SCENE I.—A GROVE.

WELCOME, ye humble vales! thrice welcome, ye peaceful shades!—here innocence finds a sweet retreat—lone contem­plation here resides with happiness her guest. The reverend Hermit discovered true wisdom in directing us to such a delightful retreat. Secluded from the world, its folly, pomp and deceit; where daring guilt triumphs over unprotected innocence: where suspicion poi­sons the cup of joy; and pleasure bears the sting of remorse in her bosom, or langour, sa­tiety and disgust succeed.—You, my cousin, have ever placed happiness in the rural shades: May I be taught by you, whom I have too long despised, to woo her in these sacred haunts.

You need not now, my dear cousin, cease to despise the pursuits I made in search of happiness. My delight was not the peaceful shades of retirement, where no obtruding guest dare enter. The grove, the [Page 4] rill, had no charms for me, if some sighing Damon did not there breathe forth the praises of Pastorella. But these hallowed groves fill my soul with horror; and I look with shame upon my past life. But who are these? They cannot be the gentle tenants of the forest, for like us they seem the children of despair.

Ladies, may I ask if you are of the family of Urania—or, like us, wanderers in search of her dwelling?

We boast not the happiness of be­longing to that respected name, but have saught these shades to ask her friendship and advice.

How fortunate this meeting! our pursuits the same. We will seek her dwell­ing together, and receive more pleasure and instruction by the variety of precept, which the worthy Urania will bestow on each dif­ferent character. And by these branching oaks which seem coeval with time; by the landscape dressed in every charm of nature, I think the spot not far distant that bounds our wishes:—And look! a lovely form ap­proaches, whose innocence and cheerfulness bespeak her an inhabitant of these delightful shades.

Perhaps it is Florella, whom Fame reports as the model of female perfection.

Fair strangers, for such I am sure you are, these uncultivated fields boast not the courtly manners you possess. May I, without the imputation of impertinent curi­osity, enquire from whence you came? If, haply, some misfortune brought you to this place, I may afford some assistance; or if your feet unwarily led you astray, I may direct you to regain your weeping friends, who must fear to trace your steps in these unfrequented wilds.

Your kind enquiries, fair shepherd­ess, far from being impertinent, bespeak the benevolent heart, which, undaunted, through these distant fields we came to seek. Direct­ed by an aged Hermit, famed for wisdom, we came in search of happiness, who no long­er blesses courts or cities with her smiles. He bade us seek the lonely dwelling of Urania, where happiness found a loved retreat, soft­ening the pillow of straw, and strewing the thorny path of life with her choicest flowers. The young, the amiable Florella, will give also, by her example, a lively picture of the wise precepts of Urania. If you are, as my heart suggests, if you are Florella—Oh, deign to direct us in the paths to happiness!

Ill would it suit my unexperienced age, to attempt to inform your steps in the ways of truth, who have yet so much to learn. [Page 6] But would you ask the council of the truly wise; I will with pleasure conduct you to the hospitable cottage of Urania, which stands in yonder thicket of poplars. Yet, think not, ladies, you will there find rural splendor; poverty has long been her guest; cheerfulness and benevolence her attendants. For, tho' poor, she has much to give; though doomed to earn her daily bread, the unfortunate never left her cottage in sorrow. A soothing tear, a sigh with the distrest; instruction, conveyed in the mildest terms, give releif to the broken, and comfort to the wounded heart.

SCENE II.—Urania's Cottage.

Good morning my dear children.

Good morning my dear mama.

We have been gathering this basket of fruit for you—look, how fine it is—may I give all the little girls a peach mama?

Certainly, my dear. And do you now regret I did not allow you to strip the flowers in spring, that you might give each little girl in the village a garland for may-day?

Oh, no mama, I shall never forget it, and will always in future obey you without questioning the propriety of your commands.

Eliza, have you forgot the fine moral mama conveyed to us, concerning the flow­ers we were so fond of.

What was it, my dear? I have for­got, and should like to have you remind me of it.

Oh mama, it was as how the lilacs were like beauty without merit, which lost its charms in the morning of spring; but if beau­ty was—was—what was the word, Silvia?

If beauty was accompanied with mer­it, it would, like this fine fruit, recall in au­tumn the charms of spring.

