, and I will hope the happiest effects. She must, she shall, prove virtuous yet; for 'tis in vain to talk of tearing from your heart her lovely image!"

"Softly youth," cried Mental. "Let not passion bear away remembrance. Grant that we succeeded to our utmost hopes; what would follow—but that she should forsake the throngs of society, and in the solitude of retirement calm the tumultuous sea of passions that rages in her bosom. You do not, sure­ly, for a moment, Barnwell, think of renewing a connection with a common prostitute!"

"Do I hear you, Sir!" cried Barnwell, his cheeks [Page 237] tinged with a rosy glow, his breast heaving with the impetuosity of youthful passion—"Was it Mr. Mental that I heard? Impossible! 'Twas the croak­ing voice of Prejudice, that blended the supposition of returning virtue and a hiding-place together. A MONK could not preach otherwise, indeed! But I disdain the notion. O, were Milwood virtuous now, not all the screams and howlings of a wondering world should fright me from her arms!"

"Youth," cried Mental, with an expressive gaze—"Youth, I admire and tremble—Hear my determination:—The attorney Blackmore is com­pletely in my power—some practices, of which he was guilty in the affairs of Norris, would transport him. On his lips, therefore, I have a seal. My daughter is ignorant of the duel, and its causes; she will remain so. Could it, then, be contrived to ad­mit me, for a day or two, as a friend of your's, into her company—by which means I might judge of her for myself, and act accordingly?"

"Nothing more easy," said Barnwell. "You might, for a few days, occupy a room in the cottage. 'Tis an excellent thought; and I cherish the strongest hope of its success."

After several obstacles were removed, this plan was resolved on, and Barnwell went to prepare for its execution.

Milwood had scarcely risen, when Barnwell enter­ed the cottage. Surprised at so early a visit, the first thought that occurred to her was, that the forgery had been already detected, though Blackmore, in whose hands she placed the note, had declared he would not negociate it for at least a month; in which period she proposed the conclusion of her schemes on Barnwell. She was agreeably disappointed, therefore, when he acquainted her with the nature of his errand; describing Mental as an old gentleman from whom he had considerable expectations, who wished to reside some time at Ramsgate incog. It was settled, that a bed should be prepared for him by [Page 238] the evening. Influenced, as it was, by contending emotions, Barnwell's behaviour did not escape the penetration of Milwood.—

"Are you unwell, Barnwell?" said she.

"No," replied he.

"Your mind is uneasy, then?"

"What should make it so?—Do I not possess your love—your whole heart?—Milwood, you never loved another as you love me!"

"Never. But why that question?"

"There are others of the name of Milwood in the world, I should suppose; or else calumny has been busy with your's!"

"Who dare calumniate my character?" and she blushed deeply.

"Nay, I did not say 'twas yours. But my friend, whom you will see to-night, soon as I mentioned the name of Milwood, and expressed to him (for he is my second self) the nature of our connection, started, and then detailed some tales that he had heard of one Milwood. But they could not relate to you."—

"'Twas not kind, Sir, to refuse my poor request of secresy for a few more days; but to convince you how superior I feel to any tale of calumny, I am glad your friend is coming. He will not scruple to repeat it, I should hope."

"I never knew him shrink from his own act."

Enough had passed to convince Milwood she was suspected. When, therefore, Barnwell prepared to take leave, she made no attempt to detain him; but immediately after his departure went in search of Blackmore, and challenged him with treachery: he, from a dread of Mental, persisted to the contrary; and declared, that he had not uttered a syllable con­cerning her. Destitute of any other good of suspi­cion, she now turned her thoughts again towards this stranger, and prepared herself for a detection. Summoning to her aid all the powers she possessed, she waited with considerable anxiety his arrival.

CHAP. XIV.

THE mind of Barnwell began now to assume a [...]ast, which justly to delineate is beyond the best efforts of the most brilliant powers of description. The rapid progress of interesting events, in which he had been chief actor, seemed now to have attained their climax. Left to his own reflections for a time, the consequences of that morning's discovery passed in a dreadful succession before his imagination.

"Milwood!"—would he murmer—"Milwood!—Mysterious being! I am lost in unravelling her ac­tions! what but love can have impelled her to such a series of impostures?—A prostitute! is not the end of such lost women—Gain—Subsistence? Has such been Milwood's!—Have I not offered her my hand?—Might she not have been my wife, with half the efforts that it has cost her to procure five hun­dred pounds? Besides, has she not shared the crime, and consequent hazard of detection and death? Had she, when she obtained that sum, fled from the reach of justice, I could at once decide upon her motives, But, no.—Jewels, which she imagined worth more than that sum, were in her possession—these she parted with:—for what?—To purchase a re­lease from her husband!—Has she, then, a husband? If not, why pretend so? Then, her uncle! If she is, indeed, Mental's daughter, she, can have no uncle. Blackmore, too!—the creature of Middleton!—He, it seems, is the discoverer of this lost daughter; and he finds her—in Milwood—whose husband, he pre­tended, was his client!—By heavens, 'tis a con­spiracy—a juggle!—But how to detect it? To­night's interview will probably throw some light on this mysterious business; but to me, it seems im­possible she can be Mental's daughter!"

[Page 240] To these reflections succeeded others, respecting that dreadful act to which the siren had urged him.—

"Forgery!" exclaimed he to himself. "Who, I—I commit a forgery!—Spirit of my father, did you see the deed?—Where is the fatal paper?—Perhaps, ere this, detected, traced!—And who, cries an inquiring world, who was the villain?—Horrible, horrible!—Three hundred pounds may yet re­deem it. I'll instantly ask it of Mr. Emery. Why do I hesitate?—My embarrassment will betray me.—Shall I, then, acknowledge to him, in time, what I have done? Coward, that I am, my heart sinks at the idea! The distresses of Mental, at this moment, render it cruelty to obtrude another's miseries up­on him.—My uncle!—my mother!—Gracious God! it would be parricide to let them know that I am such a villain!"

In the most distracted state of mind he passed the remainder of the day; seeking every opportunity of solitude, dreading the glance of every eye, starting at every footstep; retracing, with an aching heart, the past, and contemplating the future, almost with despair!

Evening arrived. He repaired to Mental, who awaited his call to accompany him to Milwood's cottage, having disguised himself in the habit of an Hanoverian, in which he had formerly travelled.

"Now for an effort, young friend," said he. "But, methinks, you do not brave this warfare of the pas­sions with the fortitude that becomes you:—your brow is marked with grief; your eye lowers, and you sigh! Come, come—be more yourself! One in­terview, most probably, will announce the future destinies of us both. I tremble for myself; and yet I [...] act the hero for your example. Should she resemble her mother!—But, come—the eve­ning is advanced.

Barnwell bowed in silence, and they set forward for the cottage.

In the mean time, Milwood had not been idle. [Page 241] Every channel of inquiry had been drained. Black­more had been entreated, and threatened, in vain; he had disclosed nothing, and the result of all her industry was vague uncertainty, as to the expected stranger. She did not fail, however, to make such preparations as might evince to Barnwell her desire to please. The entertainment that she provided for his friend was deficient in nothing that her situation permitted her to procure.

Mental and Barnwell arrived. She saw them open a wicket gate, at the entrance of a gravel walk that led to the cottage door. She placed herself to receive them. Mental started at the threshold, and retired a pace or two—It was his daughter that he beheld; and in her he saw her unfortunate mother! To screen his confusion, Barnwell attracted the at­tention of Milwood, by saying—"This is Mr. Townley, whom I mentioned this morning. Cir­cumstances rendering a temporary concealment necessary, he has chosen this disguise to insure it." Milwood, having surveyed the stranger circumspect­ly, said—"As the friend of my Barnwell, Sir, you are welcome: acquaintance, I doubt not, will teach me to respect you on your own account."

Mental bowed, and, in a faltering voice, re­plied—"I am a plain man, Madam, and too much out of humour with my own destiny to accommodate my muscles to a smile of gallantry; but, I thank you, and, rough as my manners may appear to you, I shall not be an insensible observer of your actions. My young friend has, I presume, acquainted you with my cus­toms, which to you may wear the semblance of capri­cious whims; but, 'twas upon the assurance of your compliance with them that I trouble you with my company for a day or two.

"In the first place, I must entreat you to forbear all those obtrusive attentions, called civility, or po­liteness. I can't bear teazing; my nerves are irrita­ble. Thus if I choose to spend my day in my chamber, you will not be rapping at my door, with [Page 242] silly importunities to see your garden, or to walk, or ride, thinking that I am too much alone; and such frivolity. I hate it. Again, if sometimes a strange ejaculation pass my lips, don't lift your hands and eyes to heaven with stupid admiration; nor cry—'Sir!—what did you say?' In short, however I may demean myself, be this your rule—that as I have capacity and will, so let that will be free. Now, by your leave, I'll to my bed at once."

"We must, in all respects comply with my friend's wishes; and cannot better shew our willingness to please, than by forbearance to express as much," said Barnwell.

"'Tis an early hour to retire," said Milwood; "but, knowing your inclination, I willingly com­ply."

Barnwell conducted him to a small chamber. Mental grasped his hand—"We must not talk," said he, in a whisper. "My pen shall do the office of my tongue. Stay not here to night. Suffice it, for the present That I have seen my daughter!—Go, or we shall awake suspicion. In the morning be here, and I will contrive to slip into your hand, un­noticed, my written observations. Farewell—Be resolute." Upon his return to Milwood, she over­whelmed him with questions respecting the stranger: and Barnwell was compelled to presevere in false­hoods. Among other questions which she put to him—"Is he rich?" said she.

"Very rich." said Barnwell.

"And who are his heirs?"

"He has none; nor, at present, any friend but me."

"Then you would, most probably, inherit all his wealth, were he to die."

"Distant, far distant, be the day of his death!" cried Barnwell; "though ten times his wealth should be mine at that period."

Milwood pondered a moment; and her expressive eyes proclaimed some mighty purpose was just then [Page 243] generated in her brain. Barnwell observed it not. She made no effort to detain him, when he tool his leave, but suffered him to depart, with the promise of an early visit in the morning▪ The instant he was gone, she dismissed her maid for the evening; and, shutting herself in her chamber, committed the offspring of her mind to paper, in the form of a letter to the Chevalier Zelotti, an Italian, whom she met at Bologna. It is necessary to observe, that this Italian was the wretch who had put the finishing touches to the character of Milwood, whose real history this is the proper period for disclosing.

It is unnecessary to retrace the subject father back than her elopement, from Mrs. Orme's academy, with Captain Middleton. At that epoch she possessed all the levity of youth, uncontrouled by principles of any solidity. Estranged from her parents, she felt for them, or their memory, no regard. Her heart wanted an attachment, and Captain Middleton, aided by the infamous Masters, accomplished her ruin with ease.

