The curate of Elmwood. A tale. / Edited by Anthony Pasquin, Esq. ; [Six lines of quotations]

The curate of Elmwood. A tale. / Edited by Anthony Pasquin, Esq. ; [Six lines of quotations]

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The Curate of Elmwood. A TALE,

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The Curate of Elmwood. A TALE,

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

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

The old parson could do many things besides eating his pudding, drink his October, and collect his tithes;—important qualifications, which have been, from time immemorial, annexed to the office of [...]te.— He carried the sciences in his head, [Page] and morality in his heart; I mean, so far as they are connected with manners or sentiment—added to this, he preached an excellent sermon, wore his own grey hairs, and had the gout; but above all, he loved, most dearly loved, his beautiful daughter JULIA.

And well did she deserve his love. —Sweet Maid! if ever I forget thee, may my fancy lose her flights, and my pen its movements; if ever I forget the majestic elegance of thy form —or the liquid blue swimming in thy eye—or the half rose, half-lily colours glowing on thy cheek, like the streaks of the west in a July evening.—

Her person had all those undescribable points of divine beauty, which the pure imagination ascribes to angels—her mind was fashioned by the sciences—her disposition by charity, and her sentiment by truth.

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

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

Thus peaceably glided on their lives, till an unlucky accident in the neighbouring parish disturbed their tranquility. The vicar of that parish died.—The moment our Curate was informed of this, it roused one of his worst passions: he had now but one wish to be gratified in this world; and that was, to have the neighbouring vicarage in possession. "My dear father (said the unambitious JULIA) have we not competence; and does not competence afford us felicity? and is not this sufficient?"—Aye, all that was very true: but then the vicarage lay so snug—just at his own door; and he wanted to have it in his power to leave something to his JULIA after his death.

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

The old man became now greatly agitated; and that bosom, which ought to have been the mansion of resignation and peace, was disturbed by restless [Page] wishes, and ill-timed despair. The sympathetic soul of JULIA was tumultuous; her heart throbbed with guiltless pangs, and she felt for the griefs of her father. She tried to soothe him, but tried in vain; she argued against his wishes, but she was arguing against the follies of old age, which are incurable.

The evening came, but came not as usual; this man of despair was unconscious of its charms—his soul was deaf to the voice of nature, even when her notes were sweetest—at the close of the day. He listened not to the minstrelsy of the hinds, nor the choral harmony of the groves; the flocks clustered in the meadows unnoticed: and the sun poured his evening glories over the hamlet unregarded— even JULIA did not charm him: he saw her kneel at his side without emotion, and he heard her sighs without pity.

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

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

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

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

Now this JOE was the aukwardest mortal—never, sure, did a more simple 'squire page it at the heels of a fair lady—neither the Sancho of Don Quixote, nor the Pedrillo of Rosalva, were more arrant children of nature—were guided by more native simplicity.—He and his occupations seemed made for each other, so exactly were they respectively fitted. He was never famous but for two things; viz. for whistling, after his team, the loudest and most musical notes of any in the village—and for knitting stockings: this was all the reputation he had in this gairish world—on his forehead sat candour, unprofitably [Page] enthroned, and on his tongue truth— his visage was the symbol of integrity—his ruddy cheek was tinted like a cloud in the west, at the eve of a glorious day—the sensations of guilt had not deranged the line of human beauty!

Now, reader, stop a moment, and bethink thee of this plan, and of this journey—a village virgin, pure as the snow-drop in the valley, attended by a village boor, are setting out for London—for London, I say—in quest of a vicarage! The thing was worthy of a village curate—the descent of Eneas into hell was, in comparison of this, walking upon carpets.

Facilis descensus Averni,

Sed revecare gradum—

Our travellers were now ready to begin their walk to the market-town, which was but four miles distant. Without palfrey, armour, or other retinue, than the children of the neighbourhood; JULIA and her father led the van, and the rest followed—JOE, as if conscious that he was entering [Page] upon a service or danger, assumed a statelier port and a more august expression than usual; with a clean shirt in his left pocket, bacon and cheese in his right, and an oak sapling in his hand, he towered majestically in the midst of the children, with a stern aspect and long strides.

The company had now walked a mile, and were to part. On this trying occasion I could say much, but will not—to describe the glances of affection, and the looks of love, which glistened in every eye—which played in every feature, would be tedious: I shall therefore content myself with informing them, that in this difficult scene the simple heart of the curate failed him; his eyes confessed it, and he played the woman. The curate marched slowly back, at the head of his young flock, and our two travellers set forward to the market-town, with hasty step and high expectations.