Indeed I did remember it mama, on­ly I could not say it all, and have never wish­ed since to be as handsome as Harriot, who is so proud when people look at her, and say—how handsome she is!

You are both good girls to remem­ber my instructions. I see you are drest in your holiday suits. Do you know why they dance in the village to-day?

Yes mama, it is because they are glad to have a fine harvest.

And do you think of no other re­joicing but the pipe and the dance: you must also return thanks to the beneficent author of good, who causes the changes of the sea­sons, and crowns [...] year with [...] now [...]; who daily [...], with what [...] the path [Page 8] marked out to us by our creator. 'Tis by his goodness we exist in this delightful land; he cloathes the spring with flowers, the autumn with fruit: Then raise your hearts in praise to your all bounteous protector; not only in your morning and evening adorations, but by preserving a cheerful temper in all your con­cerns with the world, and with each other; and by doing all the good you can to your fellow creatures. Your stores are not large; but you can shew the benevolence of your hearts, by being sweet tempered, amiable and kind to your play-mates.—Never wound the feelings of any one. You, Silvia, laughed at Peggy the other day, because she did not dance as well as her companions; yet Peggy is a good girl, and dancing is the only thing she cannot perform with ease.

Indeed mama, I was very sorry the moment I had done laughing; and would have asked her pardon; but I hoped she did not know I was laughing at her; and I will never be guilty of so ill-natured a thing again—you may depend upon it, mama.

Oh, mama! there is Florella with some fine ladies, coming this way.

See how the good Urania employs her leisure hours, in training up those sweet [Page 9] children; her precepts are all drawn from nature, and each flower she makes a lesson to the heart.—Mama, in my ramble to the village this morning, I found these ladies, straying in search of your dwelling—their business they will best relate.

Worthy madam, we came hither, by the direction of a reverend hermit, to ask your friendship and advice.

Fair ladies, whatever council or as­sistance is in my power to give, you may freely command. Seat yourselves beneath these shades, and we will converse with free­dom.

Thro' life we have been seeking hap­piness; but she ever flies our pursuit. Oh, madam! deign to direct our steps to find the spot that feels her benignant smiles.

Say first, fair strangers, where ye have sought this lovely inmate of the virtuous breast. Confined to no spot, she is found by all who seek her in the way she would be won. And first, tho' hard the task, and harsh the request, you must each disclose, without re­serve, the ruling passion which has guided your life, or I cannot direct you to find the fair fugitive you seek.

I was bred in the splendor of wealth: every fancy my wild imagination formed, was instantly gratified by parents too fond of an only child, and an heiress: Each day was filled with different follies, without [Page 10] reflection or content: Each fashionable a­musement crowded my time: My fortune and beauty generally procured me admirers suf­ficient to please my vanity: I sang and played well; dressed and danced to admiration—my mind knew no higher cultivation. Yet mu­sic lost its charms, if some sweeter [...] chanced to be preferred. The ball-room, in which I found most delight, oft clouded my face with sorrow, if some more elegant dress or graceful dancer drew the eyes of the mul­titude from me. I had been so long addressed with flattery, no other sounds could soothe my ear. If any one gave me the most gentle admonition, they were sure to meet my re­sentment. And while my rank, and the splendor of my appearance at each public place, attracted the emulation and the envy of most of my sex, my heart was the [...]eat of discontent and wretchedness; till, reflecting on my conduct, I sought the cell of the ven­erable Anselmo, who is the father and friend of the human race, and with these ladies he directed me to seek your retirement for advice.

Oh, mama! can you forgive us for wishing for wealth, if this is the lot it brings.

I have pursued happiness in a differ­ent manner; but my hopes have proved e­qually salacious. I scorned the gay circle of the beau-monde: The belles and beux were equally my aversion: I wished to be known and admired by the remotest ages. I sighed [Page 11] to possess the various talents which have given renown to the most excellent authors. Po­etry first caught my enraptured soul—I as­pired to unite the sublimity of Milton; the satire of Swift; the graces of Pope; the learning of Jonston; the pensive muse of Gray, and the pleasing softness of Thomson; or the various talents of each, united in Shake­speare. History, Logic and Astronomy, had each their turn to rule; Gibon, Robertson and Hume; Lock, Newton and Halley, al­ternately, inspired my emulation. Thus, while I searched each science, and acquired much fame in all; I found myself an object of dread to one, and contempt to the other half of the world; till, convinced I have yet something to learn before happiness will reside in this breast, I came here for your kind instructions.

