Maria: or, The wrongs of woman. A posthumous fragment. / By Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin. Author of A vindication of the rights of woman.

MARIA: OR, THE WRONGS OF WOMAN.

CHAP. I.

ABODES of horror have frequently been des|cribed, and castles, filled with spectres and chi|meras, conjured up by the magic spell of genius to harrow the soul, and absorb the wondering mind. But, "formed of such stuff as dreams are made of," what were they to the mansion of des|pair, in one corner of which Maria sat, endea|vouring to recal her scattered thoughts!

Surprise, astonishment, that bordered on dis|traction, seemed to have suspended her faculties, till, waking by degrees to a keen sense of anguish, a whirlwind of rage and indignation roused her

torpid pulse. One recollection with frightful ve|locity following another, threatened to fire her brain, and make her a fit companion for the ter|rific inhabitants, whose groans and shrieks were no unsubstantial sounds of whistling winds, or startled birds, modulated by a romantic fancy, which amuse while they affright; but such tones of misery as carry a dreadful certainty directly to the heart. What effect must they then have pro|duced on one, true to the touch of sympathy, and tortured by maternal apprehension!

Her infant's image was continually floating on Maria's sight, and the first smile of intelligence remembered, as none but a mother, an unhappy mother, can conceive. She heard her speaking half cooing, and felt the little twinkling fingers on her burning bosom—a bosom bursting with the nutriment for which this cherished child might now be pining in vain. From a stranger she could indeed receive the maternal aliment; Maria was grieved at the thought—but who could watch her with a mother's tenderness, a mother's self|denial?

The retreating shadows of former sorrows rushed back in a gloomy train, and seemed to be pictured on the walls of her prison, magnified by

the state of mind in which they were viewed—Still she mourned for her child, lamented she was a daughter, and anticipated the aggravated ills of life that her sex rendered almost inevitable, even while dreading she was no more. To think that she was blotted out of existence was agony, when the imagination had been long employed to expand her faculties; yet to suppose her turned adrift on an unknown sea, was scarcely less afflicting.

After being two days the prey of impetuous, varying emotions, Maria began to reflect more calmly on her present situation, for she had ac|tually been rendered incapable of sober reflection, by the discovery of the act of atrocity of which she was the victim. She could not have imagined, that, in all the fermentation of civilized depravity, a similar plot could have entered a human mind.—She had been stunned by an unexpected blow; yet life, however joyless, was not to be indolently resigned, or misery endured without exertion, and proudly termed patience. She had hitherto me|ditated only to point the dart of anguish, and suppressed the heart heavings of indignant nature, merely by the force of contempt. Now she endea|voured to brace her mind to fortitude, and ask herself what was to be her employment in her dreary cell? Was it not to effect her escape, to

fly to the succour of her child, and to baffle the selfish schemes of the tyrant her husband?

These thoughts roused her sleeping spirit, and the self-possession returned, that seemed to have abandoned her in the infernal solitude into which she had been precipitated. The first emotions of overwhelming impatience began to subside, and resentment gave place to tenderness, and more tranquil meditation; though anger once more stopt the calm current of reflection, when she attempted to move her manacled arms. But this was an outrage that could only excite momentary feelings of scorn, which evaporated in a faint smile; for Maria was far from thinking it difficult to endure a personal insult with the most magnanimous in|difference.

She approached the small grated window of her chamber, and for a considerable time only re|garded the blue expanse; though it commanded a view of a desolate garden, and of part of a huge pile of buildings, that, after having been suffered, for half a century, to fall to decay, had undergone some clumsy repairs, merely to render it habitable. The ivy had been torn off the turrets, and the stones not wanted to patch up the breaches of time, and exclude the warring elements, left in

heaps in the disordered court. Maria contem|plated this scene, she knew not how long; or rather gazed on the walls, and pondered on her situation. To the master of this most horrid of prisons, she had, soon after her entrance, raved of injustice, in accents that would have justified his treatment, had not a malignant smile, when she appealed to his judgment, with a dreadful conviction stifled her remonstrating complaints. By force, or openly, what could be done? But surely some expedient might occur to an active mind, without any other employment, and pos|sessed of sufficient resolution to put the risk of life into the balance with the chance of freedom.

A woman entered in the midst of these reflec|tions, with a firm, deliberate step, strongly marked features, and large black eyes, which she fixed steadily on Maria's, as if she designed to intimidate her, saying at the same time—"You had better sit down and eat your dinner, than look at the clouds."

"I have no appetite," replied Maria, who had previously determined to speak mildly; "why then should I eat?"

"But, in spite of that, you must and shall eat

something. I have had many ladies under my care, who had resolved to starve themselves; but, soon or late, they gave up their intents as they recovered their senses."

"Do you really think me mad?" asked Maria, meeting the searching glance of her eye.

"Not just now. But what does that prove?—only that you must be the more carefully watched, for appearing at times so reasonable. You have not touched a morsel since you entered the house."—Maria sighed intelligibly.—"Could any thing but madness produce such a disgust for food?"

"Yes, grief; you would not ask the question if you knew what it was." The attendant shook her head; and a ghastly smile of desperate fortitude seemed as a forcible reply, and made Maria pause, before she added—"Yet I will take some refresh|ment: I mean not to die:—No; I will preserve my senses; and convince even you, sooner than you are aware of, that my intellects have never been disturbed, though the exertion of them may have been suspended by some infernal drug."

Doubt gathered still thicker on the brow of

her guard, as she attempted to convict her of mistake.

"Have patience!" exclaimed Maria, with a solemnity that inspired awe. "My God! how have I been schooled into the practice!" A suf|focation of voice betrayed the agonizing emotions she was labouring to keep down; and conquering a qualm of disgust, she calmly endeavoured to eat enough to prove her docility, perpetually turning to the suspicious female, whose observation she courted, while she was making the bed and ad|justing the room.

"Come to me often," said Maria, with a tone of persuasion, in consequence of a vague plan that she had hastily adopted, when, after surveying this woman's form and features, she felt convinced that she had an understanding above the common standard: "and believe me mad, till you are ob|liged to acknowledge the contrary." The woman was no fool, that is, she was superior to her class; nor had misery quite petrified the life's-blood of humanity, to which reflections on our own mis|fortunes only give a more orderly course. The manner, rather than the expostulations, of Maria made a slight suspicion dart into her mind with corresponding sympathy, which various other

avocations, and the habit of banishing compunc|tion, prevented her, for the present, from exam|ining more minutely.

But when she was told that no person, except|ing the physician appointed by her family, was to be permitted to see the lady at the end of the gallery, she opened her keen eyes still wider and uttered a—"hem!" before she enquired—"Why!" She was briefly told, in reply, that the malady was hereditary, and the fits not occurring but at very long and irregular intervals, she must be carefully watched; for the length of these lucid periods only rendered her more mischievous, when any vexation or caprice brought on the pa|roxysm of phrensy.

Had her master trusted her, it is probable that neither pity nor curiosity would have made her swerve from the straight line of her interest; for she had suffered too much in her intercourse with mankind, not to determine to look for support, rather to humouring their passions, than courting their approbation by the integrity of her conduct. A deadly blight had met her at the very threshold of existence; and the wretchedness of her mother seemed a heavy weight fastened on her innocent neck, to drag her down to perdition. She could

not heroically determine to succour an unfortu|nate; but, offended at the bare supposition that she could be deceived with the same ease as a common servant, she no longer curbed her curi|osity; and, though she never seriously fathomed her own intentions, she would sit, every moment she could steal from observation, listening to the tale, which Maria was eager to relate with all the persuasive eloquence of grief.

It is so chearing to see a human face, even if little of the divinity of virtue beam in it, that Ma|ria anxiously expected the return of the attendant as of a gleam of light to break the gloom of idle|ness. Indulged sorrow, she perceived, must blunt or sharpen the faculties to the two opposite ex|tremes; producing stupidity, the moping melan|choly of indolence; or the restless activity of a disturbed imagination. She sunk into one state, after being fatigued by the other; till the want of occupation became even more painful than the actual pressure or apprehension of sorrow; and the confinement that froze her into a nook of ex|istence, with an unvaried prospect before her, the most insupportable of evils. The lamp of life seemed to be spending itself to chase the vapours of a dungeon which no art could dissipate.—And to what purpose did she rally all her energy?—

Was not the world a vast prison, and women born slaves?

Though she failed immediately to rouse a lively sense of injustice in the mind of her guard, because it had been sophisticated into misanthropy, she touched her heart. Jemima (she had only a claim to a Christian name, which had not procured her any Christian privileges) could patiently hear of Maria's confinement on false pretences; she had felt the crushing hand of power, hardened by the exercise of injustice, and ceased to wonder at the perversions of the understanding, which system|atize oppression; but when told that her child, only four months old, had been torn from her, even while she was discharging the tenderest ma|ternal office, the woman awoke in a bosom long estranged from feminine emotions, and Jemima determined to alleviate all in her power, without hazarding the loss of her place, the sufferings of a wretched mother, apparently injured, and cer|tainly unhappy. A sense of right seems to result from the simplest act of reason, and to preside over the faculties of the mind, like the master|sense of feeling, to rectify the rest; but (for the comparison may be carried still farther) how often is the exquisite sensibility of both weakened or

destroyed by the vulgar occupations, and ignoble pleasures of life?

The preserving her situation was, indeed, an important object to Jemima, who had been hunted from hole to hole, as if she had been a beast of prey or infected with a moral plague. The wages she received, the greater part of which she hoarded, as her only chance for independence, were much more considerable than she could reckon on obtaining any where else, were it pos|sible that she, an outcast from society, could be permitted to earn a subsistence in a reputable fa|mily. Hearing Maria perpetually complain of listlessness, and the not being able to beguile grief by resuming her customary pursuits, she was easily prevailed on, by compassion, and that involuntary respect for abilities, which those who possess them can never eradicate, to bring her some books and implements for writing. Maria's conversation had amused and interested her, and the natural consequence was a desire, scarcely observed by herself, of obtaining the esteem of a person she admired. The remembrance of better days was rendered more lively; and the sentiments then acquired appearing less romantic than they had for a long period, a spark of hope roused her mind to new activity.

How grateful was her attention to Maria! Op|pressed by a dead weight of existence, or preyed on by the gnawing worm of discontent, with what eagerness did she endeavour to shorten the long days, which left no traces behind! She seemed to be sailing on the vast ocean of life, without seeing any land-mark to indicate the progress of time; to find employment was then to find variety, the animating principle of nature.

CHAP. II.

EARNESTLY as Maria endeavoured to soothe, by reading, the anguish of her wounded mind, her thoughts would often wander from the sub|ject she was led to discuss, and tears of maternal tenderness obscured the reasoning page. She descanted on "the ills which flesh is heir to," with bitterness, when the recollection of her babe was revived by a tale of fictitious woe, that bore any resemblance to her own; and her imagina|tion was continually employed, to conjure up and embody the various phantoms of misery, which folly and vice had let loose on the world. The loss of her babe was the tender string; against other cruel remembrances she laboured to steel her bosom; and even a ray of hope, in the midst of her gloomy reveries, would some|times gleam on the dark horizon of futurity, while persuading herself that she ought to cease to hope, since happiness was no where to be found.—But of her child, debilitated by the grief with which its mother had been assailed before it

saw the light, she could not think without an impatient struggle.

"I, alone, by my active tenderness, could have saved," she would exclaim, "from an early blight, this sweet blossom; and, cherish|ing it, I should have had something still to love."

In proportion as other expectations were torn from her, this tender one had been fondly clung to, and knit into her heart.

The books she had obtained, were soon de|voured, by one who had no other resource to escape from sorrow, and the feverish dreams of ideal wretchedness or felicity, which equally weaken the intoxicated sensibility. Writing was then the only alternative, and she wrote some rhapsodies, descriptive of the state of her mind; but the events of her past life pressing on her, she resolved circumstantially to relate them, with the sentiments that experience, and more matured reason, would naturally suggest.—They might perhaps instruct her daughter, and shield her from the misery, the tyranny, her mother knew not how to avoid.

This thought gave life to her diction, her soul

flowed into it, and she soon found the task of re|collecting almost obliterated impressions very in|teresting. She lived again in the revived emotions of youth, and forgot her present in the retros|pect of sorrows that had assumed an unalterable character.

Though this employment lightened the weight of time, yet, never losing sight of her main ob|ject, Maria did not allow any opportunity to slip of winning on the affections of Jemima; for she discovered in her a strength of mind, that excited her esteem, clouded as it was by the misanthropy of despair.

An insulated being, from the misfortune of her birth, she despised and preyed on the society by which she had been oppressed, and loved not her fellow-creatures, because she had never been be|loved. No mother had ever fondled her, no fa|ther or brother had protected her from outrage; and the man who had plunged her into infamy, and deserted her when she stood in greatest need of support, deigned not to smooth with kindness the road to ruin. Thus degraded, was she let loose on the world; and virtue, never nourished by affection, assumed the stern aspect of selfish independence.

This general view of her life, Maria gathered from her exclamations and dry remarks. Jemima indeed displayed a strange mixture of interest and suspicion; for she would listen to her discourse with earnestness, and then suddenly interrupt the conversation, as if afraid of resigning, by giving way to her sympathy, her dear-bought knowledge of the world.

Maria alluded to the possibility of an escape, and mentioned a compensation, or reward; but the style in which she was repulsed made her cautious, and determine not to renew the subject, till she knew more of the character she had to work on. Jemima's countenance and dark hints seemed to say, "You are an extraordinary woman; but let me consider, this may be one of your lucid inter|vals." Nay, the very energy of Maria's character, made her suspect that the extraordinary anima|tion she perceived might be the effect of madness. "Should her husband then substantiate his charge, and get possession of her estate, from whence would come the promised annuity, or more de|sired protection? Besides, might not a woman, anxious to escape, conceal some of the circum|stances which made against her? Was truth to be expected from one who had been entrapped, kindnapped, in the most fraudulent manner?"

In this train Jemima continued to argue, the moment after compassion and respect seemed to make her swerve; and she still resolved not to be wrought on to do more than soften the rigour of confinement, till she could advance on surer ground.

Maria was not permitted to walk in the gar|den; but sometimes from her window, she turned her eyes from the gloomy walls, in which she pined life away, on the poor wretches who strayed along the walks, and contemplated the most terrific of ruins—that of a human soul. What is the view of the fallen column, the mould|ering arch, of the most exquisite workmanship, when compared with this living memento of the fragility, the instability, of reason, and the wild luxuriancy of noxious passions? Enthusiasm turned adrift, like some rich stream overflowing its banks, rushes forward with destructive velocity, inspiring a sublime concentration of thought. Thus thought Maria—These are the ravages over which humanity must ever mournfully ponder, with a degree of anguish not excited by crumbling marble, or cankering brass, unfaithful to the trust of monumental fame. It is not over the decaying productions of the mind, embodied with the hap|piest art, we grieve most bitterly. The view of

what has been done by man, produces a melan|choly, yet aggrandizing, sense of what remains to be atchieved by human intellect; but a mental convulsion, which, like the devastation of an earth|quake, throws all the elements of thought and imagination into confusion, makes comtemplation giddy, and we frequently ask on what ground we ourselves stand.

Melancholy and imbecility marked the features of the wretches allowed to breathe at large; for the frantic, those who in a strong imagination had lost a sense of woe, were closely confined. The playful tricks and mischievous devices of their disturbed fancy, that suddenly broke out, could not be guarded against, when they were permitted to enjoy any portion of freedom; for, so active was their imagination, that every new object which accidentally struck their senses, awoke to phrenzy their restless passions; as Maria learned from the burden of their incessant rav|ings.

Sometimes, with a strict injunction of silence, Jemima would allow Maria, at the close of even|ing, to stray along the narrow avenues that sepa|rated the dungeon-like apartments, leaning on her arm. What a change of scene! Maria wished

to pass the threshold of her prison, yet, when by chance she met the eye of rage glaring on her, yet unfaithful to its office, she shrunk back with more horror and affright, than if she had stum|bled over a mangled corpse. Her busy fancy pictured the misery of a fond heart, watching over a friend thus estranged, absent, though pre|sent—over a poor wretch lost to reason and the social joys of existence; and losing all conscious|ness of misery in its excess. What a task, to watch the light of reason quivering in the eye, or with agonizing expectation to catch the beam of recollection; tantalized by hope, only to feel des|pair more keenly, at finding a much loved face or voice, suddenly remembered, or pathetically im|plored, only to be immediately forgotten, or viewed with indifference or abhorrence!

The heart-rending sigh of melancholy sunk into her soul; and when she retired to rest, the petri|fied figures she had encountered, the only human forms she was doomed to observe, haunting her dreams with tales of mysterious wrongs, made her wish to sleep to dream no more.

Day after day rolled away, and tedious as the present moment appeared, they passed in such an unvaried tenor, Maria was surprized to find that

she had already been six weeks buried alive, and yet had such faint hopes of effecting her enlarge|ment. She was earnestly, as she had sought for employment, now angry with herself for having been amused by writing her narrative; and grieved to think that she had for an instant thought of any thing, but contriving to escape.

Jemima had evidently pleasure in her society: still, though she often left her with a glow of kindness, she returned with the same chilling air; and when her heart appeared for a moment to open, some suggestion of reason forcibly closed it, before she could give utterance to the confidence Maria's conversation inspired.

Discouraged by these changes, Maria relapsed into despondency, when she was cheered by the alacrity with which Jemima brought her a fresh parcel of books; assuring her that she had taken some pains to obtain them from one of the keepers who attended a gentleman confined in the oppo|site corner of the gallery.

Maria took up the books with emotion.—"They come," said she, "perhaps, from a wretch condemned, like me, to reason on the nature of madness, by having wrecked minds continually

under his eye; and almost to wish himself—as I do—mad, to escape from the contemplation of it.' Her heart throbbed with sympathetic alarm; and she turned over the leaves with awe, as if they had become sacred from passing through the hands of an unfortunate being, oppressed by a similar fate.

Dryden's Fables, Milton's Paradise Lost, with several modern productions, composed the col|lection. It was a mine of treasure. Some mar|ginal notes in Dryden's Fables, caught her atten|tion: they were written with force and taste; and in one of the modern pamphlets, there was a frag|ment left, containing various observations on the present state of society and government, with a comparative view of the politics of Europe and America. These remarks were written with a degree of generous warmth, when alluding to the enslaved state of the labouring majority, perfectly in unison with Maria's mode of thinking.

She read them over and over again; and fancy, treacherous fancy, began to sketch a character, congenial with her own, from these shadowy out|lines.—"Was he mad?" She re-perused the marginal notes, and they seemed the production of an animated, but not of a disturbed imagina|tion. Confined to this speculation, every time

she read them, some fresh refinement of senti|ment, or acuteness of thought impressed her, which she was astonished at herself for not having before observed.

What a creative power has an affectionate heart! There are beings who cannot live with|out loving, as poets love; and who feel the elec|tric spark of genius, wherever it awakens senti|ment or grace. Maria had often thought, when disciplining her wayward heart, "that to charm, was to be virtuous." "They who make me wish to appear the most amiable and good in their eyes, must possess in a degree," she would ex|claim, "the graces and virtues they call into action."

She took up a book on the powers of the human mind; but her attention strayed from cold argu|ments on the nature of what she felt while she was feeling, and she snapt the chain of the theory to read Dryden's Guiscard and Sigismunda.

Maria, in the course of the ensuing day, re|turned some of the books, with the hope of get|ting others—and more marginal notes. Thus shut out from human intercourse, and compelled to view nothing but the prison of vexed spirits, to

meet a wretch in the same situation, was more surely to find a friend, than to imagine a coun|tryman one, in a strange land, where the human voice conveys no information to the eager ear.

"Did you ever see the unfortunate being to whom these books belong?" asked Maria, when Jemima brought her supper. "Yes. He some|times walks out, between five and six, before the family is stirring, in the morning, with two keep|ers; but even then his hands are confined."

"What! is he so unruly?" enquired Maria, with an accent of disappointment.

"No, not that I perceive," replied Jemima; "but he has an untamed look, a vehemence of eye, that excites apprehension. Were his hands free, he looks as if he could soon manage both his guards: yet he appears tranquil."

"If he be so strong, he must be young," ob|served Maria.

"Three or four and thirty, I suppose; but there is no judging of a person in his situation."

"Are you sure that he is mad?" interrupted

Maria with eagerness. Jemima quitted the room without replying.

"No, no, he certainly is not!" exclaimed Maria, answering herself; "the man who could write those observations was not disordered in his intellects."

She sat musing, gazing at the moon, and watching its motion as it seemed to glide under the clouds. Then, preparing for bed, she thought, "Of what use could I be to him, or he to me, if it be true that he is unjustly confined?—Could he aid me to escape, who is himself more closely watched?—Still I should like to see him." She went to bed, dreamed of her child, yet awoke exactly at half after five o'clock, and starting up, only wrapped a gown around her, and ran to the window. The morning was chill, it was the latter end of September; yet she did not retire to warm herself and think in bed, till the sound of the servants, moving about the house, convinced her that the unknown would not walk in the garden that morning. She was ashamed at feeling dis|appointed; and began to reflect, as an excuse to herself, on the little objects which attract atten|tion when there is nothing to divert the mind; and how difficult it was for women to avoid

growing romantic, who have no active duties or pursuits.

At breakfast, Jemima enquired whether she understood French? for, unless she did, the stranger's stock of books was exhausted. Maria replied in the affirmative; but forbore to ask any more questions respecting the person to whom they belonged. And Jemima gave her a new subject for contemplation, by describing the person of a lovely maniac, just brought into the adjoining chamber. She was singing the pathetic ballad of old Robin Gray, with the most heart-melting falls and pauses. Jemima had half-opened the door, when she distinguished her voice, and Maria stood close to it, scarcely daring to respire, lest a modu|lation should escape her, so exquisitely sweet, so passionately wild. She began with sympathy to pourtray to herself another victim, when the lovely warbler flew, as it were, from the spray, and a torrent of unconnected exclamations and questions burst from her, interrupted by fits of laughter, so horrid, that Maria shut the door, and, turning her eyes up to heaven, exclaimed—"Gracious God!"