Having now began a journey, we must be expeditious. They arrived [Page] at the market-town, met the stage coach, and took their appropriate stations—JULIA in the inside, and JOE, like her guardian angel, perched above her upon the top—they went smoothly on, till they arrived at the lane which is three miles on the west side of Uxbridge; when a very civil gentleman came to the window, and desired them to give him all the money they had—the gentleman at the window was far from being unpolite, considering he had declared war against society—he bespoke them very gently, beginning at the right hand, and following them all, man by man, and woman by woman, till he went round to the left side—a boisterous cornet of dragoons was unhappily the first, and he gave his purse with a sullen silence—JULIA was next, and held her little money in her hand, but durst not look towards the window—a meagre cockney gave all, but begged a few shillings back, to carry him to St. Paul's—a little fat woman surrendered her purse, with a threat; [Page] and a plain dressed man regretted he had not more for so accomplished a gentleman.

When they arrived at the inn, each expressed their sorrows as their feelings prompted; but they were now to enter upon their last stage, and none had such weighty cause to be aggrieved as JULIA, who had not a friend before her—to go forward was madness, and to go backward was impossible—what was she to do?— She called in JOE, and asked if he had provided himself with any money, in case of an emergency.—"Yes that he had—and there it was at her service" throwing down his entire stock upon the table, which amounted to the sum of three shillings and nine-pence— this made despair more black—it was her first misfortune; and she thought it but an uncouth entrance into a base world.

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

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

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

Now, gentle reader, while JULIA [Page] and her friend are seated at a bottle of Madeira, recollect and confess, whether we have not journied well; from the banks of the Avon, from the mansion of innocence, from the warm bosom of a father, to place our rural virgin on the very throne of perdition. Now, ye guardian spirits, whether Sylphs, Genii, or Fairies; if ye have any regard for devoted purity, now open your golden eyes, now ply your silver pinions, for innocence is in danger. And now, thou wrenched old man, thou ambitious Curate of Elmwood, rekindle your piety, and redouble your prayers, for your daughter, your JULIA is in a Bagnio, and without a fear!

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

He philtered the beverage, and JULIA drank sparingly, but not so her companion—he was to attempt the gaining of a difficult post, and the coward wanted spirits—It is a tribute paid to Virtue, that, though it be lodged in the possession of but a frail and weak tenement, its spoiler before he attempts to ruin it, must call to his assistance the aids of inebriety. At length his eyes glistened, and his cheek glowed—he snatched the hand of JULIA—fed upon it with fury, and devoured it with a tumult of unholy love —if, indeed, he loved JULIA, it was with the sensations of a tiger. She started from his embraces, and retreated some paces from her chair—he [Page] followed, and renewed the attack, and JULIA her resistance: he grew stronger, he grew wilder; his hand was wandering over her charms (where hand never wandered before) and he became furious—JULIA became faint —she was yielding—her tender frame was exhausted, and she could only shriek! A shriek was a new thing in these apartments, and it alarmed a gentleman in the adjoining room, who, with his coat off, a dirty boot on oneleg, and his face besmeared with sweat, kicked open the door, and rushed violently into the room, with all the zeal of a man who was to assist the distressed—the officer let go his hold of JULIA, and she threw herself breathless upon a chair. The man in dishabille stared at them both alternately, now at JULIA, and now at the officer, and at length broke silence: "What! force!—Why, thou damnable and silly animal, what dirty business is this you are engaged in?— forcing a woman to your wishes!—To [Page] force a woman in any place is a meanness that no man of honour will stoop to—but to force one here;—in this house—D-mn you; you scoundrel! get out—walk off, or I'll kick you." We need not be surprised that the officer was mean enough to take his advice—he looked at the man in dishabile as if he had recollected something, and left the room precipitately.