To me, pomp and fame were e­qually indifferent: My naturally soft and pensive heart, felt early the cruel shafts of misfortunes:—No father's prudent council pointed out the paths of truth, and taught me to shun the dangerous rocks of delusion: No mother's bright example led my infant steps in the road of virtue—Death deprived me of their kindly aid in my earliest years. Left to cultivate my mind as I pleased, I followed its romantic turn; read nothing but novels, or the most tender poetry, and fancied these painted life in its true colours; contemned [Page 12] the manners of the world, and flew to silent groves and weeping rills. There I found ad­ventures in each common transaction; fan­cied each one who praised, esteemed; and who flattered, loved me; and expected, e'er long, the hero I sighed for, would answer the wishes of Pastorella. But no such swain ap­peared; altho', with all my follies, I had many real and deserving lovers—yet they did not possess the ideal virtues I admired. My friendships were equally fallacious: Formed from accident, or adventure, as my romantic heart dictated, they alternately deluded, be­trayed and left me, a prey to grief and disap­pointment: New profession caught my easy belief—and still I trusted, and was still de­ceived. Disappointed in all my plans of hap­piness, I have come to seek her in your re­tirement.

Till now, I have passed heedlessly thro' life, without any principle for my guide; careless of the morrow, but ever repining at the present hour. My only misfortune has arisen from ignorance. I never wished to learn any thing that would give me the least trouble to obtain. My aunt, who loved me as a daughter, and undertook my education, was too indulgent to my weakness: I had masters of every kind; who, while they were amply rewarded, did not hesitate to indulge my inclinations, and represent my under­standing and improvements to my aunt, in [Page 13] the most flattering light. Thus, while my stature attained the size of woman, my soul was but a child. My time passed away in slothful [...] busy trifles: Too old to be a­mused with childish sports; too indolent to read, and too ignorant to be agreeable in con­versation, I found myself totally neglected. Visits and public places, filled the drear vacu­ity of my mind; tho' these were ever tasteless, by the small share I could take in the enter­tainment of the company. Sick of fashion, which has hitherto swayed me, and tired of my own follies, I have learnt enough to be displeased with myself, and submit my future conduct entirely to your direction.

To you, madam, I am come, tho' with little hopes of a cure. Alas! my woes are, I fear, past relief; yet to you, as to a tender parent, I dare open all my heart. I gave my hand, or rather my father gave it for me, to a man, rich in possessions, but poor in every quality of the soul that can render a woman happy. As my understanding opened, I discovered the despicable character of the man I was united to; possessing no love for me, nor the least deserving my esteem; yet squandering my fortune and his own in fool­ish bargains and expensive pleasures. Young, gay and thoughtless, I sought those amuse­ments abroad, which would alleviate the mis­ery I felt at home; and, altho' I conducted myself with prudence (as I thought) I found [Page 14] my character injured among my friends, and destroyed with the rest of the world. I am not sensible of any action that deserves severe censure: I mixed with the world; enjoyed its bustle and admiration; and, tho' flattery soothed my ear, I am not conscious of be­traying the pleasure I felt, in one instance. But that will not restore my good name; and till that is restored, happiness can only be found in solitudes like this. Here, forgetful of the world, and by the world forgotten, I may rest, till age has despoiled this form of the power to please; and then, perhaps, I may be free from the pursuits of envy and detraction.

With Honoria, I complain of un­happiness in the married life; and with as little hopes, sue for your soothing council. I was not obliged to marry a man I could not love: Erastus preferred me to all my sex; I chose him from a thousand lovers: Our un­ion was considered as the certain path to hap­piness. But alas! six months has not elapsed, e'er Erastus ceased to pay me the least atten­tion of a lover. At first I wept: I tho't my charms diminished, tho' my glass told me they were not; and a crowd of admiring eyes, at each public place, proclaimed it told me true, and my Erastus must be unfaithful. I in vain upbraided him with perfidy. A cold look, that would once have driven him to despair, and the most earnest entreaties of for­giveness, [Page 15] was now met with indifference, and sometimes the word childish would escape his lips. At length he returned my reproaches with bitterness—we parted—and I came hith­er to hide my sorrows in your friendly retreat.