Her residence, whilst she continued with Middleton, was principally at Tunbridge Wells; where, grow­ing satiated with his object, Middleton deserted her. She flew to Mrs. Masters, and, having made her election for her future course of life, that woman instructed her in many of the arts necessary for the profession she had chosen.

'Twas at this period she formed an acquaintance with the son of the Earl of—, and accompanied him, through the connivance of his tutor, in a tour to several of the courts of Europe. During the period of this connection, she had ample opportu­nities of observing the amazing disparity of doctrines and practice among the clergy of the church of Rome; a circumstance that unhappily rivetted that disgust she had cherished for religion in general.

At Bologna, the young nobleman, her patron, con­tinued a considerable time, in consequence of numerous recommendations to the nobility there, several of [Page 244] whom were allied to the maternal branches of his fa­mily. Here it was that the Chevalier Zelotti first presented himself to Milwood. She conceived a vi­olent attachment to his person, almost at first sight, and a short acquaintance gave birth to a reciprocation of passion.

Intrigue, in Italy, is one of the businesses of life; and the similarity of unshackled sentiment soon re­moved every obstacle to the gratification of their de­sires. The same contempt for the laws which govern society, the same ridicule of scruples under the name of prejudices, the same unlimited gratification of their own wills, actuated Zelotti and Milwood. The mind of Milwood was strong and masculine; but Zelotti, in addition to natural strength of intellect, possessed the advantage of experience; having received a Monkish education; having passed some years in the army; and having been employed as private secreta­ry to a nobleman, who was some time ambassador at Venice.

When Milwood was obliged either to accompany the young dupe of her charms to England, or discov­er her infidelity, and remain with Zelotti, it was agreed in consultation to prefer the former, under an engagement from Zelotti to visit her in England, as soon as his finances enabled him. They separated, but their correspondence had ever since remained un­broken.

The Earl of—died soon after the return of his son from the Continent, who, succeeding to the title and estate, dismissed his former connections, and shortly after married.

At this period Milwood became distressed, and was compelled, for a time, to accept the friendly offers of the unhappy Ellen, whose acquaintance she had acci­dentally acquired; and being seized with a lingering illness, was almost reduced to want. Then it was that the portrait of her father was disposed of by her friend, which circumstance led Mental to the conclu­sion of her death.

[Page 245] In the mean time, Zelotti had so well played his game in Italy, that he married the dowager of a Flo­rentine merchant, of immense property, with whom he resided a short period; and then, by the aid of poison, disencumbered the possessions she brought him from their unwelcome clogg. He had, however, ex­changed his passion for Milwood for a new face, which presented itself in the person of a native of Florence, of mean extraction, who willingly accom­panied a man of his wealth to England.

Their letters mutually acquainted them with each other's situation, and the utmost freedom was used by both. Milwood did not disdain to accept the pecu­niary assistance she wanted, and the liberality of Ze­lotti raised her from distress. Her indisposition was of the most lingering nature; and she passed many months without the hope of recovery.

During the whole of this period she resided at Southampton, with Zelotti and his mistress; and, if the word is not dishonored by the use, they lived in habits of unbounded friendship, without the return of passion. As the health of Milwood returned, how­ever, her charms once more appeared, and those de­sires revived strongly in her bosom, which she had ne­ver aimed to controul.

In this crisis of her history she learnt from Zelotti the character of Mr. Emery, who was then at South­ampton, and had actually resolved upon a conquest there; when, from the same source, she gathered the intelligence of Barnwell's innocence and inexperi­ence, and without a moment's hesitation changed her intention. The success of her attempts are thus far known. The letter to Zelotti runs thus:

CHAP. XV.

AT the residence of Mr. Emery a general joy dis­played itself for the safety of the Captain; and Barn­well was tormented with questions concerning the old Quiz, as Mental was denominated by the young ladies. Mrs. Emery herself summoned him to her dressing-room, and tortured him with an hour's con­versation on that subject; and on another which oc­casioned him much pain.

"And so," said she, "the brute won't see his crea­ture of a daughter, though he made such a fuss about her, and absolutely frightened one to death with his challenge!—Well—let's hear no more of the wretch!—But, my dear Barnwell," continued she, "I have another and much more important affair to mention to you—an affair of the heart! I shall be as candid as possibly one can on a subject of such exces­sive [Page 248] delicacy; and I am amazingly much deceived, if I do not meet in a mind like your's, susceptible of tender impressions, and alive to those delicate sensations, as I may say—that is—I mean sensibility!—softness of soul!—and all that!—You understand me."

"Madam!" said Barnwell, blushing deeply.

The lady reclining her head, and playing with her fan, continued, "I say—that is—it is unnecessary to say—but in the present state of society, when marria­ges are entered into without a consultation of that congeniality of sentiments; and people are thrown toge­ther, as it were, like blanks and prizes in a lottery: Why, it cannot be wondered at, that affection should not always follow, where parents or guardians—Heigho! Its excessively warm," (fanning herself)—"Do, pray, throw that door open."

It was her chamber-door. Barnwell obeyed, and was retiring.

"Stay, Sir—I—I—Pray, Mr. Barnwell, can you conceive what can possibly engage Mr. Emery so perpetually from home?"

"No, Madam. I—"

"Not that I deem it a misfortune; he is so morose in his manners of late—that, though I never did, to be sure, love the man, yet one would contrive to keep up appearances. But really, of late, he has be­come so indifferent, that one's lot is deplorable;—and—."

This lady of fashion now began to develope her intentions so openly, that Barnwell, whose soul re­volted with disgust at the discovery, would certainly have betrayed that disgust, but for a melancholy in­terruption, which disclosed a passion of a purer na­ture. The love-sick Maria had been permitted to sit up that afternoon, as the violence of her fever was abated, though succeeded by a melancholy of the most painfully interesting nature.

She had expressed a wish to see Mrs. Emery, and her attendant accompanied her to the dressing-room. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, as she entered, [Page 249] leaning on the arm of her attendant. She did not perceive Barnwell—

"If you know he is very wicked, my dear Mrs. Emery," said she, "you ought to tell me; for how should I have guessed at such a thing—when his countenance was so full of goodness?—What a de­ceiver he must be! But don't you think he will grow tired of such bad ways?—Poor young man!—well, well—all is for the best!"

Mrs. Emery, bursting with anger and vexation at the interruption, was yet compelled to dissemble.

Barnwell, hesitating whether to go or stay, was pierced to the heart at the sight of the lovely mourner. At the intimation of her nurse, he concealed himself behind the door, as she must have seen him had he retired.

"My good girl," said Mrs. Emery, "why do you leave your room?"

"C," replied she, "was so uneasy, you can't think; for I can't help loving him:—and then, you know, these wicked women have such arts to ensnare poor youth! And if any harm were to happen to him—why, then—Mrs. Emery, my poor head aches so very much, it makes me forget all that I was going to say. But, suppose I was to talk to him—only for his own good!—He would listen to me.—I am very faint—and very ill—But he is well—that's a great happiness to know he is well! I had something to ask you, but my poor head grows quite forgetful—So let us go, Nurse—and we will pray for him—come, we will pray for him!"

"Unfortunate girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Emery, when Maria had retired.

"I am lost in amazement!" interrupted Barn­well. "To what can the dear sufferer allude?"

At that moment the trampling of horses in the court yard announced the arrival of Mr. Freeman, who was expected, in consequence of the ill state of Miss Freeman's health.

Disgusted at the conduct of Mrs. Emery, and at [Page 250] the same moment filled with compassion for the amiable Maria, Barnwell met the respectable and worthy Mr. Freeman.

"This, then is the end of my parting with her! Why did I trust the staff of my old age from my [...]ight? Shew me to my child!"

In vain Mrs. Emery and her daughters urged the impropriety, and even danger, of the interview. The fond, afflicted father was deaf to reason, and would suffer no arguments to prevent him from embracing the object of all his love. Maria shrieked at the sight of him—ran to his arms, and buried her face in his bosom. A fainting fit succeeded, in which, except for short intervals, she remained the whole night. The venerable old man would not quit the bed-side, but personally administered her medicines, and watch­ed her countenance with unwearied attention.

Another event, of the same evening, occasioned Barnwell fresh food for conjecture, and some uneasi­ness. He had retired at the usual our, and upon entering the breakfast room, the next morning, was surprised to find it empty. In a few minutes his sur­prise was increased, by the entrance of Mr. Rigby, in a pair of red slippers, his hair undressed, and his whole appearance indicating that he had slept in the house—

—"There, my boy, as good as a prophet!" cried he, before Barnwell had recovered himself—"Knew it was upon the totter!—Saw it going—going—and now its gone!"

"Sir!" said Barnwell.

"Tell you all about it. I was at Margate—charm­ing assembly—fine girls—six belles to a beau—gives one consequence—didn't chuse to dance—an hun­dred ogling me—kept up my dignity—strutted about the rooms—lounged among the card folks—flattered the old dowagers, and made them throw away their aces."

"But what is all this?" said Barnwell.

"Coming to the point.—As I stood leaning, in a [Page 251] pick tooth attitude, upon old Lady Snow-drop's chair, very attentive to a trick in diamonds, we were all frightened out of our wits by a sudden exclamation of "D—n!!—as loud as the echo of Ashley's double drums! I knew the voice—'Twas Emery's; every body was up, the cards were mixed, candles thrown down, and the whole room in complete con­sternation!—The tremendous word, that occasion­ed; such an effect, was but the overture to the piece that succeeded; in which Emery, Middleton, a Cap­tain of the Guards, and the dear darling of an eminent distiller, were performers, both vocal and instrument­al, their vociferations of abuse being accompanied by the jarring of pokers, candlesticks, and chairs!"

"Proceed, Sir," cried Barnwell: "if under all this embellishment there is any matter of fact—."

"O, excusez moi, my dear fellow—truth, to a word, on my honor, the antagonists were at last parted; the cause of dispute was blown—foul play—The distiller's son had detected Middleton, at a time when some thousands were against the former. Emery was charged as an accomplice. Swords and pistols followed of course, and an immediate meeting was agreed on. Emery saw me, and entreated me to break the affair at home; and thus ends the first part of the chapter of accidents.

"Are you in earnest, Mr. Rigby?" said Barnwell: "really in earnest; serious I don't expect you to be."

"Real right earnest, upon my honor."

"And where is Mr. Emery? Is he safe?"

"Excusez moi—can't say—Drove to town like furies—Justices had took the alarm, and would suf­fer no meeting at Margate—'Twas quite a blaze—the whole town in an uproar."

"The event is uncertain, then?" cried Barnwell.

"Quite so. A bit or a miss, that's the hazard."

"And Mrs. Emery and the ladies—"

"Have cried and fainted, and gone to sleep."