"And now, my angel (said the gentleman in the boot to JULIA, taking her by the hand) let us drink a glass or two, and I dare say we shall agree better."—"Oh! Sir! (replied JULIA, clasping her hands and falling on her knees before him)—Have mercy on me! pity me!—or you will kill me." "Pshaw, my dear! I never kill quite upon these occasions—you will but die at the most.—But, child, you look dev'lish serious upon this business—is any thing the matter with you?"— "Oh, Sir! (answered JULIA, in tears) I don't know where I am, and I don't know where to go—I am just come to town in the Warwick stage!"— [Page] "In the Warwick stage!— What, through Uxbridge?"—"Yes."— "And was that fellow one of the company?" "Yes."—"Whe—w! And you met a highwayman, didn't you?"— "Yes."—"That was me, by G—d!" Here JULIA shrieked, terrified at the sound of the name; but he stopped her in good time: "You must not be afraid (said he) for I won't hurt you—don't be surprised, it's d—d vulgar to be surprised at any thing— tell me honestly, are you virtuous or not?—that is, are you a maid? — "Oh! upon my honor, Sir."—"How came you here then, in company with that fellow?—"When you took —I mean, Sir, when I lost all my money—he advanced some for me; and as I had no friends in London, promised to take care of me, and bring me to his mother's, till to-morrow, when I could have finished all my business. —"Then you are really honest?"— "As I love Heaven, and my father, Sir, I am." "You are a lovely girl, and it is a pity so sine a woman should be honest— [Page] but I believe you, and will be your friend—nay I will guard you from harm—for, by G—d, I am a man of honor! and though misfortune and my evil spirit force me sometimes to the highway, I scorn to do a mean thing.—In the first place, as you lost your money, you shall divide this purse with me.—In the next place, you are now in a house full of prostitutes of both sexes—I must leave it myself in a minute, in case that fellow should have twigg'd me, and I fancy you had better leave it too.—Trust yourself with me, and I will take care of you till morning."—JULIA told him he could not serve her more agreeably than by carrying her to the inn where the stage and JOE were. That, he said, was more than he dare do— but he would carry her to a place equally or more secure. So saying, he returnd to his room, to throw off part of his road-dress, and adjust the rest. If the reader has any imagination, he, will conceive how JULIA'S thoughts were employed in this interval, till [Page] they were interrupted by the re-entrance of the young highwayman, who appeared now to be an elegant handsome fellow. He paid the reckoning, and they departed: It was between nine and ten in the evening.

They had not quitted the Piazza, when four of Sir John Fielding's men rushed forward, and seized the highwayman with the most incredible activity. They swept him away, as the whirlwind sweeps the leaves in autumn, and buoys them the Lord knows where—JULIA ran too nor cast one look behind. She continued to go forward (as she thought) till she had run a great way; and then stopping for breath, she was exactly on the spot from whence she set out; she had only run round the garden, not suspecting but she was going forward in a straight line. "Madam! Madam! (said an Irish chairman to her) do you want a chair?" "I don't know what I want." "My fait, but I do—you want to be carried to Starling's, [Page] my jewel, which I and Conner will do in no time." "My good friend, if you can carry me to an honest place, I shall bless you for ever." "Honest plase! my honey, an if I know one honest plase in the whole town. Ha, ha, ha! honest plase!— Ah, you cunning strap; to be sure you want to go to an honest plase!— Ha, ha, ha!— Here you Mr. Watchman, this lady wants to go to an honest plase; can't you shew her the way?" "Aye, that I can, (replied the watchman)—Ah, Madam, is it you? I know you of old; come along with me: you shall go to the honestest place in all king George's dominions—the Round-House." The watchman happened just at that time to want a pot of beer; but JULIA not understanding his meaning, to the Round-House he led her in triumph.—Poor JULIA!

She had been hitherto overwhelmed in a kind of insensibility. The suddenness and horror of the last adventure were too much for her. Her [Page] faculties lost their power, and her recollection was suspended. She was led by the watchman without knowing whither she was going; she was dragged along; without feeling that he held her by the arm. But she had not been long seated at the top of the bench, where they placed her near the sire, before she awakened from her stupor. She tremulously looked around, and saw herself seated in the midst of a horrible assembly, whose miscreantic visages would make angels weep and demons tremble. High above the rest, like the evil spirit in pandemonium, sat the constable of the night, a beef-headed knave, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard on a stool before him. "Here (said this man in office) you Snoring Dick, reach this-here tankard to that-there lady, and then bring her before me for examination. Oh! she won't drink! well, well, that's all one if she does not drink, she'll pay; so bring her forward here."

JULIA now advanced: her cheeks [Page] were suffused with tears, her breath quickened, and her whole frame trembled.

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

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

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

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

"In the fact?"

"In the fact."

"Transportation, by the lord Harry.—Well, go on, Dick."

"And so, Sir, as I catches her hand, [Page] she turns about, stoops down for one of her pattens, and, before you could say, cavy, hits me the nastiest blow on the skull I ever had in my life, since the great riot. You'll please to feel, Mister Constable, here is the lump as big as a half gallon."

"Aye, God bless me! so it is; it's a thumper, i'faith."

"A thumper! it will stand damaages. I never had such a blow in my [...]. I wa'ant ye it bleeds under my hair—it stoundered me like a stockfish."

"Aye, it's a clear case, she wanted to murder you."

"Yes."

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

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

Dick stooped, but JULIA [...].

[Page]"Ah, the cunning devil! (continued Dick) she has thrown them away. I thought I heard her throw something away, as we come along."

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

As JULIA was returning to her bench, she trembled incessantly, but never uttered a syllable. Oh, (said Dick) she is dumb-foundered with the heinousness of her crime." "No, (replied a second) she is drunk." "Not so far gone neither (echoed a third) but a quartern of gin would recover her."