Your candor, dear ladies, deserves my warmest praise. I pity your follies, and love your merits. How few, oh, sacred vir­tue, follow the paths thy bright foot-steps lead! But since you have sought my humble roof to learn her abode, I will direct you with candor, as far as my imperfect mind will al­low, what my excellent mother first taught me, and a long series of years, fraught with experience, has shewn to be truth. Know then, that the first sources of good or ill for­tune, arise from education. Nature forms but few monsters, and not many unhappy tempers: 'Tis the impression we receive in childhood, that fixes the character: The mind, never at ease, if not implanted with good, will produce evil; and first impressions are seldom effaced. Euphelia sighs for splendor, dress and admiration, the sources of too many women's unhappiness. Would you excell the whole sex in loveliness, bestow not all your attention upon your outward charms. A beautiful woman without a mind, is seen with pleasure at first, but like a novel, once read, is never looked at the second time. Not that I despise the power of beauty; I would only render it more lovely; it is the first re­commendation; [Page 16] and if the heart and under­standing answer the first impression, they be­come irresistable. Beauty casts lustre upon virtue—virtue adds sublimity to beauty. By adorning your mind, you will conquer that impatience of seeing other women preferred before you; as you will then see no woman is formed to conquer all hearts, tho' she may gain universal admiration. It will also teach you to despise the flattery of fools, and wish for the esteem of the good and great.

I acknowledge the justice of your reproofs, and will never again suffer flattery or envy to wound my peace; but apply with ardour, to the improvement of my under­standing.

In fair Laurinda's uncultivated mind, we behold the diamond, unpolished, in its na­tive mine. Your understanding is naturally good; but the rust of ignorance, has, thro' indolence, been suffered to obscure its lustre. You are yet young—apply with diligence, and time will no longer hang heavy on your hands. 'Tis not in the power of every one to be great; but we may all be good. The knowledge of virtue and religion is open to every eye, and attainable by every understand­ing. Set the standard of virtue high; never think you are perfect; there is nothing pre­cludes our improvement so much as thinking we are already good. Never pass a moment unemployed. Remember time mispent, is the [Page 17] greatest of crimes; as it is an act of ingrati­tude to Him, who will one day require the use of it from our hands.

With heart-felt penitence, I mourn those mispent hours that can never be restored; but will endeavor, by the future, to atone for the past.

I pity the misfortunes of Pastorella. A soul so tender; an imagination so lively, would, with early culture, and maternal care, have proved a bright ornament to the world. Poetry and novels should be read chiefly for amusement, and not to form our opinions: Life, in those performances, is generally painted in too high colours: By taking our ideas from them, we are apt to look upon the ordinary transactions of life, as insipid—its characters, vulgar. Could you find a man, possessing all the accomplishments of your ideal hero, you could not be happy without firmness of mind. Sensibility is so much the fashion, that those who have it not, affect to possess it; and those who really possess it, in­dulge their feelings to such excess, that, from a virtue, it becomes a weakness. Fortitude takes nothing from female beauty, or delica­cy, but adds lustre to sensibility. Look not on friendship as false, or love deceitful. Ne­ver choose a friend from a [...]ight acquaintance, but study their worth, e'er you trust their fi­delity: Nor believe a lover sincere, from his well-timed compliments, and profuse flattery; [Page 18] who cannot see your foibles, and treats you rather as an idol, than a friend: Such a lover flatters but to betray—or humbles himself to tyranize as a husband. Nothing here be­low is without alloy, which plainly points to us not to place our whole happiness on this uncertain world, where the fleeting shadows of bliss but hover for a moment in our view, and wing their airy flight to regions beyond [...]he skies; where our warmest wishes will be [...]atified, if they are not improper; and every [...] will be made happy in the way they [...]hoose.

My thoughtless youth, by thee in­structed, shall no longer be lost in the paths [...]f fiction; but with sorrow for my past fol­ [...]es, I will endeavor in future to distinguish between truth and error.