"Good God! what indifference about the life of a fellow-creature!" said Barnwell; and, bursting [Page 252] in anger from Rigby, learned from the servants that the most material part of his narrative was too true.—The ladies, in anxious expectation of tidings, remained in their room—whilst Lord Morley and Mr. Eastwood had gone post to London.

The most scrupulous care was taken to prevent a breath of this intelligence reaching the ears of Mr. Freeman, who still kept watch by the bed-side of his daughter. All Ramsgate, however, rung with the story, coloured and improved by every retailer. Re­ports [...]lew thick and fast▪ The house was beset with inquirers; and Barnwell, fully occupied with at­tending Mrs. Emery and her daughters, and answer­ing the politely curious inquisitors, found it would be impossible to see Mental or Milwood that day, and therefore dispatched a note, announcing the event.

From the answer of Mental, he learned, that he had entered into a conversation with his daughter that morning, in which, as Mental expressed it, "he had discovered she possessed a vigorous mind, a quick fancy, and some acquired knowledge; but when I gazed on her countenance," continued he, "my memory rose in war against me; the image of her murdered mother stood before me, and I was compelled to fly the vision. I have shut myself up in my chamber; I have reasoned with the inward chid­ings of my soul; I have struggled to obtain acquittal of myself, and found that struggle hard. When late I stood upon the grave's brink, I was less shaken. I felt no pangs for an irretrievable act of homicide;—but the resemblance grew upon me, fastened on my mind, and conjured up the thousand vain regrets I thought for ever buried. Those gloomy thoughts, which I oft indulged at the still midnight hour in the old Abbey's aisle, now beset me, and attract the mind from more useful occupations. Something we must determine soon respecting this lost woman!—* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *—Whispers passed my cham­ber door—They are continued.—In detecting ar­tifice, [Page 253] art must sometimes be used. Much as I abhor listening, from m [...]re curiosity, the stake of happiness we hold in all that concerns this Unfortunate, com­pels me—I will listen. This is what I heard her say—

"Give him this letter; and tell him, his Elinor never wanted the aid of her Zelotti so much as at this moment. He could not have arrived at a more interesting period. Say, I expect him most impa­tiently. Adieu.

"From the window of my chamber, I see her at­tend a person, in a travelling dress, along the gravel walk to the wicket. Who is the Zelotti?—Come to me as soon as possible—Our situation becomes in­teresting. MENTAL."

Such was the conclusion of the letter Barnwell re­ceived from the Cottage.

Many hours of anxiety were endured by Barnwell ere any certain intelligence was received concerning Mr. Emery. About ten at night Lord Morley and Mr. Eastwood returned.

Mr. Emery had received a very severe wound in the head, and the ball was not extracted, at their de­parture from Portland Place. Captain Middleton had dangerously wounded his antagonist, and had set off immediately for Hamburgh.

To conceal the danger of Mr. Emery's situation from his family, it was settled that they should con­tinue for the present at Ramsgate, and be merely in­formed that a meeting had taken place, and Mr. Emery slightly wounded, but forbid to travel for a day or two, when he would return to then.

About noon the following day a post-chaise and sour drove into the court-yard, and Mr. Drudge, the acting partner in the concern of Freeman, Emery, and Co. was in a few seconds in the hall. Barnwell received him.—

—"Mr. Freeman!—Mr. Freeman!—Where's Mr. Freeman?—Let me see Mr. Freeman," ex­claimed Mr. Drudge.

[Page 254] The rattling of the chaise, the loud talking of Mr. Drudge, and the bustle of the servants, alarmed the whole family, who, with Mr. Freeman himself, were immediately assembled, to inquire the occasion of such a noise. Soon as Mr. Drudge saw Mr. Free­man, he ran to him, and grasping his hand—

"O, Sir!—prepare yourself—prepare yourself.—such tidings!—such discoveries!—Good God!"

Mr. Freeman trembled—Mrs. Emery and the la­dies almost fainted—whilst Lord Morley and Mr. Eastwood stood motionless, with a stupid stare of vacancy.

"Is Mr. Emery dead?" exclaimed Barnwell.

"O, worse, worse than death—He is a—ruined man!—and much I fear his ruin will extend to more than him. O, my dear Sir, when I think what you must feel!"—still grasping Mr. Freeman's hand—.

"Ruin!—ruin!" exclaimed the worthy Mr. Free­man; and, placing his hand to his forehead, cried—"Strengthen me, good heaven!"

Lord Morley and Mr. Eastwood gaped at each other, and the rest of the company; and the latter, at length, proposed taking the ladies into another room, whilst Mr. Drudge explained to Mr. Freeman. Barnwell remained.

"Where is Mr. Emery?" cried Mr. Freeman.

It now became necessary to acquaint him with the affair at Margate; and Mr. Drudge added—

—"The report of such conduct soon buzzed about London, and no less than ten arrests were that morning issued against him; and notwithstand­ing the poor man is absolutely delirious, from his wound, he has been removed to a spunging-house. In the house at Portland Place there are already four executions; as many in Broad Street, and at the Pa­vilion. Demands upon demands, to such amounts that astonish me, flock so fast one after another, that to procure bail is impossible; and reparation seems beyond the reach of human hands."

[Page 255] Such was Mr. Drudge's unvarnished tale; and its effect upon the mind of Mr. Freeman may be con­ceived, but cannot be expressed.

"For this have I nourished thee—thou Ingrate!" exclaimed Mr. Freeman,—"Villain!—hypocrite!—smiling, systematic villain!!—What must be done? You, too honest man, the sweat of whose brows have furnished this monster with luxuries—you, too, must be involved in his ruin!"

"To be sure I must suffer—my wife and children must suffer!" said Mr. Drudge. "But, O, Sir, I am a young man yet; but you, you Sir—who have grown old in the respect of the world, and have ac­quired a right to the comforts of age—you, Sir, must be a sufferer, indeed!—Your amiable daughter too—."

"Hold, hold, hold!" cried Freeman: "there you touch my soul! But how can he so long have deceiv­ed us both?"

"Alas! Sir, I have long suspected when balance after balance has been against us; but he was so ready with specious excuses. At one time he pre­tended money was locked up in the hands of govern­ment; at another, speculations of the boldest nature in the funds; and as they had all your sanction—."

"My sanction!—I never dreamt of such proceed­ings. Month after month he remitted to me state­ments of the concerns, that shewed an increasing, very increasing balance in our favor."

"Good God, what villainy!—Sir, he has repeat­edly, again and again, assured me you knew the facts, and approved them; while, at the same moment, he must have been remitting for your inspection, state­ments of his own fabrication."

"Can human nature be so base!" said Mr. Free­man. "But what can be done? How are we to learn the amount of debts against us?"

"A meeting must be instantly called," said Mr. Drudge.

"O, just Heaven, help me to support it!—At [Page 256] my time of life, must I, after having so many years enjoyed the good opinion of my brother merchants, must I now be reduced to stand down-cast before my creditors, and own myself connected with a swindler? How shall I bear it?—[Tears actually rolled down his cheeks."]—"Had he buried a dagger in my heart, it had been mercy, to a deed like this!"

Barnwell, who trembled for the effects of this stoppage upon his own crime, was scarcely able to speak; yet the tears of such a man as Mr. Freeman roused him to attempt something like consolation.

"Not on you, Sir," said he, "not on you will dis­grace fall, whose actions—"

"The world, in these cases, seldom discriminates, young man. What will my tenants, my neighbours say, when my house, my lands, my very furniture, is lotted out for sale, to pay my creditors, perhaps a fourth, an eighth, of their just debts?—And you, too my Maria—poor dear girl!"—[He dropped on his knees] "Take her—take her, gracious God, to thine own kingdom! Let her not rise from the bed of sickness to a beggar's lot!"

A considerable time passed before this injured merchant could, with any composure, discuss what steps should be adopted. At length it was agreed to summon a meeting of their creditors. When this was arranged—

"There is one circumstance more, which I think I had better mention, le [...]t you hear it by some other channel:—The connections of Mr. Emery have, late­ly, been of the worst kind imaginable. To some gamblers he was in the habit of giving bills for large [...] payable by the firm. Among others, I was shewn one, for five hundred pounds, which a Jew br [...]ker had discounted, as he termed it, and which I am certain is a [...]. It wants some time of being due. Now, in all probability, this is not the only one."

Like lightning, the word FORCERY struck the brain [Page 257] of Barnwell.—"I am ill" cried he, and rushed out of the room. In the hall he stood for a few mo­ments; then, with the swiftness of desperation, left the house, uncovered, and ran in a straight direction, for a very considerable distance, without any deter­mination as to where he would fly.

CHAP. XVI.

A SCENE of confusion followed the abrupt de­parture of Barnwell. Nothing but madness could be devised as the cause of such a proceeding. Servants were dispatched in every direction in pursuit of him, and even amidst the general ruin that threatened them, each individual of the family felt a sincere re­gret for the fate of one so universally esteemed and beloved.

Miss Freeman continuing too ill to be removed, and Mr. Emery being in an unfit situation to receive his wife and▪ daughters, it was settled that the ladies should remain, for the present, at Ramsgate; whilst absolute necessity compelled the distracted father of Maria to accompany Mr. Drudge immediately to London.

It was at this most critical moment, that Sir James Barnwell, accompanied by the Sage Sandall, arrived at Ramsgate; and, from—'s hotel, addressed the following note to Mr. Emery.

This note was delivered to Mrs. Emery, who was wholly incapable of answering it, and handed it over to Lord Morley, who, in turn, conveyed it to Mr. Eastwood, when the following private dialogue en­sued:

What the devil's to be done, East­wood. Positively, all this kind of uproariness, as one may call it, so absolutely deranges one's ideas, I am scarcely compos me [...]tis."

Precisely my feelings, I assure you, my dear lord. I never was more completely [...] since I have existed. Really, my lord, its a species of suicide to remain amidst such scenes. For my own part, I—I—had it in contemplation to have rai­sed the siege, even had not the man's character been disclosed in such most shocking colours; for I don't know, my lord, how you may have been treated but the insolence of Charlotte has lately been intolera­ble."

How exactly similar are our sensations. Really, one is apt to be blinded by affection; but of late my eyes have been much undeceived respecting Miss Emery—such vanity in both the girls!"

Such coquetry!"

Such lovers of scandal!"

Such inanity of mind!"

Such paucity of ideas!"

Such poverty of language!"

And then, how far from beauties!"

They both paint!"

And paint ungracefully!"

They dress ridiculously!"

And yet extravagantly!"

And as to fortune—!"

There's the rub—!"

Positively, my lord, one's character is at stake, in remaining here any longer!'

Will you oblige me with your com­pany a few days at Morley Park?"