"Aye, aye, (said the constable) there's no doubt but she'll drink; and it's her turn now to send out. Please, Madam, to give this gemmun money for a gallon of Trueman's best, and for half a gallon of hot, and four papers of 'bacco, and a loaf, and [Page] three pound [...] Cheshire. Here, Scout, walk over, sirrah, to the lady, and make her your Sunday's bow—Bring every thing of the best, and then we'll drink to the lady's health, and to poor Snoring Dick's head; and old Ugly-Face, in the corner, yonder, will sing us the comical song about the cat and the taylor, and make his wry faces, and we'll be as happy as princes."

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

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

On seeing this, the president bawled [Page] out immediately, that it was a sham! and JULIA protested in vain —The company around heard this with an arch smile; the watchmen shook their heads, and the constable grew noisy; which awakened an old gentleman who had hitherto slept very soundly in a corner. Estimating the thing as favourably as possible, he had not above half the appearance of a gentleman. The truth is, he was no other than the well known Mr. B—, who once had three thousand a year, though he has not now sixty. He had been lounging as usual, for eight or nine hours in a coffee-house in the garden and then withdrew, as he frequently does, to the watch-house, either to sleep or drink. On this last account, he was regarded there with some degree of respect.

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

"Which watchman was it?" said the gentleman.

"Me!"—replied Snoring Dick, boldly.

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

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

"You hav'n't?"

"No."

"And you won't deliver?"

"No—"

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

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

"Ah, you old fox! (said the gentleman) I thought I should unkennel you. Where is this something that you picked up from the street?" "Here it is —but it does not belong to her."

"Pray, Madam, (said Mr.B—, addressing JULIA) is this your purse?"

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

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

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

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

"Lord, Ma'am, (observed Snoring Dick) for six-pence I'll conduct you to a bagnio, where you will be as safe as if you was in the Tower."—She started at hearing a bagnio mentioned—"Why then, Ma'am, if so be as you are shy, and a'n't proud, hire me well, and I'll let you sleep in my house.—There's nobody there but my wife—I'll seek but five shillings, and your purse can well spare that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

She slept nine hours incessantly, and, when she awoke, found her head resting upon the partition wall which rose at the back of her bed.

At the expiration of this time JULIA arose. Snoring Dick had retired for an hour, to sleep away the fatigues of the night and of the beer pot. His wife was at breakfast, and invited JULIA to partake of her bohea—She consented willingly; and the woman, who had but one dish, politely offered it to her guest, and [Page] took for her own use a pint-pot from which her husband had been drinking beer.

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

It was now rather more than dinner time, but neither Dick nor JOE appeared—JULIA was uneasy. Four o'clock struck, but brought no comfort with it. It was five—but nobody arrived. Six, seven, eight—nobody. During these intervals she paid frequent visits to an object in distress, in the adjoining chamber, and charged her hostess with great sincerity, at whatever time she went away, to be attentive to his necessities till her return.

I have said it was now eight o'clock, and nobody appeared. She became very, very uneasy. It was now half past eight. "Still nobody!—Good Heaven! are my misfortunes never to end?" At about a quarter before nine, two of Sir John Fielding's men entered the room, with Dick—drunk, very drunk—at their head.

Now, gentle reader, whatever your thoughts may be, certain it is, that Sir John Fielding's men are come in [Page] quest of JULIA; and I'll lay you plums to pippins that you cannot conjecture their business with her.

To understand it, your memory must recur to the adventures of JULIA with the highwayman. He had met with her in the bagnio, and given her a purse with money in it, and in their departare from thence, the highwayman was seized—JULIA fled, and was by chance conducted to the Round House. The generous highwayman was apprehended upon the information of the contemptible son of Mars, already noted. When this coxcomb arrived at the office, the fat woman of Holborn had alighted there upon the same business. As the highwayman therefore was secured, the first business thought necessary was to search him, and all the different purses of the company were found upon him, except that of the fat woman.—It was agreed that he could not have spent it in so short a time: ergo, he must have given it away. [Page] To corroborate the suspicion, the men recollected that a woman was along with him when he was apprehended, and the perfumed officer confirmed it. The case was therefore plain; JULIA must have the purse in her possession. Away they sallied, with the officers at their head, through the streets, bagnios, taverns, and night-houses; but in vain: she was no where to be found. The next night, between eight and nine, one of them met Dick the watchman: (Dick was at this time returning to JULIA without any answer or information; for instead of going on her errand, he went to get drunk with her money.) The thieftaker inquired of him by chance, as the adventure happened within his circuit, if he had seen such a lady. After describing her very minutely—"Seen her! (said Dick) why, she is at my house." This information was sufficient for the servant of justice: he took Dick by the arm, and summoning one of his companions, set off for the lodging of JULIA.