Several minutes elapsed before Maria could enquire respecting the rumour of the house (for

this poor wretch was obviously not confined without a cause); and then Jemima could only tell her, that it was said, "she had been married, against her inclination, to a rich old man, ex|tremely jealous (no wonder, for she was a charm|ing creature); and that, in consequence of his treatment, or something which hung on her mind, she had, during her first lying-in, lost her senses."

What a subject of meditation—even to the very very confines of madness!

"Woman, fragile flower! why were you suf|fered to adorn a world exposed to the inroad of such stormy elements?" thought Maria, while the poor maniac's strain was still breathing on her ear, and sinking into her very soul.

Towards the evening, Jemima brought her Rousseau's Heloise; and she sat reading with eyes and heart, till the return of her guard to extin|guish the light. One instance of her kindness was, the permitting Maria to have one, till her own hour of retiring to rest. She had read this work long since; but now it seemed to open a new world to her—the only one worth inhabiting. Sleep was not to be wooed; yet, far from being fatigued by the restless rotation of thought, she

rose and opened her window, just as the thin watery clouds of twilight made the long silent shadows visible. The air swept across her face with a voluptuous freshness that thrilled to her heart, awakening indefinable emotions; and the sound of the waving branch, or the twittering of a startled bird, alone broke the stillness of repo|sing nature. Absorbed by the sublime sensibility which renders the consciousness of existence fe|licity, Maria was happy, till an autumnal scent, wafted by the breeze of morn from the fallen leaves of the adjacent wood, made her recollect that the season had changed since her confine|ment; yet life afforded no variety to solace an afflicted heart. She returned dispirited to her couch, and thought of her child till the broad glare of day again invited her to the window. She looked not for the unknown, still how great was her vexation at perceiving the back of a man, certainly he, with his two attendants, as he turned into a side-path which led to the house! A con|fused recollection of having seen somebody who resembled him, immediately occurred to puzzle and torment her with endless conjectures. Five minutes sooner, and she should have seen his face; and been out of suspense—was ever any thing so unlucky! His steady, bold step, and the whole air of his person, bursting as it were from a cloud,

pleased her, and gave an outline to the imagina|tion to sketch the individual form she wished to recognize.

Feeling the disappointment more severely than she was willing to believe, she flew to Rousseau, as her only refuge from the idea of him, who might prove a friend, could she but find a way to inte|rest him in her fate; still the personification of St. Preux, or of an ideal lover far superior, was after this imperfect model, of which merely a glance had been caught, even to the minutiae of the coat and hat of the stranger. But if she lent St. Preux, or the demi-god of her fancy, his form, she richly repaid him by the donation of all St. Preux's sentiments and feelings, culled to gratify her own, to which he seemed to have an undoubt|ed right, when she read on the margin of an im|passioned letter, written in the well known hand—"Rousseau alone, the true Prometheus of sen|timent, possessed the fire of genius necessary to pourtray the passion, the truth of which goes so directly to the heart."

Maria was again true to the hour, yet had finished Rousseau, and begun to transcribe some selected passages; unable to quit either the author or the window, before she had a glimpse of the

countenance she daily longed to see; and, when seen, it conveyed no distinct idea to her mind where she had seen it before. He must have been a transient acquaintance; but to discover an ac|quaintance was fortunate, could she contrive to attract his attention, and excite his sympathy.

Every glance afforded colouring for the picture she was delineating on her heart; and once, when the window was half open, the sound of his voice reached her. Conviction flashed on her; she had certainly, in a moment of distress, heard the same accents. They were manly, and characteristic of a noble mind; nay, even sweet—or sweet they seemed to her attentive ear.

She started back, trembling, alarmed at the emotion a strange coincidence of circumstances inspired, and wondering why she thought so much of a stranger, obliged as she had been by his timely interference (for she recollected, by de|grees, all the circumstances of their former meet|ing). She found however that she could think of nothing else; or, if she thought of her daughter, it was to wish that she had a father whom her mother could respect and love.

CHAP. III.

WHEN perusing the first parcel of books, Maria had, with her pencil, written in one of them a few exclamations, expressive of compassion and sympathy, which she scarcely remembered, till turning over the leaves of one of the volumes, lately brought to her, a slip of paper dropped out, which Jemima hastily snatched up.

"Let me see it," demanded Maria impatiently, "You surely are not afraid of trusting me with the effusions of a madman?" "I must consider," replied Jemima; and withdrew, with the paper in her hand.

In a life of such seclusion, the passions gain undue force; Maria therefore felt a great degree of resentment and vexation, which she had not time to subdue, before Jemima, returning, deli|vered the paper.

Whoever you are who partake of my fate, accept my sincere commiseration—I would have,

said protection; but the privilege of man is denied me.

My own situation forces a dreadful suspicion on my mind—I may not always languish in vain for freedom—say are you—I cannot ask the ques|tion: yet I will remember you when my remem|brance can be of any use. I will enquire, why you are so mysteriously detained—and I will have an answer.

HENRY DARNFORD.

By the most pressing intreaties, Maria prevailed on Jemima to permit her to write a reply to this note. Another and another succeeded, in which explanations were not allowed relative to their present situation; but Maria, with sufficient ex|plicitness, alluded to a former obligation; and they insensibly entered on an interchange of sen|timents on the most important subjects. To write these letters was the business of the day, and to receive them the moment of sunshine. By some means, Darnford having discovered Maria's window, when she next appeared at it, he made her, behind his keepers, a profound bow of re|spect and recognition.

Two or three weeks glided away in this kind

of intercourse, during which period Jemima, to whom Maria had given the necessary information respecting her family, had evidently gained some intelligence, which increased her desire of pleasing her charge, though she could not yet determine to liberate her. Maria took advantage of this fa|vourable change, without too minutely enquiring into the cause; and such was her eagerness to hold human converse, and to see her former protector, still a stranger to her, that she incessantly requested her guard to gratify her more than curiosity.

Writing to Darnford, she was led from the sad objects before her, and frequently rendered in|sensible to the horrid noises around her, which previously had continually employed her feverish fancy. Thinking it selfish to dwell on her own sufferings, when in the midst of wretches, who had not only lost all that endears life, but their very selves, her imagination was occupied with melancholy earnestness to trace the mazes of mi|sery, through which so many wretches must have passed in this gloomy receptacle of disjointed souls, to the grand source of human corruption. Often at midninght was she waked by the dismal shrieks of demoniac rage, or of excruciating despair, ut|tered in such wild tones of indescribable anguish as proved the total absence of reason, and roused

phantoms of horror in her mind, far more terrific than all that dreaming superstition ever drew. Be|sides, there was frequently something someting so inconceiveably picturesque in the varying gestures of unrestrained passion, so irresistibly comic in their sallies, or so heart-piercingly pathetic in the little airs they would sing, frequently bursting out after an awful silence, as to fascinate the attention, and amuse the fancy, while torturing the soul. It was the uproar of the passions which she was compelled to observe; and to mark the lucid beam of reason, like a light trembling in a socket, or like the flash which divides the threatening clouds of angry heaven only to display the horrors which darkness shrouded.

Jemima would labour to beguile the tedious evenings, by describing the persons and manners of the unfortunate beings, whose figures or voices awoke sympathetic sorrow in Maria's bosom; and the stories she told were the more interesting, for perpetually leaving room to conjecture some|thing extraordinary. Still Maria, accustomed to generalize her observations, was led to conclude from all she heard; that it was a vulgar error to suppose that people of abilities were the most apt to lose the command of reason. On the contrary, from most of the instances she could investigate,

she thought it resulted, that the passions only ap|peared strong and disproportioned, because the judgment was weak and unexercised, and that they gained strength by the decay of reason, as the shadows lengthen during the sun's decline.

Maria impatiently wished to see her fellow suf|ferer; but Darnford was still more earnest to ob|tain an interview. Accustomed to submit to every impulse of passion, and never taught, like woman, to restrain the most natural, and acquire, instead of the bewitching frankness of nature, a factitious propriety of behaviour, every desire became a tor|rent that bore down all opposition.

His travelling trunk, which contained the books lent to Maria, had been sent to him, and with a part of its contents he bribed his principal keeper; who, after receiving the most solemn promise that he would return to his apartment without attempt|ing to explore any part of the house, conducted him, in the dusk of the evening, to Maria's room.

Jemima had apprized her charge of the visit, and she expected with trembling impatience, in|spired by a vague hope that he might again prove her deliverer, to see a man who had before rescued her from oppression. He entered with an anima|tion

of countenance, formed to captivate an enthusiast; and, hastily turned his eyes from her to the apartment, which he surveyed with apparent emotions of compassionate indignation. Sympathy illuminated his eye, and, taking her hand, he respectfully bowed on it, exclaiming—"This is extraordinary!—again to meet you, and in such circumstances!" Still, impressive as was the coincidence of events which brought them once more together, their full hearts did no over|flow.—* 2.1

And though, after this first visit, they were permitted frequently to repeat their interviews, they were for some time employed in a reserved conversation, to which all the world might have listened; excepting when discussing some literary

subject, flashes of sentiment, inforced by each re|laxing feature, seemed to remind them that their minds were already acquainted.

By degrees, Darnford entered into the particu|lars of his story. In a few words, he informed her that he had been a thoughtless, extravagant young men; yet, as he described his faults, they appeared to be the generous luxuriancy of a noble mind. Nothing like meanness tarnished the lustre of his youth, nor had the worm of selfishness lurked in the unfolding bud, even while he had been the dupe of others. Yet he tardily acquired the experience necessary to guard him against fu|ture imposition.

"I shall weary you," continued he, "by my egotism: and did not powerful emotions draw me to you,"—his eyes glistened as he spoke, and a trembling seemed to run through his manly frame,—"I would not waste these precious moments in talking of myself.

"My father and mother were people of fashion; married by their parents. He was fond of the turf, she of the card-table. I, and two or three other children since dead, were kept at home till we became intolerable. My father and mother

had a visible dislike to each other, continually dis|played: the servants were of the depraved kind usually found, in the houses of people of fortune. My brothers and parents all dying, I was left to the care of guardians, and sent to Eton. I never knew the sweets of domestic affection, but I felt the want of indulgence and frivolous respect at school. I will not disgust you with a recital of the vices of my youth, which can scarcely be comprehended by female delicacy. I was taught to love by a creature I am ashamed to mention; and the other women with whom I afterwards became intimate, were of a class of which you can have no knowledge. I formed my acquaint|ance with them at the theatres; and when viva|city danced in their eyes, I was not easily dis|gusted by the vulgarity which flowed from their lips. Having spent, a few years after I was of age, [the whole of] a considerable patrimony, excepting a few hundreds, I had no resource but to purchase a commission in a new raised regi|ment, destined to subjugate America. The re|gret I felt to renounce a life of pleasure, was counter-balanced by the curiosity I had to see America, or rather to travel; [nor had any of these circumstances occurred to my youth, which might have been calculated] to bind my country to my heart. I shall not trouble you with the

details of a military life. My blood was still kept in motion; till, towards the close of the contest, I was wounded and taken prisoner.

"Confined to my bed, or chair, by a lingering cure, my only refuge from the preying activity of my mind, was books, which I read with great avidity, profiting by the conversation of my host, a man of found understanding. My political sen|timents now underwent a total change; and, dazzled by the hospitality of the Americans, I determined to take up my abode with freedom. I, therefore, with my usual impetuosity, sold my commission, and travelled into the interior parts of the country, to lay out my money to advantage. Added to this, I did not much like the puritanical manners of the large towns. Inequality of con|dition was there most disgustingly galling. The only pleasure wealth afforded, was to make an ostentatious display of it; for the cultivation of the fine arts, or literature, had not introduced into the first circles that polish of manners which renders the rich so essentially superior to the poor in Europe. Added to this, an influx of vices had been let in by the revolution, and the most rigid principles of religion shaken to the centre, before the understanding could be gradually emancipated from the prejudices which led their ancestors

undauntedly to seek an inhospitable clime and unbroken soil. The resolution, that led them in pursuit of independence, to embark on rivers like seas, to search for unknown shores, and to sleep under the hovering mists of endless forests, whose baleful damps agued their limbs, was now turned into commercial speculations, till the national character exhibited a phenomenon in the history of the human mind—a head enthusiastically en|terprising, with cold selfishness of heart. And woman, lovely woman!—they charm every where—still there is a degree of prudery, and a want of taste and ease in the manners of the American women, that renders them, in spite of their roses and lilies, far inferior to our European charmers. In the country, they have often a bewitching sim|plicity of character; but, in the cities, they have all the airs and ignorance of the ladies who give the tone to the circles of the large trading towns in England. They are fond of their ornaments, merely because they are good, and not because they embellish their persons; and are more gra|tified to inspire the women with jealousy of these exterior advantages, than the men with love. All the frivolity which often (excuse me, madam) renders the society of modest women so stupid in England, here seemed to throw still more leaden fetters on their charms. Not being an adept in

gallantry, I found that I could only keep myself awake in their company by making downright love to them.

"But, not to intrude on your patience, I re|tired to the tract of land which I had purchased in the country, and my time passed pleasantly enough while I cut down the trees, built my house, and planted my different crops. But winter and idleness came, and I longed for more elegant society, to hear what was passing in the world, and to do something better than vegetate with the animals that made a very considerable part of my household. Consequently I determined to travel. Motion was a substitute for a variety of objects; and passing over immense tracts of country, I exhausted my exuberant spirits, without obtaining much experience. I every where saw industry the forerunner and not the consequence, of luxury; but this country, every thing being on an ample scale, did not afford those picturesque views, which a certain degree of cultivation is necessary gradually to produce. The eye wandered without an object to fix upon over immeasurable plains, and lakes that seemed replenished by the ocean, whilst eternal forests of small clustering trees, obstructed the circulation of the air, and embar|rassed the path, without gratifying the eye of

taste. No cottage smiling in the waste, no tra|vellers hailed us, to give life to silent nature; or, if perchance we saw the print of a footstep in our path, it was a dreadful warning to turn aside; and the head ached as if assailed by the scalping knife. The Indians who hovered on the skirts of the European settlements had only learned of their neighbours to plunder, and they stole guns from them to do it with more safety.

From the woods and back settlements, I re|turned to the towns, and learned to eat and drink most valiantly; but without entering into com|merce (and I detested commerce) I found I could not live there; and, growing heartily weary of the land of liberty and vulgar aristocracy, seated on her bags of dollars, I resolved once more to visit Europe. I wrote to a distant relation in England, with whom I had been educated, mentioning the vessel in which I intended to sail. Arriving in London, my senses were intoxicated. I ran from street to street, from theatre to theatre, and the women of the town (again I must beg pardon for my habitual frankness) appeared to me like angels.

"A week was spent in this thoughtless manner, when, returning very late to the hotel in which I lodged ever since my arrival, I was knocked down

in a private street, and hurried, in a state of insen|sibility, into a coach, which brought me hither, and I only recovered my senses to be treated like one who had lost them. My keepers are deaf to my remonstrances and enquiries, yet assure me that my confinement shall not last long. Still I cannot guess, though I weary myself with con|jectures, why I am confined, or in what part of England this house is situated. I imagine some|times that I hear the sea roar, and wished myself again on the Atlantic, till I had a glimpse of you.* 2.2

A few moment were only allowed to Maria to comment on this narrative, when Darnford left her to her own thoughts, to the "never ending, still beginning," task of weighing his words, re|collecting his tones of voice, and feeling them re|verberate on her heart.

CHAP. IV.

PITY, and the forlorn seriousness of adversity, have been both considered as dispositions favour|able to love, while satirical writers have attributed the propensity to the relaxing effect of idleness; what chance then had Maria of escaping, when pity, sorrow, and solitude all conspired to soften her mind, nourish romantic wishes, and, from a natural progress, romantic expectations?

Maria was six-and-twenty. But, such was the native soundness of her constitution, that time had only given to her countenance the character of her mind. Revolving thought, and exercised affec|tions had banished some of the playful graces of innocence, producing insensibly that irregularity of features which the struggles of the understand|ing to trace or govern the strong emotions of the heart, are wont to imprint on the yielding mass. Grief and care had mellowed, without obscuring, the bright tints of youth, and the thoughtfulness which resided on her brow did not take from the

feminine softness of her features; nay, such was the sensibility which often mantled over it, that she frequently appeared, like a large proportion of her sex, only born to feel; and the activity of her well-proportioned, and even almost voluptuous figure, inspired the idea of strength of mind, rather than of body. There was a simplicity sometimes indeed in her manner, which bordered on infantine ingenuousness, that led people of common discernment to underrate her talents, and smile at the flights of her imagination. But those who could not comprehend the delicacy of her sentiments, were attached by her unfailing sym|pathy, so that she was very generally beloved by characters of very different descriptions; still, she was too much under the influence of an ar|dent imagination to adhere to common rules.

There are mistakes of conduct which at five-and-twenty prove the strength of the mind, that, ten or fifteen years after, would demonstrate its weakness, its incapacity to acquire a sane judg|ment. The youths who are satisfied with the or|dinary pleasures of life, and do not sigh after ideal phantoms of love and friendship, will never arrive at great maturity of understanding; but if these reveries are cherished, as is too frequently the case with women, when experience ought to have

taught them in what human happiness consists, they become as useless as they are wretched. Be|sides, their pains and pleasures are so dependent on outward circumstances, on the objects of their affections, that they seldom act from the impulse of a nerved mind, able to choose its own pursuit.

Having had to struggle incessantly with the vices of mankind, Maria's imagination found re|pose in pourtraying the possible virtues the world might contain. Pygmalion formed an ivory maid, and longed for an informing soul. She, on the contrary, combined all the qualities of a hero's mind, and fate presented a statue in which she might enshrine them.

We mean not to trace the progress of this pas|sion, or recount how often Darnford and Maria were obliged to part in the midst of an interesting conversation. Jemima ever watched on the tip|toe of fear, and frequently separated them on a false alarm, when they would have given worlds to remain a little longer together.

A magic lamp now seemed to be suspended in Maria's prison, and fairy landscapes flitted round the gloomy walls, late so blank. Rushing from the depth of despair, on the seraph wing of hope,

she found herself happy.—She was beloved, and every emotion was rapturous.

To Darnford she had not shown a decided affection; the fear of outrunning his, a sure proof of love, made her often assume a coldness and indifference foreign from her character; and, even giving way to the playful emotions of a heart just loosened from the frozen bond of grief, there was a delicacy in her manner of expressing her sensibility, which made him doubt whether it was the effect of love.

One evening, when Jemima left them, to listen to the sound of a distant foot-step, which seemed cautiously to approach, he seized Maria's hand—it was not withdrawn. They conversed with ear|nestness of their situation; and during the conver|sation, he once or twice gently drew her towards him. He felt the fragrance of her breath, and longed, yet feared, to touch the lips from which it issued; spirits of purity seemed to guard them, while all the enchanting graces of love sported on her cheeks, and languished in her eyes.

Jemima entering, he reflected on his diffidence with poignant regret, and she once 〈◊〉〈◊〉 taking alarm, he ventured, as Maria stood near his chair,

to approach her lips with a declaration of love. She drew back with solemnity, he hung down his head abashed; but lifting his eyes timidly, they met her's; she had determined, during that in|stant, and suffered their rays to mingle. He took, with more ardour reassured, a half-consenting, half-reluctant kiss, reluctant only from modesty; and there was a sacredness in her dignified manner of reclining her glowing face on his shoulder, that powerfully impressed him. Desire was lost in more ineffable emotions, and to protect her from insult and sorrow—to make her happy, seemed not only the first wish of his heart, but the most noble duty of his life. Such angelic confidence demanded the fidelity of honour; but could he, feeling her in every pulsation, could he ever change, could he be a villain? The emotion with which she, for a moment, allowed herself to be pressed to his bosom, the ear 〈◊〉〈◊〉 rapturous sym|pathy, mingled with a soft melancholy sentiment of recollected disappointment, said—more of truth and faithfulness, than the tongue could have given utterance to in hours! They were silent yet dis|coursed, how eloquently? till, after a moment's reflection, Maria drew her chair by the side of his, and, with a composed sweetness of voice, and supernatural benignity of countenance, said, "I must open my whole heart to you: you must be

told who I am, why I am here, and why, telling you I am a wife, I blush not to"—the blush spoke the rest.

Jemima was again at her elbow, and the res|traint of her presence did not prevent an animated conversation, in which love, sly urchin, was ever at bo-peep.

So much of heaven did they enjoy, that para|dise bloomed around them; or they, by a powerful spell, had been transported into Armida's garden. Love, the great enchanter, "lapt them in Ely|sium," and every sense was harmonized to the social extacy. So animated, indeed, were their accents of tenderness, in discussing what, in other circumstances would have been common-place subjects, that Jemima felt, with surprise, a tear of pleasure trickling down her rugged cheeks. She wiped it away, half ashamed; and when Maria kindly enquired the cause, with all the eager soli|citude of a happy being wishing to impart to all nature its overflowing felicity, Jemima owned that it was the first tear that social enjoyment had ever drawn from her. She seemed indeed to breathe more freely; the cloud of suspicion cleared away from her brow; she felt herself, for once in her life, treated like a fellow-creature.

Imagination! who can paint thy power; or reflect the evanescent tints of hope fostered by thee? A despondent gloom had long obscured Maria's horizon—now the sun broke forth, the rainbow appeared, and every prospect was fair. Horror still reigned in the darkened cells, sus|picion lurked in the passages, and whispered along the walls. The yells of men possessed, sometimes made them pause, and wonder that they felt so happy in a tomb of living death. They even chid themselves for such apparent insensibility; still the world contained not three happier beings. And Jemima, after again patrol|ling the passage, was so softened by the air of confidence which breathed around her, that she voluntarily began an account of herself.

CHAP. V.