My dear lord, you overwhelm me! How can I possibly be so well, or so happily employed, as in Lord Morley's charming society!"

We'll start directly.—You've a ready pen; answer this old gentleman's note; and leave one in our joint names, for Mrs. Emery. I'll order the carriages."

His lordship retired, and Mr. Eastwood wrote the following:

[Page 260] "Lord Morley, and the Rev. Mr. Eastwood, most cruelly tortured at the events which have taken place in Mr. Emery's family, would merit the severest cen­sure, if, by their presence, they continued to remind the unfortunate of their former situation in life. They are sensible, therefore, that they are consulting Mrs. and the Miss Emery's tenderness of feeling, when they resolve to save them the pain of a farewell, under their present circumstances. Lord M. and Mr. E. [...] never cease to remember, most gratefully, the [...] civilities they have received from every branch of the family; and will feel infinite satisfaction, if, at any time, the exigencies of that family can be relieved either by their advice, or their fortunes."

"Mrs. Emery."

Thus fled these summer friends, at the first blast of wintery adversity. How different the conduct of the worthy Sir James Barnwell! Soon as he had perused Mr. Eastwood's note, he repaired to the house of mourning; nor did the heart-felt sorrow which seiz­ed him on his nephew's account, prevent him from tendering every consolation in his power to the unfor­tunate Emery's.

These ladies felt the change of circumstances se­verely indeed. Mother and daughters so resembled each other in their feelings, that one description serves each and all. Uneducated in any true principles of religion or morality, they had borne prosperity too ill to sustain adversity with fortitude. When they were surrounded by the luxuries and dainties of life, and seemed placed on an eminence above the reach of want, or woe, they had never been taught to reflect upon the means, by which they were thus exalted, whilst millions of their fellow-creatures struggled to endure existence: they never reflected, it was that chance "in the affairs of men" which gave them wealth, and others want; but vainly arrogating to themselves a visionary superiority in the scale of hu­man beings, called not the poor their brethren. In­stead, [Page 261] therefore, of alleviating the consequences of that inequality in society (which experience seems to pronounce inevitable) the occupation of their lives was to increase that splendor, which dazzled—but never cheered the poor! The feelings of benevo­lence, the impulse of charity, the glow of sensibility, are words they may have heard, but emotions they had never felt. How pitiable, then, their present situation. In an instant that pinnacle, on which they were exalted, sinks; and from affluence to poverty is but the journey of an hour. The sentiments they had imbibed continue; and, judging from their own feelings, they consider themselves, of course, objects of contempt to the rich; whilst, at the same time, fallen pride is naturally the ridicule of the poor.

The benevolent Knight in vain offered consolation to minds the victims of childish fretfulness:—sobs, tears, and fits succeeding fits, prevented the voice of reason from approaching their ears. Turning, there­fore, from so vain an effort, he rendered them, un­known to themselves, a most essential service.

The proprietor of the ready furnished house they occupied, had expressed, in his hearing, his wish they should quit his premises, as he saw no chance of ever being paid. Sir James became responsible, and the landlord became quiet.—Meanwhile, he had not neglected any steps immediately necessary for the dis­covery of his nephew. Hand-bills were printed, and brought home, describing his person and dress, and were about to be circulated, when a fisherman brought a letter, 'which,' he said, 'a strange young gentleman wrote, at a public house in Sandwich, where he was, and gave him a crown to bring it to this house.' It bore this direction—'Let any per­son, except the servants, open it.—G. B.'

Sir James broke the seal, and read as follows:—

Whilst Sir James held this note in his hand, and just as he wiped a tear from his eyes, entered Mr. Sandall. He had heard the state of Mr. Emery's af­fairs, and accordingly followed his patron to enjoy the whole, true, and full account, as a most ample meal of scandal, upon which poisonous food he loved to gormandize.

Obsequiously cringing, as he held the door in his hand—"I fear, Sir James, I intrude—I—."

"O, Mr. Sandall," cried the knight, "my poor nephew—Read—read!"

"Alas, alas!" said Sandall, when he had perused it. "Ay, this is always the end of such fiery, un­controulable youths. I was afraid what would be his conduct, ever since he so obstinately resisted our ar­guments upon apparitions;—there was too much en­quiring, doubting, heresy, about that youth; and then, his connecting himself with that impious, athe­istical Illuminati, Mental; for I have proofs that he is one; or else what could be the meaning of his mystic coffin lid, and his skull, and his nightly orgies in the abbey?"

"Silence—silence," cried Sir James. "You judge too quickly to judge impartially. May it not prove that some youthful indiscretions have brought on embarrassments, of which he is ashamed?—But what can he mean by a day or two's concealment? So suddenly to leave the house, too—It is all extra­ordinary!"

"It is extraordinary," said Sandall, who never dif­fered many moments from his patron's opinion.

[Page 263] "To acquaint his mother with the affair at present, would be cruel."

"It would be cruel, cried Sandall.

"And would answer no end," said Sir James.

"No end at all," rejoined Sandall.

The result of their deliberations was, to continue their search and inquiries after the poor fugitive, and at least, for a day or two, to keep his mother and sister ignorant of the event.

CHAP. XVII.

WHILE such was the state of affairs at Emery's, the following letter, from Milwood to Zelotti, will unfold the scenes passing at the cottage. It was writ­ten the evening of the day on which Barnwell fled.

Whilst, with a fiend-like industry, Milwood thus spread new toils for the unsuspecting victim of her infernal machinations, he, in broken slumbers, folt all the horrors of his situation; and when the light of morning dispelled his dreams, the reality of his fate was to his exquisitely feeling heart, intolerable.

In the meanwhile Mental passed his hours most unpleasantly. His situation became torture. He was placed under the same roof with his own, his only child; but every opportunity of converse which he snatched, all the observations he could form, tended to confirm him more and more in the opinion, that this child was lost to virtue for ever! Despairing, therefore, for the success of any attempts towards her reformation, he that morning resolved to remove from the cottage, without making himself known.

Ignorant of those important events which had ta­ken place at Mr. Emery's, he began to murmur at the absence of Barnwell, and hinted his intention of inquiring for him at Mr. Emery's, if he did not call in the course of that morning. This step Milwood [Page 267] determined to prevent.—About noon Zelotti arri­ved. Mental was in the parlour when he entered, and Milwood introduced them to each other.

The person and manners of this Italian were ex­tremely prepossessing, and in a very few minutes he found means to entangle Mental in a conversation, in spite of the general taciturnity of the latter. Men­tal was, perhaps, in some degree, induced to this con­versation by the curiosity he felt concerning Zelotti; but the Italian was too wary to allow the least possible clue to his real character to escape him. Mental perceived, however, that Zelotti was no common man.

The first employment of Zelotti, after a consul­tation with Milwood, was to assume the disguise of a fisherman, and reconnoitre Mr. Emery's late residence. He was admitted to the presence of the almost dis­tracted uncle of Barnwell. His olive complexion helped his disguise, and he spoke English very well.

"I believe I am right," said the impostor; "you are the master, as I take it, of one George Barnwell.'

"No, no," cried Sir James, "I am his uncle: Where is he?—Where is my nephew?'

"That is more than I must tell."

"But you shall be compelled to tell."

"No, Sir; I am poor, and roughly finished; but I have never yet, nor I never will, betray my trust."

"But 'tis for his interest, 'tis for his happiness alone, I wish to know. Take me, then, to the poor dis­tracted youth, and he himself will bless you for it to the latest hour of his life."

"It must not be—I have sworn an oath, your honour, a sacred, solemn oath, that I would not utter a word that might lead to his discovery."

"What is the purpose of your errand, then?"

"This, your honour—to say, that he will either come home to night, or else that he will write a let­ter; but being much afraid his absence might be blazed abroad, he wanted much to be assured that his mother nor his uncle were apprized of it."

[Page 268] "His mother and sister are yet ignorant of it; and if he would return immediately, they might never know it. I have letters to deliver from them; but being ignorant of their contents, I know not how they might affect him."

"I'll answer for it, they will be the means of hastening his return; besides, your honour, if you were to send them, and some kind message from yourself, I'd back it to the best of my power. Whilst he is at my hut no harm shall come to him; and either I, or Margery, my dame, have always our eyes upon him. When he leaves us I'll see, too, that he goes no where but to this house."

"Will you promise to do this—will you, on your oath, promise to do this?" said the knight.—"And do you really think he will come to-night?"

"I do, I do," cried Zelotti.

"Then, here, honest fellow, take him th [...]se two letters from his mother and sister, and tell him, that if all I possess can render him happy, it is his own. Tell him, that if he will return to me this night, all that has past shall be kept secret for ever—tell him, in short, good man, whatever you think can induce his return; and, depend on it, your reward shall not be small" [Sir James was untying his purse.]

"Put up your purse, your honour," cried Zelotti; "the pleasure of carrying such a kind message to heal his poor broken heart, is reward enough to Ned Martin."

He retired.—Sir James's heart was lightened considerably by the hope which this impostor occa­sioned, and he wrote to his sister-in-law, and his niece, to apprise them of the change in his old friend Mr. Freeman's affairs, and slightly mentioned that his nephew was well; but much employed in consequence of the unfortunate alteration in the circumstances of his friends.

CHAP. XVIII.

UPON the return of Zelotti, conference was held betwixt that subtle Italian and Milwood, the result of which was the following conduct:—

Barnwell had made her chamber his prison. It was nearly dark when Milwood, confusion and dis­may pictured in her countenance, rushed into the apartment, and locked the door.

"Barnwell!" exclaimed she, "Barnwell! arouse yourself, or we are lost for ever!"

The unhappy Barnwell, almost stupified with sor­row, sat on a chair, his legs placed on a window-seat, reclining his head on his hand, like one inani­mate.—He noticed nothing that she said. She ap­proached him, took his hand in her's, and gazed full in his face.—

"O, Milwood! that face—those eyes—were they designed by nature to accomplish such wide ruin? Poor Eliza! poor mother!"

There was such a settled wildness in his eyes, that Milwood doubted, for a moment, whether he was sensible. After some time, a deep sigh was followed by a flood of tears, which seemed greatly to relieve him.

"Come, come; for shame," said she," conquer these unmanly vapours; summon the energy of your mind; it is now, Barnwell, you need it. This weak, puerile dejection, is ruinous and disgraceful. Arouse, Barnwell, arouse!—think what you owe to the law of nature—your own defence—think what you owe the dignity of your nature, and scorn to crawl thus, on captive knees, beneath the iron scep­tre of imperious fate. Such base yielding ill becomes [Page 270] the man of mind, of sovereignty of soul—it ill be­comes my Barnwell. Arm yourself, then, with the intrepidity of manhood, and struggle to the last gasp with fate, till death or triumph end the strife."