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

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

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

Dreadful sounds to the ear of JULIA—her teeth grated, and her joints trembled—this was the severest stroke [Page] of all. To be imprisoned! and as an accomplice of a highwayman too!— But she submitted to Heaven.

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

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

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

JULIA was next examined, and her evidence most exactly squared with the former. Ingenuous as usual, she took up the story at Elmwood, and carried it forward to the event of the purse; and she told her little tale with that truth and simplicity which can [Page] never be counterfeited. She added that there was somewhere in town a person who could confirm her words beyond suspicion! but alas! poor JOE! she knew not where to find him. ‘JOE! (said one of the justice's men, who stood behind JULIA)—what is your name JULIA, Madam?’ — "Yes." (replied JULIA)—The man immediately ran out, and brought back in his hand the Daily Advertiser, in which he read the following advertisement:

If a sarten young Lady, Miss Julia (whose name is nothing to nobody, and which I doan't mention here, becaise I doan't think it proper)—sees this, this is to let you kno, Miss Julia, Joe dusn't kno where you be, and that you dusn't kno where Joe is, for he is to be found at the sine of the swain with two Necks in Lad Lane, and no where else, as witness my hand, by me,

JOE ******.

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

But it may be necessary to explain this affair. I again summon the memory of my readers back to the time of our history when JOE and JULIA unluckily parted in Holborn—JOE did not look for her till the coach stopped in the inn-yard, and then he waited at the door of it for her appearance. He thought her long in coming, but his patience was not exhausted, the rest of the company had been out of the coach some minutes. At length he ventured to thrust in his head—but she was not there! He started back on his heel, and gazed widely round the yard but in vain. Opposite to him he saw the door of a public [Page] room open, and he rushed in without ceremony: from thence he sallied into the kitchen, strode into the parlour, threw his eye into the bar, and peeped into the larder. He marched into the stables, and in short every place where he saw a door open to receive him—but all would not do: she was not to be found. He returned to the coach, took one peep more into it, but all was solitary! "God bless my heart (said JOE to himself, fidgetting and scratching among his auburn hair) protest and save me from all temptations and evil spirits! I wish could see Miss JULIA again." Now at last, he bethought himself of what he ought to have done at first, viz. to question the coachman concerning the affair, and the coachman informed him of the whole truth. This information in no degree abated his anxiety.—"Didn't she leave no word with you for me?" (said he to the coachman.) "No."—"Don't you now where she went?"—"No."

Don't you think she'll come here [Page] this night?"—"I can't tell you, upon my word."—JOE, with downcast looks and folded arms, measured the space across the yard with long and melancholy strides. He walked into the passage of the house, and marked the clock—he counted the hours as they rolled, slow and heavy, but he saw not his mistress—it was now ten o'clock, but no JULIA came.

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

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

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

JOE arrived—suffice it to say, that JULIA pressed him warmly by the hand, and half cried with joy; and JOE took fast hold of the skirt of her robe, as if he dreaded her running away from him once more.

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

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

"My mistress" (answered JOE.)

"Aye—From the country, I suppose?"

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

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

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

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

"Sure I am, Master (answered JOE) indeed we are both very much obliged to you for being so kind.— But then what can you do for us, if so be that my Lord a'n't at home?" Pshaw, man! (said the porter) run after your mistress and bring the money, and I'll satisfy you about that."

[Page]"O—an' that be all (replied JOE) I can pay the money myself."

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

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

Now in order to prepare my readers for a very important aera in the life of my heroine, it may be necessary [Page] to relate what this noble youth was —A foolish grandmother had left him three thousand a year, independent of his father, and of his age; all which, with three thousand more, he gallantly spent like a man of spirit, long before the year was expired— He asserted, that every kingdom in Europe contributed to furnish his seraglio: he only meant by this, that he kept in pay one French, one Spanish, one Italian, one Scandinavian, one German, one Irish, and one British nymph, all at one time; which he actually did. He was deep in the mysteries of hazard, and knew DEMOIVRE better than the Decalogue.—He had killed five waiters, and shot two ecclesiastics. —He boasted too, that he had killed fifteen women, by breaking their hearts with a hopeless passion. This, however, was (to use an old and honest English phrase) a lie: for he never killed but one woman, and that was by breaking—not her heart, but her neck. Suffice it to say, that his manners were elegantly infamous.