Learning, my dear Cleora, has been your only pursuit. The fair book of know­ledge is certainly unfolded, for our sex, e­qually with the other; yet domestic virtues are more peculiarly our province. Could you arrive at perfection in each science—could you unite the talents of each favorite author in your composition—yet, if the milder graces of the mind—good-nature, patience, humility, sweetness and sensibility, devoid of art—if these graces, peculiar to the female sex, em­bellish not the mind, you may be admired, as dazling; but never esteemed, as a fine wo­man; for we shine, only in our proper [Page 19] sphere: Accomplishments were designed by heroes less to adorn, than amend the mind. Make no pretence to wit—it often wounds undesignedly; and is not that applause con­temptible, which is excited at the expence of a fellow creature? As the muses have im­parted to you a love of letters, I would not have you neglect your talents: Cultivate them with care; but possess your knowledge in silence and humility. Modesty takes noth­ing from genius; but adds a lustre, which envy must gaze at in silence: While the brightest talents often disgust, when united to a too great consciousness of our own worth.

Confused and ashamed, I receive thy reproofs, with the fullest conviction, thou best of friends, and will henceforth endeavor to be good, rather than great.

Your situation, my dear Honoria, is truly unfortunate; yet it is not hopeless. Have you children?

Yes, madam—a son and daughter.

Then listen to my councils, and you may yet be happy. A young and beautiful woman, who is not beloved, or who has an abandoned husband, should be particularly watchful of her conduct. Every man looks upon such a woman with pity, which inclines the heart to love. The world is censorious—if you are pleased with flattery, and permit [...] to be paid you, it is a tacit acknowledgement [Page 20] of the pleasure it gives; and that acknow­ledgement lays you open to censure. Would you be really admired, seek not for admira­tion; but, following the duty of a mother, make your children your happiness; and can there be a greater, than that of forming their young minds to every virtue? Can you regret time spent in so useful and pleasing an em­ployment? Without it, they may fall into greater improprieties than their mother, and equal vices with their father. By pursuing this line of conduct, far from receiving cen­sure from the world, you will be held forth, as a pattern of female excellence. A situation like yours, is the only one where merit re­ceives the fullest praise, unmolested by the shafts of envy: And, perhaps, by this con­duct you may reclaim your husband; which, for your children's, if not for your own sake, you must certainly wish.

How, my dear madam, shall I ever repay your kind reproofs? Yes, you have indeed enlightened me—I had forgotten I was a wife—I had almost forgotten I was a mo­ther; and, while my sweet babes were look­ing to strangers, for a mother's attention, I was, at best, but wasting my life in hearing insipid encomiums on my beauty, and shar­ing tasteless amusements. But the world shall no longer have cause to censure, or my chil­dren to complain: I renounce every pleasure for their fake; and will forget every former [Page 21] misfortune, in improving their young minds, and making them worthy of a better fate than mine.

Your misfortunes, beautiful Sophia, arose from receiving too much adulation. A lady, possessing great personal charms, if she has not more than a common share of pru­dence, and a good understanding, is always unhappy as a wife. Accustomed, from in­fancy, to the delusive strains of flattery, she expects adoration, instead of common sense. You reproached your husband with inatten­tion; and knew not, perhaps, or did not be­lieve, that beauty ceases to charm the husband. The reign is over, and sober reason takes her turn to rule. If you wish to regain the love of Erastus, endeavor to obtain those charms which will gain his esteem and friend­ship—shew that you can be sweet—tempered and prudent, as a wife—rational and agreea­ble, as a friend and companion. Never ex­pect, from your husband, the adulation of a lover—it is inconsistent with human nature. You will, by this conduct, if he has a good heart and understanding, gain a more pow­erful ascendency over the heart of Erastus, than he ever felt for you in the days of un­rivalled beauty.

And must a woman stoop to solicit attention? Must I descend, in my turn, to court?

Certainly.—Do you consider your­self [Page 22] superior to your husband, that he must ever bow to you? He wants a rational and good-natured companion—while you would have him adore you as a slave.

I believe I was wrong; and indeed, my consciousness of it, makes me vexed that you should discover my errors: But I am de­termined to dismiss the pride of beauty—that pride, which has hitherto swayed all who ap­proached me, and in future only study to excell in humility and good-nature.