"MY father," said Jemima, "seduced my mother, a pretty girl, with whom he lived fellow-servant; and she no sooner perceived the natural, the dreaded consequence, than the terrible con|viction flashed on her—that she was ruined. Ho|nesty, and a regard for her reputation, had been the only principles inculcated by her mother; and they had been so forcibly impressed, that she feared shame, more than the poverty to which it would lead. Her incessant importunities to pre|vail upon my father to screen her from reproach by marrying her, as he had promised in the fer|vour of seduction, estranged him from her so com|pletely, that her very person became distasteful to him; and he began to hate, as well as despise me, before I was born.

"My mother, grieved to the soul by his ne|glect, and unkind treatment, actually resolved to famish herself; and injured her health by the at|tempt; though she had not sufficient resolution

to adhere to her project, or renounce it entirely. Death came not at her call; yet sorrow, and the methods she adopted to conceal her condition, still doing the work of a house-maid, had such an effect on her constitution, that she died in the wretched garret, where her virtuous mistress had forced her to take refuge in the very pangs of la|bour, though my father, after a slight reproof, was allowed to remain in his place—allowed by the mother of six children, who, scarcely permit|ting a footstep to be heard, during her month's indulgence, felt no sympathy for the poor wretch, denied every comfort required by her situation.

"The day my mother died, the ninth after my birth, I was consigned to the care of the cheapest nurse my father could find; who suckled her own child at the same time, and lodged as many more as she could get, in two cellar-like apartments.

"Poverty, and the habit of seeing children die off her hands, had so hardened her heart, that the office of a mother did not awaken the tender|ness of a woman; nor were the feminine caresses which seemed a part of the rearing of a child, ever bestowed on me. The chicken has a wing to shelter under; but I had no bosom to nestle in, no kindred warmth to foster me. Left in dirt,

to cry with cold and hunger till I was weary, and sleep without ever being prepared by exercise, or lulled by kindness to rest; could I be expected to become any thing but a weak and rickety babe? Still, in spite of neglect, I continued to exist, to learn to curse existence, "her countenance grew ferocious as she spoke," and the treatment that rendered me miserable, seemed to sharpen my wit. Confined then in a damp hovel, to rock the cra|dle of the succeeding tribe, I looked like a little old woman, or a hag shrivelling into nothing. The furrows of reflection and care contracted the youthful cheek, and gave a sort of supernatural wildness to the ever watchful eye. During this period, my father had married another fellow-servant, who loved him less, and knew better how to manage his passion, than my mother. She likewise proving with child, they agreed to keep a shop: my step-mother, if, being an illegitimate offspring, I may venture thus to characterize her, having obtained a sum of a rich relation, for that purpose.

"Soon after her lying-in, she prevailed on my father to take me home, to save the expence of maintaining me, and of hiring a girl to assist her in the care of the child. I was young, it was true, but appeared a knowing little thing, and

might be made handy. Accordingly I was brought to her house; but not to a home—for a home I never knew. Of this child, a daughter, she was extravagantly fond; and it was a part of my employment, to assist to spoil her, by humour|ing all her whims, and bearing all her caprices. Feeling her own consequence, before she could speak, she had learned the art of tormenting me, and if I ever dared to resist, I received blows laid on with no compunctious hand, or was sent to bed dinnerless, as well as supperless. I said that it was a part of my daily labour to attend this child, with the servility of a slave; still it was but a part. I was sent out in all seasons, and from place to place, to carry burdens far above my strength, without being allowed to draw near the fire, or ever being cheered by encouragement or kindness. No wonder then, treated like a crea|ture of another species, that I began to envy, and at length to hate, the darling of the house. Yet, I perfectly remember, that it was the caresses, and kind expressions of my step-mother, which first excited my jealous discontent. Once, I can|not forget it, when she was calling in vain her wayward child to kiss her, I ran to her, saying, 'I will kiss you, ma'am!' and how did my heart, which was in my mouth, sink, what was my de|basement of soul, when pushed away with—'I

do not want you, pert thing!' Another day, when a new gown had excited the highest good hu|mour, and she uttered the appropriate dear, ad|dressed unexpectedly to me, I thought I could never do enough to please her; I was all alacrity, and rose proportionably in my own estimation,

"As her daughter grew up, she was pampered with cakes and fruit, while I was, literally speak|ing, fed with the refuse of the table, with her leavings. A liquorish tooth, is, I believe, com|mon to children, and I used to steal any thing sweet, that I could catch up with a chance of con|cealment. When detected, she was not content to chastise me herself at the moment, but, on my father's return in the evening (he was a shop|man), the principal discourse was to recount my faults, and attribute them to the wicked disposi|tion which I had brought into the world with me, inherited from my mother. He did not fail to leave the marks of his resentment on my body, and then solaced himself by playing with my sister.—I could have murdered her at those mo|ments. To save myself from these unmerciful corrections, I resorted to falshood, and the un|truths which I sturdily maintained, were brought in judgment against me, to support my tyrant's inhuman charge of my natural propensity to vice.

Seeing me treated with contempt, and always be|ing fed and dressed better, my sister conceived a contemptuous opinion of me, that proved an ob|stacle to all affection; and my father, hearing continually of my faults, began to consider me as a curse entailed on him for his sins: he was there|fore easily prevailed on to bind me apprentice to one of my step-mother's friends, who kept a slop|shop in Wapping. I was represented (as it was said) in my true colours; but she, 'warranted,' snapping her fingers, 'that she should break my spirit or heart.'

"My mother replied, with a whine, 'that if any body could make me better, it was such a clever woman as herself; though, for her own part, she had tried in vain; but goodnature was her fault.'

"I shudder with horror, when I recollect the treatment I had now to endure. Not only under the lash of my task mistress, but the drudge of the maid, apprentices and children, I never had a taste of human kindness to soften the rigour of perpetual labour. I had been introduced as an object of abhorrence into the family; as a crea|ture of whom my step-mother, though she had been kind enough to let me live in the house with

her own child, could make nothing. I was des|cribed as a wretch, whose nose must be kept to the grinding stone—and it was held there with an iron grasp. It seemed indeed the privilege of their superior nature to kick me about like the dog or cat. If I were attentive, I was called fawning, if refractory, an obstinate mule, and like a mule I received their censure on my loaded back. Often has my mistress, for some instance of for|getfulness, thrown me from one side of the kit|chen to the other, knocking my head against the wall, spit in my face, with various refinements on barbarity that I forbear to enumerate, though they were all acted over again by the servant, with ad|ditional insults, to which the appellation of bastard, was commonly added, with taunts or sneers. But I will not attempt to give you an adequate idea of my situation, lest you, who probably have never been drenched with the dregs of human misery, should think I exaggerate.

"I stole now, from absolute necessity,—bread; yet whatever else was taken, which I had it not in my power to take, was ascribed to me. I was the filching cat, the ravenous dog, the dumb brute, who must bear all; for if I endeavoured to exculpate myself, I was silenced, without any enquiries being made, with 'hold your tongue,

you never tell truth.' Even the very air I breathed was tainted with scorn; for I was sent to the neighbouring shops with glutton, liar, or thief, written on my forehead. This was, at first, the most bitter punishment; but sullen pride, or a kind of stupid desperation, made me, at length, almost regardless of the contempt, which had wrung from me so many solitary tears at the only moments when I was allowed to rest.

"Thus was I the mark of cruelty till my six|teenth year; and then I have only to point out a change of misery; for a period I never knew. Allow me first to make one observation. Now I look back, I cannot help attributing the greater part of my misery, to the misfortune of having been thrown into the world without the grand support of life—a mother's affection. I had no one to love me; or to make me respected to ena|ble me to acquire respect. I was an egg dropped on the sand; a pauper by nature, hunted from family to family, who belonged to nobody—and nobody cared for me. I was despised from my birth, and denied the chance of obtaining a foot|ing for myself in society. Yes; I had not even the chance of being considered as a fellow-crea|ture—yet all the people with whom I lived, bru|talized as they were by the low cunning of trade,

and the despicable shifts of poverty, were not without bowels, though they never yearned for me. I was, in fact, born a slave, and chained by infamy to slavery during the whole of existence, without having any companions to alleviate it by sympathy, or teach me how to rise above it by their example. But, to resume the thread of my tale—

"At sixteen, I suddenly grew tall, and some|thing like comeliness appeared on a Sunday, when I had time to wash my face, and put on clean clothes. My master had once or twice caught hold of me in the passage; but I instinc|tively avoided his disgusting caresses. One day, however, when the family were at a methodist meeting, he contrived to be alone in the house with me, and by blows—yes, blows and menaces, compelled me to submit to his ferocious desire; and, to avoid my mistress's fury, I was obliged in future to comply, and to skulk to my loft at his command, in spite of increasing loathing.

"The anguish which was now pent up in my bosom, seemed to open a new world to me: I began to extend my thoughts beyond myself, and grieve for human misery, till I discovered with horror—ah! what horror! that I was with child.

I knew not why I felt a mixed sensation of despair and tenderness, excepting that, ever called a bas|tard, a bastard appeared to me an object of the greatest compassion in creation.

"I communicated this dreadful circumstance to my master, who was almost equally alarmed at the intelligence; for he feared his wife, and public censure at the meeting. After some weeks of deliberation had elapsed, I in continual fear that my altered shape would be noticed, my master gave me a medicine in a phial, which he desired me to take, telling me, without any cir|cumlocution, for what purpose it was designed. I burst into tears, I thought it was killing myself, yet was such a self as I worth preserving? He cursed me for a fool, and left me to my own re|flections. I could not resolve to take this infernal potion; but I wrapt it up in an old gown, and hid it in a corner of my box.

"Nobody yet suspected me, because they had been accustomed to view me as a creature of an|other species. But the threatening storm at last broke over my devoted head—never shall I forget it! One Sunday evening, when I was left, as usual, to take care of the house, my master came home intoxicated, and I became the prey of 〈◊〉〈◊〉

brutal appetite. His extreme intoxication made him forget his customary caution, and my mistress entered and found us in a situation that could not have been more hateful to her than me. Her hus|band was 'pot valiant,' he feared her not at the moment, nor had he then much reason, for she instantly turned the whole force of her anger an|other way. She tore off my cap, scratched, kicked, and buffetted me, till she had exausted her strength, declaring, as she rested her arm, 'that I had wheedled her husband from her. But could any thing better be expected from a wretch, whom she had taken into her house out of pure charity?' What a torrent of abuse rushed out? till, almost breathless, she concluded with saying—' that I was born a strumpet; it ran in my blood, and nothing good could come to those who harboured me.'

My situation was, of course, discovered, and she declared that I should not stay another night under the same roof with an honest family. I was therefore pushed out of doors, and my trum|pery thrown after me, when it had been contemp|tuously examined in the passage, lest I should have stolen any thing.

"Behold me then in the street, utterly desti|tute!

Whither would I creep for shelter? To my father's roof I had no claim, when not pur|sued by shame;—now I shrunk back as from death, from my mother's cruel reproaches, my father's execrations. I could not endure to hear him curse the day I was born, though life had been a curse to me. Of death I thought, but with a confused emotion of terror, as I stood leaning my head on a post, and starting at every footstep, lest it should be my mistress coming to tear my heart out. One of the boys of the shop passing by, heard my tale, and immediately repaired to his master, to give him a description of my situa|tion; and he touched the right key—the scandal it would give rise to, if I were left to repeat my tale to every enquirer. This plea came home to his reason, who had been sobered by his wife's rage, the fury of which fell upon him when I was out of her reach, and he sent the boy to me with half-a-guinea, desiring him to conduct me to a house, where beggars, and other wretches, the refuse of society, nightly lodged.

"This night was spent in a state of stupefac|tion, or desperation. I detested mankind, and abhorred myself.

"In the morning I ventured out, to throw

myself in my master's way, at his usual hour of going abroad. I approached him, he 'damned me for a b—, declared I had disturbed the peace of the family, and that he had sworn to his wife never to take any more notice of me.' He left me; but instantly returning, he told me that he should speak to his friend, a parish officer, to get a nurse for the brat I laid to him; and advised me, if I wished to keep out of the house of cor|rection, not to make free with his name.

"I hurried back to my hole, and, rage giving place to despair, sought for the potion that was to procure abortion, and swallowed it with a wish that it might destroy me, at the same time that it stopped the sensations of new-born life, which I felt with indescribable emotion.—My head turned round, my heart grew sick, and in the horrors of approaching dissolution, mental anguish was swal|lowed up. The effect of the medicine was vio|lent, and I was confined to my bed several days; but youth and a strong constitution prevailing, I once more crawled out, to ask myself the cruel question, 'Whither I should go?' I had but two shillings left in my pocket, the rest had been expended, by a poor woman who slept in the same room, to pay for my lodging, and purchase the necessaries of which she partook.

"With this wretch I went into the neigh|bouring streets to beg, and my disconsolate ap|pearance drew a few pence from the idle, ena|bling me still to command a bed; till, recovering from my illness, and taught to put on my rags to the best advantage, I was accosted from dif|ferent motives, and yielded to the desire of the brutes I met, with the same detestation that I had felt for my still more brutal master. I have since read in novels of the blandishments of seduction, but I had not even the pleasure of being enticed into vice.

"I shall not," interrupted Jemima, "lead your imagination into all the scenes of wretched|ness and depravity, which I was condemned to view; or mark the different stages of my debasing misery. Fate dragged me through the very ken|nels of society; I was still a slave, a bastard, a common property. Become familiar with vice, for I wish to conceal nothing from you, I picked the pockets of the drunkards who abused me; and proved by my conduct that I deserved the epithets, with which they loaded me at moments when distrust ought to cease.

"Detesting my nightly occupation, though valuing, if I may use the word, my independence,

which only consisted in choosing the street in which I should wander, or the roof, when I had money, in which I should hide my head, I was sometime before I could prevail on myself to ac|cept of a place in a house of ill fame, to which a girl, with whom I had accidentally conversed in the street, had recommended me. I had been hunted almost into a fever, by the watchmen of the quarter of the town I frequented; one, whom I had unwittingly offended, giving the word to the whole pack. You can scarcely conceive the tyranny exercised by these wretches: considering themselves as the instruments of the very laws they violate, the pretext which steels their con|science, hardens their heart. Not content with receiving from us, outlaws of society (let other women talk of favours) a brutal gratification gratuitously, as a privilege of office, they extort a tithe of prostitution, and harass with threats the poor creatures whose occupations afford not the means to silence the growl of avarice. To escape from this persecution, I once more entered into servitude.

"A life of comparative regularity restored my health; and—do not start—my manners were improved, in a situation where vice sought to ren|der itself alluring, and taste was cultivated to

fashion the person, if not to refine the mind. Be|sides, the common civility of speech, contrasted with the gross vulgarity to which I had been ac|customed, was something like the polish of civi|lization. I was not shut out from all intercourse of humanity. Still I was galled by the yoke of service, and my mistress often flying into violent fits of passion, made me dread a sudden dismission, which I understood was always the case. I was therefore prevailed on, though I felt a hor|ror of men, to accept the offer of a gentleman, rather in the decline of years, to keep his house, pleasantly situated in a little village near Hampstead.

"He was a man of great talents, and of brilliant wit; but a worn-out votary of voluptuousness, his desires became fastidious in proportion as they grew weak, and the native tenderness of his heart was undermined by a vitiated imagination. A thoughtless career of libertinism and social en|joyment, had injured his health to such a degree, that, whatever pleasures his conversation afforded me (and my esteem was ensured by proofs of the generous humanity of his disposition), the being his mistress was purchasing it at a very dear rate. With such a keen perception of the delicacies of sentiment, with an imagination invigorated by the

exercise of genius, how could he sink into the grossness of sensuality!

"But, to pass over a subject which I recollect with pain, I must remark to you, as an answer to your often repeated question, 'Why my senti|ments and language were superior to my station?' that I now began to read, to beguile the tediousness of solitude, and to gratify an inquisitive, active mind. I had often in my childhood, followed a ballad-singer, to hear the sequel of a dismal story, though sure of being severely punished for delaying to return with whatever I was sent to purchase. I could just spell and put a sentence together, and I listened to the various arguments, though often mingled with obscenity, which occurred at the table where I was allowed to preside: for a lite|rary friend or two frequently came home with my master, to dine and pass the night. Having lost the privileged respect of my sex, my presence, instead of restraining, perhaps gave the reins to their tongues; still I had the advantage of hearing discussions, from which, in the common course of life, women are excluded.

"You may easily imagine, that it was only by degrees that I could comprehend some of the sub|jects they investigated, or acquire from their rea|soning

what might be termed a moral sense. But my fondness of reading increasing, and my master occasionally shutting himself up in this retreat, for weeks together, to write, I had many oppor|tunities of improvement. At first, considering money" ('I was right!' exclaimed Jemima, alter|ing her tone of voice) "as the only means, after my loss of reputation, of obtaining respect, or even the toleration of humanity, I had not the least scruple to secrete a part of the sums intrusted to me, and to screen myself from detection by a system of falshood.—But, acquiring new princi|ples, I began to have the ambition of returning to the respectable part of society, and was weak enough to suppose it possible. The attention of my unassuming instructor, who, without being ignorant of his own powers, possessed great sim|plicity of manners, strengthened the illusion. Having sometimes caught up hints for thought, from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 untutored remarks, he often led me to discuss the subjects he was treating, and would read to me his productions, previous to their pub|lication, wishing to profit by the criticism of un|sophisticated feeling. The aim of his writings was to touch the simple strings of the heart; for he despised the would-be oracles, the self-elected philosophers, who fright away fancy, while sifting each grain of thought to prove that slowness of comprehension is wisdom.

"I should have distinguished this as a mo|ment of sunshine, a happy period in my life, had not the repugnance the disgusting libertinism of my protector inspired, daily become more pain|ful. And, indeed, I soon did recollect it as such with agony, when his sudden death (for he had recourse to the most exhilirating cordials to keep up the convivial tone of his spirits) again threw me into the desert of human society. Had he had any time for reflection, I am certain he would have left the little property in his power to me: but, attacked by the fatal apoplexy in town, his heir, a man of rigid morals, brought his wife with him to take possession of the house and ef|fects, before I was even informed of his death,—'to prevent,' as she took care indirectly to tell me, 'such a creature as she supposed me to be, from purloining any of them, had I been apprized of the event in time.'

"The grief I felt at the sudden shock the in|formation gave me, which at first had nothing selfish in it, was treated with contempt, and I was ordered to pack up my clothes, and a few trinkets and books, given me by the generous deceased, were contested, while they piously hoped, with a reprobating shake of the head, 'that God would have mercy on his sinful soul!

With some difficulty I obtained my arrears of wages; but asking—such is the spirit-grinding consequence of poverty and infamy—for a cha|racter for honesty and economy, which God knows I merited, I was told by this—why must I call her woman?—'that it would go against her conscience to recommend a kept mistress.' Tears started in my eyes, burning tears; for there are situations in which a wretch is humbled by the contempt they are conscious they do not deserve.

"I returned to the metropolis; but the soli|tude of a poor lodging was inconceivably dreary, after the society I had enjoyed. To be cut off from human converse, now I had been taught to relish it, was to wander a ghost among the living. Besides, I foresaw, to aggravate the severity of my fate, that my little pittance would soon melt away. I endeavoured to obtain needle-work; but not having been taught early, and my hands being rendered clumsy by hard work, I did not sufficiently excel to be employed by the ready|made linen shops, when so many women, better qualified, were suing for it. The want of a cha|racter prevented me getting a place; for, irksome as servitude would have been to me, I should have made another trial, had it been feasible.

Not that I disliked employment, but the inequa|lity of condition to which I must have submitted. I had acquired a taste for literature, during the five years I had lived with a literary man, occa|sionally conversing with men of the first abilities of the age; and now to descend to the lowest vulgarity, was a degree of wretchedness not to be imagined unfelt. I had not, it is true, tasted the charms of affection, but I had been familiar with the graces of humanity.

"One of the gentlemen, whom I had fre|quently dined in company with, while I was treated like a companion, met me in the street, and enquired after my health. I seized the oc|casion, and began to describe my situation; but he was in haste to join, at dinner, a select party of choice spirits; therefore without waiting to hear me, he impatiently put a guinea into my hand, saying, it was a pity such a sensible wo|man should be in distress—he wished me well from his soul.'

"To another I wrote, stating my case, and requesting advice. He was an advocate for un|equivocal sincerity; and had often, in my pre|sence, descanted on the evils which arise in so|ciety, from the despotism of rank and riches.

"In reply, I received a long essay on the energy of the human mind, with continual allu|sions to his own force of character. He added, 'That the woman who could write such a letter as I had sent him, could never be in want of re|sources, were she to look into herself, and exert her powers; misery was the consequence of in|dolence, and as to my being shut out from so|ciety, it was the lot of man to submit to certain privations.'

"How often have I heard," said Jemima, interrupting her narrative, "in conversation, and read in books, that every person willing to work may find employment? It is the vague assertion, I believe, of insensible indolence, when it relates to men; but, when with respect to women, I am sure of its fallacy, unless they will submit to the most menial bodily labour; and even to be em|ployed at hard labour is out of the reach of many, whose reputation misfortune or folly has tainted.

"How writers, professing to be friends to freedom, and the improvement of morals, can assert that poverty is no evil, I cannot imagine."

"No more can I," interrupted Maria; "yet they even expatiate on the peculiar happiness of

indigence, though in what it can consist, except|ing in brutal rest, when a man can barely earn a subsistence, I cannot imagine. The mind is ne|cessarily imprisoned in its own little tenement; and, fully occupied by keeping it in repair, has not time to rove abroad for improvement. The book of knowledge is closely clasped, against those who must fulfil their daily task of severe manual labour or die; and curiosity, rarely excited by thought or information, seldom moves on the stagnate lake of ignorance."