[Page]Such was the youth to whom the letter of the father of JULIA was carried. He-opened it, and on reading the following paragraph,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He finished; and taking JULIA by the hand, he led her out of the room, and drew the door behind him.— The dignity of manhood is resistless—the peerling reddened, and the pastor triumphed.

He conducted her into his own apartment, and sympathized with her in that strain of humane politeness which is ever inseparable from undebauched minds—after she had composed herself, he distantly enquired (as if he had not known) into her business—this was exactly a repetition of JOE's narration.—"I thank you Madam, (said he) for your politeness. You will see Lord C—in about an hour; but previously I think it my duty to inform you of what ought not to be longer concealed from you —It is now one o'clock—Exactly at ten—about three hours ago— [Page] Lord C—appointed me to the living you are come to solicit." This information in no degree startled JULIA, nor unruffled her features. She observed, that since her father had not been lucky enough to obtain the vicarage, she was happy the appointment was bestowed upon a man who resembled him so much in his virtues.

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

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

Need I mention, that the Chaplain felt the force of the eyes of JULIA! from the moment he first saw her in tears, his heart was wounded to the core—the tears of a fine woman are more eloquent than the lip of Tully,

—Unskilful they

Who dress the Queen of Love in wanton smiles;

Brightest she shines amidst a show'r of tears:

The graces that adorn her beauty most

Are softness, sensibility, and pity.

It was during the space allotted for dinner, that the first mutual communication of tenderness took place between the Chaplain and his adored JULIA: I say the space allotted for dinner, as either party were too much absorbed in the interests of the heart, to fulfil the demands of hunger—he had scarcely performed the first ceremonies of the table, by invoking the blessing of Omnipotence upon the repast, ere he riveted his eyes upon the [Page] harmonized visage of his beloved maid, who sat, unconscious of his adoration, in a state half tranquilized; her delicate system had not fully recovered the tone of calmness; she even yet fluttered at the remembrance of the dangers she had passed, and would have been more than ordinary depressed with awe, had not the gentle old Peer, as ardently exercised the first principle of politeness, by reconciling her to her situation, through the medium of attention.

There are moments when it might be imagined that invisible sylphs were buoyant, to direct the struggles of the soul, and cunningly lay open the secrets of the heart by an apparent accident, when the powers of language were denied by discretion, or withheld by terror: it was in one of those important moments, when a recollection of the great services which had been rendered her by the young divine, came full upon her mind; and as we are solicitous to contemplate what we esteem, she modestly lifted up her eyelids [Page] to regard her preserver, who, perceiving her aim, collected such a portion of fire into his vision, that when the azure orbs of JULIA came in a direct line with those of the Chaplain, the lambent beam shot through her sweet frame; confounded the dominion of her senses, and enclosed her warm heart—she felt the unusual throbbing, and shrunk, like a sensitive plant, within herself, as wishing to hide what was unavoidable, from the observation of her associates.

This occurrence emboldened her admirer to open the second battery of his affection, by making the following request: "Ma—Ma—Madam, will you do me the honor, to take a glass of wine?" to this proposal the gladdening JULIA assented, by an inclination of her fair body; and while she sipped the rosy liquor, her cheek was more highly suffused with red, than the beverage she as sparingly imbibed—the trembling of her hand made the glass vibrate on her pearly teeth—she panted with apprehension, [Page] yet looked with celestial benignity.

For those coarse and unenviable persons, who have never known the bewitching influence of love, and its undescribable movements in the bosom, this recital can have no force: but with those whose organization is more delicate, it will have some interest—each will conceive, in the mysteries of feeling, what I am not able to delineate with my pen, and acquire a temporary gratification, by supposing all that JULIA felt, in a novel embarrassment so luxuriantly painful —the Chaplain was scarcely less confounded: he was agonized with the wish for an opportunity to be more explicit—the suppression of those declaratory sentiments to the object of his pure regard, which were to determine the tendencies of his future life, created a pain within his heart, and twice a sigh burst from its core, and would have issued from his lips, if his correct judgment had not whispered, that it would be hazarding an [Page] emotion, in the presence of a third person, which was not strictly compatible with policy, and might be offending if not injurious to his delectable JULIA.

It is on trials like these, that the accomplishments arising from a refined education, can meliorate the powerful demands of inclination: and they are so highly profitable, that in proportion as we exercise self-denial, we are but preparing the senses for a richer banquet—it was not ordained that we should make the overtures of love with a bestial precipitation, and leap over that chain of progressive blisses, which emenate from the soft administration of sympathy.