Continue in your good resolutions, dear ladies, and you will certainly be as hap­py as this world will admit of. And would our whole sex pursue this rational plan of happiness, it would reform the errors of man; merit, would direct their choice—reason, the bands of love—and each dwelling rise a tem­ple to contentment; then man would no longer affect controul, nor woman sway. Be­ware of beginnings: Little differences embit­ter the married life; and if once contention is allowed, adieu to love. [ENTER Eliza, who whispers to her mama.] Will you re­tire to my cottage, and partake of a rural repast, which Florella has prepared for us? And I will, in the mean time, recount many instances of misfortune, similar to yours, which will enlighten and strengthen your pur­suit of virtue.

Madam, we attend you with plea­sure.

SCENE III.—The grove before Urania's cottage.

Welcome, my sweet friends; why were you so long in coming? We have been looking for you this hour.

We should have come much earlier, but we met a poor woman, loaded with a bundle of sheaves which the reapers were so kind as to give her. She was weak from age and the fatigue of carrying her bun­dle; so we each took a part, and gathered some she had left, and went with her to the cottage. She requested us to sing a song; and we danced before her door, while she wept at the remembrance of days that were past.

Did you know who she was?

Oh, it was Jane, the good old woman your mama is so fond of.

Mama says she was once very rich; her father had a very large farm, about a league from our village; she was married to an honest man, who was killed with my poor papa; and her brother was a bad man, and spent all his father's estate.

Yes, poor woman, she used to delight to sing and dance on the green; and the shep­herds and shepherdesses were never so happy [Page 24] as when Miss Jenny led the ball. But now she is supported by charity, without a friend in her distress to help her: No wonder she wept at your kindness and gaiety.

Poor woman, how I pity her! I will go every day and carry her wood to make a fire; and help her get her food ready for the day.

And I will carry her sheaves from our barn, that she may not be obliged to glean any more.

And I will beg mama to let me knit her some stockings against winter.

That will be charming. But as the music is not come, will you sit down and we will sing a song to amuse us?

With all our hearts. (They sit down.) Come Silvia, you must direct our choice.

We will sing the sweet country life, if you please. (They sing.)

Good morning my sweet little friends. (They all rise and courtesy.) Silvia, will you wait on your young friends into the cottage? Your mama wishes to see them be­fore the sports of the day begin.

How happy are you, my beloved Florella, to hear daily the wise precepts of the good Urania. Trained beneath her care, you [Page 25] must enjoy felicity unmixed with remorse. But you will not envy us the pleasure of sharing it with you; for here, retired from the delusive follies of the world, we will give up our splendid titles, content to dwell with you and virtue in obscurity.

Do not deceive yourselves, dear la­dies. Think not retirement the only and certain road to happiness. 'Tis a plant too delicate to flourish in our earthly soil. Tho' the face wears the smile of contentment, it may conceal a sickning heart. Esteem none happy from appearance—all have their por­tion of misery. Uranai, my more than mo­ther, tho' content and cheerful, has often drank deep of the bitter cup of affliction. Born in affluence, and bred in splendor—united to the best of husbands, fortune seemed to smile upon their wishes. War, cruel and unnatural war, deprived her of all these bless­ings. With a heart torn with anguish for her slaughtered lord, doomed to wander destitute over those fields, once her own—in age oblig­ed to earn bread for her helpless babes—Yet patient in distress, she looks forward with re­signation and hope; she knows the hand that wounds has power to heal.

Every thing I hear, every thing I see, enhances the high opinion I had formed of the excellence of your worthy friend; for tho' with care she hides her virtues from the world, worth like hers cannot remain un­known. [Page 26] Yet may I ask one question—Florel­la, why do you prefer retirement, if you do not find it far happier than a public life?