"Alas! what is there more to be atchieved? Do not the swift feet of Justice hunt me? Does not her outstretched arm hold over my devoted head the sword of death? What have I, then, to do, but to sub­mit?"

"Cowardly, grovelling notion! Why, a poor rep­tile outcast of society, a being rising scarcely any thing in intellect above the worm we tread on, a petty common thief, trembling beneath the shadow of his gibbet, could not concede a meaner, more humilia­ting confession. And shall Barnwell sneak thus like a reptile to his hole, and die? O, whither are thy feelings fled? Where are the powers of thy memory? What, tamely yield yourself to a felon's fate—chains, public infamy, and public death? Look at the effects of such conduct on others—Behold the pale, death­like form that gave you life—gaze on her agonies—see how she rends her grey hairs—how she mangles those breasts that have nurtured thee! See, too, a beauteous sister falling, in the bloom of life, a victim to thy disgraceful fate!—while I—"

"Hold, Milwood, as you value my existence!—If thus you paint the horrors that await me, no strength of reason, no suggestions of moral duty, will prevent me from instant suicide. Surely I was born for the accursed purpose of inflicting tortures on those I love!—But spare me the painful picture. In my heart, in my brain, the impression of all these horrors is fixed with unutterable anguish!"—

"You feel all these horrors, you say; yet who can believe it? You make no single effort to avert them—Insensible to the dangers that threaten us, tamely you indulge a fruitless sorrow."

"Is it not impossible to escape those dangers?"

"It is possible not to endure them."

"What possible means of avoiding detection can [Page 271] you devise, Milwood? Is not the forgery [...] discover­ed?—Is it not traced even to Blackmore?"

"Ay, even to Milwood—but what then? Think you that Milwood will surrender up herself to galling fetters, to a public trial, to an ignomini [...]us death, while this friendly steel is here?" [At these words she ex­posed the handle of the dagger which she constantly wore in her bosom.]

"Milwood, you dare not meditate such mischief!" said Barnwell, seizing her hand. "O, here, in this breast, rather plunge the weapon! Why should you bleed for my crimes—why—O, my brain burns—I am giddy with madness of thought!"

"Of what does Barnwell think [...] nature of his Milwood is compounded? Surely he must think fear of death is an ingredient in her composition, if he supposes she can undergo, with coward patience, the solemn mockeries of funereal preparations, ascend a scaffold, face a multitude, and bear the tortures of superstitious rites and ceremonies, merely for a little longer life. No, since we must die, let us, like Ro­mans, meet the blow, rather than wait the lingering stroke of systematic murder."

"You speak as if we were already apprehended, and even sentenced."

"And is it not so? Do you imagine that, in our present condition, there is a possibility of our escape? Have I—have you—ten pounds in our possession? Will the billows of the ocean bear us on their naked waves to shores of safety? Will the owner of any vessel shelter poor and pennyless fugitives? Folly's own sons would spurn so poor a hope. To-morrow, in all human probability, if we resolve to live, a prison will be our dwelling. Then, the very means of free­ing our spirits from their bondage will be [...] from our hands, and we shall curse the torpor of sou [...], that let this precious moment pass. Come, man, be bold, and let a woman's courage give you strength—This draught" (presenting a phial) "will give your troub­led soul, my Barnwell, an everlasting calm."

[Page 272] Barnwell shuddered with horror; his whole mass of blood seemed, in a moment, congealed; the cold­ness of death seized his limbs, and the features of his face were worked up to phrensy.

"Thou a woman?" exclaimed he, "a woman! No—no—no—thou art some spirit of the grand ene­my of mankind, permitted to assume this lovely form, to blast the peace of families, to sever the hearts of mother, sister, son and brother, from each other; to drain the human heart of its own natural affections, and in their place implant a poisonous lust, that gene­rates a chilling apathy to all but thine accursed self: that wars with all that is good and amiable in society, that stirs rebellion against God himself, prompts the despairing soul to the last damning act of sin, and bears it, with a horrid yell of triumph, to scenes of endless torture and despair!"

In the extreme of agony, the lost youth tore his hair, threw himself upon the floor, and abandoned himself to the violence of his despair!

Milwood, with the malice and art of a daemon, silently contemplated the progress of her operations. She suffered him to exhaust the violence of his feel­ings, and sat covering her face with her handkerchief. After some time, Barnwell, raising his eyes from the floor, beheld her in tears.

What is that potent, most mysterious influence, to which is given the name of Love? Say, ye, who aim at defining all the influences and operations of our nature, who presume to have discovered causes for all the actions of men—how is it, that a being, en­dowed with more than the common powers of reason, whose heart has been fenced with the lessons of vir­tue, should, by the influence of this most powerful passion, be impelled to the commission of deeds, at which, when that influence ceases to operate, his heart recoils with horror, and his reason surveys with astonishment?

Barnwell saw her tears; they were like burning drops upon his own heart—he arose—he flew to the dissembler.

[Page 273] "Milwood, Milwood! you weep—you are wretch­ed—and I have made you so!"

"You have, indeed," said she. O, unkind—O, cruel! But I deserve it—yes, I deserve it, Barnwell; but could I have imagined you, of all men, would thus heap reproaches upon the poor heart o'er which you have triumphed! O, no—the taunts of society, the scorn of my own sex, the derision of yours—these I expected, Barnwell; but that you should revile me—that you should—O! 'tis this overcomes me!"

She wept, and her whole soul seemed melted into woe. Barnwell, irresolute and wavering in his mind, was at a loss in what language to address her. She continued—

"If our fates have proved calamitous; if evil, fol­lowing on the heels of evil, pursues us, how am I to blame? Did I request that second fatal interview, the source of all our woes? Was I not prepared to leave forever the isle which you inhabited? Have I received an interest or a pleasure separate from yours, since that ill-fated hour? And yet I am arraigned as guilty of intentional crimes. O, youth! lovely, yet unfortunate, be just, even amid your sufferings. Why have I offered the antidote of death to the mise­ries that threaten?—because I knew you timid, scru­pulously hesitating; when the only means of escaping them are bold, enterprising, and uncommon; such as, indeed, are above the use of beings educated in the prejudices and errors of systems; such as I know you could never be brought to use; and, therefore, we must die!"

"Die!" exclaimed Barnwell; "you—you must die? O, God, forbid!—Let us fly—let us fly this instant, Milwood! I begin to see your horrible con­dition" (putting his hand to his forehead.) "Mer­ciful Heaven!—Milwood, why did you concern your­self in the accursed forgery?—O, forgive my mad­ness, when I accused you. Where is—where is my friend—where is Townley? I must see him, or it will be too late—perhaps it is already too late to escape [Page 274] our pursuers.—He will give me any sum of money we may want—Let me go to him."

"Alas! my Barnwell," cried Milwood, prepared for this proposal, "hope nothing there. He left the cottage this morning early, as he said, on urgent busi­ness, and will not return till to-morrow: by that period our fate will be decided."

"Our fate, Milwood! No, no, you must not suffer. On me—on me, just Heaven, pour thy vengeance! But has not my friend left his casket?—I know its value—I know your right to it."

"You talk wildly, my Barnwell! But even had we the right you speak of, we have not the power; the casket is not here.'

"Did he not say whither he was gone?"

"No."

"Did he ever converse with you on any subjects besides common ones? Did he ever make any discov­ery, or throw out any hints?"

"No—no—none—but let us not waste time now inwords, when every moment that escapes us brings the crisis of our sate still nearer."

"You are calm, Milwood!—Ah! then, I know your resolution—Give me that dagger."

"No, Barnwell; 'tis the last wreck of hope that's left to cling to."

The distracted youth now raved again—all the en­dearments of the siren, all the high-wrought pictur­ings of memory, burst at once on his imagination. She was every thing to him, in this moment of trans­portation from himself. All other existence was to him as though it existed not; and to contemplate the destruction of this idol of his soul, or rather the ex­tinction of this essence of his own existence, was be­yond the efforts of his reason. He sunk senseless on her bosom.—

"O, were there any means, however desperate, however dangerous, by which I might save you, Mil­wood!" said he, after some time.

"There is a way, Barnwell; but it is a track un­marked [Page 275] by vulgar footsteps: the great of soul alone walk in this path—the votaries of ambition, of re­venge, and all the higher, nobler propensities of our nature. Men of low and grovelling impulses tremble at its entrance, and turn aside, seeking each little pot­ty avenue of cowardly escape, while those of higher daring, boldly tread the paths of blood!"

"Go on," cried Barnwell: "I understand you."

"If he—who holds the fatal paper, which is to witness against us to our death—if he and you, Barn­well, were in some retired spot, far from the prying y [...]ie of mortals—how would you act?"

"Milwood, there is a desperate meaning in your words—Know you who holds the bill?"

"I do."

"Is he some villain—some usurious shark, that has long preyed upon the distresses of his fellow-crea­tures?—Say, is he a father, or a husband? Would his death—O, whither am I wandering?"

In the road to safety—to future years of peace and joy—had you but the courage of a man. You have discovered, Barnwell, the only avenue of escape from death. Think on't, man: Does not the law of na­ture loudly call on you to act? If, in the highway, another meet you with some deadly weapon, and threaten your destruction, what is the impulse nature gives? Here is but trifling difference—An instrument of death—no matter what—is in the hands of one who threatens you, and in you, all who love you, with destruction! If, then, by a blow that nature prompts, you can disarm your foe—Barnwell, do you under­stand me?"

He had fixed his eyes, which had a death-like glas­sy appearance, firmly on Milwood—his hands were clenched tightly together, and rested on his knees.

"Milwood," said he, continuing in the same pos­ture, "Milwood, I have taken a desperate resolve!—Who had dared have told me, a few months ago, that I should prove a murderer! But I shall—ay, you shall live, Milwood, in mirth and jollity: After these hands [Page 276] have done the bloody deed, will we not be merry? Nay, you look grave, my love!"

This was not the precise disposition to which she had aimed to bring him. There was a wildness in his manner, bordering so nearly on insanity, that she trembled with the apprehension, that he might betray their purpose.

"This is the rant of madness," cried she; "not the decision of courage."

"By Heaven, I'll do it! I have dismissed that trou­blesome guest that has hitherto daunted my courage—it is fled—fled for ever. I have now no conscience, but thy voice, my love. Come, let us to action—Where does the old villain dwell?"

"Be more yourself, Barnwell—you rave."

"No, by my soul, I am calm! Come, give me my victim—see the moon rises, and the hour of foul deeds draws nigh."

Milwood paused—she meditated—she saw his soul wound up to desperation, and ripe for the deed she wished concluded; but, ever wary in her designs, she looked beyond the deed, and saw his state of mind ill calculated for its concealment, when per­formed. She paused again—she recollected, that there is a crisis in mental operations, and knew, that if she suffered this crisis of desperation to arrive, with­out accomplishing her end, it never would return. She well knew the state of languor that would succeed it, and, with a boldness of determination, resolved upon the risk. When she had resolved, she took his hands, she kissed them, bathed them with tears, and called him by the dearest title of Saviour.