"As far as I have been able to observe," re|plied Jemima, "prejudices caught up by chance, are obstinately maintained by the poor, to the exclusion of improvement; they have not time to reason or reflect to any extent, or minds suffici|ently exercised to adopt the principles of action, which form perhaps the only basis of contentment in every station."* 2.3

"And independence," said Darnford, "they are necessarily strangers to, even the independence

of despising their persecutors. If the poor are happy, or can be happy, things are very well as they are. And I cannot conceive on what prin|ciple those writers contend for a change of system, who support this opinion.—The authors on the other side of the question are much more con|sistent, who grant the fact; yet, insisting that it is the lot of the majority to be oppressed in this life, kindly turn them over to another, to rectify the false weights and measures of this, as the only way to justify the dispensations of Providence. "I have not," continued Darnford, "an opi|nion more fixed by observation in my mind, than that, though riches may fail to promote propor|tionate happiness, poverty most commonly ex|cludes it, by shutting up all the avenues to im|provement."

"And as for the affections," added Maria, with a sigh, "how gross, and even tormenting do they become, unless regulated by an improv|ing mind! The culture of the heart, ever, I be|lieve, keeps pace with that of the mind.—But pray go on," addressing Jemima, "though your narrative gives rise to the most painful reflections on the present state of society."

"Not to trouble you," continued she, "with

a detailed description of all the painful feelings of unavailing exertion, I have only to tell you, that at last I got recommended to wash in a few fami|lies, who did me the favour to admit me into their houses, without the most strict enquiry, to wash from one in the morning till eight at right, for eighteen or twenty-pence a day. On the hap|piness to be enjoyed over a washing-tub I need not comment; yet you will allow me to observe, that this was a wretchedness of situation peculiar to my sex. A man with half my industry, and, I may say, abilities, could have procured a decent livelihood, and discharged some of the duties which knit mankind together; whilst I, who had acquired a taste for the rational, nay, in honest pride let me assert it, the virtuous enjoyments of life, was cast aside as the filth of society. Con|demned to labour, like a machine, only to earn bread, and scarcely that, I became melancholy and desperate.

"I have now to mention a circumstance which fills me with remorse, and fear it will entirely de|prive me of your esteem. A tradesman became attached to me, and visited me frequently,—and I at last obtained such a power over him, that he offered to take me home to his house. Consider, dear madam, I was famishing: wonder not that

I became a wolf!—The only reason for not taking me home immediately, was the having a girl in the house, with child by him—and this girl—I advised him—yes, I did! would I could forget it!—to turn out of doors: and one night he de|termined to follow my advice.—Poor wretch! she fell upon her knees, reminded him that he had promised to marry her, that her parents were ho|nest!—What did it avail?—She was turned out.

"She approached her father's door, in the skirts of London,—listened at the shutters—but could not knock. A watchman had observed her go and return several times—Poor wretch!"—The remorse Jemima spoke of seemed to be stinging her to the soul, as she proceeded.

"She left it, and approaching a tub where horses were watered, she sat down in it, and, with desperate resolution, remained in that atti|tude—till resolution was no longer necessary.

"I happened that morning to be going out to wash, anticipating the moment when I should escape from such hard labour. I passed by, just as some men, who were going to work, drew out the stiff, cold corpse.—Let me not recal the hor|rid moment!—I recognised her pale visage; I

listened to the tale told by the spectators, and my heart did not burst. I thought of my own state, and wondered how I could be such a monster!—I worked hard; and returning home, I was attacked by a fever. I suffered both in body and mind. I determined not to live with the wretch. But he did not try me; he left the neighbourhood. I once more returned to the wash-tub.

"Still this fate, miserable as it was, admitted of aggravation. Lifting one day a heavy load, a tub fell against my shin, and gave me great pain. I did not pay much attention to the hurt, till it became a serious wound; being obliged to work as usual or starve. But, finding myself at length unable to stand for any time, I thought of getting into an hospital.—Hospitals, it should seem (for they are comfortless abodes for the sick) were ex|pressly endowed for the reception of the friendless; yet I, who had on that plea a right to assistance, wanted the recommendation of the rich and res|pectable, and was several weeks languishing for admittance; fees were demanded on entering; and, what was still more unreasonable, security for burying me, that expense not coming into the letter of the charity. A guinea was the stipulated sum—I could as soon have raised a million: and I

was afraid to apply to the parish for an order, lest they should have passed me, I knew not whither. The poor woman at whose house I lodged, com|passionating my state, got me into the hospital; and the family where I received the hurt, sent me five shillings, three and six-pence of which I gave at my admittance—I know not for what.

"My leg grew quickly better; but I was dis|missed before my cure was completed, because I could not afford to have my linen washed to ap|pear decently, as the virago of a nurse said, when the gentlemen (the surgeons) came. I cannot give you an adequate idea of the wretchedness of an hospital; every thing is left to the care of people intent on gain. The attendants seemed to have lost all feeling of compassion in the bustling dis|charge of their offices; death is so familiar to them, that they are not anxious to ward it off. Every thing appeared to be conducted for the ac|commodation of the medical men and their pupils, who came to make experiments on the poor, for the benefit of the rich. One of the physicians, I must not forget to mention, gave me half-a-crown, and ordered me some wine, when I was at the lowest ebb. I thought of making my case known to the lady-like matron; but her forbidding coun|tenance prevented me. She condescended to look

on the patients, and make general enquiries, two or three times a week; but the nurses knew the hour when the visit of ceremony would commence, and every thing was as it should be.

"After my dismission, I was more at a loss than ever for a subsistence, and not to weary you with a repetition of the same unavailing attempts, unable to stand at the washing-tub, I began to consider the rich and the poor as natural enemies, and became a thief from principle.—I could not now cease to reason, but I hated mankind. I despised myself, yet I justified my conduct. I was taken, tried, and condemned to six months' im|prisonment in a house of correction. My soul recoils with horror from the remembrance of the insults I had to endure, till branded with shame, I was turned loose in the street, pennyless. I wandered from street to street, till, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, I sunk down senseless at a door, where I had vainly demanded a morsel of bread. I was sent by the inhabitant to the work|house, to which he had surlily bid me go, saying, 'he paid enough in conscience to the poor,' when, with parched tongue, I implored his charity. If those well-meaning people, who exclaim against beggars, were acquainted with the treatment the poor receive in many of these wretched asylums,

they would not stifle so easily involuntary sympa|thy, by saying that they have all parishes to go to, or wonder that the poor dread to enter the gloomy walls. What are the common run of work-houses, but prisons, in which many respectable old peo|ple, worn out by immoderate labour, sink into the grave in sorrow, to which they are carried like dogs!"

Alarmed by some indistinct noise, Jemima rose hastily to listen, and Maria, turning to Darn|ford, said, "I have indeed been shocked beyond expression when I have met a pauper's funeral. A coffin carried on the shoulders of three or four ill-looking wretches, whom the imagination might easily convert into a band of assassins hastening to conceal the corpse, and quarreling about the prey on their way. I know it is of little consequence how we are consigned to the earth; but I am led by this brutal insensibility, to what even the ani|mal creation appears forcibly to feel, to advert to the wretched, deserted manner in which they died."

"True," rejoined Darnford, "and, till the rich will give more than a part of their wealth, till they will give time and attention to the wants of the distressed, never let them boast of charity.

Let them open their hearts and not their purses, and employ their minds in the service, if they are really actuated by humanity; or charitable institutions will always be the prey of the lowest order of knaves."

Jemima returning, seemed in haste to finish her tale. "The overseer farmed the poor of dif|ferent parishes, and out of the bowels of poverty was wrung the money with which he purchased this dwelling, as a private receptacle for madness. He had been a keeper at a house of the same de|scription, and conceived that he could make mo|ney much more readily in his old occupation. He is a shrewd—shall I say it?—villain. He ob|served something resolute in my manner, and of|fered to take me with him, and instruct me how to treat the disturbed minds he meant to intrust to my care. The offer of forty pounds a year, and to quit a work-house, was not to be despised, though the condition of shutting my eyes and har|dening my heart was annexed to it.

"I agreed to accompany him; and, four years have I been attendant on many wretches, and"—she lowered her voice,—"the witness of many enormities. In solitude my mind seemed to re|cover its force, and many of the sentiments which

I imbibed in the only tolerable period of my life, returned with their full force. Still what should induce me to be the champion for suffering hu|manity?—Who ever risked any thing for me?—Who ever acknowledged me to be a fellow-crea|ture?"—

Maria took her hand, and Jemima, more over|come by kindness than she had ever been by cru|elty, hastened out of the room to conceal her emotions.

Darnford soon after heard his summons, and, taking leave of him, Maria promised to gratify his curiosity, with respect to herself, the first op|portunity.

CHAP. VI.

ACTIVE as love was in the heart of Maria, the story she had just heard made her thoughts take a wider range. The opening buds of hope closed, as if they had put forth too early, and the happiest day of her life was overcast by the most melancholy reflections. Thinking of Je|mima's peculiar fate and her own, she was led to consider the oppressed state of women, and to la|ment that she had given birth to a daughter. Sleep fled from her eye-lids, while she dwelt on the wretchedness of unprotected infancy, till sympathy with Jemima changed to agony, when it seemed probable that her own babe might even now be in the very state she so forcibly described.

Maria thought, and thought again. Jemima's humanity had rather been benumbed than killed, by the keen frost she had to brave at her entrance into life; an appeal then to her feelings, on this tender point, surely would not be fruitless; and Maria began to anticipate the delight it would

afford her to gain intelligence of her child. This project was now the only subject of reflection; and she watched impatiently for the dawn of day, with that determinate purpose which generally insures success.

At the usual hour, Jemima brought her break|fast, and a tender note from Darnford.—She ran her eye hastily over it, and her heart calmly hoarded up the rapture a fresh assurance of affec|tion, affection such as she wished to inspire her, gave her, without diverting her mind a moment from its design. While Jemima waited to take away the breakfast, Maria alluded to the re|flections, that had haunted her during the night, to the exclusion of sleep. She spoke with energy of Jemima's unremitted sufferings, and of the fate of a number of deserted females, placed within the sweep of a whirlwind, from which it was next to impossible to escape. Perceiving the effect her conversation produced on the counte|nance of her guard, she grasped the arm of Je|mima with that irresistible warmth which defies repulse, exclaiming—"With your heart, and such dreadful experience, can you lend your aid to deprive my babe of a mother's tenderness, a mother's care? In the name of God, assist me to snatch her from destruction! let me but prepare

her mind and body to encounter the ills which await her sex, and I will consider you as her se|cond mother, and herself as the prop of your age. Yes, Jemima, look at me observe me closely, and read my very soul; you merit a better fate." she held out her hand with a firm gesture of as|surance; "and I will procure it for you as a tes|timony of my esteem, as well as of my gratitude."

Jemima had not power to resist this persuasive torrent; and, owning that the house in which she was confined, was situated on the banks of the Thames, only a few miles from London, and not on the sea-coast, as Darnford had supposed, she promised to invent some excuse for her ab|sence, and go herself to trace the situation, and enquire concerning the health, of this abandoned daughter. Her manner implied an intention to do something more, but she seemed unwilling to impart her design; and Maria, glad to have ob|tained the main point, thought it best to leave her to the workings of her own mind, convinced that she had the power of interesting her still more in favour of herself and child, by a simple recital of facts.

In the evening, Jemima informed the impatient mother, that on the morrow she should hasten to

town before the family hour of rising, and re|ceived all the information necessary, as a clue to her search. The "Good night!" Maria uttered was peculiarly solemn and affectionate. Glad expectation sparkled in her eye; and, for the first time since her detention, she pronounced the name of her child with pleasurable fondness; and, with all the garrulity of a nurse, described her first smile when she recognized her mother. Recollecting herself, a still kinder "Adieu!" with a "God bless you!"—that seemed to include a maternal benediction, dismissed Jemima.

The dreary solitude of the ensuing day, length|ened by impatiently dwelling on the same idea, was intolerably wearisome. She listened for the sound of a particular clock, which some directions of the wind allowed her to hear distinctly. She marked the shadow gaining on the wall; and, twilight thickening into darkness, her breath seemed oppressed, while she anxiously counted nine.—The last sound was a stroke of despair on her heart; for she expected every moment, with|out seeing Jemima, to have her light extinguished by the savage female who supplied her place. She was even obliged to prepare for bed, restless as she was, not to disoblige her new attendant. She had been cautioned not to speak too freely to her

but the caution was needless, her countenance would still more emphatically have made her shrink back. Such was the ferocity of manner, conspicuous in every word and gesture of this hag, that Maria was afraid to enquire, why Jemima, who had faithfully promised to see her before her door was shut for the night, came not?—and, when the key turned in the lock, to consign her to a night of suspense, she felt a degree of anguish which the circumstances scarcely justified.

Continually on the watch, the shutting of a door, or the sound of a footstep, made her start and tremble with apprehension, something like what she felt, when, at her entrance, dragged along the gallery, she began to doubt whether she were not surrounded by demons?

Fatigued by an endless rotation of thought and wild alarms, she looked like a spectre, when Jemima entered in the morning; especially as her eyes darted out of her head, to read in Jemi|ma's countenance, almost as pallid, the intelli|gence she dared not trust her tongue to demand. Jemima put down the tea things, and appeared very busy in arranging the table. Maria took a cup with trembling hand, then forcibly 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her fortitude, and restraining the convulsive move|ment

which agitated the muscles of her mouth, she said, "Spare yourself the pain of preparing me for your information, I conjure you!—My child is dead!" Jemima solemnly answered, "Yes;" with a look expressive of compassion and angry emotions. "Leave me," added Ma|ria, making a fresh effort to govern her feelings, and hiding her face in her handkerchief, to con|ceal her anguish—"It is enough—I know that my babe is no more—I will hear the particulars when I am"—calmer, she could not utter; and Jemima, without importuning her by idle at|tempts to console her, left the room.

Plunged in the deepest melancholy, she would not admit Darnford's visits; and such is the force of early associations, even on strong minds, that, for a while, she indulged the superstitious notion that she was justly punished by the death of her child for having an instant ceased to regret her loss. Two or three letters from Darnford, full of sooth|ing, manly tenderness, only added poignancy to these accusing emotions; yet the passionate stile in which he expressed, what he termed the first and fondest wish of his heart, "that his affection might make her some amends for the cruelty and injustice she had endured," inspired a sentiment of gratitude to heaven; and her eyes filled with

delicious tears, when, at the conclusion of his letter, wishing to supply the place of her unworthy relations, whose want of principle he execrated, he assured her, calling her his dearest girl, "that it should henceforth be the business of his life to make her happy."

He begged, in a note sent the following morn|ing, to be permitted to see her, when his presence would be no intrusion on her grief; and so ear|nestly intreated to be allowed, according to pro|mise, to beguile the tedious moments of absence, by dwelling on the events of her past life, that she sent him the memoirs which had been written for her daughter, promising Jemima the perusal as soon as he returned them.

CHAP. VII.

"ADDRESSING these memoirs to you, my child, uncertain whether I shall ever have an op|portunity of instructing you, many observations will probably flow from my heart, which only a mother—a mother schooled in misery, could make.

"The tenderness of a father who knew the world, might be great; but could it equal that of a mother—of a mother, labouring under a portion of the misery, which the constitution of society seems to have entailed on all her kind? It is, my child, my dearest daughter, only such a mother, who will dare to break through all restraint to provide for your happiness—who will voluntarily brave censure herself, to ward off sor|row from your bosom. From my narrative, my dear girl, you may gather the instruction, the counsel, which is meant rather to exercise than influence your mind. Death may snatch me from you, before you can weigh my advice, or enter into my reasoning: I would then, with fond

anxiety, lead you very early in life to form your grand principle of action, to save you from the vain regret of having, through irresolution, let the spring-tide of existence pass away, unimproved, unenjoyed. Gain experience—ah! gain it—while experience is worth having, and acquire sufficient fortitude to pursue your own happiness; it in|cludes your utility, by a direct path. What is wisdom, too often, but the owl of the goddess, who sits moping in a desolated heart; around me she shrieks, but I would invite all the gay warblers of spring to nestle in your blooming bosom.—Had I not wasted years in deliberating, after I ceased to doubt, how I ought to have acted—I might now be useful and happy. For my sake, warned by my example, always appear what you are, and you will not pass through existence with|out enjoying its genuine blessings, love and respect.

"Born in one of the most romantic parts of England, an enthusiastic fondness for the varying charms of nature is the first sentiment I recollect; or rather it was the first consciousness of pleasure that employed and formed my imagination.

"My father had been a captain of a man-of-war; but, disgusted with the service, on account of the preferment of men whose chief merit was

their family connections or borough interest, he retired into the country; and, not knowing what to do with himself—married. In his family, to regain his lost consequence, he determined to keep up the same passive obedience, as in the ves|sels in which he had commanded. His orders were not to be disputed; and the whole house was expected to fly, at the word of command, as if to man the shrouds, or mount aloft in an ele|mental strife, big with life or death.—He was to be instantaneously obeyed, especially by my mo|ther, whom he very benevolently married for love; but took care to remind her of the obligation, when she dared, in the slightest instance, to ques|tion his absolute authority. My eldest brother, it is true, as he grew up, was treated with more respect by my father; and became in due form the deputy-tyrant of the house. The representative of my father, a being privileged by nature—a boy, and the darling of my mother, he did not fail to act like an heir apparent. Such indeed was my mother's extravagant partiality, that, in compa|rison with her affection for him, she might be said not to love the rest of her children.—Yet none of the children seemed to have so little af|fection for her. Extreme indulgence had ren|dered him so selfish, that he only thought of him|self; and from tormenting insects and animals,

he became the despot of his brothers, and still more of his sisters.

"It is perhaps difficult to give you an idea of the petty cares which obscured the morning of my life; continual restraint in the most trivial matters; unconditional submission to orders, which, as a mere child, I soon discovered to be unreasonable, because inconsistent and contradic|tory. Thus are we destined to experience a mix|ture of bitterness, with the recollection of our most innocent enjoyments.

The circumstances which, during my child|hood, occurred to fashion my mind, were various; yet, as it would probably afford me more pleasure to revive the fading remembrance of new-born delight, than you, my child, could feel in the perusal, I will not entice you to stray with me into the verdant meadow, to search for the flowers that youthful hopes scatter in every path; though as I write, I almost scent the fresh green of spring—of that spring which never returns!

"I had two sisters, and one brother, younger than myself; my brother Robert was two years older, and might truly be termed the idol of his parents, and the torment of the rest of the family.

Such indeed is the force of prejudice, that what was called spirit and wit in him, was cruelly re|pressed as forwardness in me.

"My mother had an indolence of character, which prevented her from paying much attention to our education. But the healthy breeze of a neighbouring heath, on which we bounded at pleasure, volatilized the humours that improper food might have generated. And to enjoy open air and freedom, was paradise, after the unna|tural restraint of our fire-side, where we were of|ten obliged to sit three or four hours together, without daring to utter a word, when my father was out of humour, from want of employment, or of a variety of boisterous amusement. I had however one advantage, an instructor, the bro|ther of my father, who, intended for the church, had of course received a liberal education. But, becoming attached to a young lady of great beauty and large fortune, and acquiring in the world some opinions not consonant with the profession for which he was designed, he accepted, with the most sanguine expectations of success, the offer of a nobleman to accompany him to India, as his confidential secretary.

"A correspondence was regularly kept up with

the object of his affection; and the intricacies of business, peculiarly wearisome to a man of a ro|mantic turn of mind, contributed, with a forced absence, to increase his attachment. Every other passion was lost in this master-one, and only served to swell the torrent. Her relations, such were his waking dreams, who had despised him, would court in their turn his alliance, and all the blandish|ments of taste would grace the triumphs of love.—While he basked in the warm sunshine of love, friendship also promised to shed its dewy fresh|ness; for a friend, whom he loved next to his mistress, was the confident, who forwarded the letters from one to the other, to elude the obser|vation of prying relations. A friend, false in simi|lar circumstances, is, my dearest girl, an old tale; yet, let not this example, or the frigid caution of cold-blooded moralists, make you endeavour to stifle hopes, which are the buds that naturally un|fold themselves during the spring of life! Whilst your own heart is sincere, always expect to meet one glowing with the same sentiments; for to fly from pleasure, is not to avoid pain!

"My uncle realized, by good luck, rather than management, a handsome fortune; and returning on the wings of love, lost in the most enchanting reveries, to England, to share it with his mistress and his friend, he found them—united.

"There were some circumstances, not neces|sary for me to recite, which aggravated the guilt of the friend beyond measure, and the deception, which had been carried on to the last moment, was so base, it produced the most violent effect on my uncle's health and spirits.—His native country, the world! lately a garden of blooming sweets, blasted by treachery, seemed changed into a parched desert, the abode of hissing serpents. Disappointment rankled in his heart; and, brood|ing over his wrongs, he was attacked by a raging fever, followed by a derangement of mind, which only gave place to habitual melancholy, as he re|covered more strength of body.

"Declaring an intention never to marry, his relations were ever clustering about him, paying the grossest adulation to a man, who, disgusted with mankind, received them with scorn, or bit|ter sarcasms. Something in my countenance pleased him, when I began to prattle. Since his return he appeared dead to affection; but I soon, by showing him innocent fondness, became a favourite; and endeavouring to enlarge and strengthen my mind, I grew dear to him in pro|portion as I imbibed his sentiments. He had a forcible manner of speaking, rendered more so by a certain impressive wildness of look and gesture,

calculated to engage the attention of a young and ardent mind. It is not then surprising that I quickly adopted his opinions in preference, and reverenced him as one of a superior order of be|ings. He inculcated, with great warmth, self|respect, and a lofty consciousness of acting right, independent of the censure or applause of the world; nay, he almost taught me to brave, and even despise its censure, when convinced of the rectitude of my own intentions.

Endeavouring to prove to me that nothing which deserved the name of love or friendship, existed in the world, he drew such animated pic|tures of his own feelings, rendered permanent by disappointment, as imprinted the sentiments strongly on my heart, and animated my imagina|tion. These remarks are necessary to elucidate some peculiarities in my character, which by the world are indefinitely termed romantic.

"My uncle's increasing affection led him to visit me often. Still unable to rest in any place, he did not remain long in the country to soften domestic tyranny; but he brought me books, for which I had a passion, and they conspired with his conversation, to make me form an ideal pic|ture of life. I shall pass over the tyranny of my

father, much as I suffered from it; but it is ne|cessary to notice, that it undermined my mother's health; and that her temper, continually irritated by domestic bickering, became intolerably peevish.