When the mere gross pleasure of the table had passed, and the Chaplain had fervently made his acknowledgments to the Almighty for his great bounty, the venerable Nobleman turned towards his gentle guest, with a mien fraught with the sincerest respect, and looking with ineffable kindness, asked her how she approved of [Page] the metropolis, as he understood that she had never been in town before. —JULIA replied, with some hesitation, that her knowledge of London, and indeed of society in general was so very limited, that she should but expose her ignorance of both, and, perhaps, do a common wrong, by venturing her ideas upon a theme she so ill understood—that she had found some of the best axioms of theory overthrown by the practices of a busy world, and that before she presumed to draw a final opinion, she would endeavour to know more, as it were probable the baser part of human nature, might be very inferior in numbers and influence to those who were exemplary: at least she would indulge that hope, until conviction denied her such a cheering privilege.

At the conclusion of the well-managed festivities of the board, Lord C—requested the Chaplain to shew his fair visitant, the pictures in the gallery, which comprehended some of the most perfect performances of the ancient and modern masters.

[Page]As no unilluminated mind can conceive, nor pen express, the delightful perturbation of the young ecclesiastic's heart, on receiving this injunction, I shall imitate Apelles, and pass over what I cannot delineate—he modestly arose to convey his lovely charge to the promised scene of contemplation, and had led her to the door, when the benevolent Nobleman, arrested their progress for a minute (and minutes in such circumstances are whole hours of delay) to exact a promise from JULIA, that she would use his house, as her peculiar home, until her business or wishes in the metropolis were fulfilled—JULIA bowed assent to his hospitable desire, and the parties gracefully receded from each other.

If there are any persons so imperfectly initiated in the mysteries of love, as to believe that the fond twain amused themselves with the divine conceptions of a Raphael; the grace of Corregio, or the majesty of Michael [Page]Angelo, I pity their want of discernment—when the reader recollects that this was the first time that JULIA had been alone with her young Chaplain, since her deliverance from the licentious fury of an honorable ruffian, he-cannot be amazed, that she should feel the richest display of the best artists absorbed in the superior merit of her preserver, who was so nobly active in a situation, where few would have ventured to offer an opinion in favour of distressed virtue —suffice it to say, that the tender and unsophisticated heart of JULIA, was warmed in the survey of her gallant and moral companion—she heard his argument with attention, and eagerly gave him credit, even for advantages he did not possess—her cheeks were flushed with crimson, whenever he pressed her lily hand between his own, and she stood confessedly the victim of her feeling, though her language was delicately chaste, and her ideas unvisited by a licentious thought.

[Page]Oh! love, thou tyrant of the soul! —through what devious paths you often tread, to allure impassioned youth to woe—to draw ‘Hearts after you, tangled in amorous nets.’ yet, for they kindly influence here, shalt though be forgiven—it is from the coincidence of such events, that Hymen is enabled to maintain his dignity, and blend felicity with moral law.

Here I must necessarily abridge the history of three days, during which the most unreserved communication of sentiment was indulged between the enamoured couple—yet was the important event not divulged to Lord C—, and the only motive to this forbearance originated in JULIA, who would not consent to that particular measure, until her dear father had ratified the proposal with his consent—a special messenger was dispatched to Elmwood, and the answer was auspicious to their common desire.

[Page]How supremely happy is that state of truth, when mutual confidence is the result of mutual virtue—in what portion of his being, can the voluptuary derive an enjoyment, equal to those sensations which arise when duty sanctifies passion?—How weak are the arguments of the Materialists— how futile the subtilties of Epicurus and Spinosa, when opposed to the force of those emotions, which uplift the guiltless, and assuredly demonstrate that we shall be rewarded in proportion as we are just—that our free agency is inseparably connected with responsibility; and that to pass through life safely, we must act wisely, and to be blessed, we must be innocent.

When, by the indirect movements of chance, it came to the knowledge of Lord C—, that his son had behaved with disrespect towards the pure daughter of his old friend, he manifested emotions of surprise and indignation; and ordered that he should be acquainted with the return [Page] of his son, in the instant that he arrived— those orders had not been delivered many hours before his arrival was announced—he commanded him into his presence, and, with an air of parental dignity, addressed him thus: "My Son, for such I am compelled to believe you are, I require you to tell me, upon what principle you think our reciprocal duties are to be maintained towards each other?"—"This question, my Lord, is so very singular and unexpected, that I scarcely know how to frame an answer, adequate to your desires."—"Why then, Sir, I will relieve you from this embarrassment, and inform you, it is Justice;" —"Certainly my Lord."—"Then as you admit the principle, give me leave to ask you, if you hold it as just, that the powerful should oppress the defenceless?"—"Assuredly not, my Lord."—"Perhaps you will not consider it as reasonable, that the aggression should be expiated by punishment?"—"To what do all these unusual [Page] questions tend?—you appear to me, my Lord, to be drawing me into a state of responsibility in which I am not interested."—"Indeed you are, Sir; and interested in a very great degree."—"How, my Lord?"—"I will tell you Sir: you have had the meanness and the audacity to insult an amiable young lady, under my roof, and I insist that you immediately write her a letter of atonement, and ask her forgiveness."—"My Lord, you may have been misinformed in this matter; give me permission to explain the circumstances."— "I understand so much of the truth already, Sir, that an explanation may increase, but cannot do away your dishonor, so, without any hesitation, take up the pen, and write to the lady what I shall dictate."—"You will recollect, my Lord, that JULIA is not my equal."—"According to the laws of politeness, Sir, every woman is every man's superior; and agreeably to the laws of morality, she is an angel, and you are a—but I will [Page] not be unnecessarily harsh in sentiment; so instantaneously write."— with a heart overcharged with mortification, almost to bursting, the honarable offender sat down, and, with a trembling hand, indicted the following epistle, from the words of Lord C—