"Every hour of my future existence will be a gift of thine,' said she; "to thee, my saviour, shall I owe all the years of life I may enjoy. But, are you firm, my hero?"

"I am resolved."

"But when you shall hear who is the victim, the necessary victim, for whom Fate calls—O, then, all my hopes of life will vanish! You will prefer his life to mine, to a mother's, a sister's, to your own!"

[Page 277] "No—no—no," cried he; "were my father liv­ing, and in the way 'twixt life and you, I think—yes, I think, I should, Milwood—!"

"But you have a near relation, who yet lives, Barnwell—you have an—"(she held his hand grasp­ed tightly in her own) "an—an—Uncle!"

"Is it my poor uncle, then?—O!"

He struck his head violently.—She suffered him to remain silent a few minutes, and then, in a most tender voice—

"Barnwell, speak to me—tell me—am I to die?"

He threw himself into her arms.

"Live, Milwood, live!—though perdition, ever­lasting perdition, be the price of your existence!"

From this moment he was lost. The situation of his uncle at Mr. Emery's was made known to him; she pursuaded him that the forged bill had passed in­to his possession; that, ignorant who had forged it, he still held it; and, if he lived, must, in spite of every wish to the contrary, be compelled to appear against them.

CHAP. XIX.

SIR James Barnwell had just finished a solitary supper, when Barnwell, attended by Zelotti, rung the bell at the gate of the court yard. The pride of Mrs. Emery and her daughter, confined them to their chambers; the poor Maria was entrusted to the care of a nurse; and Mr. Sandall was gone to visit a friend at Margate.

The pretended fisherman introduced Barnwell to his rejoicing uncle, who fell on his neck, and embra­ced him. Barnwell, pale and trembling, seated him­self silently on a chair, and supported his head by lean­ing [Page 278] his elbow on the table. Zelotti, in a whisper to Sir James, observed, that the less notice was taken of him, and the earlier they retired, the better, and then departed. The anguish of the old man, as he looked upon his nephew, was keen indeed.

"You look ill, my nephew; you are fatigued. We will not enter on the cause of your uneasiness to­night; but if your happiness can be restored by any means in my power, assure yourself of my best en­deavors."

"You are very good—yes, you are truly good—and that's one comfortable reflection," said Barnwell.

Sir James little suspected the drift of his discourse.

"Have you supped, George?"

"I have not eat, a long while, Sir; my appetite is gone, quite gone—but I can drink—what have you there, wine?"

The wine was on the table; he drank a bumper greedily.

"You don't inquire after your mother, or your sister, George."

"O, true! you're right—my mother—ah, my mother—and Eliza—poor girl!—Come, Sir, won't you take some wine?"

Sir James was alarmed at his wild manner. Barn­well poured out another bumper, and swallowed it.

"How much does it want to one o'clock?" said he.

"'Tis not twelve," said Sir James.

At that instant Mr. Sandall entered the room. Sir James intimated silence to him. Barnwell look­ed at him, but did not notice him.

"What an altered house is this!" said Barnwell. "No more merriment!—Well, I must to bed—and you, Mr. Sandall, being a divine, will pray for us all—Uncle, do you pray every night?"

Sir James, who conceived his brain injured, hu­moured him, and answered him—"Always, George."

"I am glad of that," said he; "you are a righte­ous man, and your prayers are heard."

[Page 279] He rung for the servant. At the door he turned round and stood with his eyes fixed some time on his uncle, then retired, saying, as he left the room, "God bless you, Sir—good night."

When the man had attended him to his chamber door, which was one, among several, in a long gal­lery—"There poor Miss Freeman sleeps—does she not, Sam?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And in that room, I suppose, my uncle sleeps."

"No, Sir, the other gentleman has that room—Sir James lies in this here, next to your's."

"Does that clock, that stands at the end of the gallery, strike the hours, Sam?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Do the lamps at [...]ach end of the gallery burn all night?"

"Yes, Sir, till near day light."

"Good night, Sam."

He retired to his chamber. The clock struck twelve.—"One hour more!" exclaimed he. He paced about the chamber in agony of thought.—"Hush!" murmured he to himself, "I hear his aged footsteps—he passes my door—he enters his cham­ber. Will he lock the door?—no—he dreads the danger of fire, and rather trusts to man's mercy than a senseless element! Hark! he prays—Good God! he prays for me—even me! Listen!—'Restore his peace of mind.'—O, poor martyr! that's a vain petition—Alas, Milwood! what have I sworn to do?—But you cannot both live? Why, O, why was I permitted to see this hour!—Hark! the bed creaks—he lays his aged limbs to rest—never, never more to rise!"

All was now perfect silence in the house, so that the dashing of the ocean's waves were heard distinct­ly, the windows of that range of chambers overlook­ing the sea. When he parted from Milwood she had furnished him with a dagger, and gave him▪ small packet, with an injunction not to open▪ it till [Page 280] the bell tolled one. This dagger he now drew from his bosom, and placed it, with the packet on the table.

His reflections now grew more and more tormen­ting; his resolution was an hundred times shaken, and raised again by the memory of Milwood. When the idea of her public death rushed across his brain, madness nerved his arm, and he often grasped the dagger in a state of phrensy.

In this horrible conflict the hour passed away; the clock in the gallery struck one. A chilly sweat dewed his whole frame—his blood shot like a bolt of ice to his heart. With a trembling hand he opened the packet; it contained a most animating likeness of Milwood, in miniature, and fully answered the purpose she intended. A small scroll of paper con­tained, in her own hand writing, these words:—"If another hour elapses, and the deed is not performed, you may gaze on the resemblance of Milwood, but will never behold the original alive." He gazed on the portrait; he read the scroll again; again he contemplated the miniature—he kissed it with fervour—his brain grew inflamed—imagi­nation riotted—He kissed the miniature again—he placed it in his bosom, grasped the dagger, and, throwing off his slippers, opened his chamber door. Not a breath moved along the gallery—he stood trembling for a few moments, fearfully gazing around him—his shadow on the floor startled him—he shuddered. Once more he drew the portrait from his bosom, and looked on it by the light reflected from the lamp. Summoning a desperate effort, he made two or three strides, and found himself in his uncle's chamber. He closed the door after him, and approached the bed-side. A chamber lamp burned in the fire place: by this light, as he leaned against the feet of the bed, he perceived his uncle slept. At that moment he fancied, that he heard a footstep in the gallery—he listened, and was confirmed it was so. He fixed his eyes upon the door in horrid dread [Page 281] of a detectio [...], and half concealed the dagger in his bosom, still holding the candle. No one entered—all was again silent. Once more he slowly drew the dagger forth, and once more turned his eyes upon his sleeping uncle. The dim, faint light, emitted from the lamp, just served to discover his tranquil features. His lips were closed in a smile, that in­dicated peaceful slumbers. As he contemplated this scene, a deep groan pierced the ears of Barnwell: frozen with horror he dared not to turn his head towards the gallery, whence it seemed to issue, but remained fixed as a statue. In another moment a voice, softly, but distinctly, uttered—"I'll sit all night on his cold, cold grave!" He fancied it was the voice of his sister. The dagger fell from his senseless hand, and he clung to the pillars of the bed­stead for support. Waked by the noise and motion, his uncle started up. Barnwell, instigated by a sud­den impulse, in which fear was an ingredient, snatched up the dagger, sprung upon the breast of the vene­rable old man, and plunged its fatal point deep in his heart! One groan only preceded his dissolution!

The moment the fatal blow was struck, remorse was kindled, with all its horrors, in the breast of Barnwell; a remorse too powerful for words or ac­tion; it was a consuming fire kindled in the centre of his heart. In a few moments the same voice he had heard before, exclaimed—"In heaven he will be mine, for Milwood cannot come to heaven." Rous­ed to madness, he rushed like lightning to the door, opened it without regard to the noise he made, and beheld, sitting in her night gown at his own room door, Maria Freeman. This amiable and afflicted girl, still the victim of concealed affection, grew hourly worse. Her mind constantly fixed on the object of her love, was now impressed with the no­tion of his death, and her attendant having fallen asleep, the lovely maniac had left her bed under the impression of visiting his tomb. The noise and his appearance caused her to utter the [...] violent [Page 282] shrieks, which brought Mr. Sandall and the servants to be witnesses to a scene of the utmost horror! Barnwell, taking the advantage of their confusion, burst through them all, and fled, with incredible speed towards the cottage.

Urged on by an instinctive sense of danger, scarce­ly knowing the route he took, and, without bestow­ing a thought on the certain consequences of his sudden flight, he pursued his way. Each step he took, he trembled; even the falling leaf that floated in the air, alarmed him. As he approached the sea, the roaring of the water appalled his guilty soul with terror. If, for a minute, he raised his eyes from the ground, the most horrid images floated be­fore them. His uncle's mangled, bleeding corpse, his father's angry ghost, the very torments of the damned racked his imagination! The gloomy aspect of the heavens aided the force of these guilt-born terrors, and rendered his situation horrible beyond expression!

With difficulty he at length found the wicket gate of the cottage—it was locked, nor could all the noise he was capable of making gain him admission. Dreading to remain unhoused, he endeavoured to explore an entrance at the back of the garden, by climbing up to the arbour from the sands. The tide was flowing rapidly in, and he found he had no time to lose. By perseverance, spurred on by the desperation of his mind, he gained, at length a foot­ing on a part of the cliff, that overhung the sea, and was within a few paces of the arbour.

Exhausted with fatigue, and overpowered by the conflicting exercises of his mind, he threw himself down on the rock, with a groan of agony. The fever of the soul bacame exchanged for a most awful lan­guor—he dared not to think. The roaring of the waters underneath, at length, aroused him, and the horrors of his situation flashed once more across his imagination.

At that moment, rising from the ground, he felt [Page 283] strongly impelled to plunge from the precipice on which he stood into the gulph of waters; but almost at the same instant, the murmuring of approaching whispers startled him, and arrested his attention. It was too dark to discern their faces; but he could distinguish a man and woman plainly, as the former carried a lantern in his hand. They approached the edge of the cliff, and appeared to make towards the spot where he stood. A little to the right there was a spot, where the chalk had fallen away some feet in depth, and left a hollow space. Here he crept and concealed himself. In a few moments they were close to the place of his concealment—A voice, which he too well knew, now struck his car—'twas Mil­wood's.

"Well," said she, "how is the tide?"

"Coming in," said the man, who was Zelotti; "but it won't do this tide; it will be break of day ere there be sufficient depth of water."

"Cursed delay!" cried Milwood; "what must be done with the body, then?"