"My eldest brother was articled to a neigh|bouring attorney, the shrewdest, and I may add, the most unprincipled man in that part of the country. As my brother generally came home every Saturday, to astonish my mother by exhi|biting his attainments, he gradually assumed a right of directing the whole family, not excepting my father. He seemed to take a peculiar pleasure in tormenting and humbling me; and if ever I ventured to complain of this treatment to either my father or mother, I was rudely rebuffed for presuming to judge of the conduct of my eldest brother.

"About this period a merchant's family came to settle in our neighbourhood. A mansion-house in the village, lately purchased, had been prepar|ing the whole spring, and the sight of the costly furniture, sent from London, had excited my mother's envy, and roused my father's pride. My sensations were very different, and all of a pleasurable kind. I longed to see new characters, to break the tedious monotony of my life; and to

find a friend, such as fancy pourtrayed. I can|not then describe the emotion I felt the Sunday they made their appearance at church. My eyes were rivetted on the pillar round which I ex|pected first to get a glimpse of them, and darted forth to meet a servant who hastily preceded a group of ladies, whose white robes and waving plumes, seemed to stream along the gloomy aisle, diffusing the light, by which I contemplated their figures.

"We visited them in form, and I quickly se|lected the eldest daughter for my friend. The second son, George, paid me particular attention, and finding his attainments and manners superior to those of the young men of the village, I began to imagine him superior to the rest of mankind. Had my home been more comfortable, or my previous acquaintance been more numerous, I should not probably have been so eager to open my heart to new affections.

"Mr. Venables, the merchant, had acquired a large fortune by unremitting attention to busi|ness; but his health declining rapidly, he was obliged to retire, before his son, George, had acquired sufficient experience, to enable him to conduct their affairs on the same prudential plan,

his father had invariably pursued. Indeed, he had laboured to throw off his authority, having despised his narrow plans and cautious speculati|ons. The eldest son could not be prevailed on to enter the firm; and, to oblige his wife, and have peace in the house, mr. Venables had purchased a commission for him in the guards.

"I am now alluding to circumstances which came to my knowledge long after; but it is ne|cessary, my dearest child, that you should know the character of your father, to prevent your despising your mother; the only parent inclined to discharge a parent's duty. In London, George had acquired habits of libertinism, which he care|fully concealed from his father and his commer|cial connections. The mask he wore, was so complete a covering of his real visage, that the praise his father lavished on his conduct, and, poor mistaken man! on his principles, contrasted with his brother's, rendered the notice he took of me peculiarly flattering. Without any fixed design, as I am now convinced, he continued to single me out at the dance, press my hand at part|ing, and utter expressions of unmeaning passion, to which I gave a meaning naturally suggested by the romantic turn of my thoughts. His stay in the country was short; his manners did not entirely

please me; but when he left us, the colouring of my picture became more vivid—Whither did not my imagination lead me? In short, I fancied myself in love—in love with the disinterestness, fortitude, generosity, dignity, and humanity, with which I had invested the hero I dubbed. A cir|cumstance which soon after occurred, rendered all these virtues palpable. [The incident is per|haps worth relating on other accounts, and there|fore I shall describe it distinctly.]

"I had a great affection for my nurse, old Mary, for whom I used often to work, to spare her eyes. Mary had a younger sister, married to a sailor, while she was suckling me; for my mo|ther only suckled my eldest brother, which might be the cause of her extraordinary partiality. Peggy, Mary's sister, lived with her, till her hus|band, becoming a mate in a West-India trader, got a little before-hand in the world. He wrote to his wife from the first port in the channel, after his most successful voyage, to request her to come to London to meet him; he even wished her to determine on living there for the suture, to save him the trouble of coming to her the mo|ment he came on shore; and, to turn a penny by keeping a green-stall. It was too much to set out on a journey the moment he had finished a voy|age,

and fifty miles by land was worse than a thousand leagues by sea.

"She packed up her alls, and came to London—but did not meet honest Daniel. A common misfortune prevented her—and the poor are bound to suffer for the good of their country—he was pressed in the river—and never came on shore.

"Peggy was miserable in London, not know|ing, as she said, 'the face of any living soul;' besides her imagination had been employed, an|ticipating a month or six weeks' happiness with her husband. Daniel was to have gone with her to Sadler's Wells, and Westminster Abbey, and to many sights, which he knew she never heard of in the country. Peggy too was thrifty, and how could she manage to put his plan in execution alone? He had acquaintance, but she did not know the very name of their places of abode. His letters were made up of—How do you does, and God bless yous—information was reserved for the hour of meeting.

"She too had her portion of information, near at heart. Molly and Jacky were grown such little darlings, she was almost angry that daddy did not see their little tricks. She had not half

the pleasure she should have had from their prattle, could she have recounted to him each night the pretty speeches of the day. Some stories, how|ever, were stored up—and Jacky could say pappa with such a sweet voice, it must delight his heart. Yet when she came, and found no Daniel to greet her, when Jacky called pappa, she wept, saying, 'God bless his innocent soul, that did not know what sorrow was.'—But more sorrow was in store for Peggy, innocent as she was.—Daniel was killed in the first engagement, and then the papa was agony sounding to the heart.

"She had lived sparingly on his wages, while there was any hope of his return, but that gone, she returned with a breaking heart to the country, to a little market town, nearly three miles from our village. She did not like to go to service, to be snubbed about, after being her own mistress. To put her children out to nurse was impossible: How far would her wages go? and to send them to her husband's parish, was to lose her husband twice over.

"I had heard all from Mary, and made my uncle furnish a little cottage for her, to enable her to fell—so sacred was poor Daniel's advice, now he was dead and gone—a little fruit, toys,

and cakes. The minding of the shop did not re|quire her whole time, nor even the keeping her children clean, and she loved to see them clean; so she took in washing, and altogether made a shift to earn bread for her children, still weeping for Daniel, when Jacky's arch tricks made her think of his father,—It was pleasant to work for her children. 'Yes; from morning till night, could she have had a kiss from their father, God rest his soul! Yes; had it pleased Providence to have let him come back without a leg or an arm, it would have been the same thing to her—for she did not love him because he maintained them—no: she had hands of her own.'

"The country people were honest, and Peggy left her linen to dry very late. A recruiting party, as she supposed, passing through, made free with a large wash; for it was all swept away, including her own and her children's little stock.

"This was a dreadful blow; two dozen of shirts, stocks, and handkerchiefs. She gave the money which she had laid by for half a year's rent, and promised to pay two shillings a week till all was cleared; so she did not lose her employment. This two shillings a week, and the buying a few necessaries for the children, drove her so hard,

that she had not a penny to pay her rent with, when a twelvemonth's became due.

"She was now with Mary, and had just told her tale, which Mary instantly repeated—it was intended for my ear. Many houses in this town, producing a borough interest, were included in the estate purchased by mr. Venables, and the attorney with whom my brother lived, was ap|pointed his agent, to collect and raise the rents.

"He demanded Peggy's, and, in spite of her intreaties, her poor goods had been seized and fold. So that she had not, and what was worse her children, 'for she had known sorrow enough,' a bed to lie on. She knew that I was good-na|tured—right charitable, yet not liking to ask for more than needs must, she scorned to petition while people could any how be made to wait. But now, should she be turned out of doors, she must expect nothing less than to lose all her cus|tomers, and then she must beg or starve—and what would become of her children?—'Had Da|niel not been pressed—but God knows best—all this could not have happened.'

"I had two matrasses on my bed; what did I want with two, when such a worthy creature

must lie on the ground? My mother would be angry, but I could conceal it till my uncle came down; and then I would tell him all the whole truth, and if he absolved me, heaven would.

"I begged the house-maid to come up stairs with me (servants always feel for the distresses of poverty, and so would the rich if they knew what it was). She assisted me to tie up the matrass; I discovering, at the same time, that one blanket would serve me till winter, could I persuade my sister, who slept with me, to keep my secret. She entering in the midst of the package, I gave her some new feathers to silence her. We got the matrass down the back stairs, unperceived, and I helped to carry it, taking with me all the money I had, and what I could borrow from my sister.

"When I got to the cottage, Peggy declared that she would not take what I had brought se|cretly; but, when with all the eager eloquence inspired by a decided purpose, I grasped her hand with weeping eyes, assuring her that my uncle would screen her from blame, when he was once more in the country, describing, at the same time, what she would suffer in parting with her children, after keeping them so long from being thrown on the parish, she reluctantly consented.

"My project of usefulness ended not here; I determined to speak to the attorney; he fre|quently paid me compliments. His character did not intimidate me; but, imagining that Peggy must be mistaken, and that no man could turn a deaf ear to such a tale of complicated distress, I determined to walk to the town with Mary the next morning, and request him to wait for the rent, and keep my secret till my uncle's return.

"My repose was sweet; and, waking with the first dawn of day, I bounded to Mary's cot|tage. What charms does not a light heart spread over nature! Every bird that twittered in a bush, every flower that enlivened the hedge, seemed placed there to awaken me to rapture—yes; to rapture. The present moment was full fraught with happiness; and on futurity I bestowed not a thought, excepting to anticipate my success with the attorney.

"This man of the world, with rosy face and simpering features, received me politely, nay kindly; listened with complacency to my remon|strances, though he scarcely heeded Mary's tears. I did not then suspect, that my eloquence was in my complexion, the blush of seventeen, or that in a world where humanity to women is the cha|racteristic

of advancing civilization, the beauty of a young girl was so much more interesting than the distress of an old one. Pressing my hand, he promised to let Peggy remain in the house as long as I wished.—I more than returned the pressure—I was so grateful and so happy. Emboldened by my innocent warmth, he then kissed me—and I did not draw back—I took it for a kiss of charity.

"Gay as a lark, I went to dine at mr. Vena|bles'. I had previously obtained five shillings from my father, towards re-clothing the poor chil|dren of my care, and prevailed on my mother to take one of the girls into the house, whom I determined to teach to work and read.

"After dinner, when the younger part of the circle retired to the music room, I recounted with energy my tale; that is, I mentioned Peggy's distress, without hinting at the steps I had taken to relieve her. Miss Venables gave me half-a-crown; the heir five shillings; but George sat un|moved. I was cruelly distressed by the disappoint|ment—I scarcely could remain on my chair; and could I have got out of the room unperceived, I should have flown home, as if to run away from myself. After several vain attempts to rise, I leaned my head against the marble chimney-piece,

and gazing on the ever-greens that filled the fire|place, moralized on the vanity of human expec|tations; regardless of the company. I was roused by a gentle tap on my shoulder from behind Char|lotte's chair. I turned my head, and George slid a guinea into my hand, putting his finger to my mouth to enjoin me silence.

"What a revolution took place, not only in my train of thoughts, but feelings! I trembled with emotion—now, indeed, I was in love.—Such delicacy too, to enhance his benevolence! I felt in my pocket every five minutes, only to feel the guinea; and its magic touch invested my hero with more than mortal beauty. My fancy had found a basis to erect its model of perfection on; and quickly went to work, with all the happy credulity of youth, to consider that heart as de|voted to virtue, which had only obeyed a virtu|ous impulse. The bitter experience was yet to come, that has taught me how very distinct are the principles of virtue, from the casual feelings from which they germinate.

CHAP. VIII.

"I HAVE perhaps dwelt too long on a circum|stance, which is only of importance as it marks the progress of a deception that has been so fatal to my peace; and introduces to your notice a poor girl, whom, intending to serve, I led to ruin. Still it is probably that I was not entirely the vic|tim of mistake; and that your father, gradually fashioned by the world, did not become quickly what I hesitate to call him—out of respect to my daughter.

"But, to hasten to the more busy scenes of my life. Mr. Venables and my mother died the same summer; and wholly engrossed by my at|tention to her, I thought of little else. The ne|glect of her darling, my brother Robert, had a violent effect on her weakened mind; for, though boys may be reckoned the pillars of the house without doors, girls are often the only comfort within. They but too frequently waste their health and spirits attending a dying parent, who

leaves them in comparative poverty. After clos|ing, with filial piety, a father's eyes, they are chased from the paternal roof, to make room for the first-born, the son, who is to carry the empty family-name down to posterity; though, occupied with his own pleasures, he scarcely thought of dis|charging, in the decline of his parent's life, the debt contracted in his childhood. My mother's conduct led me to make these reflections. Great as was the fatigue I endured, and the affection my unceasing solicitude evinced, of which my mo|ther seemed perfectly sensible, still, when my bro|ther, whom I could hardly persuade to remain a quarter of an hour in her chamber, was with her alone, a short time before her death, she gave him a little hoard, which she had been some years accumulating.

"During my mother's illness, I was obliged to manage my father's temper, who, from the lingering nature of her malady, began to imagine that it was merely fancy. At this period, an artful kind of upper servant attracted my father's attention, and the neighbours made many remarks on the finery, not honestly got, exhibited at even|ing service. But I was too much occupied with my mother to observe any change in her dress or behaviour, or to listen to the whisper of scandal.

"I shall not dwell on the death-bed scene, lively as is the remembrance, or on the emotion produced by the last grasp of my mother's cold hand; when blessing me, she added, 'A little patience, and all will be over!' Ah! my child, how often have these words wrung mournfully in my ears—and I have exclaimed—'A little more patience, and I too shall be at rest!'

"My father was violently affected by her death, recollected instances of his unkindness, and wept like a child.

"My mother had solemnly recommended my sisters to my care, and bid me be a mother to them. They, indeed, became more dear to me as they became more forlorn; for, during my mother's illness, I discovered the ruined state of my father's circumstances, and that he had only been able to keep up appearances, by the sums which he bor|rowed from my uncle.

"My father's grief, and consequent tenderness to his children, quickly abated, the house grew still more gloomy or riotous; and my refuge from care was again at mr. Venables'; the young 'squire having taken his father's place, and allow|ing, for the present, his sister to preside at his ta|ble,

George, though dissatisfied with his portion of the fortune, which had till lately been all in trade, visited the family as usual. He was now full of speculations in trade, and his brow became clouded with care. He seemed to relax in his attention to me, when the presence of my uncle gave a new turn to his behaviour. I was too un|suspecting, too disinterested, to trace these changes to their source.

My home every day became more and more disagreeable to me; my liberty was unnecessarily abridged, and my books, on the pretext that they made me idle, were taken from me. My father's mistress was with child, and he, doating on her, allowed or overlooked her vulgar manner of ty|rannizing over us. I was indignant, especially when I saw her endeavouring to attract, shall I say seduce? my younger brother. By allowing wo|men but one way of rising in the world, the fos|tering the libertinism of men, society makes mon|sters of them, and then their ignoble vices are brought forward as a proof of inferiority of intel|lect.

The wearisomeness of my situation can scarcely be described. Though my life had not passed in the most even tenor with my mother, it was pa|radise

to what I was destined to endure with my father's mistress, jealous of her illegitimate autho|rity. My father's former occasional tenderness, in spite of his violence of temper, had been sooth|ing to me; but now he only met me with re|proofs or portentous frowns. The house-keeper, as she was now termed, was the vulgar despot of the family; and assuming the new character of a fine lady, she could never forgive the contempt which was sometimes visible in my countenance, when she uttered with pomposity her bad English, or affected to be well-bred.

To my uncle I ventured to open my heart; and he, with his wonted benevolence, began to consider in what manner he could extricate me out of my present irksome situation. In spite of his own disappointment, or, most probably, ac|tuated by the feelings that had been petrified, not cooled, in all their sanguine fervour, like a boil|ing torrent of lava suddenly dashing into the sea, he thought a marriage of mutual inclination (would envious stars permit it) the only chance for happiness in this disastrous world. George Venables had the reputation of being attentive to business, and my father's example gave great weight to this circumstance; for habits in order of business would, he conceived, extend to the

regulation of the affections in domestic life. George seldom spoke in my uncle's company, ex|cept to utter a short judicious question, or to make a pertinent remark, with all due deference to his superior judgment; so that my uncle sel|dom left his company without observing, that the young man had more in him than people supposed.

In this opinion he was not singular; yet, be|lieve me, and I am not swayed by resentment, these speeches so justly poised, this silent defer|ence, when the animal spirits of other young peo|ple were throwing off useful ebullitions, were not the effect of thought or humility, but sheer bar|renness of mind, and want of imagination. A colt of mettle will curvet and shew his paces. Yes; my dear girl, these prudent young men want all the fire necessary to ferment their facul|ties, and are characterised as wise, only because they are not foolish. It is true, that George was by no means so great a favourite of mine as dur|ing the first year of our acquaintance; still, as he often coincided in opinion with me, and echoed my sentiments; and having myself no other attachment, I heard with pleasure my un|cle's proposal; but thought more of obtaining my freedom, than of my lover. But, when George,

seemingly anxious for my happiness, pressed me to quit my present painful situation, my heart swelled with gratitude—I knew not that my un|cle had promised him five thousand pounds.

Had this truly generous man mentioned his intention to me, I should have insisted on a thou|sand pound being settled on each of my sisters; George would have contested; I should have seen his selfish soul; and—gracious God! have been spared the misery of discovering, when too late, that I was united to a heartless, unprincipled wretch. All my schemes of usefulness would not then have been blasted. The tenderness of my heart would not have heated my imagination with visions of the ineffable delight of happy love; nor would the sweet duty of a mother have been so cruelly interrupted.

But I must not suffer the fortitude I have so hardly acquired, to be undermined by unavailing regret. Let me hasten forward to describe the turbid stream in which I had to wade—but let me exultingly declare that it is passed—my soul holds fellowship with him no more. He cut the Gordian knot, which my principles, mistaken ones, respected; he dissolved the tie, the fetters rather, that ate into my very vitals—and I should

rejoice, conscious that my mind is freed though confined in hell itself; the only place that even fancy can imagine more dreadful than my present abode.

These varying emotions will not allow me to proceed. I heave sigh after sigh; yet my heart is still oppressed. For what am I reserved? Why was I not born a man, or why was I born at all?

CHAP. IX.

"I RESUME my pen to fly from thought.—I was married; and we hastened to London. I had purposed to take one of my sisters with me; for a strong motive for marrying, was the desire of having a home at which I could receive them, now their own grew so uncomfortable, as not to deserve the cheering appellation. An objection was made to her accompanying me, that ap|peared plausible; and I reluctantly acquiesced. I was however willingly allowed to take with me Molly, poor Peggy's daughter. London and pre|ferment, are ideas commonly associated in the country; and as blooming as May, she bid adieu to Peggy with weeping eyes. I did not even feel hurt at the refusal in relation to my sister, till hearing what my uncle had done for me, I had the simplicity to request, speaking with warmth of their situation, that he would give them a thousand pounds a-piece, which seemed to me but justice. He asked me, giving me a kiss, 'If I had lost my senses?' I started back as if I had

found a wasp in a rose bush. I expostulated. He sneered; and the demon of discord entered our paradise, to poison with his pestiferous breath every opening joy.

"I had sometimes observed defects in my husband's understanding; but, led astray by a prevailing opinion, that goodness of disposition is of the first importance in the relative situations of life, in proportion as I perceived the narrowness of his understanding, fancy enlarged the boundary of his heart. Fatal error! How quickly is the so-much-vaunted milkiness of nature turned into gall, by an intercourse with the world, if more generous juices do not sustain the vital source of virtue!

"One trait in my character was extreme cre|dulity; but when my eyes were once opened, I saw but too clearly all I had before overlooked My husband was sunk in my esteem; still there are youthful emotions, which, for a while, fill up the chasm of love and friendship. Besides, it re|quired some time to enable me to see his whole character in a just light, or rather to allow it to become fixed. While circumstances were ripen|ing my faculties, and cultivating my taste, com|merce and gross relaxations were shutting his

against any possibility of improvement, till, by stifling every spark of virtue in himself, he began to imagine that it no where existed.

"Do not let me lead you astray, my child, I do not mean to assert that any human being is en|tirely incapable of feeling the generous emotions, which are the foundation of every true principle of virtue; but they are frequently, I fear, so feeble, that, like the inflammable quality which more or less lurks in all bodies, they often lie for ever dormant; the circumstances never occurring, necessary to call them into action.

"I discovered, however, by chance, that, in consequence of some losses in trade, the natural effect of his gambling desire to start suddenly into riches, the five thousand pounds given me by my uncle, had been, paid very opportunely. This discovery, strange as you may think the assertion, gave me pleasure; my husband's embarrassments endeared me. I was glad to find an excuse for his conduct to my sisters, and my mind became calmer.

"My uncle introduced me to some literary socie|ty; and the theatres were a never-failing source of amusement to me. My delighted eye followed

mrs. Siddons, when, with dignified delicacy, she played Calista; and I involuntarily repeated after her, in the same tone, and with a long-drawn sigh,

'Hearts like our's were pair'd—not match'd!'

"These were, at first, spontaneous emotions, though, becoming acquainted with men of wit and polished manners, I could not sometimes help regretting my early marriage; and that, in my haste to escape a temporary dependence, and ex|pand my newly fledged wings, in an unknown sky, I had been caught in a trap and caged for life. Still the novelty of London, and the atten|tive fondness of my husband, for he had some personal regard for me, made several months glide away. Yet, not forgetting the situation of my sisters, who were still very young, I prevailed on my uncle to settle a thousand pounds on each; and to place them in a school near town, where I could frequently visit, as well as have them at home with me.

"I now tried to improve my husband's taste, but we had few subjects in common; indeed he soon appeared to have little relish for my society, unless he was hinting to me the use he could make of my uncle's wealth. When we had company,

I was disgusted by an ostentatious display of riches, and I have often quitted the room, to avoid lis|tening to exaggerated tales of money obtained by lucky hits.