To me the world is an empty void. My life, tho' short, has been a scene of sorrow. I will briefly relate the painful tale. My fa­ther left an only brother and myself heirs to a splendid estate. Florio had no prudence; by different follies he became a beggar. My heart, at that time engaged to a worthy youth, felt all his misfortunes as my own; for he wanted only prudence to make him the best of brothers. Eugenius, my disinterested, my generous lover, proposed renouncing my for­tune in favor of my brother, who had learnt prudence from adversity, and wanted only fortune to unite him with an amiable and worthy lady, to whom he had been long ar­dently attached. I agreed to the proposal with transport, and the next week was to have united us all in the bands of Hymen; when the house where I lodged caught fire; my apartment was high; the flames had al­ready reached the stair-case; but Eugenius, fearless of danger, rushed thro' the flames, and carried me to a place of safety. But alas, in preserving mine, he sacrificed his life. Never shall I forget the painful hours he sup­ported for my sake. When I had paid the last sad rites to his memory, I saught the cot­tage of my dear Urania, who had bred me from infancy, and with a small share of my [Page 27] fortune, to make her days less toilsome, I re­nounced the world and left my brother the sole possession of the wealth I could not enjoy. Eugenius also bequeathed me his large estate: But as he had worthy and poor relations, I refused it, as to me it would have been merely a loan from the needy; to them it was a source of happiness. My dear mama has taught me patience, and, with her, I wait con­tentedly till the curtain of eternity shall be drawn, and shew me the justice of those mis­fortunes I have so often repined at feeling. But you have no such melancholy cause to justify renouncing society. You have friends to please, duties to perform, and fortunes to spend in acts of beneficence.

Methinks I could listen to your pleasing councils without a wish beyond this lonely vale. But here are the sweet girls who were to sing for us.

Ladies, I have bro't my little com­panions, that you may partake of their inno­cent pastimes—would you wish to join in the festival to-day?

Nothing, madam, could give us more pleasure.

Oh, here are the young girls re­turned [Page 28] with our good neighbor Jane. (Ura­nia leads Jane to a seat.) How are you to­day my good madam?

Thank you, neighbor, as well as three score years of trouble will allow of. These sweet girls have made me weep for joy this day—such was I once; but no kind hand is left to bless my age. Excuse my sor­rows, I meant not to intrude upon your hap­piness. But this dear girl awakens all my woes—so, just so, my Loisa looked when the wave snatched her from my arms.

Think me your Loisa, and dry your tears.

Did you, then, loose a daughter in the sea? I heard my papa say, Emma's mama was taken from the waves by him, and bred up in his family as a daughter. She married my uncle, and died when Emma was an infant. She was a native of this coun­try, and mama says Emma is her exact like­ness.

Dear madam, be not alarmed. I bro't you here to enjoy an agreeable surprise. This sweet girl is indeed your child; the only offspring of your lamented Loisa.

(Taking Emma in her arms.) My God, I thank thee! that in the evening of my days thou rep [...]yest me for sixty years of sor­row.

Ah, my dear, dear Grandmama! Now indeed, may I call you so. My heart [Page 29] longed to tell you I was your child, when leaning on my arm, you told me your history of sorrow; but I feared to alarm you too sud­denly.

Oh, my joy is too, too great for utterance! But why, my dear child, why were you so long hid from me?

My papa and uncle tho't you dead. They made many long and fruitless searches for your retreat; till chance directed them to this village; where, this morning, he learnt your abode.

No more shall you labor for your bread. My papa longs to see and embrace you; and, in the dutiful affection of a son, evince the love he bore your Loisa.

That I should live to see this day—that I should live to see the child of my Loisa—Oh, my God! Forgive—forgive, thy un­grateful servant, who has so often murmured at her cruel destiny. And oh! wilt thou forgive, if I drop a tear once more to the me­mory of my child? Why was I not allowed to know she lived—why was I not permitted to enjoy her dear society?

My dear madam, restrain your feel­ings, or they will destroy your weak frame. Repine not at the lot assigned by a being equally just and beneficent. Strive to forget the past, in rejoicing at your present happi­ness. See here your lovely child, sent as a [...]pport to your declining age; who will, [Page 30] with unceasing care, guard the pillow of sick­ness, and convey your ashes to the tomb.

Indeed, indeed, madam, I am thankful; but I must still weep, this event makes me quite a child.

Come, my girls, sing a song; per­haps it will alleviate the feelings of Mrs. Jane;—Will it not my good neighbor?

Oh, yes, madam, I should like to hear them. Will you sing the song you sang this morning when first I beheld my child? Go Emma and join them.

Oh, mama, the music is come. May we dance?

Yes, my dears.