"Let it remain in the sack, under the seat in the arbour, till another night."

"That might do, if we were certain of remain­ing here; but I dread the morning, Zelotti. Fool that I was, to trust a work of such a nature to his hands. If Barnwell should be detected in the act, or by his weakness discover it when done, we must fly instantly, and then old Townley's corpse would be discovered, and his murder clearly traced to me."—[How poor Barnwell shuddered!]

"That's true," replied Zelotti. "Let me consider, as there are no marks of violence upon his person, suppose we strip him; the effects of the poison, in swelling the body, may pass well enough for the same effects produced by drowning; so that if it floats, and is discovered in the morning, there would be no ground of suspicion."

"Quick then, about it!" cried Milwood; there has been too much delay.—O, Zelotti! if Barn­well's [Page 284] heart were but moulded like our own, what a glorious harvest should we reap!—But, my soul misgives me—I fear his tenderness, his foolish re­morse.—Would this night were well over!"

They had now retired out of the hearing of Barnwell. He had, however, heard enough to petrify his soul with horror!—It was plain that Milwood had poisoned her father!—Language is not equal to the task of describing what now passed in his agonized bosom! Dreading to meet them, he was compelled to keep his situation. Sooner than he imagined, they return­ed, and in a few moments the awful sound smote his ear of the fall of poor Mental's corpse into it's grave of billows!—He could not check a deep groan at that instant.

"Did you hear any thing?" said Zelotti.

"No," said Milwood; "you are not surely turn­ing superstitious?"

"I am sure I heard a groan," said Zelotti.

"Fancy—fancy—man," cried she:—"Come, we have work to do—Peace to old Townley—now for his treasures."

They bent their way towards the arbour. Barn­well followed them with his eye. In their hurry they forgot the ladder by which they descended from the window of the arbour. He noticed this neglect, and, waiting a considerable time, his first impulse was to ascend the ladder; but he checked it, and con­tinued wandering near the spot till break of day.

The tortures inflicted by his conscience became al­most insupportable, and he once again resolved to die.

At the very moment, however, of acting upon this dreadful resolution, an indescribable terror seized him, and turned him from his purpose. The con­viction of a future state was so deeply impressed upon his mind, that, though surrounded by misery, he dared not to plunge, uncalled, into eternity. Again, when the horrible consequences of his crime rushed in force upon his imagination, he felt almost irrisisti­bly [Page 285] impelled to escape them by the only means left—the guilt of suicide!

Thus wretchedly passed the hours of darkness: now the torments of his situation drove him almost to self murder; and now the dread of what another world might prove, deterred him from the crime. Nor was the recent scene he had witnessed the least part of his present wretchedness—Sorrow for the fate of Mental, at any common period, would have pow­erfully afflicted him; put when the incontrovertible evidence of his own sight and hearing proved to him the real character of Milwood, surprise, agony, and despair took possession of his soul!

Such was the state of mind in which, early in the morning, Milwood and Zelotti discovered the poor lost Barnwell. Anxiety respecting the body of the murdered Mental brought them to observe if the tide had thrown it on the shore. When Mil­wood first saw Barnwell, he was kneeling, his hands clasped, and his eyes were fixed on the rising sun.

"Amazement!" exclaimed she. "Barnwell! Barnwell!—Tell me, do my senses deceive me?"

Barnwell surveyed me with a wild inquiring gaze, but spoke not.

"Answer me," said she; "does he live?"

"In heaven!" said Barnwell, shaking his head, and shewing some blood upon his hands.

"Why then, are you here?" said she; "you should have remained in your chamber, as I directed you, to avoid suspicion.—Where is the dagger—where is the miniature?"

"By his bleeding corpse!" said Barnwell, so­lemnly.

"Fool!—madman!—Did you intend detection?—My portrait left in the room!—perhaps my letter too.—Zelotti, we must fly—this instant we must fly!—Away—away!—and leave this whimpering boy to the fate his folly merits."

She cast a look of contemptuous rage on him, and walked swiftly towards the arbour, followed by Ze­lotti.

[Page 286] Barnwell, roused from his stupor of misery, by this conduct, pursued them, exclaiming, as he went—"Milwood—Milwood—hear me!" At the foot of the ladder he seized her hand eagerly—"Lost—lost woman!—Why am I still anxious concerning you?—Why, even after you have driven me to per­dition, do I still love you?—Why is it, that, though I know you a murderer, I cannot—cannot detest you?—O, then, listen to me, Milwood; and, instead of attempting, to escape the just punishment of our crimes, let us surrender ourselves to death, as the only atone­ment in our power, and devote the few hours we may live in preparing for eternity!"

"Canting babe—preaching infant!" cried Mil­wood, scornfully. "Know, fool, that she, to whom you preach, is of a nature above indulging such dreams, as haunt children of prejudice, and dupes of priest-craft, like yourself. She scoffs your counsel, and despises you for offering it. To you, and such as you, she leaves it to bend the neck sup­missively to laws and ordinances. Her life is her all; she dreams of no future worlds, nor dreads ac­counts hereafter. On such, the puny fears of others, she builds her towering projects, and would not scru­ple, if she had the power, to hurl yon blazing orb of light from its fixed centre to destroy whole systems, that opposed her purpose."

"Can human nature fall so low?" cried Barnwell, "can that, which we are taught to believe emanates from Deity itself, become infernal?"

"Who is this Deity you speak of?—Where is his power?—If he exists, why did he suffer you, a villain, maddened by lust, to murder sleeping inno­cence?—Fool!—fool!—fool!—Away, Zelotti."

"Yet, one moment, hold," cried Barnwell. "Where is my friend—where is Townley? O, what must be your agony, Milwood, when you hear, that Townley, he whose murdered corpse, last night, you yielded to the deep, was—your father!"

"Already is the mighty secret known!" said she. [Page 287] "I know he was my father—I own, too, that these hands mixed and administered the dose that poisoned him!—Where was the Deity you talk of, then?—Why did not his power, if he possesses it, prevent so foul a deed? I knew not, at the moment, that he was my father: the contents of his casket, and his papers told me, that he had played a character that he was not in reality, and he has fallen in consequence.—'Tis possible he might have lived, but for his de­ception."

Barnwell was petrified with horror and astonish­ment!

"In a few hours," continued Milwood, as she as­cended the ladder, "some dungeon may immerse us, if we remain, Zelotti.—Come, then, nor let us waste the present opportunity."

As she uttered the last words, she entered the ar­bour by the window. In the same instant she shriek­ed violently, and three men rushed down the ladder, from the window, and secured Barnwell and Zelotti. The ravings of Milwood were too horrible to des­cribe. During their absence from the cottage, Mr. Sandall, attended by several of the domestics, and conducted by the information found in Barnwell's papers, had arrived there, and forced the outer gates. As the garden door was open, they had just entered the arbour, when the voice of Barnwell arrested their attention; and concluding, from the replies of Mil­wood, that she was returning, they stationed them­selves in such a manner as to secure her when she entered. The criminals were immediately conveyed before a magistrate, and committed to prison. Mil­wood continued to rave. Zelotti loaded her with reproaches; but Barnwell silently hung down his head, and endeavoured to conceal the tears, that bedewed his pallid cheeks.

CHAP. XX.

NIGHT approached—Milwood, who, during the whole day, had sought, in vain, an opportunity of self-destruction; at length, overcome by the violent exertions of despair, sunk on her pillow, and slept. Two women, who were appointed to watch in her apartment, soon after midnight, were aroused by the violent shrieks which she uttered in her sleep. Pierced to the heart by her exclamations, which seemed to indicate the most excruciating tortures of her mind, they were yet too superstitious to awake her. Several inhabitants of the prison, alarmed by her dreadful cries, entered the apartment, and stood trembling round the bed of the despairing Milwood. Big drops of sweat rolled down her cheeks, her eyes were half open, her teeth gnashed horribly, and her whole frame was strongly convulsed.

At length starting up in the bed, she seized the hand of a by-stander, exclaiming, in a voice of horror—"Am I in hell?—O, torment me not, my fa­ther!—do not you inflict the tortures!—Barnwell—Barnwell—end my miseries!—O, they have torn my flesh with burning pincers!—Now they are shooting sparks of fire in my eyes—scorpions fasten on my breasts—and see, my murdered father fixes his ghastly eyes on me!—Barnwell I own the deed:—thy uncle's bleeding ghost approaches!—Save me—save me!—See, they bring more brands of [...]ire—showers of fire descend!—O, my heart burns—it burns—and yet I do not die!"

A shivering fit now seized her, and she awoke. Casting her eyes wildly round her, by degrees she re­collected her situation. Among the prisoners, who stood near her, was a clergyman confined for debt. [Page 289] Viewing the horrors of her mind, he was prompted to offer her some consolation.

"Unhappy woman!" said he, "see the sad con­sequences of guilt!—As yet thy terrors are only ima­ginary; may they prove salutary, and lead you to seek, by heart-felt penitence, that christian hope of mercy, which alone can calm your mind!—Are you willing I should pray with you?"

She fixed her eyes upon him—"Mercy!" cried she. "Penitence!—Pray for me!—To whom?"

"To your Almighty Judge!"

"There is not an Almighty Judge—'Tis false, old man. There is not—cannot—no—no—there cannot be another world—or if there is, why am I tortured with the thought of it—when, if there is—I—I—O! no—no—do not say there is another world!"

"Surely, most surely, there is," said the good old man, with a vehemence that made her tremble.

She struck her hand violently against her head.—"If, indeed, there should," exclaimed she, "horrible thought!—I dare not think!—O, if you have any pity for my wretched lot, give me some potent draught, some cordial, that will drown all sense of what is past—all dread of what may come!"

The worthy minister, who truly merited the title of a christian priest, exerted every effort to sooth the workings of despair. He dismissed the idle gazers from the room, and was in the act of kneeling to offer up a prayer, when the poor object of his solici­tude shrieked violently, and implored him to desist.

"'Tis torture—torture—torture!" cried she; "I am accursed, and I hate all good!"

Finding his attentions increased her despair in her present frame of mind, he desisted, in the hope of a more tranquil moment. By his advice, they permit­ted her to take some wine, and she, once more, seem­ed to sleep. But a few minutes, however, had elap­sed, ere she awoke again, under the same impressions of horror!

[Page 290] Mr. Elderton, the clergyman, had not left the room, but had employed himself in silent prayer. Her de­spair now rose to fury; her expressions were horribly blasphemous, and assistance was necessary to keep her in her bed. Her exertions were fatal. In the pa­roxysm of her despair she burst a blood vessel; the blood gushed rapidly from her mouth, and notwith­standing every possible assistance was instantly pro­cured, before the sun arose, despairing she expired!