"With all my attention and affectionate in|terest, I perceived that I could not become the friend or confident of my husband. Every thing I learned relative to his affairs I gathered up by accident; and I vainly endeavoured to establish at our fire-side, that social converse which often renders people of different characters dear to each other. Returning from the theatre, or any amus|ing party, I frequently began to relate what I had seen and highly relished; but with silent tacitur|nity he soon silenced me. I seemed therefore gradually to lose, in his society, the soul, the ener|gies of which had just been in action. To such a degree, in fact, did his cold, reserved manner affect me that, after spending some days with me alone, I have imagined myself the most stupid creature in the world, till the abilities of some casual visitor convinced me that I had some dor|mant animation, and sentiments above the dust in which I had been grovelling. The very counte|nance of my husband changed; his complexion became sallow, and all the charms of youth were vanishing with its vivacity.

"I give you one view of the subject; but these experiments and alterations took up the space of five years; during which period, I had almost re|luctantly extorted several sums from my uncle, to save my husband, to use his own words, from destruction. At first it was to prevent bills being protested, to the injury of his credit; then to bail him; and afterwards to prevent an execution from entering the house. I began at last to conclude, that he would have made more exertions of his own to extricate himself, had he not relied on mine, cruel as was the task he imposed on me; and I firmly determined that I would make use of no more pretexts.

"From the moment I pronounced this deter|mination, indifference on his part was changed into rudeness, or something worse.

"He now seldom dined at home, and conti|nually returned at a late hour, drunk, to bed. I retired to another apartment; I was glad, I own, to escape from his; for personal intimacy without affection, seemed to me the most degrading, as well as the most painful state of which a woman of any taste, not to speak of the peculiar delicacy of fostered sensibility, could be placed. But my husband's fondness for women was of the grossest

kind, and imagination was so wholly out of the question, as to render his indulgences of this sort entirely promiscuous, and of the most brutal na|ture. My health suffered, before my heart was entirely estranged by the loathsome information; could I then have returned to his sullied arms, but as a victim to the prejudices of mankind, who have made women the property of their husbands? I discovered even by his conversation, when in|toxicated, that his favourites were wantons of the lowest class, who could by their vulgar, in|decent mirth, which he called nature, rouse his sluggish spirits. Meretricious ornaments and man|ners were necessary to attract his attention. He seldom looked twice at a modest woman, and sat silent in their company; and the charms of youth and beauty had not the slightest effect on his sen|ses, unless the possessors were initiated in vice. His intimacy with profligate women, and his habits of thinking, gave him a contempt for fe|male endowments; and he would repeat, when wine had loosed his tongue, most of the com|mon-place sarcasms levelled at them, by men who do not allow them to have minds, because mind would be an impediment to gross enjoyment. Men who are inferior to their fellow men, are always most anxious to establish their superiority over wo|men. But where are these reflections leading me?

"Women who have lost their husbands' affec|tion, are justly reproved for neglecting their per|sons, and not taking the same pains to keep, as to gain a heart; but who thinks of giving the same advice to men, though women are con|tinually stigmatized for being attached to fops; and from the nature of their education, are more susceptible of disgust? Yet why a woman should be expected to endure a sloven, with more pa|tience than a man, and magnanimously to govern herself, I cannot conceive; unless it be supposed arrogant in her to look for respect as well as a maintainance. It is not easy to be pleased, be|cause, after promising to love, in different cir|cumstances, we are told that it is our duty. I cannot, I am sure (though when attending the sick, I never felt disgust) forget my own sensa|tions, when rising with health and spirit, and af|ter scenting the sweet morning, I have met my husband at the breakfast table. The active atten|tion I had been giving to domestic regulations, which were generally settled before he rose, or a walk, gave a glow to my countenance, that con|trasted with his squalid appearance. The squea|mishness of stomach alone, produced by the last's intemperance, which he took no pains to conceal, destroyed my appetite. I think I now see him lolling in an arm-chair, in a dirty powdering

gown, soiled linen, ungartered stockings, and tangled hair, yawning and stretching himself. The newspaper was called for, if not brought in on the tea-board, from which he would scarcely lift his eyes while I poured out the tea, excepting to ask for some brandy to put into it, or to de|clare that he could not eat. In answer to any question, in his best humour, it was a drawling 'What do you say, child?' But if I demanded money for the house expences, which I put off till the last moment, his customary reply, often pre|faced with an oath, was, 'Do you think me, madam, made of money?'—The butcher, the baker, must wait; and, what was worse, I was often obliged to witness his surly dismission of tradesmen, who were in want of their money, and whom I sometimes paid with the presents my uncle gave me for my own use.

At this juncture my father's mistress, by terri|fying his conscience, prevailed on him to marry her; he was already become a methodist; and my brother, who now practised for himself, had discovered a flaw in the settlement made on my mother's children, which sat it aside, and he al|lowed my father, whose distress made him submit to any thing, a tithe of his own, or rather our for|tune.

My sisters had left school, but were unable to endure home, which my father's wife rendered as disagreeable as possible, to get rid of girls whom she regarded as spies on her conduct—They were accomplished, yet you can (may you never be re|duced to the same destitute state!) scarcely con|ceive the trouble I had to place them in the situa|tion of governesses, the only one in which even a well-educated woman, with more than ordinary talents, can struggle for a subsistence; and even this is a dependence next to menial. Is it then surprising, that so many forlorn women, with human passions and feelings, take refuge in in|famy? Alone in large mansions—I say alone, because they had no companions with whom they could converse on equal terms, or from whom they could expect the endearments of affection, they grew melancholy, and the sound of joy made them sad; and the youngest, having a more delicate frame, fell into a decline. It was with great dif|ficulty that I, who now almost supported the house by loans from my uncle, could prevail on the master of it, to allow her a room to die in. I watched her sick bed for some months, and then closed her eyes, gentle spirit! for ever. She was pretty, with very engaging manners; yet had never an opportunity to marry, excepting to a very old man. She had abilities sufficient to have

shone in any profession, had there been any pro|fessions for women, though she shrunk at the name of milliner or mantua-maker, as degrading to a gentlewoman. I would not term this feel|ing false pride to any one but you, my child, whom I fondly hope to see (yes; I will indulge the hope for a moment!) possessed of that energy of character which gives dignity to any station; and with that clear, firm spirit that will enable you to choose a situation for yourself, or submit to be classed in the lowest, if it be the only one in which you can be the mistress of your own ac|tions.

"Soon after the death of my sister, an incident occurred, to prove to me that the heart of a li|bertine is dead to natural affection; and to con|vince me, that the being who has appeared all tenderness, to gratify a selfish passion, is as re|gardless of the innocent fruit of it, as of the ob|ject, when the fit is over. I had casually observed an old, mean-looking woman, who called on my husband every two or three months to receive some money. One day, entering the passage of his little counting-house, as she was going out, I heard her say, 'The child is very weak; she cannot live long, she will soon die out of your way, so you need not grudge her a little physic.'

"'So much the better,' he replied—'and pray mind your own business, good woman.'

"I was struck by his unfeeling, inhuman tone of voice, and drew back, determined when the woman came again, to try to speak to her, not out of curiosity, I had heard enough, but with the hope of being useful to a poor outcast girl.

"A month or two elapsed before I saw this woman again; and then she had a child in her hand that tottered along, scarcely able to sustain her own weight. They were going away, to re|turn at the hour mr. Venables was expected; he was now from home. I desired the woman to walk into the parlour. She hesitated, yet obeyed. I assured her that I should not mention to my husband (the word seemed to weigh on my re|spiration) that I had seen her, or his child. The woman stared at me with astonishment; and I turned my eyes on the squalid object that accom|panied her. She could hardly support herself, her complexion was sallow, and her eyes inflamed, with an indescribable look of cunning, mixed with the wrinkles produced by the peevishness of pain.

"'Poor child!' I exclaimed. 'Ah, you may well say poor child,' replied the woman. 'I

brought her here to see whether he would have the heart to look at her, and not get some advice. I do not know what they deserve who nursed her. Why, her legs bent under her like a bow, when she came to me, and she has never been well since; but, if they were no better paid than I am, it is not to be wondered at, sure enough.'

"On further enquiry, I was informed, that this miserable spectacle was the daughter of a ser|vant, a country girl, who caught mr. Venables' eye, and whom he seduced. On his marriage he sent her away, her situation being too visible. After her delivery, she was thrown on the town; and died in an hospital within the year. The babe was sent to a parish-nurse, and afterwards to this woman, who did not seem much better; but what was to be expected from such a close bar|gain? She was only paid three shillings a week for board and washing.

"The woman begged me to give her some old clothes for the child, assuring me that she was almost afraid to ask master for money to buy even a pair of shoes.

"I grew sick at heart, and fearing mr. Vena|bles might enter, and oblige me to express my

abhorrence, I hastily enquired where she lived, promised to pay her two shillings a week more, and to call on her in a day or two; putting a tri|fle into her hand as a proof of my good intention.

"If the state of this child affected me, what were my feelings at a discovery I made respecting Peggy?—* 2.4

CHAP. X.

"MY father's situation was now so distressing, that I prevailed on my uncle to accompany me to visit him; and to lend me his assistance to pre|vent the whole property of the family from be|coming the prey of my brother's rapacity; for, to extricate himself out of present difficulties, my father was totally regardless of futurity. I took down with me some presents for my step-mother; it did not require an effort for me to treat her with civility, or to forget the past.

"This was the first time I had visited my na|tive village, since my marriage. But with what different emotions did I return from the busy world, with a heavy weight of experience be|numbing my imagination, to scenes that whis|pered recollections of joy and hope most elo|quently to my heart! The first scent of the wild flowers from the heath, thrilled through my veins, awakening every sense to pleasure.—The icy hand of despair seemed to be removed from my bosom;

and—forgetting my husband—the nurtured visions of a romantic mind, bursting on me with all their original wildness and gay exuberance, were again hailed as sweet realities. I forgot, with equal facility, that I ever felt sorrow, or knew care in the coun|try; while a transient rainbow stole athwart the cloudy sky of despondency. The picturesque form of several favourite trees, and the porches of rude cottages, with their smiling hedges, were recognized with the gladsome playfulness of child|ish vivacity. I could have kissed the chickens that pecked on the common; and longed to pat the cows, and frolic with the dogs that sported on it. I gazed with delight on the windmill, and thought it lucky that it should be in motion, at the mo|ment I passed by; and entering the dear green|lane, which led directly to the village, the sound of the well-known rookery gave that sentimental tinge to the varying sensations of my active soul, which only served to heighten the lustre of the luxuriant scenery. But, spying, as I advanced, the spire, peeping over the withered tops of the aged elms that composed the rookery, my thoughts flew immediately to the church-yard, and tears of affection, such was the effect of my imagination, bedewed my mother's grave! Sorrow gave place to devotional feelings! I wandered through the church in fancy, as I used sometimes to do on a

Saturday evening. I recollected with what fer|vour I addressed the God of my youth: and once more with rapturous love looked above my sor|rows to the Father of nature. I pause—feeling forcibly all the emotions I am describing; and reminded, as I register my sorrows, of the sublime calm I have felt, when in some tremendous soli|tude, my soul rested on itself, and seemed to fill the universe—I insensibly breathe soft, hushing every wayward emotion, as if fearing to sully with a sigh, a contentment so extatic.

"Having settled my father's affairs, and, by my exertions in his favour, made my brother my sworn foe, I returned to London. My husband's conduct was now changed; I had during my ab|sence, received several affectionate, penitential letters from him; and he seemed on my arrival, to wish by his behaviour to prove his sincerity. I could not then conceive why he acted thus; and, when the suspicion darted into my head, that it might arise from observing my increasing in|fluence with my uncle, I almost despised myself for imagining that such a degree of debasing sel|fishness could exist.

"He became, unaccountable as was the change, tender and attentive; and, attacking my weak

side, made a confession of his follies, and lamented the embarrassments in which I, who merited a far different fate, might be involved. He besought me to aid him with my counsel, praised my un|derstanding, and appealed to the tenderness of my heart.

"This conduct only inspired me with com|passion. I wished to be his friend; but love had spread his rosy pinions, and fled far, far away; and had not (like some exquisite perfumes, the fine spirit of which is continually mingling with the air) left a fragrance behind, to mark where he had-shook his wings. My husband's renewed caresses then became hateful to me; his bruta|lity was tolerable, compared to his distasteful fondness. Still, compassion, and the fear of in|sulting his supposed feelings, by a want of sym|pathy, made me dissemble, and do violence to my delicacy. What a task!

"Those who support a system of what I term false refinement, and will not allow great part of love in the female, as well as the male breast, to spring in some respects involuntarily, may not admit that charms are as necessary to feed the passion, as virtues to convert the mellowing spirit into friendship. To such observers I have no|thing

to say, any more than to the moralists, who insist that women ought to, and can love their husbands, because it is their duty. To you, my child, I may add, with a heart tremblingly alive to your future conduct, some observations, dictated by my present feelings, on calmly reviewing this period of my life. When novelists or moralists praise as a virtue, a woman's coldness of consti|tution, and want of passion; and make her yield to the ardour of her lover, out of sheer compas|sion, or to promote a frigid plan of future com|fort, I am disgusted.—They may be good women, in the ordinary acceptation of the phrase, and do no harm;—but they appear to me not to have those 'finely fashioned nerves,' which render the senses exquisite. They may possess tenderness; but they want that fire of the imagination, which produces active sensibility, and positive virtue.—How does the woman deserve to be character|ized, who marries one man, with a heart and imagination devoted to another? Is she not an object of pity or contempt, when thus sacrile|giously violating the purity of her own feelings? Nay, it is as indelicate, when she is indifferent, unless she be constitutionally insensible; then in|deed it is a mere affair of barter; and I have no|thing to do with the secrets of trade. Yes; ea|gerly as I wish you to possess true rectitude of

mind, and purity of affection, I must insist that a heartless conduct is the contrary of virtuous. Truth is the only basis of virtue; and we cannot, without depraving our minds, endeavour to please a lover or a husband, but in proportion as he pleases us. Men, more effectually to enslave us, may inculcate this partial morality, and lose sight of virtue in subdividing it into the duties of particular stations; but let us not blush for nature without a cause!

"After these remarks, I am ashamed to own that I was pregnant. The greatest sacrifice of my principles in my whole life, was the allowing my husband again to be familiar with my person, though to this cruel act of self-denial, when I wished the earth to open and swallow me, you owe your birth; and I the unutterable pleasure of being a mother. There was something of deli|cacy in my husband's bridal attentions; but now his tainted breath, pimpled face, and blood-shot eyes, were not more repugnant to my senses, than his gross manners, and loveless familiarity to my taste.

"A man would only be expected to maintain; yes, barely grant a subsistence, to a woman ren|dered odious by habitual intoxication; but who

would expect him, or think it possible to love her? And unless 'youth, and genial years were flown,' it would be thought equally unreasonable to insist, (under penalty of) forfeiting almost every thing reckoned valuable in life, that he should not love another: whilst woman, weak in reason, impotent in will, is required to moralize, sentimentalize herself to stone, and pine her life away, labouring to reform her embruted mate. He may even spend in dissipation, and intemperance, the very intemperance which renders him so hateful, her property, and by stinting her expenses, not per|mit her to beguile in society, a wearisome joyless life; for over their mutual fortune she has no power, it must all pass through his hand. And if she be a mother, and in the present state of women, it is a great misfortune to be prevented from discharging the duties, and cultivating the affections of one, what has she not to endure?—But I have suffered the tenderness of one to lead me into reflections that I did not think of making, to interrupt my narrative—yet the full heart will overflow.

"Mr. Venables' embarrassments did not now endear him to me; still, anxious to befriend him, I endeavoured to prevail on him to retrench his expenses; but he had always some plausible ex|cuse

to give, to justify his not following my advice. Humanity, compassion, and the interest produced by a habit of living together, made me try to re|lieve, and sympathize with him; but, when I re|collected that I was bound to live with such a being for ever—my heart died within me; my desire of improvement became languid, and baleful, corroding melancholy took possession of my soul. Marriage had bastiled me for life. I discovered in myself a capacity for the enjoyment of the va|rious pleasures existence affords; yet, fettered by the partial laws of society, this fair globe was to me an universal blank.

"When I exhorted my husband to economy, I referred to himself. I was obliged to practise the most rigid, or contract debts, which I had too much reason to fear would never be paid. I des|pised this paltry privilege of a wife, which can only be of use to the vicious or inconsiderate, and determined not to increase the torrent that was bearing him down. I was then ignorant of the extent of his fraudulent speculations, whom I was bound to honour and obey.

"A woman neglected by her husband, or whose manners form a striking contrast with his, will always have men on the watch to soothe and flat|ter

her. Besides, the forlorn state of a neglected woman, not destitute of personal charms, is par|ticularly interesting, and rouses that species of pity, which is so near akin, it easily slides into love. A man of feeling thinks not of seducing, he is him|self seduced by all the noblest emotions of his soul. He figures to himself all the sacrifices a woman of sensibility must make, and every situa|tion in which his imagination places her, touches his heart, and fires his passions. Longing to take to his bosom the shorn lamb, and bid the droop|ing buds of hope revive, benevolence changes into passion; and should he then discover that he is beloved, honour binds him fast, though foresee|ing that he may afterwards be obliged to pay severe damages to the man, who never appeared to value his wife's society, till he found that there was a chance of his being indemnified for the loss of it.

"Such are the partial laws enacted by men; for, only to lay a stress on the dependent state of a woman in the grand question of the comforts arising from the possession of property, she is (even in this article) much more injured by the loss of the husband's affection, than he by that of his wife; yet where is she, condemned to the soli|tude of a deserted home, to look for a compen|sation

from the woman, who seduces him from her? She cannot drive an unfaithful husband from his house, nor separate, or tear, his chil|dren from him, however culpable he may be; and he, still the master of his own fate, enjoys the smiles of a world, that would brand her with infamy, did she, seeking consolation, ven|ture to retaliate.

"These remarks are not dictated by experi|ence; but merely by the compassion I feel for many amiable women, the out-laws of the world. For myself, never encouraging any of the ad|vances that were made to me, my lovers dropped off like the untimely shoots of spring. I did not even coquet with them; because I found, on ex|amining myself, I could not coquet with a man without loving him a little; and I perceived that I should not be able to stop at the line of what are termed innocent freedoms, did I suffer any. My reserve was then the consequence of delicacy. Freedom of conduct has emancipated many wo|men's minds; but my conduct has most rigidly been governed by my principles, till the improve|ment of my understanding has enabled me to dis|cern the fallacy of prejudices at war with nature and reason.

"Shortly after the change I have mentioned in my husband's conduct, my uncle was com|pelled by his declining health, to seek the succour of a milder climate, and embark for Lisbon. He left his will in the hands of a friend, an eminent solicitor; he had previously questioned me rela|tive to my situation and state of mind, and de|clared very freely, that he could place no reliance on the stability of my husband's professions. He had been deceived in the unfolding of his character; he now thought it fixed in a train of actions that would inevitably lead to ruin and disgrace.

"The evening before his departure, which we spent alone together, he folded me to his heart, uttering the endearing appellation of—'child'—My more than father! why was I not per|mitted to perform the last duties of one, and smooth the pillow of death? He seemed by his manner to be convinced that he should never see me more; yet requested me, most earnestly, to come to him, should I be obliged to leave my husband. He had before expressed a sorrow at hearing of my pregnancy, having determined to prevail on me to accompany him, till I informed him of that circumstance. He expressed himself unfeignedly sorry that any new tie should bind

me to a man whom he thought so incapable of estimating my value;—such was the kind lan|guage of affection.

"I must repeat his own words; they made an indelible impression on my mind:

The marriage state is certainly that in which women, generally speaking, can be most useful; but I am far from thinking that a wo|man, once married, ought to consider the en|gagement as indissoluble (especially if there be no children to reward her for sacrificing her feelings) in case her husband merits neither her love, nor esteem. Esteem will often supply the place of love, and prevent a woman from being wretched, though it may not make her happy. The magnitude of a sacrifice ought always to bear some proportion to the utility in view; and for a woman to live with a man for whom she can cherish neither affection nor esteem, or even be of any use to him, excepting in the light of a house-keeper, is an abjectness of condition, the enduring of which no concurrence of circum|stances can ever make a duty in the sight of God or just men. If indeed she submits to it merely to be maintained in idleness, she has no right to complain bitterly of her fate, or to

act, as a person of independent character might, as if she had a title to disregard general rules.

But the misfortune is, that many women only submit in appearance, and forfeit their own respect to secure their reputation in the world. The situation of a woman separated from her husband is undoubtedly very different from that of a man who has left his wife. He, with lordly dignity, has shaken off a clog; and the allowing her food and raiment is thought sufficient to secure his reputation from taint. And, should she have been inconsiderate, he will be celebrated for his generosity and for|bearance. Such is the respect paid to the master-key of property! A woman, on the contrary, resigning what is termed her natural protector (though he never was so, but in name), is despised and shunned for asserting the inde|pendence of mind distinctive of a rational being, and spurning at slavery.

"During the remainder of the evening, my uncle's tenderness led him frequently to revert to the subject, and utter, with increasing warmth, sentiments to the same purport. At length it was necessary to say 'Farewel!'—and we parted—gracious God! to meet no more.

CHAP. XI.

"A GENTLEMAN of large fortune and of polished manners, had lately visited very fre|quently at our house, and treated me, if possible, with more respect than mr. Venables paid him; my pregnancy was not yet visible, his society was a great relief to me, as I had for some time past, to avoid expence, confined myself very much at home. I ever disdained unnecessary, perhaps even prudent concealments—and my husband, with great ease, discovered the amount of my uncle's parting present. A copy of a writ was the stale pretext to extort it from me; and I had soon rea|son to believe that it was fabricated for the pur|pose. I acknowledge my folly in thus suffering myself to be continually imposed on. I had ad|hered to my resolution not to apply to my uncle, on the part of my husband, any more; yet, when I had received a sum sufficient to supply my own wants, and to enable me to pursue a plan I had in view, to settle my younger brother in a respect|able employment, I allowed myself to be duped by mr. Venables' shallow pretences, and hypocri|tical professions

"Thus did he pillage me and my family—thus frustrate all my plans of usefulness. Yet this was the man I was bound to respect and esteem: as if respect and esteem depended on an arbitrary will of our own! But a wife being as much a man's property as his horse, or his ass, she has nothing that she can call her own. He may use any means to get at what the law considers as his, the moment his wife is in possession of it, even to the forcing of a lock, as mr. Venables did, to search for notes in my writing-desk—and all this is done with a shew of equity—because, forsooth, he is responsible for her maintenance.