Madam,

IT duly becomes me, as the guardian of my own honor, to implore your forgiveness, for an error committed during the suspension of my reason; I vainly imagined that the advantages resulting from high birth, youth, and fortune, could compensate for the want of virtue; but my reflection has tutored me otherwise; I am now so thoroughly convinced of my own unworthiness, that I cannot be happy if you withhold your pardon—the purity of your own nature, and the truth you have imbibed from the education of so good a man as your father, will suggest that all are not to be abandoned who are faulty, and that those who forgive [Page] most, the more nearly resemble heaven.—With the deepest contrition, and the most ardent hope, I beg permission to subscribe myself,

Your most obedient, Humble servant, CHARLES C—.

While the venerable old Peer was in the act of preparation to seal and subscribe this letter, in order that it might be sent to JULIA, the Curate entered, but, in seeing the object of his recent resentment, he was going to retire, under the apprehension that he might be transacting some private business with his father.—"Stop, Sir, (said the old nobleman,) I want you to be witness to an act of retribution; read this letter, and then inform me if the apology is proportioned to the offence." The manly ecclesiastic perused the epistle with a mixture of pleasure and astonishment, and when he had concluded, approached the young gentleman with an air of ineffable kindness; and taking him by the hand, exclaimed, how happy would [Page] it be for human-kind, if all transgressions were thus understood, and thus obliterated. "You must not be amazed my Lord, (added he, turning to his patron) if I feel sensations nearly approaching to ecstasy, on this theme, as the object of this letter has consented to be my wife."—"Your wife!" ejaculated both in the same instant! "It is even so, (rejoined the worthy Curate) provided your Lordship has no objection to the union." So far am I, Sir, from disapproving your choice, that I must instantly go and give the bride elect joy; and you my son, shall go too, and prove, by your present demeanor, that you are ashamed of the past: this is a duty that all will fulfill with cheerfulness: When virtue is rewarded all that think should rejoice."

Here let the reader ponder upon the undescribable emotions, which played about the susceptible heart of JULIA, from the momentous period that she was left with the Curate, until she was congratulated on their return [Page] from the altar, by the man who had attempted to destroy her dignity and peace—but it was a chain of events so diversified and so luxuriant, that no vulgar mind can accompany the progression. When a man of honor solicits the hand of a woman of virtue, the god of marriage assumes a nobler port than usual, and charms with a reflected grace—then his fetters are owned to be silken, and his influence derived from heaven.

FINIS.

§

§

[Page]

[Page]

THE CURATE OF ELMWOOD. A TALE.

Edited by ANTHONY PASQUIN, ESQ.

Inconstant Fortune, light as air,

Involves us now in black despair:

Now soothes with flattering smiles;

In disappointments takes delight,

And, mocking us in cruel spite,

All human kind beguiles.

King of Prussia, to Count B [...]

BOSTON: PRINTED BY JOHN RUSSELL 1800.

§

§

[Page]

THE Curate of Elmwood. A TALE.

Information about this book

Title statement

The curate of Elmwood. A tale. / Edited by Anthony Pasquin, Esq. ; [Six lines of quotations]

Pasquin, Anthony, 1761-1818.

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI :

Date

2007-10.

ID [DLPS]

N29363

ID [TCP]

N29363

ID [STC]

Evans 39105

ID [NOTIS]

APY9629

ID [IMAGE-SET]

39105

ID [EVANS-CITATION]

99037229

Availability

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Series

Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 39105.

Notes

(Evans-TCP ; no. N29363)

Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 39105)

Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 39105)

Source

— The curate of Elmwood. A tale. / Edited by Anthony Pasquin, Esq. ; [Six lines of quotations], Pasquin, Anthony, 1761-1818..

Extent

82 p. ; (18mo)

Printed by John Russell,. Boston: :: 1800..

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