At break of day, upon visiting Zelotti's apartment, the keeper of the prison discovered he had taken poi­son the preceding night. He had not undressed him­self, and his corpse lay a dreadful spectacle, stretched upon the floor. A scrap of paper lay near him, on which were scrawled with a pencil these words, bare­ly legible, supposed to have been written after he had drunk the poison:—"Milwood—there is a God! defy him not!—Zelotti."

CHAP. XXI.

THE worthy clergyman, who had witnessed the dreadful death of Milwood, [...]nfluenced by the pure motives of christian charity, determined to visit the fallen victim of her wiles. Sad change had marked the face of Barnwell. The horror of guilt had mar­red one of the [...] countenances nature ever form­ed. No more the rosy glow of health adorned his cheek; no more the smile of innocence and peace hung on his lips; no longer the tranquillity that once dwelt in his bosom beamed from his eyes! Bitter mis­ery had traced its [...] characters o'er all his wasted [Page 291] form. At the entrance of Mr. Elderton he started; but still kept his eyes on the floor.

"I have intruded," said Mr. Elderton, "upon hours which, I hope, are devoted to penitence, to announce to you the melancholy end of—."

"O, God!" cried Barnwell, clasping his hands together, "my mother—I have slain my mother!"

"No—no—no," said Mr. Elderton, eager to un­deceive him, "I speak of the unhappy partners of your guilt, who are now no more. The wretched woman died by the bursting of a blood vessel in a pa­roxysm of despair, and the man has poisoned him­self!"

"God forgive them!" cried Barnwell, "God for­give them!—Poor Milwood!"

Even in his present awful situation, a pang shot through his heart, when he heard she was gone for ever!

"You mentioned a mother, Sir," said Mr. Elder­ton; "have you a mother?

"O, spare me, I beseech you, whoever you are, spare my poor bursting heart the anguish of that thought!"

At that moment the door was thrown open, and Mrs. Barnwell, Eliza, and Mr. Sandall, were in the room. The rumour of Barnwell's absconding, by some means had reached them, and they immediate­ly followed Sir James to Ramsgate. Soon as the wretched mother saw the object, which guilt had rendered her son; when attempting to meet her, his fetters grated on her ears, overcome by the horrid vi­sion, she sunk senseless on the floor. Eliza fainted on the bosom of her brother, and the prison rung with the imprecations of Barnwell on his own guilty head!

By the direction of Mr. Sandall, whose folly had permitted the interview, they were torn asunder, and conveyed home to the house that had been Mr. Emery's. The shock which Mrs. Barnwell had received was severe, and its effects, even when her senses return­ed, [Page 292] confined her to her bed, and rendered the attend­ance of a physician necessary. Eliza, who loved her brother almost to adoration, suffered an inconceivable pain of heart; but her youth enabled her to sustain the blow with less injury to her health, than their un­happy parent: an alarming attack of the asthma, to which she was subject, occasioned serious apprehen­sions of her life. Though the dutiful and affection­ate Eliza would not quit her bed side, she yet divided her painfully anxious thoughts between the sick couch of her parent, and the sad destiny of her brother.

In the mean time, Barnwell struggled to meet his fate with resignation; and if, at times, the horrors that surrounded him opened an avenue for thoughts of suicide, the truly pious. Elderton was constantly, at hand to administer the consolations of hope to his despair.

Some days passed, during which the remains of Sir James Barnwell were conveyed to his late seat, and interred. Mrs. Barnwell remained confined to the bed of sickness, and very slender hope was entertain­ed of her recovery.

The unfortunate victim of unlimited confidence, Mr. Freeman, had received from the numerous and injured creditors of his house, that discriminating ge­nerosity, for which the merchants of London are celebrated in every part of the globe. He received an immediate and full discharge, upon assigning over all his estates, from which an annuity of six hun­dred pounds, for his own life and that of his daugh­ter, were liberally settled upon them-by the unani­mous voice of the creditors, in opposition only to his own sincere wishes to the contrary. Mr. Drudge likewise experienced their liberality; but the exas­peration of the majority of the creditors was fully displayed in their conduct to Emery, who, abandoned by his titled friends, was left literally destitute, and being unable to procure his certificate, the vengeance of several pursued him so far as to terminate the fu­ture prospects of his existence with the gloomy evils of confinement.

[Page 293] Such was the situation of his affairs when Mr. Freeman returned to Ramsgate, after the funeral of his old friend Sir James, who had left him his exec­utor. The greatest part of his estates were bequeath­ed to his wretched nephew, and, in failure of issue, to his sister and her descendants. Very handsome provision was made for Mrs. Barnwell and Eliza, and, excepting a few complimentary legacies, no part of his property was bequeathed out of the family of his brother. The horrid deed of Barnwell received a still deeper tint of horror, by the benevolent intentions thus displayed.

Not the combined wealth of worlds, is able to era­dicate the cankering speck of guilt, or prevent that course of consequences which nature has decreed. Never, perhaps, was the insufficiency of wealth to make the heart happy, more powerfully proved than in the miserable Barnwell's.

As the awful day of public trial drew near, the channels of grief flowed in more painful violence through the hearts of this most wretched family. The good and tender-hearted Freeman sympathised deep­ly with the mourners, and stole occasionally a thought from the melancholy image of his beloved daughter, bereft of reason, to mingle sorrows with them.

Barnwell had particularly requested to be alone, and peremptorily refused the visits of all but the pi­ous Elderton. By these means he gradually prepared his mind for those awful scenes which he was shortly to encounter. Eliza, whose mind was considerably above the common level, calling the energies of rea­son and the hopes of religion to her aid, thus temper­ed the sensibility of her heart to sustain the miseries that pressed heavily upon her. The following letter will exhibit the state of her mind.

The solemn moment now arrived, that placed Barnwell at the bar of temporal justice. The court was crowded with spectators, and as his fatal story was generally known, there was scarcely an individ­ual present, whose eye did not testify the compassion of his heart. The pale and trembling culprit pleaded guilty, in a voice barely audible! The judge pro­nounced the awful sentence of death in the usual words, at the conclusion of which Barnwell exclaim­ed—"O, God!" placed his hands before his eyes, and was removed from the bar.

Conveyed to the cell appropriated to the wretched victims of death, he was left to his own reflections, and having solicited pen, ink, and paper, he commit­ted several of his thoughts to writing:—

As Barnwell wrote the last sentence, the pious Mr. Elderton entered the cell, and casting his eye over his paper, caught the question.—"Yes, my young friend," said he, "'twas passion; but ask thyself, if, in the composition of our natures, passion has no anti­dote? Where was the voice of reason, when first the subtle tempter wooed thee to thy ruin?"

"Stifled,' said Barnwell, "by the stronger cries of passion."

"Granted," said Mr. Elderton; "but passion's boi­sterous breath became at length, exhausted, and con­science then was heard!—Ah, poor friend!" conti­nued he, taking him affectionately by the hand, "had you but listened then, though you had sinned, yet how far short would you have stopped of your present depth of guilt! But I wonder not, when I contem­plate the uncommon talents of the seducer, the frail­ties of nature, and the inexperience of your heart. Had you but revealed your situation, the strong foun­dation of all Milwood's plans must have vanished, and you would have been saved. Fatal reverse!—O, may the dread example operate with every hesita­ting youth, who, bending beneath the weight of se­cret shame, longs, yet dreads, to confide his sorrows and his errors in some pitying breast.—And may each individual, honored with the name of parent, or of guardian, who hears thy woful story, aim, with increasing zeal, to WIN THE CONFIDENCE OF YOUTH­FUL HEARTS! May they reflect of what warring com­pounds human hearts are framed, reflect how much at variance with the institutions of society are many of our passions!—And God forgive the man, who, by a COLD [...]ROWN at venial errors, shall DRIVE HIS SON TO HIDE THE WEAKNESS OF HIS NATURE IN AN ALIEN'S BREAST! But let us turn from a painful re­trospect to scenes where Christian hope points our at­tention.

Fortunately for Barnwell, Mr. Elderton was no [Page 298] bigot: he labored not to bend his penitent to the feigned belief of controverted doctrines; he labored not to exchange the principles of reason for Christian faith, but aimed to strengthen the hopes of the form­er, by the assurances of the latter. He succeeded, and the last thoughts of Barnwell were thus expressed, with a tranquillity that consoles the heart, which pi­ties his sad end, and bows the spirit that would ques­tion the JUSTICE of that OMNIPOTENCE, that permitt­ed his fall.

These were the last words he wrote. The hour of suffering, of shame, of death arrived, and Barnwell having penitently yielded to the consequences of his crimes, his liberated spirit winged its trembling flight to the bright throne of mercy!

The pangs a mother felt at this sad catastophe, who can describe? Happily they were short—soon the welcome herald, Death, arrived, and changed those temporal scenes, a son's crimes had rendered painful, for views of bliss no clouds can ever darken! Maria, too, fell, like a blighted blossom, to the earth, and with her last sigh mingled the name of Barnwell.

The worthy Mr. Freeman met the event with calm, yet heart-felt sorrow. The painful vicissitudes of fortune, reserved for this, the evening of his life, had bowed his mind; and having stripped him of this his last hold on earthly bliss, he endured, with resignation, an existence of tranquillity, almost with­out a hope, or an anxiety!

Eliza, the sister of Barnwell, became his charge, and if ever a temporal concern floated in his mind, it was on her account. By the recent sad events she acquired the very large property of her late uncle, and retired with her guardian to his residence. Sor­row oft visited her in this retirement, when memory mused on melancholy scenes gone by. Yet Eliza struggled with regret: she had imbibed some early lessons of sound and pure philosophy, the advantages of which now shone conspicuous. She contemplated, with earnestness, her situation, and the strongest feeling of her heart was a dread, that [...]he should misapply the loan of wealth, which Heaven had en­trusted to her care.

Her next concern was, to render Mr. Freeman as happy as her soci [...]ty and means could make him, and she aimed with zealous diligence to amuse his reflec­tion from the past. The sit [...]ation of the Miss Eme­ry's and their mother, attracted her attention, and [Page 300] indulged her with an opportunity of exercising that benevolence, which was the chief trait in her cha­racter. With the consent of Mr. Freeman, she af­forded them an asylum in her house, and studied to make their dependence as little felt as possible. She frequently enabled the daughters, by her generosity, to remit those comforts to their father, which ameli­orated the horrors of confinement; and she looked forward to the termination of her minority for the pleasing ability of placing them beyond the fear of dependence, by the settlement of an annuity, that would ensure them, with frugality, the decencies, though not the luxuries, of life.

In such delightful employ, we leave Eliza, whose discriminating generosity afforded her many heart­felt pleasures, and the exercise of which was her con­stant resource, whenever memory pointed to the con­sequences of CONCEALED ERRORS in the melancholy fate of her brother.