"The tender mother cannot lawfully snatch from the gripe of the gambling spendthrift, or beastly drunkard, unmindful of his offspring, the fortune which falls to her by chance: or (so flagrant is the injustice) what she earns by her own exertions. No; he can rob her with im|punity, even to waste publicly on a courtezan—and the laws of her country—if women have a country—afford her no protection or redress from the oppressor, unless she have the plea of bodily fear; yet how many ways are there of goading the soul almost to madness, equally unmanly, though not so mean? When such laws were framed, should not impartial lawgivers have first

decreed, in the style of a great assembly, who recognized the existence of an être suprême, to fix the national belief, that the husband should al|ways be wiser and more virtuous than his wife, in order to entitle him, with a shew of justice, to keep this idiot, or perpetual minor, for ever in bondage. But I must have done—on this subject, my indignation continually runs away with me.

"The company of the gentleman I have al|ready mentioned, who had a general acquaintance with literature and subjects of taste, was grateful to me; my countenance brightened up as he ap|proached, and I unaffectedly expressed the plea|sure I felt. The amusement his conversation afforded me, made it easy to comply with my husband's request, to endeavour to render our house agreeable to him.

"His attentions became more pointed; but as I was not of the number of women, whose virtue, as it is termed, immediately takes alarm, I en|deavoured, rather by raillery than serious expos|tulation, to give a different turn to his conversation. He assumed a new mode of attack, and I was, for a while, the dupe of his pretended friendship.

"I had, merely in the stile of badinage, boasted

of my conquest, and repeated his lover-like com|pliments to my husband. But he begged me, for God's sake, not to affront his friend, or I should destroy all his projects, and be his ruin. Had I had more affection for my husband, I should have expressed my contempt of this time-serving politeness: now I imagined that I only felt pity; yet it would have puzzled a casuist to point out in what the exact difference consisted.

"This friend began now, in confidence, to discover to me the real state of my husband's af|fairs. 'Necessity,' said mr. S—; why should I reveal his name? for he affected to palliate the conduct he could not excuse, 'had led him to take such steps, by accommodation bills, buying goods on credit, to sell them for ready money, and similar transactions, that his character in the commercial world was gone. He was considered,' he added, lowering his voice, 'on 'Change as a swindler.'

"I felt at that moment the first maternal pang. Aware of the evils my sex have to struggle with, I still wished, for my own consolation, to be the mother of a daughter; and I could not bear to think, that the sins of her father's entailed disgrace should be added to the ills to which woman is heir.

"So completely was I deceived by these shows of friendship (nay, I believe, according to his in|terpretation, mr. S—really was my friend) that I began to consult him respecting the best mode of retrieving my husband's character: it is the good name of a woman only that "sets to rise no more." I knew not that he had beeen drawn into a whirlpool, out of which he had not the energy to attempt to escape. He seemed indeed destitute of the power of employing his faculties in any re|gular pursuit. His principles of action were so loose, and his mind so uncultivated, that every thing like order appeared to him in the shape of restraint; and, like men in the savage state, he required the strong stimulus of hope or fear, produced by wild speculations, in which the in|terests of others went for nothing, to keep his spirits awake.—He one time professed patriotism, but he knew not what it was to feel honest indignation; and pretended to be an advocate for liberty, when, with as little affection for the human race as for individuals, he thought of nothing but his own gratification. He was just such a citizen as a father. The sums he adroitly obtained by a vio|lation of the laws of his country, as well as those of humanity, he would allow a mistress to squan|der; though she was, with the same sang froid,

consigned, as were his children, to poverty, when another proved more attractive.

"On various pretences, his friend continued to visit me; and, observing my want of money, he tried to induce me to accept of pecuniary aid; but this offer I absolutely rejected, though it was made with such delicacy, I could not be displeased.

"One day he came, as I thought, accidentally to dinner. My husband was very much engaged in business, and quitted the room soon after the cloth was removed. We conversed as usual, till confidential advice led again to love. I was ex|tremely mortified. I had a sincere regard for him, and hoped that he had an equal friendship for me. I therefore began mildly to expostulate with him. This gentleness he mistook for coy encourage|ment; and he would not be diverted from the subject. Perceiving his mistake, I seriously asked him how, using such language to me, he could profess to be my husband's friend? A significant sneer excited my curiosity, and he, supposing this to be my only scruple, took a letter deliberately out of his pocket, saying, 'Your husband's ho|nour is not inflexible. How could you, with your discernment, think it so? Why, he left the room this very day on purpose to give me an

opportunity to explain myself; he thought me too timid—too tardy.'

"I snatched the letter with indescribable emo|tion. The purport of it was to invite him to din|ner, and to ridicule his chivalrous respect for me. He assured him, 'that every woman had her price, and, with gross indecency, hinted, that he should be glad to have the duty of a husband ta|ken off his hands. These he termed liberal senti|ments. He advised him not to shock my roman|tic notions, but to attack my credulous generosity, and weak pity; and concluded with requesting him to lend him five hundred pounds for a month or six weeks.' I read this letter twice over; and the firm purpose it inspired, calmed the rising tumult of my soul. I rose deliberately, requested mr. S—to wait a moment, and instantly go|ing into the counting-house, desired mr. Vena|bles to return with me to the dining-parlour.

"He laid down his pen, and entered with me, without observing any change in my countenance. I shut the door, and, giving him the letter, sim|ply asked, 'whether he wrote it, or was it a for|gery?'

"Nothing could equal his confusion. His

friend's eye met his, and he muttered something about a joke—But I interrupted him—'It is suf|ficient—We part for ever.'

"I continued with solemnity, 'I have borne with your tyranny and infidelities. I disdain to utter what I have borne with. I thought you unprincipled, but not so decidedly vicious. I formed a tie in the sight of heaven—I have held it sacred; even when men, more conformable to my taste, have made me feel—I despise all subter|fuge! that I was not dead to love. Neglected by you, I have resolutely stifled the enticing emo|tions, and respected the plighted faith you out|raged. And you dare now to insult me, by selling me to prostitution!—Yes—equally lost to delicacy and principle—you dared sacrilegiously to barter the honour of the mother of your child.'

"Then, turning to mr. S—, I added—'I call on you, sir, to witness,' and I lifted my hands and eyes to heaven, 'that, as solemnly as I took his name, I now abjure it,' I pulled off my ring, and put it on the table; 'and that I mean to quit his house, never to enter it more. I will provide for myself and child. I leave him as free as I am de|termined to be myself—he shall be answerable for no debts of mine.'

"Astonishment closed their lips, till mr. Vena|bles, gently pushing his friend, with a forced smile, out of the room, nature for a moment pre|vailed, and, appearing like himself, he turned round, burning with rage, to me:—but there was no terror in the frown, excepting when contrasted with the malignant smile which preceded it. He bade me 'leave the house at my peril; told me he despised my threats; I had no resource; I could not swear the peace against him!—I was not afraid of my life!—He had never struck me!'

"He threw the letter in the fire, which I had incautiously left in his hands; and, quitting the room, locked the door on me.

"When left alone, I was a moment or two before I could recollect myself. One scene had succeeded another with such rapidity, I almost doubted whether I was reflecting on a real event. 'Was I, indeed, free?'—Yes; free I termed my|self, when I decidedly perceived the conduct I ought to adopt. How had I panted for liberty—liberty, that I would have purchased at any price, but that of my own esteem! I rose and shook myself; opened the window, and methought the air never smelled so sweet. The face of heaven grew fairer as I viewed it, and the clouds seemed

to flit away obedient to my wishes, to give my soul room to expand. I was all soul, and (wild as it may appear) felt as if I could have dissolved in the soft balmy gale that kissed my cheek, or have glided below the horizon, on the glowing, des|cending beams. A seraphic satisfaction animated, without agitating my spirits, and my imagination collected, in visions sublimely terrible, or sooth|ingly beautiful, an immense variety of the endless images, which nature affords, and fancy combines, of the grand and fair. The lustre of these bright picturesque sketches faded with the setting sun;—but I was still alive to the calm delight they had diffused through my heart.

"There may be advocates for matrimonial obedience, who, making a distinction between the duty of a wife and of a human being, may blame my conduct—To them I write not—my felings are not for them to analyze; and may you, my child, never be able to ascertain, by heart|rending experience, what your mother felt before the present emancipation of her mind!

"I began to write a letter to my father, after closing one to my uncle; not to ask advice, but to signify my determination; when I was interrupted by the entrance of mr. Venables. His manner

was changed. His views on my uncle's fortune made him averse to my quitting the house, or he would, I am convinced, have been glad to have shaken off even the slight restraint my presence imposed on him; the restraint of showing me some respect. So far from having an affection for me, he really hated me, because he was con|vinced that I must despise him.

"He told me, that, 'As I now had had time to cool and reflect, he did not doubt but that my prudence, and nice sense of propriety, would lead me to overlook what was passed.'

"'Reflection,' I replied, 'had only confirmed my purpose, and no power on earth could divert me from it.'

"Endeavouring to assume a soothing voice and look, when he would willingly have tortured me, to force me to feel his power, his countenance had an infernal expression, when he desired me, 'Not to expose myself to the servants, by obliging him to confine me in my apartment; if then I would give my promise not to quit the house precipi|tately, I should be free—and—.' I declared, in|terrupting him, that I would promise nothing. I had no measures to keep with him—I was resolved, and would not condescend to subterfuge.'

"He muttered, 'that I should soon repent of these preposterous airs; and ordering tea to be carried into my little study, which had a commu|nication with my bed-chamber, he once more locked the door upon me, and left me to my own meditations. I had passively followed him up stairs, not wishing to fatigue myself with unavail|ing exertion.

"Nothing calms the mind like a fixed purpose. I felt as if I had heaved a thousand weight from my heart; the atmosphere seemed lightened; and, if I execrated the institutions of society, which thus enabled men to tyrannize over women, it was almost a disinterested sentiment. I disre|garded present inconveniences, when my mind had done struggling with itself—when reason and inclination had shaken hands, and were at peace. I had no longer the cruel task before me, in end|less perspective, aye, during the tedious for ever of life, of labouring to overcome my repugnance—of labouring to extinguish the hopes, the may|be's of a lively imagination. Death I had hailed as my only chance of deliverance; but, while existence had so many charms, and life promised happiness, I shrunk from the icy arms of an un|known tyrant, though far more inviting than those of the man, to whom I found myself bound with|out

any other alternative, and was content to lin|ger a little longer, waiting for I know not what, rather than leave 'the warm precincts of the chearful day,' and all the unenjoyed affection of my nature.

"My present situation gave a new turn to my reflection; and I wondered (now the film seemed to be withdrawn, that obscured the piercing sight of reason) how I could, previously to the deciding outrage, have considered myself as everlastingly united to vice and folly! 'Had an evil genius cast a spell at my birth; or a daemon stept out of chaos, to perplex my understanding, and enchain my will, with delusive prejudices?'

"I pursued this train of thinking; it led me out of myself, to expatiate on the misery peculiar to my sex. 'Are not,' 'I thought, the despots for ever stigmatised, who, in the wantonness of power, commanded even the most atrocious criminals to be chained to dead bodies? though surely those laws are much more inhuman, which forge adamantine setters to bind minds together, that never can mingle in social communion! What indeed can equal the wretchedness of that state, in which there is no alternative, but to ex|tinguish the affections, or encounter infamy?'

CHAP. XII.

"TOWARDS midnight mr. Venables en|tered my chamber; and, with calm audacity pre|paring to go to bed, he bade me make haste, 'for that was the best place for husbands and wives to end their differences.' He had been drinking plentifully to aid his courage.

"I did not at first deign to reply. But per|ceiving that he affected to take my silence for consent, I told him that, 'If he would not go to another bed, or allow me, I should sit up in my study all night.' He attempted to pull me into the chamber, half joking. But I resisted; and, as he had determined not to give me any reason for saying that he used violence, after a few more efforts, he retired, cursing my obstinacy, to bed.

"I sat musing some time longer; then throw|ing my cloak around me, prepared for sleep on a sofa. And, so fortunate seemed my deliverance, so sacred the pleasure of being thus wrapped up

in myself, that I slept profoundly, and woke with a mind composed to encounter the struggles of the day. Mr. Venables did not wake till some hours after; and then he came to me half-dressed, yawning and stretching, with haggard eyes, as if he scarcely recollected what had passed the pre|ceding evening. He fixed his eyes on me for a moment, then, calling me a fool, asked, 'How long I intended to continue this pretty farce? For his part, he was devilish sick of it; but this was the plague of marrying women who pretend to know something.'

"I made no other reply to this harangue, than to say, 'That he ought to be glad to get rid of a woman so unfit to be his companion—and that any change in my conduct would be mean dissi|mulation; for maturer reflection only gave the sacred seal of reason to my first resolution.'

"He looked as if he could have stamped with impatience, at being obliged to stifle his rage; but, conquering his anger (for weak people, whose passions seem the most ungovernable, restrain them with the greatest ease, when they have a sufficient motive), he exclaimed, 'Very pretty, upon my soul! very pretty theatrical flourishes! Pray, fair Roxana, stoop from your altitudes, and

remember that you are acting a part in real life.'

"He uttered this speech with a self-satisfied air, and went down stairs to dress.

"In about an hour he came to me again; and in the same tone said, 'That he came as my gentleman-usher, to hand me down to breakfast.'

"'Of the black rod?' asked I.

"This question, and the tone in which I asked it, a little disconcerted him. To say the truth, I now felt no resentment; my firm resolution to free myself from my ignoble thraldom, had ab|sorbed the various emotions which, during six years, had racked my soul. The duty pointed out by my principles seemed clear; and not one tender feeling intruded to make me swerve. The dislike which my husband had inspired was strong; but it only led me to wish to avoid, to wish to let him drop out of my memory; there was no mi|sery, no torture that I would not deliberately have chosen, rather than renew my lease of servitude.

"During the breakfast he attempted to reason with me on the folly of romantic sentiments; for

this was the indiscriminate epithet he gave to every mode of conduct or thinking superior to his own. He asserted, 'that all the world were go|verned by their own interest; those who pre|tended to be actuated by different motives, were only deeper knaves, or fools crazed by books, who took for gospel all the rodomontade nonsense written by men who knew nothing of the world. For his part, he thanked God, he was no hypo|crite; and, if he stretched a point sometimes, it was always with an intention of paying every man his own.

"He then artfully insinuated, that he daily expected a vessel to arrive, a successful specula|tion, that would make him easy for the present, and that he had several other schemes actually depending, that could not fail. He had no doubt of becoming rich in a few years, though he had been thrown back by some unlucky adventures at the setting out.'

"I mildly replied, 'That I wished he might not involve himself still deeper.'

"He had no notion that I was governed by a decision of judgment, not to be compared with a mere spurt of resentment. He knew not what it

was to feel indignation against vice, and often boasted of his placable temper, and readiness to forgive injuries. True; for he only considered the being deceived, as an effort of skill he had not guarded against; and then, with a cant of can|dour, would observe, 'that he did not know how he might himself have been tempted to act in the same circumstances.' And, as his heart never opened to friendship, it never was wounded by disappointment.—Every new acquaintance he pro|tested, it is true, was 'the cleverest fellow in the world;' and he really thought so; till the novelty of his conversation or manners ceased to have any effect on his sluggish spirits. His re|spect for rank or fortune was more permanent, though he chanced to have no design of availing himself of the influence of either to promote his own views.

"After a prefatory conversation,—my blood (I thought it had been cooler) flushed over my whole countenance as he spoke—he alluded to my situation. He desired me to reflect—'and act like a prudent woman, as the best proof of my superior understanding; for he must own I had sense, did I know how to use it. I was not,' he laid a stress on his words, 'without my passions; and a husband was a convenient cloke.—He was

liberal in his way of thinking; and why might not we, like many other married people, who were above vulgar prejudices, tacitly consent to let each other follow their own inclination?—He meant nothing more, in the letter I made the ground of complaint; and the pleasure which I seemed to take in mr. S.'s company, led him to conclude, that he was not disagreeable to me.'

"A clerk brought in the letters of the day, and I, as I often did, while he was discussing sub|jects of business, went to the piano forte, and be|gan to play a favourite air to restore myself, as it were, to nature, and drive the sophisticated sentiments I had just been obliged to listen to, out of my soul.

"They had excited sensations similar to those I have felt, in viewing the squalid inhabitants of some of the lanes and back streets of the metropolis, mortified at being compelled to consider them as my fellow-creatures, as if an ape had claimed kindred with me. Or, as when surrounded by a mephitical fog, I have wished to have a volley of cannon fired, to clear the incumbered atmosphere, and give me room to breathe and move.

"My spirits were all in arms, and I played a

kind of extemporary prelude. The cadence was probably wild and impassioned, while, lost in thought, I made the sounds a kind of echo to my train of thinking.

"Pausing for a moment, I met mr. Venables' eyes. He was observing me with an air of con|ceited satisfaction, as much as to say—'My last insinuation has done the business—she begins to know her own interest.' Then gathering up his letters, he said, 'That he hoped that he should hear no more romantic stuff, well enough in a miss just come from a boarding-school;' and went, as was his custom, to the counting-house. I still continued playing; and turning to a sprightly les|son, I executed it with uncommon vivacity. I heard footsteps approach the door, and was soon convinced that mr. Venables was listening—the consciousness only gave more animation to my fingers. He went down into the kitchen, and the cook, probably by his desire, came to me, to know what I would please to order for dinner. Mr. Venables came into the parlour again, with apparent carelessness. I perceived that the cun|ning man was over-reached himself—and I gave my directions as usual, and left the room.

"While I was making some alteration in my

dress, mr. Venables peeped in, and, begging my pardon for interrupting me, disappeared. I took up some work (I could not read), and two or three messages were sent to me, probably for no other purpose, but to enable mr. Venables to as|certain what I was about.

"I listened whenever I heard the street door open; at last I imagined I could distinguish mr. Venables' step, going out. I laid aside my work—my heart palpitated; still I was afraid hastily to enquire; and I waited a long half hour, before I ventured to ask the boy whether his master was in the counting-house?

"Being answered in the negative, I bade him call me a coach, and collecting a few necessaries hastily together, with a little parcel of letters and papers which I had collected the preceding even|ing, I hurried into it, desiring the coachman to drive to a distant part of the town.

"I almost feared that the coach would break down before I got out of the street; and when I turned the corner, I seemed to breathe a freer air. I was ready to imagine that I was rising above the thick atmosphere of earth; or I felt, as wearied souls might be supposed to feel, on entering ano|ther state of existence.

"I stopped at one or two stands of coaches to elude pursuit, and then drove round the shirts of the town to seek for an obscure lodging, where I wished to remain concealed, till I could avail my|self of my uncle's protection. I had resolved to assume my own name immediately, and openly to avow my determination, without any formal vindication, the moment I had found a home, in which I could rest free from the daily alarm of expecting to see mr. Venables enter.

"I looked at several lodgings; but finding that I could not, without a reference to some acquaint|ance, who might inform my tyrant, get admit|tance into a decent apartment—men have not all this trouble;—I thought of a woman whom I had assisted to furnish a little haberdasher's shop, and who I knew had a first floor to let.

"I went to her, and though I could not per|suade her, that the quarrel between me and mr. Venables would never be made up, still she agreed to conceal me for the present; yet assuring me at the same time, shaking her head, that, when a woman was once married, she must bear every thing. Her pale face, on which appeared a thou|sand haggard lines and delving wrinkles, produced by what is termed fretting, enforced her remark;

and I had afterwards an opportunity of observing the treatment she had to endure, which grizzled her into patience.—She toiled from morning till night; yet her husband would rob the till, and take away the money reserved for paying bills; and, returning home drunk, he would beat her if she chanced to offend him, though she had a child at the breast.

"These scenes awoke me at night; and, in the morning, I heard her, as usual, talk to her dear Johnny—he, forsooth, was her master; no slave in the West-Indies had one more despotic—but fortunately she was of the true Russian breed of wives.

"My mind, during the few past days, seemed, as it were, disengaged from my body; but now the struggle was over, I felt very forcibly the effect which perturbation of spirit produces on a woman in my situation.

"The apprehension of a miscarriage, obliged me to confine myself to my apartment near a fort|night; but I wrote to my uncle's friend for mo|ney, promising 'to call on him, and explain my situation, when I was well enough to go out—mean time I earnestly intreated him, not to men|tion

my place of abode to any one, lest my hus|band—such the law considered him—should dis|turb the mind he could not conquer. I mentioned my intention of setting out for Lisbon, the mo|ment my health would permit.'

"The tranquility however, which I was reco|vering, was soon interrupted. My landlady came up to me one day, with eyes swollen with weeping, unable to utter what she was commanded to say. She declared, 'That she was never so miserable in her life, that she must appear an ungrateful monster; and that she would readily go down on her knees to me, to intreat me to forgive her, as she had done to her husband to spare her the cruel task.' Sobs prevented her from proceeding, or answering my impatient inquiries, to know what she meant.

"When she became a little more composed, she took a newspaper out of her pocket, declaring, 'that her heart smote her, but what could she do?—she must obey her husband.'—I snatched the paper from her. An advertisement quickly met my eye, purporting, that 'Maria Venables had, without any assignable cause, absconded from her husband; and any person harbouring her, was menaced with the utmost severity of the law.'

"Perfectly acquainted with mr. Venables' meanness of soul, this step did not excite my sur|prise, and scarcely my contempt. Resentment in my breast, never survived love. I bade the poor woman, in a kind tone, wipe her eyes, and request her husband to come up, and speak to me himself.

"My manner awed him. He respected a lady, though not a woman; and began to mutter out an apology.

"Mr. Venables was a rich gentleman; he wished to oblige me, but he had suffered enough by the law already, to tremble at the thought; besides, for certain, we should come together again, and then even I should not thank him for being accessary to keeping us asunder.—A hus|band and wife were, God knows, just as one,—and all would come round at last.' He uttered a drawling 'Hem!' and then with an arch look, added—' Master might have had his little frolics—but—Lord bless your heart!—men would be men, while the world stands.'

"To argue with this privileged first-born of reason, I perceived, would be vain. I therefore only requested him to let me remain another day at his house, while I sought for a lodging; and

not to inform mr. Venables that I had ever been sheltered there.

"He consented, because he had not the cou|rage to refuse a person for whom he had an habi|tual respect; but I heard the pent-up choler burst forth in curses, when he met his wife, who was waiting impatiently at the foot of the stairs, to know what effect my expostulations would have on him.

"Without wasting any time in the fruitless in|dulgence of vexation, I once more set out in search of an abode in which I could hide myself for a few weeks.

"Agreeing to pay an exorbitant price, I hired an apartment, without any reference being required relative to my character: indeed a glance at my shape seemed to say, that my motive for conceal|ment was obvious. Thus was I obliged to shroud my head in infamy.

"To avoid all danger of detection—I use the appropriate word, my child, for I was hunted out like a felon—I determined to take possession of my new lodgings that very evening.

"I did not inform my landlady where I was

going. I knew that she had a sincere affection for me, and would willingly have run any risk to show her gratitude; yet I was fully convinced that a few kind words from Johnny would have found the woman in her, and her dear benefac|tress, as she termed me in an agony of tears, would have been sacrificed, to recompence her tyrant for condescending to treat her like an equal. He could be kind-hearted, as she expressed it, when he pleased, and this thawed sternness, contrasted with his habitual brutality, was the more accept|able, and could not be purchased at too dear a rate.

"The sight of the advertisement made me de|sirous of taking refuge with my uncle, let what would be the consequence; and I repaired in a hackney coach (afraid of meeting some person who might chance to know me, had I walked) to the chambers of my uncle's friend.

"He received me with great politeness (my uncle had already prepossessed him in my favour)—and listened, with interest, to my explanation of the motives which had induced me to fly from home, and skulk in obscurity, with all the timidity of fear that ought only to be the companion of guilt. He lamented, with rather more gallantry

than, in my situation, I thought delicate, that such a woman should be thrown away on a man insensible to the charms of beauty or grace. He seemed at a loss what to advise me to do, to evade my husband's search, without hastening to my uncle, whom, he hesitating said, I might not find alive. He uttered this intelligence with visible regret; requested me, at least, to wait for the arrival of the next packet; offered me what mo|ney I wanted, and promised to visit me.

"He kept his word; still no letter arrived to put an end to my painful state of suspense.—I procured some books and music, to beguile the tedious solitary days.

' Come, ever smiling Liberty, ' And with thee bring thy jocund train:

I sung—and sung till, saddened by the strain of joy, I bitterly lamented the fate that deprived me of all social pleasure. Comparative liberty indeed I had possessed myself of; but the jocund train lagged behind.

CHAP. XIII.

"BY watching my only visitor, my uncle's friend, or by some other means, mr. Venables discovered my residence, and came to enquire for me. The maid-servant assured him there was no such person in the house. A bustle ensued—I caught the alarm—listened—distinguished his voice, and immediately locked the door. They suddenly grew still; and I waited near a quarter of an hour before I heard him open the parlour, and mount the stairs with the mistress of the house, who obsequiously declared that she knew nothing of me.

"Finding my door locked, she requested me to 'open it, and prepare to go home with my hus|band, poor gentleman! to whom I had already occasioned sufficient vexation.' I made no reply. Mr. Venables then, in an assumed tone of softness, intreated me, 'to consider what he suffered, and my own reputation, and get the better of childish resentment.' He ran on in the same strain, pre|tending

to address me, but evidently adapting his discourse to the capacity of the landlady; who, at every pause, uttered an exclamation of pity; or 'Yes, to be sure—very true, sir.'

"Sick of the farce, and perceiving that I could not avoid the hated interview, I opened the door, and he entered. Advancing with easy assurance to take my hand, I shrunk from his touch with an involuntary start, as I should have done from a noisome reptile, with more disgust than terror. His conductress was retiring, to give us, as she said, an opportunity to accommodate matters. But I bade her come in, or I would go out; and curiosity compelled her to obey me.

"Mr. Venables began to expostulate; and this woman, proud of his confidence, to second him. But I calmly silenced her, in the midst of a vio|lent harangue, and turning to him, asked, 'Why he vainly tormented me? declaring that no power on earth should force me back to his house.'

"After a long altercation, the particulars of which it would be to no purpose to repeat, he left the room, some time was spent in loud conver|sation in the parlour below, and I discovered that he had brought his friend, an attorney, with him.

The tumult on the landing place, brought out a gentleman, who had recently taken apartments in the house; he enquired why I was thus assailed?* 2.5 The voluble attorney instantly repeated the trite tale. The stranger returned to me, observing, with the most soothing politeness and manly interest, 'that my countenance told a very different story.' He added, 'that I should not be insulted, or forced out of the house, by any body.'

"'Not by her husband?' asked the attorney.

"'No, sir, not by her husband.' Mr. Vena|bles

advanced towards him—But there was a de|cision in his attitude, that so well seconded that of his voice, They left the house: at the same time protesting, that any one that should dare to protect me, should be prosecuted with the utmost rigour.

"They were scarcely out of the house, when my landlady came up to me again, and begged my pardon in a very different tone.—For, though mr. Venables had bid her, at her peril, harbour me, he had not attended, I found, to her broad hints, to discharge the lodging. I instantly pro|mised to pay her, and make her a present to com|pensate for my abrupt departure, if she would procure me another lodging, at a sufficient dis|tance; and she, in return, repeating mr. Vena|bles' plausible tale, I raised her indignation, and excited her sympathy, by telling her briefly the truth.

"She expressed her commiseration with such honest warth, that I felt soothed; for I have none of that fastidious sensitiveness, which a vul|gar accent or gesture can alarm to the disregard of real kindness. I was ever glad to perceive in others the humane feelings I delighted to exer|cise;

and the recollection of some ridiculous cha|racteristic circumstances, which have occurred in a moment of emotion, has convulsed me with laughter, though at the instant I should have thought it sacrilegious to have smiled. Your im|provement, my dearest girl, being ever present to me while I write, I note these feelings, because women, more accustomed to observe manners than actions, are too much alive to ridicule. So much so, that their boasted sensibility is often stifled by false delicacy. True sensibility, the sensibility which is the auxiliary of virtue, and the soul of genius, is in society so occupied with the feelings of others, as scarcely to regard its own sensations. With what reverence have I looked up at my un|cle, the dear parent of my mind! when I have seen the sense of his own sufferings, of mind and body, absorbed in a desire to comfort those, whose misfortunes were comparatively trivial. He would have been ashamed of being as in|dulgent to himself, as he was to others. 'Ge|nuine fortitude,' he would assert, 'consisted in governing our own emotions, and making allow|ances for the weaknesses in our friends, that we would not tolerate in ourselves.' But where is my fond regret leading me!

"'Women must be submissive,' said my land|lady.

'Indeed what could most women do? Who had they to maintain them but their hus|bands? Every woman, and especially a lady, could not go through rough and smooth, as she had done, to earn a little bread.'

"She was in a talking mood, and proceeded to inform me how she had been used in the world. 'She knew what it was to have a bad husband, or she did not know who should.' I perceived that she would be very much mortified, were I not to attend to her tale, and I did not attempt to interrupt her, though I wished, as soon as possible, to go out in search of a new abode for me; where I could once more hide my head.

"She began by telling me, 'That she had saved a little money in service; and was overper|suaded (we must all be in love once in our lives) to marry a likely man, a footman in the family, not worth a groat. My plan' she continued, 'was to take a house, and let out lodgings; and all went on well, till my husband got acquainted with an impudent slut, who chose to live on other people's means, and then all went to rack and ruin. He ran in debt to buy her fine clothes, such clothes as I never thought of wearing myself, and—would you believe it?—he signed an execu|tion

on my very goods, bought with the money I worked so hard to get; and they came and took my bed from under me, before I heard a word of the matter. Aye, madam, these are misfortunes that you gentlefolks know nothing of;—but sor|row is sorrow, let it come which way it will.

"'I sought for a service again—very hard, after having a house of my own, but he used to follow me, and kick up such a riot when he was drunk, that I could not keep a place; nay, he even stole my clothes, and pawned them; and when I went to the pawnbroker's, and offered to take my oath that they were not bought with a farthing of his money, they said, 'It was all as one, my husband had a right to whatever I had.'

"'At last he listed for a soldier, and I took a house, making an agreement to pay for the furni|ture by degrees, and I almost starved myself, till I once more got before-hand in the world.

"'After an absence of six years (God forgive me! I thought he was dead) my husband return|ed; found me out, and came with such a penitent face, I forgave him, and clothed him from head to foot. But he had not been a week in the house, before some of his creditors arrested him; and,

he selling my goods, I found myself once more reduced to beggary; for I was not as well able to work, go to bed late, and rise early, as when I quitted service; and then I thought it hard enough. He was soon tired of me, when there was nothing more to be had, and left me again.

"'I will not tell you how I was buffeted about, till, hearing for certain that he had died in an hospital abroad, I once more returned to my old occupation; but have not yet been able to get my head above water; so, madam, you must not be angry if I am afraid to run any risk, when I know so well, that women have always the worst of it, when law is to decide.'

"After uttering a few more complaints, I pre|vailed on my landlady to go out in quest of a lodging; and to be more secure, I condescended to the mean shift of changing my name.

"But why should I dwell on similar incidents!—I was hunted, like an infected beast, from three different apartments, and should not have been allowed to rest in any, had not mr. Venables, in|formed of my uncle's dangerous state of health, been inspired with the fear of hurrying me out of the world as I advanced in my pregnancy, by

thus tormenting and obliging me to take sudden journies to avoid him; and then his speculations on my uncle's fortune would prove abortive.

"One day when he had pursued me to an inn, I fainted, hurrying from him; and, falling down, the sight of my blood alarmed him, and obtained a respite for me. It is strange that he should have retained any hope, after observing my un|wavering determination; but, from the mildness of my behaviour, when I found all my endeavours to change his disposition unavailing, he formed an erroneous opinion of my character, imagining that were we once more together, I should part with the money he could not legally force from me with the same facility as formerly. My forbear|ance and occasional sympathy he had mistaken for weakness of character; and, because he perceived that I disliked resistance, he thought my indul|gence and compassion mere selfishness, and never discovered that the fear of being unjust, or of un|necessarily wounding the feelings of another, was much more painful to me than any thing I could have to endure myself. Perhaps it was pride which made me imagine, that I could bear what I dreaded to inflict; and that it was often easier to suffer, than to see the sufferings of others.

"I forgot to mention that, during this perse|cution, I received a letter from my uncle, inform|ing me, 'that he only found relief from continual change of air; and that he intended to return when the spring was a little more advanced (it was now the middle of February), and then we would plan a journey to Italy, leaving the fogs and cares of England far behind.' He approved of my conduct, promised to adopt my child, and seemed to have no doubt of obliging mr. Vena|bles to hear reason. He wrote to his friend, by the same post, desiring him to call on mr. Vena|bles in his name; and, in consequence of the re|monstrances he dictated, I was permitted to lie-in tranquilly.

"The two or three weeks previous I had been allowed to rest in peace; but so accustomed was I to pursuit and alarm, that I seldom closed my eyes without being haunted by mr. Venables' image, who seemed to assume terrific or hateful forms to torment me, wherever I turned. Some|times a wild cat, a roaring bull, or hideous assas|sin, whom I vainly attempted to fly; at others he was a daemon, hurrying me to the brink of a pre|cipice, plunging me into dark waves, or horrid gulfs; and I woke, in violent fits of trembling anxiety, to assure myself that it was all a dream,

and to endeavour to lure my waking thoughts to wander to the delightful Italian vales I hoped soon to visit; or to picture some august ruins, where I reclined in fancy on a mouldering column, and escaped, in the contemplation of the heart-en|larging virtues of antiquity, from the turmoil of cares that had depressed all the daring purposes of my soul. But I was not long allowed to calm my mind by the exercise of my imagination; for the third day after your birth, my child, I was sur|prized by a visit from my elder brother; who came in the most abrupt manner, to inform me of the death of my uncle. He had left the greater part of his fortune to my child, appointing me its guardian; in short, every step was taken to enable me to be mistress of his fortune, without putting any part of it in mr. Venables' power. My bro|ther came to vent his rage on me, for having, as he expressed himself, 'deprived him, my uncle's eldest nephew, of his inheritance;' though my uncle's property, the fruit of his own exertion, being all in the funds, or on landed securities, there was not a shadow of justice in the charge.

"As I sincerely loved my uncle, this intelli|gence brought on a fever, which I struggled to conquer with all the energy of my mind; for, in my desolate state, I had it very much at heart to

suckle you, my poor babe. You seemed my only tie to life, a cherub, to whom I wished to be a father, as well as a mother; and the double duty appeared to me to produce a proportionate increase of affection. But the pleasure I felt, while sus|taining you, snatched from the wreck of hope, was cruelly damped by melancholy reflections on my widowed state—widowed by the death of my uncle. Of mr. Venables I thought not, even when I thought of the felicity of loving your father, and how a mother's pleasure might be ex|alted, and her care softened by a husband's ten|derness.—'Ought to be!' I exclaimed; and I en|deavoured to drive away the tenderness that suf|focated me; but my spirits were weak, and the unbidden tears would flow. 'Why was I,' I would ask thee, but though didst not heed me,—'cut off from the participation of the sweetest pleasure of life?' I imagined with what extacy, after the pains of child-bed, I should have pre|sented my little stranger, whom I had so long wished to view, to a respectable father, and with what maternal fondness I should have pressed them both to my heart!—Now I kissed her with less delight, though with the most endearing compas|sion, poor helpless one! when I perceived a slight resemblance of him, to whom she owed her ex|istence; or, if any gesture reminded me of him,

even in his best days, my heart heaved, and I pressed the innocent to my bosom, as if to purify it—yes, I blushed to think that its purity had been sullied, by allowing such a man to be its father.

"After my recovery, I began to think of tak|ing a house in the country, or of making an ex|cursion on the continent, to avoid mr. Venables; and to open my heart to new pleasures and affec|tion. The spring was melting into summer, and you, my little companion, began to smile—that smile made hope bud out afresh, assuring me the world was not a desert. Your gestures were ever present to my fancy; and I dwelt on the joy I should feel when you would begin to walk and lisp. Watching your wakening mind, and shield|ing from every rude blast my tender blossom, I recovered my spirits—I dreamed not of the frost—'the killing frost,' to which you were destined to be exposed.—But I lose all patience—and ex|ecrate the injustice of the world—folly! ignor|ance!—I should rather call it; but, shut up from a free circulation of thought, and always ponder|ing on the same griefs, I writhe under the tortur|ing apprehensions, which ought to excite only honest indignation or active compassion; and would, could I view them as the natural conse|quence

of things. But, born a woman—and born to suffer, in endeavouring to repress my own emotions, I feel more acutely the various ills my sex are fated to bear—I feel that the evils they are subject to endure, degrade them so far below their oppressors, as almost to justify their tyranny; leading at the same time superficial reasoners to term that weakness the cause, which is only the consequence of short-sighted despotism.

CHAP. XIV.

"AS my mind grew calmer, the visions of Italy again returned with their former glow of colouring; and I resolved on quitting the kingdom for a time, in search of the chearfulness, that naturally results from a change of scene, unless we carry the barbed arrow with us, and only see what we feel.

During the period necessary to prepare for a long absence, I sent a supply to pay my father's debts, and settled my brothers in eligible situa|tions; but my attention was not wholly engrossed by my family, though I do not think it necessary to enumerate the common exertions of humanity. The manner in which my uncle's property was settled, prevented me from making the addition to the fortune of my surviving sister, that I could have wished; but I had prevailed on him to bequeath her two thousand pounds, and she de|termined to marry a lover, to whom she had been some time attached. Had it not been for this en|gagement, I should have invited her to accom|pany

me in my tour; and I might have escaped the pit, so artfully dug in my path, when I was the least aware of danger.

"I had thought of remaining in England, till I weaned my child; but this state of freedom was too peaceful to last, and I had soon reason to wish to hasten my departure. A friend of mr. Vena|bles, the same attorney who had accompanied him in several excursions to hunt me from my hiding places, waited on me to propose a reconciliation. On my refusal, he indirectly advised me to make over to my husband—for husband he would term him—the greater part of the property I had at command, menacing me with continual persecution unless I complied; and that, as a last resort, he would claim the child. I did not, though inti|midated by the last insinuation, scruple to declare, that I would not allow him to squander the money left to me for far different purposes, but offered him five hundred pounds, if he would sign a bond not to torment me any more. My maternal anx|iety made me thus appear to waver from my first determination, and probably suggested to him, or his diabolical agent, the infernal plot, which has succeeded but too well.

"The bond was executed, still I was impatient

to leave England. Mischief hung in the air when we breathed the same; I wanted seas to divide us, and waters to roll between, till he had forgotten that I had the means of helping him through a new scheme. Disturbed by the late occurrences, I instantly prepared for my departure. My only delay was waiting for a maid servant, who spoke French fluently, and had been warmly recom|mended to me. A valet I was advised to hire, when I fixed on my place of residence for any time.

"My God, with what a light heart did I set out for Dover!—It was not my country but my cares that I was leaving behind. My heart seemed to bound with the wheels, or rather appeared the centre on which they twirled. I clasped you to my bosom, exclaiming, 'And you will be safe—quite safe—when—we are once on board the packet.—Would we were there.' I smiled at my idle fears, as the natural effect of continual alarm; and I scarcely owned to myself that I dreaded mr. Venables's cunning, or was conscious of the horrid delight he would feel, at forming stratagem after stratagem to circumvent me. I was already in the snare—I never reached the packet—I ne|ver saw thee more.—I grew breathless. I have scarcely patience to write down the details. The maid—the plausible woman I had hired—put,

doubtless some stupifying potion in what I ate or drank, the morning I left town. All I know is that she must have quitted the chaise, shameless wretch! and taken (from my breast) my babe with her. How could a creature in a female form see me caress thee, and steal thee from my arms! I must stop, stop to repress a mother's anguish; lest, in bitterness of soul, I imprecate the wrath of heaven on this tiger, who tore my only comfort from me.

"How long I slept I know not; certainly many hours, for I woke at the close of day, in a strange confusion of thought. I was probably roused to recollection by some one thundering at a huge, unwieldy gate. Attempting to ask where I was, my voice died away, and I tried to raise it in vain, as I have done in a dream. I looked for my babe with affright; feared that it had fallen out of my lap, while I had so strangely forgotten her; and, such was the vague intoxication, I can give it no other name, in which I was plunged, I could not recollect when or where I last saw you; but I sighed, as if my heart wanted room to clear my head.

"The gates opened heavily, and the sullen sound of many locks and bolts drawn back, grated on my very soul, before I was appalled by the

creaking of the dismal hinges, as they closed after me. The gloomy pile was before me, half in ruins; some of the aged trees of the avenue were cut down, and left to rot where they fell; and as we approached some mouldering steps, a mon|strous dog darted forwards to the length of his chain, and barked and growled infernally.

"The door was opened slowly, and a murder|ous visage peeped out, with a lantern.—'Hush!' he uttered, in a threatening tone, and the af|frighted animal stole back to his kennel. The door of the chaise flew back, the stranger put down the lantern, and clasped his dreadful arms around me. It was certainly the effect of the soporific draught, for, instead of exerting my strength, I sunk without motion, though not without sense, on his shoulder, my limbs refusing to obey my will. I was carried up the steps into a close-shut hall. A candle flaring in the socket, scarcely dispersed the darkness, though it dis|played to me the ferocious countenance of the wretch who held me.

"He mounted a wide stair case. Large figures painted on the wall seemed to stare on me, and glaring eyes to meet me at every turn. Entering a long gallery, a dismal shriek made me spring out of my conductor's arms, with I know not

what mysterious emotion of terror; but I fell on the floor, unable to sustain myself.

"A strange-looking female started out of one of the recesses, and observed me with more curi|osity than interest; till, sternly bid retire, she flitted back like a shadow. Other faces, strongly marked, or distorted, peeped through the half|opened doors, and I heard some incoherent sounds. I had no distinct idea where I could be—I looked on all sides, and almost doubted whether I was alive or dead.

"Thrown on a bed, I immediately sunk into insensibility again; and next day gradually reco|vering the use of reason, I began, starting af|frighted from the conviction, to discover where I was confined—I insisted on seeing the master of the mansion—I saw him—and perceived that I was buried alive.

"Such, my child, are the events of thy mo|ther's life to this dreadful moment—Should she ever escape from the fangs of her enemies, she will add the secrets of her prison-house—and—

Some lines were here crossed out, and the me|moirs broke off abruptly with the names of Jemima and Darnford.

Notes

• * 2.1

  The copy which had received the author's last cor|rections, breaks off in this place, and the pages which follow, to the end of Chap. IV. are printed from a copy in a less finished state.
• * 2.2

  The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria in a former instance, appears to have been an after-thought of the author. This has occasioned the omission of any allusion to that circumstance in the pre|ceding narration.EDITOR.
• * 2.3

  The copy which appears to have received the author's last corrections, ends at this place.
• * 2.4

  The manuscript is imperfect here. An episode seems to have been intended, which was never com|mitted to paper. EDITOR.
• * 2.5

  The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria, in an early stage of the history, is already stated (Chap. III.) to have been an after-thought of the author. This has probably caused the imperfect|ness of the manuscript in the above passage; though, at the same time, it must be acknowledged to be some|what uncertain, whether Darnford is the stranger intended in this place. It appears from Chap. XVII, that an interference of a more decisive nature was de|signed to be attributed to him. EDITOR.